As with just about all of the seventy some odd posts at dnanations.com, this is a work in progress; some posts will need more work than others, and this one more than others will begin as a work in progress.
The reason being that it is important that the matter have presence among the basic oeuvre – and it is more important that the story or stories, as it were, of my sense of destiny implicated by trance be indicated as a post that is yet to be completed than to wait for the myriad of detail to be added and refined before posting.
…he either wanted this outcome – the same as I might – or I’ve done it despite hypnotic suggestion/coercion. I believe the latter is more true, thus more clearly expressing my agency and independent autonomy from post hypnotic suggestion.
I’m talking about a therapist that I sought council from, as I’d mentioned previously, to seek relief from emotionally harrowing family circumstances compounded by a fiercely unsympathetic first girlfriend who shocked my psyche but good.
I met this therapist by myself at first and then came with my parents and two of my three siblings for two sessions.
A session or two after that I came by myself and he farted, said something like, “hmm, smells like baloney sandwich” …and for some reason I went into a hypnotic state,
I fell deeper under when he said me, “you have a nigger nose” (I’d always been insecure that I have a kind of semi-pug nose)… he added to my consternation by saying, “your father is a nigger”…and, “you have a little White dick.”… adding, “You smell, but don’t worry, women like that,”
Next he commended the fact that I reacted with anger at his saying my father was “a nigger.” …the way an Italian would react. Then he said, “you don’t like niggers.”
Although I kind of agreed that I did not like niggers, I did offer some resistance to that suggestion for the sake of dealing with the reality of the social/ political circumstances of New Jersey, circa 1985. I rejoined, “but I really love Jim Hendrix music and have several of his posters on my wall”. He said that Hendrix represents the part of me that I don’t like. I didn’t exactly agree with that, but he said, “ok, we’ll agree to disagree about that.”
He went on to explain about my nose and somewhat ambiguous appearance, that I have a “continental European look” and “that’s good.”
By the way, DNA tests show that I have zero African ancestry. Seeing my father, I would not have bet on zero percentage. But anyway….
The suggestion was that continental Europeans were undervalued in their importance as a European ecological buffering people against non-Europeans – a Wonderwall perhaps – this was the sense that I was getting from him anyway, and I could agree to that.
I saw a book on his wall, the title of which I liked and repeated aloud. It was an academic book and he said to me that I was going to write to some professors whose articles are in that book. That I am going to save the world.
He added, that I will fight against racism. I told him in no uncertain terms that I would do no such thing. Nor would I. Sensing my intransigence on the matter, he said, “alright, you’ll be didactic.”
He was using the word ‘didactic” against me because I had spoken of it as a pretentious sounding word that some of my undergraduate teachers had used, meaning “being or doing so much something as to get the opposite reaction.”
I believe that I have transcended this post-hypnotic suggestion; that I have not sold my sold to the foolery of anti-racism and anyone worth their salt, who pays attention to what I say, will not be turned off so as to become anti-racists.
Hence, my initial remark; that he either wanted this outcome, or (more likely), I have achieved it, demonstrating my agency and autonomy despite his post-hypontic trance suggestion.
Anyway, in following up writing to them, he said that I was going to go to a North Eastern University, where the liberals think that they are so smart, but they are not; and show them continental European assertion by contrast, I would “act like a crazy Italian.”
I asked him, “what do I get out of this?” He said, good question. At Tufts you just crammed; now you’ll get a real education.
I said that I didn’t know if that was enough. He asked me what ele I might like, and I replied, I’d like a virgin wife and two children by her. He made a check mark, as if the wish would be granted.
Finally, in that trance state, I must have seen in my mind’s vision, anyway I said, “Polish women are the most beautiful in the world?”
I don’t know if that’s true, but I’d one day find that they certainly have their share of beauties, quite unlike the impression that we had growing up during the cold war, thinking that women behind the iron curtain were like the brutish women that we saw from the Eastern bloc in the Olympics.
…thus, I was off on my adventures of navigating the ostensibly benign direction and flows of post-hypnotic suggestion along with the turgid waters of White separatism.
…
In 666 & The Final Grammar, I detail some of my paranormal experiences that occurred prior to altered state trance experiences – which will include some “clairvoyance”, seeing some future occurrences. There was no seeing into the future or the like in the strange psychological experiences in days prior to trance induction; these were qualitatively different experiences.
That article moves through a time in my preliminary struggle for a sufficient world view and corresponding, coherent autobiography – beginning times during high school and college when I was forced to study things that were not highly relevant to my concerns, I began by backing off into identity as “an artist” and defaulted into pursuing a moral ordering of world view through religion, viz., Christianity.
Having graduated from college, I discovered the wonderful freedom of being able read what I actually wanted and needed – which at that point was material that would help me deal with harrowing social and interpersonal circumstances. A primer on existentialism contained some tidbits from Heidegger which were particularly instrumental. Specifically, Heidegger suggested that it was somehow necessary to place one’s life, one’s autobiography in historical context. It was then that I began thinking about the childhood years of my life and considering feminism and hippies as unresolved conflicting agendas, with the hippies being an unarticulated White male agenda for the more basic needs on Maslow’s hierarchy – Being, as opposed to being drafted into a war in Vietnam where there was no clear and present danger to him (the hippie) and his people; while the feminist “higher grumbles” and claim to necessary pursuit of the higher reaches of self actualization (in order to be liberated from the basic and ordinary need levels being marketed to women and limiting them as their lot) was rather conceited and out of turn, by comparison. Nevertheless, the vital White male motive beneath the hippie manifestation was not articulated and in fact, feminist destruction went into overdrive while traditional women resumed their age old, “none of this cry baby stuff about how intrinsic value should be recognized in you, that you have the right to exist or something.”
Anyway, my first girlfriend, Sharon, was having none of that. In a distinct episode after I made myself happy in the decision to break up with her – though she had, until this point, been the one instigating the idea that we were not a good match – she stood before my desk where we worked, hands clasped, in a pleading gesture that we not break up. And shortly after luring me back in, she began to lower the boom on me, doing what she might to destroy my psyche (I might have learned a valuable lesson right there: once you part ways with someone, stay parted. If you let them back into your life, they might be looking for revenge or some sort of punishment for your being able to live without them).
Thus, I was desperate, willing to return and listen to the therapist, “Wally”, whom I’d stopped seeing after only a few sessions a year before, when I was having difficulty remembering things under the onslaught of Sharon’s psychological abuse. It was in these return visits to Wally that the trance induction happened, “your father is a nigger” and so on…
I was becoming aware that there wasn’t going to be a lot of sympathy and taking into account the emotional/ intellectual handicaps that I was saddled with, what with my father’s fantastic rage tantrums in a matrix of indifference otherwise. He made no sense, could not communicate clearly and yet was enraged when he was not understood (wonder why I had to take up study of interpersonal communication?). My mother having been broken by his propensity to attack vulnerability, became very sick, psychologically and unremittingly hostile – largely toward me – leveling bizarre negative attributions while prohibiting any metacommunicative challenge to false attributions, in classic double bind mode; my older sister Cara’s feminism channeled my father’s style but with ice cold unsympathy and seething hot, humiliating eruptions (e.g., if I remarked on a woman being pretty); while my brother Tom channeled my mother’s unremitting antagonism toward me, endless insulting, degrading, alienating names, indifferent sarcasm, loud mockery and displays of taunting whimsical merriment when sensing that he’d caused me consternation.
Tom would frequently back off at the last minute so that I would look like the instigator when my mother came to intervene with a few held back slaps of repremand on the shoulders. My father would say, “I don’t understand!” …as if it was hard to understand that Tom was jealous and bullying me. If Cara set about to “intervene” in our fighting (i.e., Tom bullying me) it was always to say, “stop it, both of you!” …as if I had equal responsibility.
“Rationalizations”, denial as it were, was possible in way for the prior generations that my parents and older siblings represented, along with the denial of society at large, regarding the planet of the apes that America was becoming, which was not possible for me. Black power and civil wrongs (“Civil Rights”) for blacks was being imposed in an earlier time in my life, childhood, such that I was not able to take for granted in comfort my rights, integrity and prerogative as a White male being recognized by the American system.
Imposition of blacks had been set in motion before I was born by The Brown Versus Board of Education Decision, 1953, and imposed by the National Guard in the south by the late 50s. These blacks “Civil Rights” were further imposed by the Woolworth’s sit-ins and “freedom marches” of the early sixties, and ratified shortly after my birth by the “Civil Rights Act” of 1964, before I would have any consciousness of the issue. But still the less ostensibly benign side of black imposition was only getting in gear in a way that could throttle my would-be denial wall (“ego barrier”) in a way that it could not with older generations; as Malcolm X’s proclamation that the black man would rule might seem a threat that could be simply dismissed in its implications; the black riots of 1967 and 68, which indeed spelled the death of the Italian community that we were born into (along with the death other ethnic communities); and should have settled greater aversion to blacks in the minds of the older generations than it did in fact. They were able to maintain denial.
And in my family’s case, they were able to maintain denial in large part because we were engaged in White flight. We had moved out of Newark to the suburb of Montclair when I was still an infant.
The Rumford Fair Housing Act which prohibits one from discriminating on the basis of race with regard to property sales and rental was only ruled in 1968.
But it wasn’t as if Montclair didn’t have a growing and sizeable percentage of blacks as well; it’s just that the school classes of my older siblings neither had as high a percentage as they did for me, and worse, they were not bussed to go to a monkey cage, er, mostly black school as I had to in a program of forced school integration in the fall of 1971.
And as the Vietnam war draft came to a close around 1972/3, the modicum of human leniency extend to White male Being in the form of the Hippie expression began to evaporate almost overnight and feminism went into overdrive with their no win criticisms of White men: wimp or pig, no matter what you do. And worse, an alliance between feminists and black power against White men was being developed and looming ominously in its implications.
I went to college as a Fine Arts major, ok because I had talent, but also because it was about all that I could cope with – barely did that, but did manage to get a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree (1984) from Tufts – university with a pretty good reputation. I suppose this was a rogue way of getting a degree and not a very substantial education, but it gave me some clues as to how to pursue learning and the relief, as I said, to pursue learning what I needed now that I was free.
I was happy about that but not quite prepared for the rigors of the real world and its women.
When I reached an age to start to attempt to date women in my early twenties, I was getting roughed-up by my girlfriends, who didn’t particularly want to make up for the emotional backlog – some of them not for a minute – Sharon would start screaming. even though I really was Not going to go-on-and-on; which I would not do …but to be disallowed from now and then discussion of circumstance? No, I was the bad one, society was an even and wholesome playing field, its rigors beyond critique.
This shocked me to where my consciousness literally shut down involuntarily in some ways (which caused me to go to the first hypnotherapist, Wally); My sister Cara gave me a Playboy Magazine featuring an article giving the advice, “don’t ask her questions.”
I found difficult to tolerate how my family had treated me in combination with their accepting attitude toward society – as I was not being treated particularly well by society at large either – of high context, I was bewildered by the implications for my EGI, given the pervasive feminism (which Sharon acutely manifested as well) in combination with anti-White advocacy; and more personally, I was being roughed-up Sharon for my neurosis, timid/angry personality – a back-log if things that are not generally welcome to be heard on dates (and where else to turn? of course, to a therapist (viz., Wally and Naomi), to sort out the neurosis resulting from emotional/intellectual family preparation, rather lack thereof.
Upon graduation, I met my first longish term girlfriend, Sharon, at a job that I took provisionally. If I think of anything particular about the experience that might be instructive, I will insert it here, but lets say for now that “the manosphere” talks a lot about the insanity of “shit tests.” Sharon leveled a pretty severe version, enough for me to accept my mother’s invitation to visit a counselor, despite my resistance to the idea that the problem was in me.
Nevertheless, I did visit “Wally” once, presenting the problem that my psyche was frozen, petrified by Sharon’s traumatic propensity to fly off the handle for tripping wires that I could not see and could not even imagine as infractions, that I might venture a modicum of explanation that my circumstance, as any, was not an even playing field, and the false attribution that not only was I not supposed to talk about these things once, but that I would not stop and lacked any judgment as such. It got to a point where I literally could not remember things for the humiliating terror of her reactions in connection with the evident fact of her far more keen intellectual functioning revealed to me the depressing/infuriating fact of what a deficit my family background had saddled me with emotionally and intellectually; while showing what an advantage that she had having an emotionally decent family and, significantly, being a go-getter woman at that time.
Anyway, I saw “Wally” only once at that time (some time in 1984), finding him weird – his premature white hair did give him an Andy Warhol effect, not a comforting look for a therapist.
I struggled on my own throughout the year, against all too much empathy for, not exactly Ted Bundy, because I was never sadistic and calculating, but a guy who might like to take out some deserving bitches – would like to, anyway.
I had been moving through what I believe is a fairly normal means to articulate a world view given very confusing family and societal circumstance: starting with an identity as an artist, as it had safe emotional distance and perspective of world-view, noticing what was beautiful in life and semiotic of health in contrast to this crazy and mean family and society.
Next, I began to be confronted by the dead look of disgust and disinterest when I’d answer, “artist”, to a young woman’s questions, “who are you, what do you do?”
With that, one is thrown into trying to grapple with showing more substance in dealing with the ugliness and arbitrary cruelty of the world by looking into religion; and given my background and circumstance, discursive structures everywhere prompted and suggested that Christianity had not been taken faithfully enough by people, that they were not trying hard enough to understand its true and pure message. Anyway, adding a few religion courses to help round out my social studies requirements at Tufts provided subjective enough opinion, identity and unmeasurable enough means to help bullshit my way to a degree. The best thing to come out of that was the understanding of what fabricated bullshit that the bible is.
Nevertheless, being disabused of nonsense merely clears the way, it does not provide positive means for negotiating what IS the reality and bitches like Sharon (and my sister and mother). My misogyny at the time is something that I can understand even now that I am healed-up, given her coup de grace to my psyche, on top of my mother’s unremitting hostility, my sister’s cunning feminism, concealed in the background as resource not at risk, but behind an icy cold, defiant indifference to my feelings, mixed with sudden, shrill, searing hot eruptions of humiliating ridicule if I was stupid in a moment or focused too much on women’s beauty.
This created a horrible intentional oscillation in me with regard to women, sometimes called “ambivalence.” I loved them in the sense of their beauty, feel and charm; for what they could be for me, but not necessarily for what they were in my experience.
My ad hoc solution to this horrible intentional oscillation in my psyche was to fashion a one to ten scale from the psychological requirements – found in one of those pamphlets illustrated with circle-headed people that I found in a clinician’s office (i.e., Wally’s office) – requirements of “emotional”, “physical”, and “intellectual” with regard to estimating needs in a partner. I found my own most innocence in the idea that I was willing to take my equal in a woman on a 1-10 scale of emotional, intellectual and physical bearing. Innocent though I may have been, it was barely enough to gird me against my sister’s hatred and skepticism, against Sharon’s onslaught; thus, I moved on with the natural progression of worldview that I mentioned, by trying to negotiate psychology with beginner’s erudition in Carl Jung, Freud and Gestalt Psychology (Fritz Perls).
This erudition alone was not enough to get me fully functional, but perhaps I felt equipped enough by it to negotiate my defense in psychology, that the problem was not all, or even largely in my head, but that family and society at large should bear significant critique.
Thus, I sought out Wally again, a year after my first visit with him. That’s when he induced me to that trance and post hypnotic suggestion. He was still placing a bit too much blame on my shoulders, but drawing upon some sophisticated psychology (his mentor was Minuchin) which drew upon sophistications from other disciplines, from biology, sociology, communicology to philosophy, so at least I had a good lead as to how to make my way from there.
Like I said, he suggested that I write a few of those scholars published in a book on his shelf, then go up there to the North East to get a real education from them in exchange for showing those liberal sons of bitches ‘what for‘, by (being ‘didactic), acting like a crazy Italian. But that would come a few years later. There were still a few hypnotic detours for me to go through.
By January 1986, I was talking with older brother as he changed the diapers on his first born son. I was still trying to sort out the mental abuse that Sharon had subject me to, I responded to my brother’s comment that I should not remain “angry with the bitch”, by saying that this was no accident. She was deliberately trying to fuck my mind up enough to due me in: it was evil. Tom was charitable enough in that moment to agree, “that is evil.’ … but then he went to say, pedantically, as he changed his son’s diapers:
He said something to the effect of “and our parents didn’t have the skills to raise us right, so we have to do better for our children.” I found this flabbergasting for a couple reasons. One, I was 24 years old and he was treating my life as if it was a done deal, time to make way for the next generation, but not acknowledging any of his (large) part in creating the misery for me during my rearing as a child and adolescent. And now it was as if to say “and here is your replacement.” It was kind of shocking to me. None of this history was convenient for his wife either but I’ll get to a strange mention of that factor a little later
My survey of thoughts came to a focus. I didn’t say anything but was thinking to myself, is he kidding me? This brother of mine, almost five years older, fat and jealous, who did anything that he could get away with to destroy my emotional balance, ego boundaries, render me intellectually ineffective, ruin the foundational period of me life, handicapping my capacity to make a happy and successful life for myself, is now conversing over his infant son as if to say, ‘here is your replacement’, ‘never mind that I did my best to wreck your chances in life’. What the fuck? I was just 24 years old and he was going to tell me that I should put my life behind? How about ‘No.’
Soon after that my mother had the idea of giving me a graduate present of a plane ticket so that I could meet my oldest brother, Larry, in Colorado. I determined that being given this trip by my mother was a means to control my agency and keep me in family control whether it was good for me or not. Sensing that it was rather her way of trying to maintain control over me (deciding what priorities that I should have), I played along, using it as a stage to get me to the Stanford, California area, in hopes somehow, furtively or otherwise, to study under some of those deemed (in the books on Wally’s shelf) to be masters of psychology; in hopes of gluing together my poor mind and making sense of expanding liberalism. In retrospect, had I been truly able to see into the future and able to read minds, I might have become a millionaire if I’d been able to help Larry with a plan (that he never told me about) to buy land in Telluride, California. But I can understand my lack patience with Larry, who last time I saw him living home on steady basis, was headed to Woodstock (the original) with a can of tuna fish.
Now it seemed he was going to “question the authority” of my academic learning (which I had no intention of authoritatively imposing) by dint of the shamanic wisdom he’d gleaned from his American Indian friends. I had no intention of putting up with this nonsense and fled to the Bay area of California, in hopes of supporting myself with menial jobs, getting situated there and, as I hoped, never talking to my family again. I was having none of that American Indian nonsense, but here I was crashing secretly in a hideaway nook at Theta Kai Fraternity at Stanford, and that evening defending psychology – yet to take the step of ranking it behind in importance (a step that GW will never sufficiently make) – defending it as a science against a student who mocked it: “some people think psychology is a science.” I called up a former landlord, whom I lived with in my first year of college, at CCAC in Oakland, and he picked me up and (I now know grudgingly) let me stay at his place again.
Just goes to show, even in 1986, between paying off my student loan and other basic living expenses, I could not make ends meet with those menial jobs. I remember watching about the Chernobl nuclear disaster on TV, Saturday 26 April 1986, and not long after getting some sage advice from this landlord (whom I was having difficulty paying; even at what was to him, a friendly favor rate): “couldn’t you just take what you need from your parents.”? And so I grudgingly called home and found my parents truly relieved, worried something might have happened to me.
My mother paid my in-arrears rent and bought me a plane ticket back home, which I took, despite my spite and sense of a big, even if temporary defeat.
I had in the back of my mind that I would visit with Larry in Colorado and then escape to California – I hoped to escape my family forever and start a new life. I wanted to visit some of my intellectual heroes in Palo Alto. And, as I had mentioned before, I hoped to work odd jobs and write screenplays. That may sound grandiose, but I really only hoped to write them – I had a couple of really good ideas (I still hold to them), and I did not presume that I could ever get them produced. I looked at it as a potential way of exercising my demons and gaining voice on a society that I had significant grievances with. Long story short, I could not make ends meet, and my landlord gave me the good advice to “just take what you need from your parents.”I called and my parents were both relieved (I hadn’t talked to them in months); they bought me a ticket home.
I came back somewhat defeated, working odd jobs and living in my recently deceased grandmother’s house.
When I visited Tom and Eva’s house, Tom questioned and pried out of me, as he would (the bear* pawing at the fish of my burgeoning mind/consciousness coming up stream), “what was I doing in California? He would often play coy, pry out of me my private, unfinished ideas, and then burst out in mockery to humiliate me. The bear was waiting up stream eating the fish of my intellectual aspirations and would even paw and kill the ones he couldn’t eat (while Tom was like a bear waiting upstream with regard to my conscious development, Cara was like a queen bee, stinging, humiliating and killing any nascent critical conscious about to be born – always using her feminist perspective to trivialize, limit, humiliate and control).
Anyway, Tom did pry out of me what I was doing, I told them that I wanted to write a screenplay and then added a bit of self deprecating humor – “and then become famous in Hollywood.”
Then something very strange happened: Tom and his wife Eva embraced each other in glee – apparently because my “grandiose” plans had been thwarted. They couldn’t have been happier. It was really strange to me.
While staying at my grandmother’s house, I resolved more than ever to read-my-way to advancement. That meant opening my consciousness in the times I concentrated – always a risky prospect for me.
I tried to live independently from my family, between renting rooms to living at my recently departed grandmother’s house in Newark. My mind was tortured at this point. I worked for a funeral home conglomerate, and, I must say, I can’t image that they had a worse worker than myself, ever. If there was a mistake to make, I made it.
At their Bloomfield funeral parlor, I was an usher, and I failed to catch an old lady as she tripped walking in the doorway and she sued my employer. For their Jewish affiliate, Bernheim-Goldsticker, I attempted to pull their limousine into the garage in an improper angle, and smashed up the whole side. I left an apologetic note, offering to forfeit my pay. Bernheim was very nice about it, I must say, “insurance will pay for it.” He even called upon me to drive him and Jewish associates from New York to New Jersey after that. I screeched short of an accident at an intersection and one passenger commented on his mortality. Another time, I drove the famous violinist, Isaac Perlman, to New Jersey (no tip – he complained that the trunk door was slightly ajar and that the vibrations might do something to his Stradivarius which was stored there for the trip). Again in Bloomfield, while on the clock and doing nothing, I complained about being asked to wash windows. When picking up a body from south Jersey, I mistakenly put the straps over the blanket, leaving it obvious that a body was there as I passed toll-booths on the New Jersey Parkway; I could not help but laugh at the reactions: unprofessional.
During this time I was trying to read my way to health; and this ran the risk to me of opening my consciousness to that which had afflicted it and blocked it, largely my mother’s false, hostile attributions to and prohibition of metacommunication. Upon the rage this set off in me on one occasion, I biked over to my mother’s house and told her that I hated her guts. A look of intense pain came across her face. But I held the theory, better vent my spleen to her, the perpetrator, than take it out say, on a future spouse.
I was expected to live in the basement apartment of my grandmother’s house, and prepare the other floors for rental; when I was slow to go about it, because I “wanted to” (needed to read and sleep), my mother came over and woke me up, noisily cleaning the room I was in. When I shatched the eye glasses from her face in order to get her attention and stop her, it accidentally chipped her nose bone and caused her pain. I should not have done that but to cause her any physical harm was an accident. Nevertheless, my feminist sister, still fresh into her family law career, had deeply imbued discursive structures, looking for a lifetime for a moment like this: “There’s such a thing as domestic violence!” I cursed her out, both to make short hand of the complexity of it and for my confidence in my relative innocence
My bother Tom paid a special visit to me.
He said that “people are saying you are like Jeff, setting yourself up to be a loser.”
I knew the situation enough to decode it: “People are saying” means my sister’s husband, the over respected and self righteous opinion of a six foot four boomer, who reaped the additional benefits of a private school and an inherited business.
(Jeff was a friend of my oldest brother Larry; and Jeff was not respected because he had a hard time holding down a job). I don’t think that Jeff was much for erudition, so the comparison was limited, but whatever, right?
Tom then said, rather contradictorily, “your killing them” (our parents). I might have asked Tom, did he ever consider that he and my mother were killing me?
But then he went on to say, “I don’t know if you know this, but your bringing them together” (as a competitive, winning team against you). I would later kind of come to understand this when, for example, I would overhear my father remarking to my mother, “he’s got to have his fix.” … commenting on the fact that I liked to have coffee in the morning: terrible habit, I know (lol). But I digress. And Tom went on to say, “I have this little baby.” These fucking people with “their family” and kids, they act like they are doing you a favor for automatically reproduce without much in the way of social concerns and their overriding personal concerns as such.
He went on to say, “I used to not care what people thought about me.” Was that ever an understatement , coming from THE most sarcastic person I’ve ever known; wielding endless insulting names for me, shocking my system with sudden, loud mockery, followed up, as I said, with whimsical indifference to any consternation he might cause.
I cited our father’s incoherent personality, inability to make himself understood, then rage when he was not understood.
Tom said, “that’s his problem.”
I think that was more an expression of Tom’s comparative mental health to mine than good advice, though it was that.
I asked Tom if he thought our father was a good teacher? The way he acted with indignation if you asked a question, for example.
Tom conceded that he was the worst.
I cited a instances of the cruel insanity of working with him: “do this, do this, do this.” …”get me this, get me this, get me this” ..bring him the wrong tool and he’d slam it on the ground, stand there seething, shaking in rage, clasping his hands in mock prayer, looking skyward and cursing in Italian, gritting his teeth, turning red, eyes bulging out of his head, then focusing on me, making it clear that he’d like nothing more than to crush my head…
Tom added a better piece of advice in this regard, “you know what I do when dad is that way? I treat it like he’s trying to help me.”
That was even better advice, advice that I wish I could have taken; but again, he was more psychologically stable than I was; didn’t have an older brother like him, abusing him; was probably literally given that advice, “your father is trying to help (toughen) you”, at time, in the late fifties when my mother wasn’t quite so sick and the society wasn’t quite so unforgivingly critical of White self esteem.
Before he left, he said, “we’ll talk.” Oh no we wouldn’t. I would read. Stupidly, I showed him the books on my floor. I did not have a good sense of “not putting personal resources at risk.” This is one of the vulnerabilities resulting from the Charmed Loop of Didactic Incitement” – which my brother wielded against me with impunity.
Around this time my mother heard a therapist (MSW) named Naomi talking with Susan Forward on a New York radio station. Forward had just topped the New York Times Best Sellers list with her book, “Men Who Hate Women and The Women Who Love Them.” I guess my mother believed that Naomi might intervene on her behalf against my “misogynic isolation from my family” … I was given the line that she wanted to help me, “let’s go for it!” my mother said. I figured that if she really wanted to help me, that I would get to tell my side of the story and sort things out. But after seeing her once, she came across with too much levity by contrast to my serious concerns. I sensed that she was not really on my side, but adopting the pop-feminist psychology of the day that my mother would want to sue against me, as Naomi asked me (in levity), “why this isolation? She expressed dismay by phone – “Why?!” – when I told her that I would not be back, that I was not comfortable with her.
All the while I was attempting to keep my distance from my family. I worked other jobs, stocking a liquor store, even clean up work on a farm out in Peapack-Gladstone, having remembered from a Boy Scout hike how beautiful it is out there. Finally, took a job as a waiter at Dale’s Steak and Pancake House in Bloomfield, and I was disastrous at that too. The boss and his friend, head waitress, cute blonde lady with a black, former N.B.A. basketball player boyfriend, did not fire me (though they probably should have). Screwed up many orders among a myriad fiasco. I was mortified to find myself waiting on Sharon’s mother in one moment (I had been sending enraged communiques of on kind or another to Sharon); startled, she asked for two teas and I simply got another waitress for her. Stupidly, I crashed my hand into the glass (not breaking the glass, but clumsily not having seen it either) when reaching for a desert for a customer. One nice old lady made the remark upon that that I was “going places”, because I was “sincere.” I find that heartening, even now. Finally, my parents popped in, leaving a twenty dollar tip, and a clue that a Tufts graduate might try for bigger and better things.
As I was still struggling with the wreckage of my emotions and self esteem that Sharon had left in her wake, I did attempt to talk to my father, but talking about psychology with him was worse than a waste of time. When I tried to address the deficit that the family had set before, his response was, “don’t you think that other people had that deficit too?” My father’s response was always to have me to think of the other; and that is why when I finally would read Kant, his first principle, of unanimity (thinking in agreement with yourself) was such an important corrective revelation. Next he went to another standard fallback of his, “you (my three siblings and I) were all raised the same!” ..which was infuriatingly stupid to me. Because it did not take into account birth order, my older siblings advantage in competitiveness and cruelty, in addition to the social climate being less hostile to their generation. He added, “you think people have no regard for you, they do have regard for you.”
For the final indignation, my father said, “I just want to be done with this shit!” I sensed, and later confirmed, something unoriginal here. My father was always a “Zelig”, a person who had no consistent personality of his own, but and arbitrary and incoherent personage, obnoxiously and with embarrassing obviousness, adopted the persona and mannerisms of others around him. [Indeed, learning how important that the autobiographical self is to go along with the corporeal self to establish coherence, accountability, agency and warrant, is just one of the reasons why I despise asshole Guessedworker – trying to tell me to drop the hermeneutic (autobiographical) side and just examine the corporeal; for his jealous stupidity and the obstruction of his gargantuan, unmerited ego project; and this idiot purports to be rigorously Heideggerian; while ignoring the necessity for hermeneutics to liberate one from the arbitrariness of mere facticity and afford human, autobiographical authenticity, of which coherence is a prime feature]
I would learn indeed that this “desire to just be done with this shit” was expression of Naomi’s strategy of Jay Haley and John Weakland’s “Brief Therapy – based on crude “pragmatic” intervention techniques of hypnotherapist Milton Erikson. This was manipulation which would devistate any response and “resistance” by the patient and providing the “relief” after frustrating them sufficiently to act in some way that the therapist wanted them to. And this was supposed to correct “the problem” (which is being located in the head of the patient and obstructedd by their “resistance”), “to be done with it”, without protracted psychoanalysis.
This dovedails another subtle difficulty here about my father – his anti-intellectualism, which included being veritably proud of speaking with bad grammar (e.g., saying “he come” when he was supposed to say “he came”). With a dumb smile on his face, as if he was joining you in social affinity on the porch of the Italian neighborhood of 1930’s Newark, he’d relate fantastical stories about how Ted Williams could see the commissioner’s name on a speeding fastball; or how they really believed Martians were coming down Market Street when Orson Wells aired his “War of the Worlds” on the radio.
He would apparently get a pat on the head both from women, who sought to control men by keeping them dumbed down and elites who wanted rank and file American men to know their place. My father would literally repeat that WWII veteran mantra, “you can’t fight city hall.” Literally, with a smile on his face, expecting approval from you.
To make matters worse, he was strong, and could humiliate your efforts as effeminate and pretentious if you tried to take an intellectual approach to doing better than that.
There was nothing famine about him, ranging from his catatonic TV watching, indifference to music and art, to his fantastic temper tantrums over arbitrary matters – I figure that these nonsensical temper tantrums were an evolved form of peacock feathers and entertainment to relieve the boredom of Italian village life. Not so devastating there, as everyone was a cousin, ready to make relative sense of this and pick up the psychological pieces of a child; but in America there was no community to pick up the pieces and make up for that emotional/ intellectual deficit.
Nevertheless, one has no choice but to do their best with the cards they are dealt. The stock market was doing well at that time and I asked my father what he thought about my trying to be a stock broker? He said that he thought it was not a bad idea. This was an expression on the good side of my father; while he was an emotional and intellectual disaster, when it came to money, while were not rich, I would not complain. In fact, we were well enough materially, such that it facilitated some correction of the emotional / intellectual deficit.
I looked through the want ads and saw one for “Stock Broker Trainee.”
Now, I knew nothing about economics or Wall Street, and truth-be-known, I was not particularly interested. But I figured I might be able to make money this way, gain my independence from my family, and go back to school to study science (of people, society, somehow study it scientifically, in a foundational way that could not be messed with by liberals). So I went to the library and read up on what being a stock broker entailed. I latched onto the fact that honesty was of utmost importance. That I could do, perhaps help to manage part of their money, in service to wealthy and aspiring people. With an additional bit of advice from Roger’s Rules For Success, I actually rehearsed for the interview. And into …my first trance with the president of the brokerage house, Steve Kowitski, who was conducing interviews that day only because the underling usually assigned that task was out sick.
The Mentally Retarded Genius of Wall Street
Equipped with my rehearsed lines, and the idea that I might garner investment for the brokerage house by protecting some part of my richer cousin’s wealth in safe and honestly managed securities, I sat before Philips, Appel & Walden’s Brokerage House President, Steve Kowitski, at his desk for the interview.
After listening to him pontificate and lecture about what it took to make it in this business, I took my turn to rattle off my rehearsed lines. He must have been bored and was saying something to end the interview, obviously unimpressed and obviously not going to hire me.
In that moment a loud fart erupted from me in spontaneous response to the stress, as if the depths of my psyche were shouting sarcastically, “are you kidding me?!!!”
Laughter came over Kowitski’s face and we both went into a trance state.
I called him a mentally retarded genius, said that I am one too and he burst out laughing again.
I said, “he (I) calls the guy who is interviewing him a mentally retarded genius.” We laughed again.
I explained to him that I’d had a difficult family background and all that I could cope with emotionally and intellectually in terms of academics, was a Fine Arts major. Thus it was not full fledged immersion in its resource, but I did get a degree from a fine university – Tufts.
He charitably confirmed, “but you rubbed elbows with them.” Then he added, “we have other brokers here, who were fine arts majors. Sometimes we prefer that; because the business schools teach students to pursue ways that are not in the brokerage house’s interest, whereas we can teach the art students our way. I’ll take you under my wing and show you how it’s done.
I told him about my wealthy cousins and how I hoped to get some business from them. He cautioned, “that if I ever left the firm, those contacts would be theirs.” I told him that I assumed that to be the case. He said that my assumption “would be correct.”
He cautioned me further that the brokers at the firm were independent contractors, some were of better character than others; and that I should be careful who I learn from. Who I associate with will be part of the determination as to whether I advance from Stock Broker Trainee to become a full fledged, Series 7 sponsored Stock Broker.
He then went on to tell a favorite story of his about how he became a big time stock broker, predicting the upward value of NASA stocks. May have been the Wall Street Journal, but probably was The New York Times that profiled him in an article titled, “The Wizard of Wall Street.”
I then told him that there would be other rewards for hiring me; and here is a big tip of my own. I don’t know how I know this, but you should write this down, because there is going to be a company called “Starbucks” and they are going to be a boon for ground floor investors.
There were other niceties exchanged and then he told me that I had to come back for a follow up interview with the usual interviewer, but it’s a mere technicality. I would learn that he’d interviewed over twenty prospects on that day alone and I was the only one that he liked.
He concluded the interview by saying, “it’s been a pleasure.” And we shook hands.
This presented to be a great opportunity but also a daunting transition for a fine arts major.
I felt the need for support in this transition and believed that if Naomi could serve as a normal conversational partner – just normal – that this could serve to deal with emotional issues that might crop up, flood-in and overwhelm any progress as I opened my consciousness in order to study for the series 7 and other requirements for this brokerage career.
Naomi enthusiastically assured me that she was “sure that she could help me!” As her stated method was to “help me do better”, and “act as a coach” to “achieve clarity”, there was reason to believe that she might help me negotiate this daunting career transition.
And so I went back to Naomi, and there was this air of levity about her – and about my situation, apparently. I was mystified as to how this was supposed to help me, but all I really hoped for was someone to talk with (seriously) about what I wanted to talk about. I figured it must be possible. I was demonstrating responsibility and accountability, therefore, why not be accorded prerogative over what to talk about in my therapy for F sake.
With this cognitive dissonance I returned for the follow-up interview at Philips, Apel and Walden. A mere formality perhaps, but this was the brokerage house’s top performing broker. He told me that Kowitski likes me (which was all important) and then went on to detail some of the requirements of brokerage after I got out of the mail room and passed the Series 7 – a fairly hard exam, the stock broker’s equivalent to the bar exam for an attorney’s license.
He said that you have to have ready answers for people, you can’t just say, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” Then he was interrupted by a phone call as I sat there for a few minutes. When he hung up the phone, he asked (and answered) “do you know what I was doing? I was doing some hand-holding. A client just lost $20,000.”
I sat mostly silent, tried to say something about my wealthy potential contacts and my honesty.
He went into this thing about how in this business, you’ve got to put people below you.
It was all so alien to my natural concerns that I just shut down. I choked, utterly. Could not talk. Felt my pulse speed up. I’m sure that I was beet red.
He asked me if I had anything to say. I could not talk. It was utterly humiliating, even though it was just him and I in the room. I’m sure that he didn’t quite know what to make of it, and so he just repeated, “Kowitski likes you. You can report for work starting in the mail room on Monday.”
I returned to Naomi for some “coaching” to navigate through this turbulence.
I wish that I could make this part shorter, but this part about Naomi’s therapy has complexities and detail that are important to provide necessary context. Though I made it as short as possible, the need to provide this old context hazards an unbecoming, wallowing feel (I have the same trepidations about perhaps including too much family background). Nevertheless, I believe this is a necessary hazard and it is the most difficult part of my statement overall to articulate. The final parts should come much easier and faster.
Why I believed them
Naomi told my parents to tell me that she wanted to “help me do better”, though she was apparently hired with a disposition in significant part to “intervene” against me.
While I was not inclined to go back to her after my first consultation with her, there are several reasons why I was induced to return and went along with her to the extent that I did.
To begin, she deployed that trick, telling my parents to tell me that she wanted to “help me do better”, though she was apparently hired with a disposition in significant part to “intervene” against me.
With that, I was fooled a bit when my parents repeated this phrase of Naomi, that she “wants to help me do better.” I would expect a minimal professional responsibility behind it, wherein a person educated in psychological matters could be reasoned with; would of course treat my side of events as potentially valid. Further, it made sense to me that if it is stigmatic and difficult to talk about personal difficulties elsewhere (particularly as a man, a “white man”), then therapy is a place to sort out these matters.
Naturally I wanted to believe in the redemption of my parents view toward me, that they were enlisting these therapists primarily to “help me”, as claimed – and when I surprised myself by getting a job as a stock broker trainee, I figured that would increase evidence enough of my own responsible motivation and intent to be self sufficient, to carry on in independent interests; it then seemed to make sense to take my parents advice that Naomi might indeed help me in this endeavor, “to do better.” I presumed that I would have a chance to talk-through my side and solve problems to help manage my consciousness in relative equanimity as I endeavored this large transition from art major to stock brokerage.
Of course I thought that was the basic point of “helping me to do better”, not intervention on behalf of a view where I was sheerly responsible for my problems, as if I had no legitimate criticisms to try to get a handle on regarding family, girlfriends, and a liberal society which, for its part, had a lot negative to say about my kind. Some confirmation and anchoring might have “helped me to do better” so that these issues wouldn’t overwhelm me when they cropped-up – as they inevitably would – when I opened consciousness to study for the Series 7 and tried to concentrate on the fiduciary matters of stock brokerage.
Brief Therapy/Eriksonian hypnotherapy objectives
But the primary motive was intervention. I could speculate about my parents motives, as Jay Haley, one of the key proponents of the hypnotic end of Brief Therapy observed of what was typical of parents in such cases: “mom and dad feel like failures, so they don’t want junior to do too well by contrast.” With that, The Milan Group of Family Therapy, in one of their better moments, might deride Naomi as having been enlisted as “Dr. Homeostat” – viz. one who puts a negative family system and altercasting back in place. Indeed, I would be mystified as she would treat even major, positive changes and initiatives on my part – such as budgeting my time to study hard as I embarked upon on a brokerage career – as if they were old intransigence that had to be overcome. When I told her how I budgeted my time to study, she surprised me by being taken-a back in fear, as if I was doing something terrible. I.e, there was a strong element about Not helping me to do better at all, but in fact an intervention to “disempower” me and to get me to do sheerly what I was wanted me to do, ultimately, in Naomi’s liberal societal interests.
This Brief Therapy combines seduction of the patient with magical feelings of trance and magical promises that are enlisted for highly pragmatic ends – to open the patient to techniques and suggestions, even admittedly “dirty tricks”, to coerce them to merely act in line with what the therapist deems the practical course of action. That being “the thing to do” was, in turn, based on notions of Wittgenstein: “the will to philosophy is a pathology that requires therapy, emphasizing episodic, ‘how-to questions’ that facilitate the patient to ‘move on with their life” – more buzzwords of the times, which I believe are more convenient to hegemonic positions than the necessary truth of what the patient needs. In these therapies, we are also talking about a theoretical cluster of hypnotherapists, viz., Milton Erikson and Jay Haley doing Haley’s Brief Therapy based on Milton Erikson’s strategy for hypnotherapy; and the Pragmatics of intervention suggested by Paul Watzlawick, Janet Beavin, John Weakland and Don Jackson.
There is another relevant concept behind Brief Therapy derived of Wittgenstein, but also Dewey, Adorno and Horkheimer (The Authoritarian Personality) and promulgated by Rorty, that is the “necessity” to reach and undermine the patient’s final, “authoritarian grammar” – to force the patient to accept participation in the more relativistic concerns of liberal society, whereas he might otherwise wish to uphold his proposed final grammar as authoritative foundation in avoidance of liberal participation – and of final concern to its proponents, might be used as authoritative challenge to their ‘free and liberal way of life.’
“I just want to be done with this” wasn’t a highly original thought to my father, it was an indication of his Zelig-like personality relaying expression of his being sold on the “brief therapy” technique in vogue at the time – in vogue because it was high time for White men to defend themselves and turn the critical perspective back at the proponents of liberal antagonism of White men; hence it was trendy in intervention against this correction to deploy a brute pragmatism where “therapists” weren’t trying to sort out people’s deep problems but rather to coerce them to the course of behavior that they saw fit, “curing them” in a relatively brief time span
Indeed, that vulgar pragmatism behind Brief Therapy intervention merged also with my mother’s own final grammar, as she oft repeated what might be the closing lines of the heroine in a Hollywood B-movie of 40’s: “Because honey, I’m not dong it! I’m fed up!” – repeat in rasping anger hundreds of times.
It is unbecoming to mention this, as it is not the altogether unusual character of a stressed mother (of four kids, which being after all, would make me crazy too), but all too true – I needed to give some consideration to her extreme expression at that; combined with how pop feminism became a convenient vehicle for her to express her resentment, with me being the most available audience besides my father. My mother’s default mode, like Cara’s, was of the feminist trends of the times, of “taking the woman’s side” against – “assuredly, though perhaps hidden and needing-to-be-sussed-out male chauvinist pig motives.
Because of my fathers odious penchant for attacking vulnerability, my mother manifested an inability to trust, exacerbating a susceptibility to bi-polar syndrome in which she became truly sick, exacerbated further by alcoholism, she went though long spans of time when she was unremittingly hostile; and she could not admit that she could be wrong about anything (she would block metacommunication), while harshly rendering false and negative attributions of me; I recall correspondingly long spans in childhood when I was apologizing constantly, feeling as if I had to begin anything that I said with “I’m sorry.” I did not know how to get her to stop yelling and complaining in hostility and just wanted relief from the hostile atmosphere from her in particular but the rest of the family as well.
The search for relief from guilt feelings had me go through an embarrassing Christian fundamentalist phase at age 21 (’82/’83), lacking and not knowing of other coping resources at a height of stress in my last year of undergraduate studies – as I sought relief from feelings of guilt, insecurity, antagonistic family relations; and to move by contrast toward thoughtful relations instead and a stable social/moral order. My mother did not suspend disbelief in my quest to be a good person, yelling at me when I sent $40 to Mother Theresa that I was “spending her money on charity to try to make people feel guilty.” She would angrily yell, that if it was her going to college, she would “study French!” It reminded me of how she would reiterate dozens of times throughout my adolescence, that she “wanted a divorce, wanted to go to France, wanted a divorce, wanted to go to France.”
It was traumatic for me to find my first girlfriend (at age 22) not only far more intellectually/ emotionally equipped than I, but also fiercely equipped with these pop-feminist ideas to not “baby a man”, to humiliate, and to not hear in sympathy the first word of a circumstantial explanation without screaming as if it were interminable transgression; but I digress – psychic difficulty from that experience was the presenting matter of my first hypnotherapy. There was a new problems: You can’t talk about old girlfriends with new girlfriends – you’ll hear, “all they want to do is talk about their old girlfriends.” So where do you go to sort this out? You hope a therapist can help.
Let me go back to where we were chronologically, (beyond some events that I will have to return to later)…
She couldn’t conceal the angry competitiveness behind what was for her an affected suggestion – “let’s go for it!” (belated popular jargon of the day, 1987) – to get me to go along with Naomi’s intervention against me, as it were, all too equipped, as she might well suspect, with grievances.
So after my initial gut reaction had kept me away, I came back to Naomi, seeking help for this heavy transition from fine art to brokerage, despite the fact that she made me uncomfortable, mystified me really, by her un-serious attitude. That was basically why I completely choked in a panic attack with my second interviewer at the brokerage house. I apparently only got hired anyway because a scheduling discrepancy led to my getting the head of the brokerage house for my first interview and I intrigued him as an upstart. He was about to dismiss the interview in indifference, but I farted loudly in response to him, making him laugh with that and we immediately went into trance together – the additional audaciousness of my calling him a “mentally retarded genius” deepened the trance; in trance, I recall telling him that “a company called ‘Starbucks’ was going to do well and he ought to encourage people to buy stocks in it, I don’t know why.”…in any event, through the trance, he got the idea that he should hire me; and his opinion held sway at the brokerage house, despite my utter choke in the second interview.
Having the need more than ever for someone to talk-to, I went back to Naomi.
She induced an ecstatic trance experience for me. With the ecstatic, magical experience, I was further inclined to stick with her, believing that she could help me. It might give me a quasi magical edge and thus another reason why I believed she might help – the phenomenon of trance, its ecstasy and the apparent extra sensory capacity it entailed lent credence to the proposed “soft magic” of this Brief Therapy; along with its “magical” verbal suggestions that great accomplishments were in the offing (“saving the world”, a virgin wife – don’t know if I believed that still, but a wife and life of my relative choice) with the help of this therapy.
In a subsequent session, under the stress of my attempted brokerage career, when I said that I might like to be hypnotized again to help me relax, she angrily rebuked me, saying that I should not try to “manipulate her!” When I responded honestly, “ok, I don’t expect you to hypnotize me or to do anything you don’t want; what I seek is nothing so spectacular at all, really, what I need is quite ordinary – I just need some normal feedback (and orientation).” She gritted her teeth and angrily told me that if “I don’t start asking women out how did I expect to get the feedback!?”
This confused me as I was overburdened with concern in preparation for the series 7 – why should I be concerned with asking women out in the few months leading up to it? Wouldn’t I be in better position for such pursuits afterwards? Nevertheless, in seeking relief from her psychological pressures, I did in fact very awkwardly, ask-out a secretary at the office (she blushed in embarrassment at my stupid overture – by the way, the secretaries formed something like a gate-keeper class) and this, along with the confused state of mind that Naomi exacerbated in me was a large part of the reason why I would get fired. That went along with things like one of the bosses seeing me weirdly talking to myself. I was happy to have gotten a warm response from one of my wealthy cousins, and saw prospects opening and so I was talking to myself with a spontaneous grin on my face (I suppose because I had nobody to talk to – least of all Naomi).
In fact she almost never answered any question straight forwardly, but with a question, or studied indifference.
Of course I had thought Naomi was going to help me in this big transition and I was mystified as she did not take my concerns seriously at all. Instead it was continuous disconfirmation – even if she would agree on a semantic level, it was said a tone of voice like “what’s the big deal?” If I was provoked enough by that to try be taken seriously by talking about my deeper, potentially significant, but innocent ambitions; she would trivialize that too – by therapeutic design (she would be looking at my feet, to avoid looking at my face); she would keep me seeking for a human response; and she would keep devastating my attempts (“until I learned to accept being one down” – Jay Haley). The thing is, while I am getting this lesson, others will not tend to accept being one down.
Meanwhile at the brokerage house, besides being seen talking to myself and besides stupidly asking-out the secretary, I was the usual disaster at work. In the mailroom, we (me and the other trainee) accidently set the stamp meter a few digits off, such that we were sending postings stamped for hundreds of dollars for part of a day. Who screws up in the mailroom? Well, we did. I was told to be selective in which brokers that I tried to learn from. I took a shining to Charles Messina; turns out the guy was into corrupt penny stocks and junk bonds. Sold me on this idea of stock based on fire proof paint. I persuaded my sister to buy a thousand dollars worth; probably went to zero a few weeks after that. Even though I had studied diligently enough to pass the Series 7, the final straw came when Kowitski wanted to show a broker something with my computer and for some stupid reason I wanted to check a stock first and turned the screen toward myself. Well, Kowitski, Vietnam mental casualty that he was, exploded at me before the entire brokerage house and that was the end of my stock broker career
The bull market of the 80s turned into a bear marked by the end of 1987 as the market tanked and most brokers didn’t make it in fact; but that was only some consolation as my strategy was more contingent upon quality contacts than a quantity of sales.
One more stressful bit that I’d forgotten to mention. I was required to sign a contract liable for the brokerage house sponsoring the 25k fee for entry into the Series 7. That was quite a risk for me. I had other things to consider, and could do without the stress of issues so secondary to me. I decided to not try and pick up with another firm.
I guess that I felt the need to resolve the “therapy” with Naomi, so I resolved to go back to find out what this was about. Only after the therapy would I learn that the idea was to provoke a ‘transference’ of emotional hostility which could then be ‘worked through’ in theory. ..when that was going to happen, I don’t know, but she was ‘helping me to do better’ by didactic incitement. I felt like the treasures of my soul were being emptied and discarded.
However, I had been caught up by the allure of the blissful trance states (they would produce a spontaneous erection in me) with magical promises and uncertain as to the keys to success which her trances seemed to indicate – I wanted to get to the bottom of this stuff that she was doing for better or worse. I remained in a weekly visit, but everything that I could say would be minimized, disconfirmed and humiliated – including getting fired (“oh dear”). When I recognized that she would never treat anything that I had to say seriously and I went silent, she showed that she was happy and had apparently succeeded in her objective to “overcome my resistance” – she showed me the literal, proverbial couch – it seemed urgently important to her that I lie upon it; though a strange notion to me, she still had the combination of my anxiety and an understanding of the magical euphoria that she could induce with trance to lure me, along with my wish to prove my innocence; thus, I agreed to lie on the couch with her sitting where I could see her at first, and then sitting behind the third time I did it. When I did talk about the things that I had said I didn’t want to talk about (because I wasn’t supposed to “control the therapy”), she would have nothing to say and would express trivializing annoyance at my being disconcerted that she had nothing to say after insisting that I talk about these things. Would let me catch her reading a magazine, indifferent to what I’d said, if I turned around to see her while I was talking. When I said sarcastically that maybe I should come there (paying decent money per session) to say nothing, she said “that was fine, I could come there and be a couch potato.”
I told her that I want her to suck my dick. She said ‘what if I want that too?” I said, “thanks mom” (for paying for the therapy) and she laughed. I ordered her to let me know that she was sincere by asking me again, why I want to know, once outside the door of her office; she did that.
After a few sessions putting up with her sitting behind me while I lay on the couch like a fool for two or three session, in position to promote ultimate discomfort – a cliché of the nightmare therapist – I refused and sat in a chair opposite her in the remainder of session with her.
When I hadn’t wanted to come two or three times a week but only once, because I needed to study and I explained how exactly I budgeted my time to study, she had reacted with fear, as if I was about to do something terrible. When I explained furthermore that I wasn’t inclined to come two or three times a week and that I wasn’t quite comfortable with the techniques she was using – reflecting back, answering questions with questions etc . – she very angrily told me that “anyone who tried to ‘control the therapy!” [merited these kinds of absolutely one sided intervention techniques]. This intimidation about being “controlling” was a part of what she would call ‘always working’ as she would, “freely admit to being a manipulator.”
After I refused to lie on the couch anymore, insisting that I be able to talk about what I want, including how I objected to her techniques; that I didn’t want her to use these techniques; would never again go to a therapist who used them; and that I wanted to assert what were for me important ideas and truths that she had been disconfirming. She told me that “she’d always be working.” I wasn’t quite sure that she meant coercion nevertheless, but that was the case.
Rupturing of Final Grammar Number One: "I Don't Want."
She would always be working, as she said – i.e., every utterance was an occasion for a brief therapy intervention. She did think that I should join her group therapy with women who had weight problems. In another hypnosis session she was concerned to put across to me her social outlook in a kind sort idealized mantra – that she was suggesting to me that I would like women of every race. But I was never so disoriented that I would allow anyone to tell me what kind of woman I had to like.
I told her angrily that “no, I don’t like black women” (as partners). She was beginning to traverse my final grammar – which was that I wanted to be able to choose a type of woman I like and beyond that, “I didn’t want a woman who has dated a black.” I said this to her angrily in order to test her civility, the civility of this society – shouting when she mocked me. At the time, the capacity for a woman to say ‘no’ was being raised as sacrosanct (and well it should be, I thought even then), but it was not being upheld as important for a White man. She responded with subversive technique, as she would, with a quiet, coy, underminingly slow delivery, as if the shy victim to a hegemonic oppressor, plaintively asking, “wh…………eell, even if it was a long time ago?” this caused a meltdown in me (in my ability to have any trust in this society enough to participate normally).
This caused a meltdown (and concomitant hysterical trance – which she mocked) as any concern on my part to participate practically in that society was rendered untrustworthy. It had been for me a huge concession to put aside active critique of society, and in particular women who acted on that “prerogative” – viz., I wasn’t saying “you can’t”; and correspondingly, I considered it imperative for my personal integrity, and to a feeling that I could trust in the justice of this society that it respects my freedom, let alone the ancient resource of EGI, to be able to discriminate and to say “no”, I don’t want people who would impose it against my will in my personal life.
It was necessary to have confirmation of that prerogative as being significant – confirmation which was hard to come by in PC days prior to the internet. I needed that to be able to trust in the society enough to participate in the confidence that it shows respect for my freedom, by displays of that in professional, official status as well – my prerogative to enter into voluntary agreement or not was tied to my capacity to reject a woman in my personal life for choices that she might make. Then I could trust in the societal context enough to negotiate practical matters, including relationships. By contrast, for the official line to be that my capacity to discriminate among women was invalid and to be humiliated was for me wholly unacceptable.
No, Naomi did not have to confirm that, but as a matter of judgment, in my opinion, she should have confirmed that in fiduciary responsibility and it should have been clear. To me, under the circumstances, that should have been acknowledged as important – my prerogative to say “no” and to be able to discriminate accordingly, to have that considered not only my right, but recognized as a very fundamental prerogative; not something to be trivialized and undermined by the narratives circulating, those allowed/not allowed in society at that time: it was clear that she was not alone in her antagonistic position, to say the least , in fact – it was she who was among the oppressive hegemon – acting against deep (I can say sacred) concerns of my ethnic genetic interests – not just the epiphenomenon of social capital and human ecology, deep matters though those are as well. She mocked me and she made it clear by contrast that she would uphold a position of continuing to do the exact opposite of my most serious concerns – toying with my frustration, with little half objections, pronouncing half the word “well” (“wu”) or “but” (“bt, bt”)… as if I was the hegemonic oppressor and not its rather being the case, as it was, that the oppressive force was the pervasive and pernicious liberalism that she was “defending against me -Doing everything that she could to get to stigmatizing, disempowering, blackmailable response.
Overwhelming negative emotions triggered and elicited, brought forth these stigmatic and blackmailable reactions to awareness upon opening consciousness – awareness of the destruction to my EGI that was going on before and what was still in process – again, accounting for all of those instances that my family might point to as warrant to ostracize me and obstruct the resource to make corrective moves against the antagonism to my EGI.
It wasn’t only brokerage that went out the window at that point. Practical matters, routine concerns, making money, focus on material gain, the kinds of concerns of which my sister Cara, for example, would criticize me for not being my central focus, became then matters that I could pay attention to only as much as I absolutely had to.
What I needed in order to suspend disbelief in the trustworthiness of a society to participate on that, the level of “how to” make things work was a society that at very least showed respect for my capacity to say no, to defend myself and my EGI against people who I deemed abusive to me personally and my EGI; I needed a society that represented the recognition of reasoning-that-out is significant.
When I finally decided that I had enough, and did not want to meet with her anymore, she introduced a last Brief Therapy pragmatic trick – “do you know how to teach a woman?” Which would leverage my predilection to be careful about partner selection against me – to not be so careful in a prefigurative sense of “who”, but rather with the suggestion I could try to bring a more arbitrarily pursued woman around to my view, by “carefully teaching her” – in a word, practical force would override prefigurative force – when she presented the one clear bit of advice among the pressure of her confusion techniques. This led to me to pursuing and getting together with a woman who I really did not like very much in the first place and who was not appreciative of my “teaching.” This was not what I needed. I guess that this was suppose to placate me (because “all men want is arbitrary sex”) and make it so that I couldn’t substantially object to any sexual license among women. In fact, I felt that this trick made the most important decision of my life for me; without any concern for what I really wanted. This infuriated me, made my sense and location of my agency still more difficult. I did not date a woman for years after that, so dislocated was my sense of agency.
Why would I go along with suggestions manifest after these therapies, like “teaching a woman”, “being didactic”, or “acting like a crazy Italian”? Because these hypnotherapies and Brief Therapy techniques induce severe confusion, discomfort and anxiety and propose some clear means of relief by contrast – e.g., “do you know how to teach a woman?” … “Your prejudice is valid, in fact you are going to save the world by means of it through your continental European identity and a move to Poland as your base of operations.” With that, one is not just searching for relief from the stigmatizing, blackmailable, disempowering response that the “therapy” provokes, but offered its solution.
It wasn’t just me who was stressed by this, a prior patient had peed on Naomi’s sofa, affording my first opportunity to decline to lie on it.
To repeat: This Brief Therapy combines seduction of the patient with magical feelings of trance and magical promises that are enlisted for highly pragmatic ends – to open the patient to techniques and suggestions, even admittedly “dirty tricks”, to coerce them to merely act in line with what the therapist deems the practical course of action. That being “the thing to do” was, in turn, based on notions of Wittgenstein: “the will to philosophy is a psychopathology that requires therapy, emphasizing episodic, ‘how-to questions’ that facilitate the patient to ‘move on with their life” – which became another buzzword of the times, which I believe is more convenient to hegemonic positions than the necessary truth of what the patient needs. In the proponents of these therapies, we are talking about a theoretical cluster of hypnotherapists Milton Erikson and Jay Haley along with Haley’s Brief Therapy based on Erikson’s ideas and the Pragmatic intervention suggestions of Watzlawick, Beavin, Weakland and Don Jackson.
There is another relevant concept behind Brief Therapy derived of Wittgenstein, but also Dewey, Adorno and Horkheimer (The Authoritarian Personality) and promulgated by Rorty, that is the “necessity” to reach and undermine the patient’s final, “authoritarian grammar” – to force the patient to accept participation in the more relativistic concerns of liberal society, whereas he might otherwise wish to uphold his proposed final grammar as authoritative foundation in avoidance of liberal participation – and of final concern to its proponents, might be used as authoritative challenge to their ‘free and liberal way of life.’
There was a problem, however, with regard to this concept being applied to my “final grammars” in that my “final grammars” were already conceived in a liberal way – “I don’t want” (a woman who’s dated particular kinds of men), not “you can’t” – a radical concession to liberalism made and that I needed to take for granted in order to participate in liberal society on a practical level – such as attending to brokerage – I needed to be able to take that for granted as generally respected; to not have to deal with deeper theoretical matters of whether I could trust that the society was sane and just enough to respect my freedom as well – with that I could put deeper questions of society aside and attend to the practical matters of how-to participation; only expecting respect of my final grammar generally in public and confirmation in formal settings – but particularly in the formal setting of therapy which is presumably in concern of my personal well being and therefore presumably with concern to look after my prerogatives and integrity.
Transition from the subversion of final Grammar 1 – personal prerogative – sets-up subversion of Final Grammar 2 – consensual prerogative.
So there it was. The subversion of my personal, final grammar, “I don’t want” (a woman who has dated a black, etc.). You may say that it was only Naomi. But I had a clear sense not only from her, but from all around that her subversion was connected to a pervasive rule structure weaponized against my interests. Indeed, I would learn afterward that (((Naomi))) is Jewish. At the time, I was only vaguely critical of Jewry and it would not have caused me to stop seeing her of itself. Though I did ask her, “you’re Italian, right?” Relieved to think that as I gathered it would make her more empathetic. She did not answer. That was deceptive.
Anyway, this intervention set in motion the daunting quest to establish final grammar number two, “We don’t want”, i.e., our group prerogative, though I was not yet articulate of the fact.
Not long after I got fired from the brokerage job, I got a job as an undercover operative (monitoring for theft and incompetence) posing as just another salesman in the electronics department of a large home appliance retailer in Edison, New Jersey. The fact that the secretary of this investigative frim was the daughter-in-law of penny broker Charles Messina, whom I’d met from by brokerage house job in a distant city poked at my sense of destiny a bit.
But undercover investigation is a funky business, as I would find, you wind up learning more dirt about people that you like than than anyone else. And your bosses want you to rope people in; it’s a good bit of pressure, especially with my state of mind – America’s values were not working for me. Nevertheless, I was a good salesman; this was among a the few jobs I was good at along the way; i.e., despite struggling psychologically with my revulsion to America’s liberal trajectory.
These were days well before the internet and a burgeoning ethnonationalist was very isolated – my being Italian/Polish I’m sure had a good part, as I did not see the Nazi and Klanish routes as an option. The concern for EGI was alien to America’s proposition nation and land of opportunity that offered material extravagance in exchange. I seethed in anger. Couldn’t relate.
What younger guys might not realize, is that to that point in time, seeing White women at all, let alone pretty middle class ones with blacks was still pretty rare. However, although it seemed that I was the just as rare person who would notice it and be very bothered by it while others were oblivious, the logic of meaning and action was there, the implicative force was there in the societal rule structures which were moving toward holding up miscegenating women as saints of the sacred, while those who objected, most evil.
While in years gone by it was me who was noticing a fine young white girl going into a house with a black while a my friend was oblivious, now I was getting a trickle of being confronted outright – the drop dead gorgeous blonde coming into my electronics department with a nigger; and by years end, the Madonna Like a Prayer song and video came out; and it seemed the dam burst. One way that Italian women seemed better than others had always been that they had been more averse to blacks. It would be most disillusioning for me to see these pairings.
My mother’s refrain that “it doesn’t rub-off” with regard to my complaints about miscegenation” did not sit well with me. I also remember her saying around this time, “used to be you never saw a White woman with a black, now you see it in the Shop Rite every day” – the tone of voice being that she accepted it as no problem, right along with everyone else.
I still had my three piece custom made suits from my aborted stock brokerage persona and I was making ok money, so I guess I figured I may as well go the material route – but it was really a kind of suicide of materialism for me. Even though it was not expensive as sports cars go, there was no way that I was going to be able to keep up with the monthly payments, insurance, maintenance and endless repairs (FixItAgainTony), let alone manage the hazards and headaches that go along with this material thing removed from my essential concerns. My psyche was committing suicide to the standard material compensation for my EGI.
At the time Toyota was marketing its economy car, the Civic, for $99 a month payments. It was an ugly model and would not have been impressive to hot women – all the more reason, I suppose, why my sister took me to the lot to see it, and all the more reason why I was not going to buy it, despite the fact that economically, it was the right thing to do. It was “transportation” as she said, correctly in the economic sense. But it also meant fitting in humbly, subserviently into a system that was looming to set me up to be a cow, at best, to siphon-off my EGI, directing it in the most destructive way. My concerns were deeper than mere economic sense.
Buying that car was definitely not my careful way of doing things; but the way this society was constantly telling me that I had to hate myself as a White man (we’re talking 1988 now, and I’d already long been making this complaint) and the implications of its rule structure were not conducive with my aims and humble participation. The best options, even women appropriate to your kind, were being snapped up and you’d be left holding the bag.
My sister Cara and her husband did offer attempted dissuasion from this didactic materialist suicide, with Ted saying, “you want to attract women, people are going to say, there he is with his expensive car but he has no money to spare every month”… my sister adding, “and people who buy cars like that at this stage are never going to have money.”
But Naomi’s intervention, the fact that my parents steer me into it put the final kibosh on my already minimal respect for their pragmatism, lack of empathy and care, the fact that it was in the destructive trajectory implied by this society’s logics of meaning and action, not in my true interests, made it impossible for me to just put my head down and humbly “mind my own business”, concentrate on material gain. It was all too wrong for me to merely participate uncritically in disregard of social capital – to benefit from a term not available to me then – hence my didacticism. You want this stuff from me? Here it is with a short fuse to tell me what it’s worth before it explodes.
Nevertheless, I still had human desires. There was no apparent way out and America purported to be the world’s best option, land of opportunity. While it was the idea of such intervention to instill as much discomfort and confusion as possible and then provide the one avenue for relief: do you know how to teach a woman?”
My garish materialism being a mere lure, I was still crawling along with my erudition and had finally got around to finish Kant’s little work on morals that I’d ignored, despite my professors’ recommendation. Exhilarated with the sense of freedom that this book instilled, I was all the more susceptible to Naomi’s trick, to overcome my prefigurative critically idealistic judgment of prospective female partners; and instead leverage practical force by suggesting that I merely take a woman who was available to me and “teach” her. Even on the evening that I pursued Veronica at Seaside Heights, there were other girls that I really felt more attracted to, but she was kind of pretty and didn’t seem like she’d be too hard. In effect I was aiming wide of the mark of what I really wanted and practicing, as it were. Of course she would not wind up appreciating this, not my “teaching her” the freedom of Kant, either. “I’m sick of this free stuff; I like a guy who’s laid back, wears a leather jacket.”
Ugh! My most important decision in life had been made for me by a trick, and left me devoting what is sacred to a fucking greaser, who I did not even feel especially attracted to. This, according to Naomi, was to make me happy? Overcome my “problem?”
I know that in popular culture that men are not supposed to be selective, but are rather to prefer the quantitative approach; however, that was not me. I don’t care what anybody says, it is more alpha to be selective and to want monogamy, at least for White guys. To have this liberalism imposed on me was infuriating and left me no choice but to try to find a way to develop a critical platform in challenge to liberalism (although I might not have been articulate enough to say exactly that at the time).
Perhaps inarticulate isn’t the word at this point, more like a simmering rage and and abject loss as to what I might do in order deal with this looming catastrophe. I still had my screen play ideas:
Nimrod, some sort of moral tale about deceptive Babylonian mystery religion and awakening.
Another about
Misogyny & Feminism, with an opening scene of about five minutes hearing over and over again:
“And what a woman wants and what a woman wants and what a woman wants and what a woman wants and what a woman wants, and what a woman wants, and what a woman wants”…
But even if I developed the screenplays, even if they were produced, would this have societal impact on liberalism, would it bring complete personal satisfaction? it was speculative and a long way off to verify.
I stood there on the balcony of the (((Jewish owned, of course))), Tops Appliance City electronics department: in my three piece suit; with my cute sports car out in the parking lot; trying to think how I might make this worthwhile; looking down at this skinny little sexy thing; one of our cashiers, half White Hispanic half some other kind of White; and I decided to ask her out Clint Eastwood style – “I am (my name).” Alyssa, “So”? Me, “so I’d like to make your acquaintance.”
I arrange for a date, she says “yes”. My sports car, custom made, three piece suit, hair – sprayed ….lets make reservations at the 5 star restaurant that I used to work at (where I met Sharon) ..and, equipped with cocaine – never something that I did I lot of, but the special accoutrement of boomer culture in the 80s…I drive to her house, her mother says that she’s not home.
Next time at work, it was quite embarrassing to realize that she was watching me from the cashier area, watching me angrily talking to myself at length. That’s how off in the world of my anguished thoughts that I was – didn’t even realize that she was there; quite embarrassing to verify her as correct, that I was too weird and unstable for her to go on such an invested date.
Well, the gram or so of cocaine didn’t go to waste. I did it by myself for the next couple days. As ever with cocaine, you’ve never felt better for about fifteen minutes, then when the cocaine crystal wears off and your coming down (“jonesing”) you’ve never felt worse because the cocaine assimilated the natural endorphins of your brain’s chemistry and so stopped producing them for a time – it’s totally depressing; nothing is good about life. I’ve talked to heroine addicts who’ve told me that jonesing on cocaine is worse. Indeed, when I’ve heard that someone has killed themselves, it is my first hypothesis that they were jonesing on cocaine.
Fortunately, I had a little more to my repertoire, given my value of erudition and intellectual betterment, I was able to intellectualize the experience. I knew that I would be depressed, and I decided to get into it; and then I asked myself, why should I waste this kind of money only to get depressed? That was the last time that I did cocaine, except for a little bit in a funny experience that I’ll tell you about later. I never did it much, less than 25 times.
While my idea that erudition and intellectualism is better than drugs may have been self deceptive and toxic, there is some truth to it – some. But then again, you don’t want to wind up like Ted Nugent. Those who do not occasionally plumb the depths of a little drink and mushroom wind up displaying shallow, mean and self righteous “logic” as Nugent does.
Not the place or the essay to talk about other drugs, which I had more or less under control as well. I had maintained that people, especially women – a bit hysterical, a bit jealous that there was pleasure to be had beyond their control, had drugs as a problem backwards, they were more of a symptom of problems. In retrospect, that was a bit too liberal, experimenting with ancient evolution like that is something to be careful about. If you’re looking for pedantry, I might suggest that life is weird enough. If you’re drinking to excess, for example, you may be looking to take a break from the non essential concerns of school and job. Try to get yourself to a situation where you are no stressed to pay so much attention and energy to things that you don’t care about; to where you can sleep as much as you need – “sleeping is the highest genius” – Soren Kierkegaard. But I digress.
Coming back to having been stood-up for the fancy date that I had arranged with Alyssa…
I was bothered but not devastated, after all, I didn’t know her. It was a bit more disconcerting to be so awkward about it – this kind of White nerdness (spergness, they say nowadays) can show in a big way when in contrast to the switch-blade precision cool of a semi-Puerto Rican type.
However, shortly thereafter, I did have what was for me, anyway, a significant episode, viz., over dinner with my sister and her husband.
I was expressing my annoyance at having been stood up by Alyssa, when my sister rejoined in her rhetorical, lawyerly feminist bitch way – she asked me angrily, “what would you think?” I didn’t know, what would I think? I said, “judging by he way she dresses I’m sure she is aware that she is sexually alluring but”…
My sister said, “I don’t believe it; you’re one of these guys who thinks that a woman should be raped for the way she dresses?”
I was flabbergasted and infuriated. I said something to the profanity laced effect of, here feminists are complaining bout how indelicate men are and then they go around sucking-off the same old men who are hitting them over the head and dragging them away by the hair!
I said it loud enough so that other people in the restaurant could hear it.
Anyway, a lifetime of feminist stereotyping and ridicule of me crystallized in that moment. I sensed that she was much the source of my neurosis with regard to women – instilling my ambivalent intentional oscillation as mentioned before. I did not want this in my life – someone who did not only not respect my boundaries, keeping me on my back foot, back peddling, going into my head, even.
I never even thought of raping a woman in the privacy of my thoughts.
I don’t think that a woman should be raped for anything, let alone for the way she dresses.
Rape is torture and even in my most misogynistic times, I was never sadistic.
I cannot relate to it. Especially with regard to sex – why would I want someone who does not want me? Why would I lower myself, that she is either so worthy or so important a target of defilement that I would risk the law or other men who would protect her coming down on me?
Sister or no, I needed her out of my life; she was not only too aggressive and hostile in her altercasting, but it was disconfirming in being so off the mark from who I am – even when she was offering a compliment, it was usually inaccurate. There were other things about her which I would decode in time, but there is no need to elaborate. There was her own “delightful sexuality” and her hatred of men’s interest in beautiful women… at bottom, her typical disposition toward me was to trivialize, limit, humiliate and control. She would let out a loud, disgusting belch to metacommunicate that she did not care what you thought of her; and as I said, could not be bothered to have an accurate understanding of me. It’s called disconfirmation and I didn’t need it.
The next time she called me, I told her that I never wanted to talk to her again. She said that a lot of people happen to like me (her) very much. I responded that I am not among them and I hung up, as I would hang up any time that she called me. I would not talk to her again for some twelve years, until when my father was near death.
I hung on at Topps Appliance City/the undercover investigative firm until January 1989. I did go into a trance with the bosses of investigative firm in the meeting in which we discussed my departure. It was a mess. As I would find in most of my trances, I am quite abusive and disgustingly profane; too arbitrary in that primordial state to represent my mature position; and certainly not at that point, as I vacillated from telling these guys that they’d better not be K.K.K., to letting the (very beautiful) secretary overhear that she’d better not suck nigger dick.
To their credit, the bosses seemed to understand the nature of the situation. In a subsequent meeting one added some solace, putting things in perspective, talking about the absurdity of governments moving nuclear bombs around on trains so they won’t be hit by their opponents nuclear bombs; and the one bit of perspective that I liked in particular – “you can fuck a thousand women, but if you suck one dick you’re a faggot.” I agreed.
1989 had me living awkwardly back with my parents, in their carriage house while I bided my time with odd jobs which were not particularly demanding so that I could read and hopefully find my way back more directly to graduate school. Toward the summer I got a job as a pizza chef in Point Pleasant, New Jersey.
About a block away was a used book store owned and operated by a very pretty woman – woman – not a cute girl. Needing to get a handle on feminism, I found three books that I remembered from my sister’s book shelf: Sex and The Single Girl; The Feminine Mystique; The Second Sex. I thought these were the three most important feminist text and she confirmed, “yup, that’s it.”
Shopping there gave me the added excuse to be in her company; I asked her a bit more about feminism and she said that “we’re still working toward it.”
Toward what, I asked?
She said, with atone of annoyance, “Equality.”
I mention this in particular, because it is the last time – and this was 1989 – that I heard anyone speak of “equality” as a cause; and I can’t say that I remember anyone making that their cause in the years before.
[As a poignant aside, neither have I ever made “equality” a cause, of course; in fact, I would go on to elaborate in articles how incommensurability/ commensurability and qualitative niche difference is the difference that makes a difference, not the narcissistic and false, quantitative comparisons of equality and inequality, which are likely to spawn hubris, disrespect, unnecessary conflict and reciprocally escalating diatribe. Despite being careful, it is just one of dozens of important issues that the asshole known as Guessedworker would ignore – in fact, he would write an article which, in his opening paragraph acuse me of advocating “equality” – something I had NEVER DONE and, as I have said, had written articles explaining how equality inequality was not the right paradigm – not to argue against it, either. That is to chase a red cape which not only makes you look like and asshole, it really does make you an asshole. When I responded to Guessedworker that I was horrified by this strawman, he would later take my being horrified as a reaction to his somehow having shown-me-up intellectually, when in fact, I was horrified that he was such an idiot, so desperate to have me play the fool and to “win” against me that he would ignore what I say entirely and just make shit up. But I digress; there was eight years of this kind of bullshit from Guessedworker and I will have to add to the examples over time in Part 12 of Zodiac Sign of the Boomer. And I digress…]
The one last thing I’d add about the pretty used bookstore lady, besides its being a shame that she had a chip on her shoulder, is that she always had “A Course in Miracles” (((Marian Williamson))) advertisement in her window. Of course I was neither foolish nor desperate enough to be interested in that new age bullshit.
Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, one of the main chefs expressed delighted bemusement, saying, “it makes you wonder when a pizza chef reading Simone de Beauvoir.”
In those weeks I would follow-up the post hypnotic suggestion to write to some of those professors from a North East University. In my letters, I explained my hypothesis about analyzing gender relations within the context of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and the need to re-evaluate the needs according to gender and social requirements.
I would send the poor guy (Barnett) voluminous writings that it would be cruel to expect him to read. But it was somehow so exciting to send exchange material with him by Western Union, from the only outlet around, down at Lakehurst Airfield, same place where the Hindenburg went up in flames. While he could not have read all my stuff, he did get the gist of it – basically, that through the decades of feminism there hadn’t been much representation of the male position and discussion of women/female’s abuse of men/males – he saw its merit and he wrote back, saying that my ideas were interesting, that they might work with his C.M.M. analysis; and he sent along the two articles that I’ve mentioned, regarding “Racist, Sexist and Other ‘Isms” and The Problematic Practices of Feminism – co-authored by a woman named Sharon M. Rossi, same name as my former bitch girlfriend. Shivers radn down my spine.
I was euphoric. Big time career prospects loomed, the the possibility of having societal impact.
Meanwhile, back at my pizza chef job, I had started out well. For some reason I made some really fantastic pizzas at first. One customer like mine so much that he ordered 30 for a party!
Eventually, my scatterbrain would come through with some really embarrassing mistakes, the kind that other people don’t make. I sent out a meatball sandwich, not well cooked, but it was sent back to me. I had given a customer a sandwich the consistency of a rock. Another time, for some reason it took me near a half hour to get a pizza done and in my hurry, I tried to slip the giant pizza spatula beneath the pizza only to find that it was still quite wet and it coiled up. There was no time to make a new one. So I tried my best to re-assemble the pizza in the box. I don’t think the customer failed to notice. For some reason, out of the blue, some weeks before, the head cook, Cutty, had drawn a clock on the wall near my pizza making area. The clock hands read 10:10. I would be fired (deservedly) on October 10th.
However, I stayed afloat with some Manpower temp jobs; and I kept up the correspondence, reading into the necessary literature until I screwed up the courage to take a bus up to Amherst, Mass, to visit Barnett in person on February 24, 1990.
When I disembarked from the bus at the Amherst commons, I saw some bohemian sorts gathered in a circle beating drums around a burned spot in the ground. This was where a man had just burned himself to death only days before to protest the Iraq war.
As I arrived on campus, I could not help but be impressed by this symbol of priority – the library was a tower that dwarfed all other structures on campus. Originally named “The Tower Library”, with equal symbolism of the troubled times, it would be renamed “The W.E.B. Dubois Library” named after the Mulatto supremacist Marxist by students of that bent during my time there.
It was disconcerting to find college girls laughing at me in my three piece suit; but I had indeed been given a clue as to the unofficial style guide among the ethnographic literature that Barnett sent me. Students were expected to dress in the most modest, unadorned and undistinguished attire, like monks in humble deference and reverence to the singular cause of learning.
After something of a wait, I finally got in to speak with Barnett, who was then Chair of the Department of Communicology, about the possibility of matriculating into the program.
We exchanged some pleasantries and I provided a bit of background orientation. I commented on the guy who’d burned himself in the commons as an example of male desperation’ then had Barnett look at a diagram of social aberration as being a reflexive effect of self actualization to desperately sought and not effectively corrected by the social system. Somewhere along the line in the conversation Barnett offered, that my “grumbles” were pretty “low.”
I scrambled at bit to regain ground against what I thought was a relegation of my concerns to lesser importance. Then Barnett corrected my misunderstanding, pointing out that “Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs” proceeded from “low grumbles”, when basic needs were not satisfied, to “high grumbles”, when higher needs were not satisfied. That is not to say that low grumbles are less important – quite the contrary, this level being satisfied i preliminary to anything else.
I should have known that, since re-tooling Maslow was central to my proposed thesis and the concept of “low and high grumbles” is an integral feature. But that was Barnett, he would put into practice a concept of subtle mockery. He asked me what I thought of ethnography, I answered, “ethnography” and he then explained, well, “ethnography is what anthropologists do”… Barnett was subtly embarrassing me. But it was good natured. I showed him my transcripts from Tufts and he remarked that my record was well below the usual for entry into the graduate program.
In defense of myself, I explained that I was quite willing to start on an undergraduate level, taking whatever courses that I needed to make up for remiss in my academic preparation.
Not really understanding why I could not proceed in careful steps, but had to be thrown in the deep end, acceptance to grad school or nothing, I began to get stressed, and stress is the usual thing that brings on trance. It wasn’t a deep or protracted trance, but I remember insulting Barnett, calling him an albino Aglo-Saxon and then, in due course of the trance telling him that I was a genius, but did not know it yet. I explained the dealt that I was going to antagonize the liberal hubris as a crazy Italian in exchange for a real education.
I came out of the trance and, as always, forgot what had just transpired (perhaps suppressed in order to protect my ego from the embarrassment). Barnett apparently got the message that some luminaries of hypnotherapy had induced me to come there with a mission that he should not obstruct. He took me to his secretary’s office, telling her that I would be a student here, and that I was brilliant, but did not know it yet. Barnett walked away from our meeting with a big smile on his face.
I went home to New Jersey and excitedly gathered my resource in preparation for a big move to Amherst, Massachusetts come the fall 1991 – that would give me more time to prepare.
When I arrived in late summer to resume talks with Barnett about how to negotiate matriculation, I got a surprise. I learned that Barnett had moved on to a University in Chicago.
There was an option of talking with his partner in the development of C.M.M. theory, but I had devoted all this effort in correspondence with Barnett and had gained his approval, in particular. Furthermore, I had been writing Barnett from the start, as I gathered his was an Anglo-Saxon name and he would have a quintessential insider’s empathy for my concern to defend White men. Whereas, his colleage had some kind of ethnic name – Irish maybe?
Anyway, I was there in Amherst and there was no practical option but to try to appraise his colleague as to what I had been discussing with Barnett and hope that he would also see the merit in letting my pursue a graduate thesis, using C.M.M. analysis to look at gender relations in the context of Maslow’s hierarchy problematized; with the proposal that its constituent aspects be reconsidered in prescriptive service of social systemic optimization and more fair and congenial gender relations.
Here in 1991 Political Correctness was already nearing hegemony, and I figured this guy had to have some sympathy for what I was up against and the legitimacy of what I was trying to do.
Indeed, after I had discussed the tawdry big haired women that I was confronted with in a series of bars along the Jersey Shore, Barnett remarked that I’d find lots of those big haired sorts in the nearby town of Hadley, where there were lots of Polish women. I did not reveal to him that my mother was of Polish extraction but took it for what it was – i.e., him wanting to show that he could be relaxed about P.C., skirting the old American standard, the Polish joke.
And so in initial talks with his partner, I ventured some political incorrectness not so much to test the waters, but rather to demonstrate that I wasn’t afraid to defy political correctness. He was, after all, Irish, and therefore should empathize, not being immune to PC vitriol either.
We were talking about group interactions. I thought I’d illustrate how Jewish interactions with blacks could be funny by an episode that I witnessed on the streets of New York city, between a Hasidic Jew and a black man who was sweeping garbage from the sidewalk into one of those long handled devices attached to a small bin at the bottom for you to sweep dirt and debris into.
The Jew expediently threw a piece of garbage into the pile that the black was sweeping as he walked by. He then turned around, laughed in an awkward wince, “hee-hee.”
I put my hands up to my face to push my cheeks up for comic effect and made sure the “hee-hee” sounded extra squeaky, awkward and Jewish.
The black addressed the Jew in his full Hasidic attire and said slowly: “Do. you. have a problem. Mo-tha-Fuck-a!!!
In truth, this was not my story; I had, in fact, borrowed it from a rather audacious childhood friend, who would violate taboo in his kind of outrageous sense of humor, if you can call it that. It provides only something of a reprieve as such, as I would borrow far worse irreverence from him in order to demonstrate my bravado: (needling tone of voice): You know, the Einzatzgruppen used to line Jews up, one in front of the other, so that they only had to use one bullet to kill two.
From another guy I knew, was friendly with, a literary sort, into the arts, I borrowed the (stupid) remark, said with contemptuous dismissiveness, “and there were people making love in the concentration camps, probably thinking they are very poetic.”
Next I went on to observe, more authetnically and by my own lights, what not only seemed to be and inordinate number of Jews around campus, but an inordinate influence of Jews in academics, media and liberal PC culture.
I added ominously, that “you would think they would have learned their lesson by now.”
I added the hypothesis that I really didn’t think that Jews were so smart but that they were not yoked with the anti-intellectualism of Christianity – a Jewish trick, I noted – and that they stuck together in a culture that values intellectualism and education and allows them to rise to the top.
….unlike gentile culture.
[sensing that he was not taking my anti-PC ice-breakers all that well, I expounded…]
Perhaps saving my prospects I added this other part to my hypothesis, that European peoples were just jealous and that they should do this too – organize and value intellectualism. It saved me because I would learn that this, what I thought was Irish professor, was actually Jewish.
Oops!
I was able to overcome this awful faux pas in subsequent meetings with demonstration of knowledge and appreciation of his work and the prospects of developing it with some worthwhile ideas of my own. Having steered through that obstacle, however, I was beset by another. This professor would be going on exchange to The University of California, Long Beach, for a year.
With my commitment to the U.Mass program augmented by a sense of destiny, I decided to use the year for erudition and other preparation which I needed anyway.
[I was reading cognitive brain functioning stuff, the kind of shit that GW might think is most relevant. I would go on to tell GW, circa 2015, that I’d passed through that reactionary stage in pursuit of unassailable foundation where he remains not only with a sense of priority, rather than secondary relevance, but with a retarded sense of mutual exclusivity (the asshole literally tried to tell me that I’d studied the wrong thing) – the idiot is now saying that the English, for example, are a singular organism and not a social group; as if these are not merely different units of analysis, with the latter unit – social group – having important advantages and distinct relevance in the context of anti-racism – notably providing defense of groups under attack by delimiting social group thus coherence, accountability, agency and warrant, but I digress… back to 1991…]
The only academic left familiar with C.M.M. that I might talk to over the course of the next year was Sally Freeman. In fact, it seemed that all roads led to her, because, in addition, she was familiar with the feminist literature that I was trying to integrate (the other profs had not read de Beauvior and so on) and she was a psychological counselor – I could use some hand holding.
It was going ok at first. I described her relevance to my project. I talked about how I found the area relevant in fact, with nearby women’s colleges of Smith and Mount Holyoke, I might find plenty of feminists to work these things out with – the high percentage of lesbian population there only added to this relevance.
I added sincerely, “I think that we can do something about the rape problem”, and she smiled.
I then discussed the article that Barnett had sent me, on the Problematic Practices of Feminism, which diagnosed a paradox wherein even well meaning males could be put in the wrong no matter what they did – he could be altercast as a male chauvinist pig if he treats her as an equal, one of the boys, for not respecting the special qualities of her gender; on the other hand, he could be altercast as a condescending wimp of the patriarchy for not respecting her agency and autonomy, if he treats her with deference,.
A tone of disappointment came over her. She said that she did not like that article because it stereotyped women. This was very frustrating for me because that article had untangled a a very obstructive knot for me and I’m sure for other men. I was beginning to sense that rather than being a help that she was liable to be an obstruction, especially when she talked about this “patriarchy.” I started getting mad and rebutted that I thought this was more like a matriarchy.
She said indignantly, “what are you talking about?!”
I responded with equal indignation, “what are you talking about?!”
At this point she deployed a psychological technique to get me to show my hand. She got up, turned around and started walking away. I think I said something to the effect of women bringing much of their abuse upon themselves with the kind of men they select. She turned back around with a “gotcha” look on her face.
I was overwhelmed by how far removed that she was from my reality – I had just spent thirty plus years being told what a terrible person that I was for being a White man, pseudo warranting all manner of abuse and exploitation – and this women was speaking from a place of vast, embedded obstruction to any correction of this.
She tried to be empathetic, saying, “I’m seeing a person who doesn’t fit.”
So at this moment I broke, went into a hysterical reaction: (laughing hysterically), “the only thing that they care about are niggers!” “I’m not a tall kraut” (tall and generic Germanic sorts seemingly the only popular alternative to blacks). Come to think of it it, this was the exact hysterical reaction that I manifested when Naomi attempted to subvert my final grammar.
I came out of that emotional state (not quite a trance) and she said that she was glad I was working with the other professors. Disappointedly, condescendingly, she said that I did not have to worry about the department turning me away for having a quirky individual and rare perspective – as if White man bashing was rare and only my personal experience. She would never see me again except once, by accident at Price Chopper, me greeting her with delighted enthusiasm, the unpleasantry of the episode completely suppressed from my memory; while she put her head down, depressed to see me. This is not to besmirch the late Sally; I’m sure things looked different from the perspective of her and her wife.
Come the fall of 1992 my “Irish” (lol) professor had returned and angrily asked me, “what can I do for you?”, when I met with him. He wasn’t keen on much to do with Maslow, seeing him as outdated pop-psychology, but I stuck to my guns, as his being outdated while manifesting an essence of American values was precisely the point. Still, he was committed to pursuing inquiry from a social constructionist perspective – which was fine with me.
I discussed the evolutionary perspective and inborn properties with him and its integration with social constructionism, which was NEVER a problem (despite what a moronic asshole like Guessedworker would try to say).
I provided an anecdotal hypothesis that I’d come up with, that I liked Sharon’s acne, not only because it provided little pink and purple accents to go with her striking features; I respected the fact that it could be an adaptation to make a girl who was too young to have children look diseased, and thus put off suiters until she was sufficiently mature. The professor asked if I thought she was “deliberately choosing the acne.” I answered that of course she did not choose the acne, that’s ridiculous. He smiled and answered that he “just wanted to see how far I was taking social constructionism.” I added, however, that acne did have survival value for the said reason and that its selection was social (or more than social enough, I should say).
I added some other anecdotes, that baldness evolved to make a man ugly so that he was less likely to stray from his wife and children. Perhaps also to help in the absorption of vitamin D.
..and a more ethnographic anecdote, that women made men wear ties to symbolize a penis that was sufficiently institutionalized to make money.
I began to rebuild the credibility and relevance of my intellectual concern; and he asked, “what do I want out of this program?” I said, “justice.” He answered that’s the right answer from a social constructionist perspective.
I asked him, as I asked Barnett about Gregory Bateson, whom they met toward the end of his life. He said that everybody starts there, and he related as story of sitting on a log on the California beach with Barnett and Bateson – “he hated Watzlawick’s guts” – Bateson loudly mocking Paul Watzlawick who was walking by in a big blue suit, “there goes Paul Watzlawick, he hasn’t had an original idea since 1967!” Whereas Barnett described Bateson a bit more sheepishly as very sick, and an “idol manifesting feet of clay” for his advanced cancer.
Although I had wanted to start on an undergraduate level, as I still felt (and in fact was) academically underprepared, the prof signed permission for me to take the introductory graduate school classes in the department. I imagine that he figured he could advise my way through the program, as indeed, he would meet with me just about any time that I wanted over the next few years (half realizing or nor that the deal was not a PhD, but a real education in exchange for antagonizing the liberals as a ‘crazy Italian” might with the underappreciated wisdom of his continental European ecological buffering). Over the next two semesters, I took the introductory course – given by him (brilliantly) by coincidence because the usual teacher had been hired away by another university; and another course also taught by him on C.M.M and the matter of individuality and selfhood – apparently with the prompting of my concerns.
In this time I had to try to manage my emotional balance between academic concentration, always dangerous for me, as it opened my consciousness to horrible injustice to me and my kind, while not going too far with my mandate as a “crazy Italian” which I took to counter the PC activists, interracial overtures and pairings: about always woman / black male when happening.
A few years before, while still in New Jersey, I had taken to attending 12 Step, Adult Children of Alcoholics (my mother) meetings; and I resumed here in Amherst to try to maintain my composure. I knew that it would help, but that it would only go so far. I had been resistant to those meetings for the same reason I’d been resistant to psychological counseling – it seemed to place the blame on you, in your head. When I finally did go (encouraged by the PBS Bradshaw on the Family programs), I attended the local meeting in Manasquan. I had been wrestling psychologically with all the anti-White male propaganda in the media, the stepped up promotion of White woman / black male pairings and their increase in reality.
By the second or third meeting, I let it out when it came my turn to speak: “It bothers me very much to see White women with blacks.” Arthur (local Manasquan barber), the chair of the meeting, was indignant, “What does this have to do with Alcoholism?! What business is that of yours?” I seethed (and indeed, what does his proclamation that it was none of my business have to do with alcoholism?). Resigned to stick with the meeting, I responded painfully that “Ok, I respect that.” After the meeting, one sympathetic older guy, said to me I know what you mean, and I try to think what I’d say to my daughter, “are you trying to be a martyr or something.” But then he tried to persuade me that it should not be a big deal, it was just a different color skin.
Then an ugly little curly haired Jewish guy came up to me, leering at me through his thick glasses. He was angry and I was surprised by his aggressiveness and sense of urgency, as if I was about to genocide Jews or something (I was not even considering the J.Q. at this point, barely a wry remark where they might be obviously obnoxious). I said nothing to him and continued with the meetings.
At a subsequent meeting, I was last to speak and a force came out of me, as best I can describe, it was like the radiating energy emitting from my grandmother when she died. Waves of energy came from me, moving through everyone at the meeting, as I said, “I am grateful for my capacity for violence, because there are some people who just don’t know when to stop.” In defense of myself, this was sheerly an abstract and spontaneous thing; I had no person or group in mind.
Nevertheless, it was against 12 Step Meeting rules which was only inadvertently covered by the visibly shaken chair of the meeting as did the perfunctory reading of Alanon rules to conclude the meeting. After the meeting one guy, Harvey (handsome guy and no, I’m not gay: I mention this to emphasize that he was not operating from beta-weakness), a principal of Bricktown Highschool, apparently appreciated the paranormal experience and message; giving me a big smile and a robust pat on the shoulder, saying, “how you doing there old buddy?”
Talking with him after later meetings, I would find that he was very familiar with a legendary incident that occurred after a football game in Montclair between my high school (the half black) Montclair and his high school, the all-White Bricktown. After the game, a mob of irate “fans” (blacks, but we did not specify that) from Montclair pushed over the bus (!) that was set to take Bricktown fans back home. One man lost one of his eyes when the bus crashed to its side. Gingerly now, approaching the political in defense of Whites against antagonists, I said, “that’s a dramatic episode” …”but it illustrates the kind of thing that they will do.” Harvey responded, “yeah, they will.” We both knew who “they” are and the kind of behavior that they will do.
The take-away is that I would mostly find people that I liked in the program, however, where they were ignorant, the program might not help for the passivity of its imposed “acceptance.” Nevertheless, you are encouraged to ‘take what you like and leave the rest.” And being able share your experience with people struggling with the like problems was big help overall. So, I continued attending 12 Step Al-Anon (ACOA) meetings when I moved to Amherst, Mass.
But again, the Al-Anon program was limited in its capacity to anchor my emotions with political alliance. One otherwise really cool guy, a biology student, asked me to sponsor his program (sponsors look after a person’s progress through the 12 Steps) and I tested him, telling him that I had a problem with blacks and asking him what he thought of that. He replied that he didn’t have a problem with blacks, that its “just a few genetic markers having to do with skin tone.” That was scientism indeed. I had to sadly decline being his sponsor, as I didn’t need to add to my struggle.
The other emotional outlets if not anchors that I had were my old standby rock music, which would be nicely augmented by the grunge music of the time, viz., Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Pearl Jam … cup of coffee …a 40oz. Malt liquor, more like two of them = 80oz. When I said before that I had drugs more or less under control that was true, and I was never an alcoholic, didn’t feel like I had to have it. However, getting drunk did exacerbate any proclivity for bad decisions and risky behavior as my emotions erupted with the growing consciousness and knowledge of where the oppression of me, the way of life and the people I valued was coming from.
Nevertheless, I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy getting drunk, whether straight off in the bars of Amherst or well primed first, chilling by a stream in the woods of North Amherst with a couple of 40oz Power Master Malt Liquors – and did I feel powerful as I stormed into town looking to antagonize interracial couples and so on.
Even in applying a dichotomy that I had gleaned from Hegel, between Self Transcendence and Self Assertion, asserting that White men were too given to self transcendence, my other emotional outlet was a rather seedy, even by my indignant standards, means of self assertion – I would leave enraged phone messages, a few with my sister, but mostly with Naomi. Seedy, but I felt that I had no recourse to locate my agency against metacommunicative blockage – the impervious assertion of (could be serious) negative attribution against me. Questions were responded to with hostility and sarcasm by my family, deflected back to me imperviously by Naomi.. While I was technically connected to the “internet” by 1991, it was not yet interactively remedial as it went on to be, only partly, by ’97 and then more effectively a decade later in support against anti-racism. I.e., a little too late for me.
So anyway, back in the fall of 92 and spring of 93, immersed in this academic course, I was getting the idea of how this department could be entrusted with Public Relations for the Clintons and Gores; this stuff was pretty good; not that that stopped me from saying that I hoped that Clinton got assassinated (clearly a scumbag who pandered to women; his bad character was evident from the start. I voted for Bush to vote against him); and I said plainly, “of course I don’t vote Democrat, I don’t hate myself for being White.” My prof had the same ‘sometimes-I-forget-who-I’m-talking-to smirk on his face that he had when I told him that I thought Christianity was a Jewish trick; yes, I thought that even back then (though even then, it was becoming apparent that the Republicans weren’t doing normal Whites, their sustaining patterns, anyway, any favors either; and I was gaining insight as to why having gleaned furtive remarks indicating potential exploits in America’s constitution. Hence, that would be the one and only election that I would vote on) and I was feeling cocky, with my professor warming up to the merits of my project. He told me that this was a neat thing that I was doing and that I had the basis of a graduate school thesis.
Indeed, my prof would wave “bye bye” in my face when I defied the theoretical efficacy of asking “how” questions as opposed to “why” questions, defiantly asking yes, “why, why did Heidegger sign up for the Nazi party twice.” Prof would wave “bye bye” in my face in times coinciding with some of my more spicy prank calls to Naomi. My suspicions would be later confirmed that my phone was tapped. In fact, believing that to be true, I used it as an indirect way to get across some of my more stigmatic messages (about niggers, nigger lovers and so on).
However, I was able to bring him around to stick with me as a potential PhD candidate for a time.
Despite this heavy stigma of mine, which would only get worse with my flamboyant antagonism of interracial couples and advocates of blacks on campus and in town, the prof would stick with me, having a sense of the crazy Italian thing as my part of the bargain (which I let him on-to as “my part of the bargain” through a trance or two that I fell into with him).
There were additional factors why he put up with this. My work was beginning to bring good and important ideas to the table; ideas capable of reconciling complex and significant problems; along with representing a terribly under-represented, beleaguered perspective.
He had enough pride in his academic work, and was competitive enough about it, to want to foster important work, to maintain as rigorously close to the truth and justice as his culture, the culture of critique, i.e., liberal with regard to others, could bear.
In fact, he knew the arguments conservatives should be making better than 99% of them; even agreed with some of those arguments. But his sticking with me was not only a matter of academic integrity and rigor; he had genuine compassion for me; he knew that White men were being abused and wanted to help me work-through the transference that Naomi had induced. And finally, PC was getting bad enough so that it was beginning to intersect with the interests of his Jewish people, as Farrakhan and Tony Martin had been brought to campus to give speeches. While he perhaps hoped to cultivate a friendly alliance with my ethnic perspective, intersectionality also bore upon on a personal level – he remarked sarcastically about seeing some “interesting” couples around; and was candid enough to say that he hated Madonna, thought that she’d had a terrible influence.
Things were getting bad indeed in that regard, presenting more sporting challenge than my crazy Italian mandate would care to take on – then again, one was too many; especially when you remembered a time not long ago when you did not see these pairings – except rarely, a White dog; but now? You were starting to see some pretty hot chicks.
But finally, there was the tribal motivation in his culture of critique, of wanting to get ahead of the opposition; again, he was forgetting who he was talking to – though he would come to realize (as GW should have) that I was not one to be misguided against my people’s interests, would not be used by academic ideas against my people’s interests, but would rather use them as I might in service of European peoples.
Hence the alarm and disillusionment that would come over his face after we read Gadamer’s discussion of the Enlightenment’s prejudice against prejudice and I drew the independent inference that anti-racism is Cartesian, it is prejudice against prejudice, it is not innocent, it is hurting and it is killing people. And there is an independence and significance, a value to this kind of inference that a reactionary moron like Guessedworker would never want to acknowledge for the sake of his autobiography and unmerited, gargantuan ego – against which I am altercast as sheepishly parroting cultural Marxism, and late Christian, liberal skullduggery garbed up as scholasticism – against which he must stand heroically stalwart to “sweep away”, to clear away, all western thinking in order to make way for the invisible hand and Zen majesty of his armchair farts. This radical skepticism and oblivious “clearing away” project of his is the quintessence of the now well established destructive penchant of modernity and GW is indeed, a “wailing” (aggrieved) modernist; not having the intelligence, knowledge, experience of the lay of the land, perhaps not the decency to grant the value of the White Post Modern ideas that I’d bring to bear.
But I digress. The GW stuff is some 20 years hence.
I always find it strange when I hear people speak of the 1990’s as somehow not as bad. Well, not where I was. Political Correctness was reaching a crescendo and – its hard to emphasize enough – how alone you were without the internet’s means to coalesce with like-minded people in the fight back against PC’s increasing provocation. With the voice of objection blocked and stigmatized, my crazy Italian strategy was a relatively safe means of signaling – i.e., by means of flamboyant antagonism of mudsharks, to wearing t-shirts with provocative messages written upon them, postings throughout campus and town for more elaborate message, and vitriolic graffiti to go with my phone pranks when the chips were down.
In the worst case scenario, I could be written off as a petty misdemeanering, stupid, unhinged drunk, while perhaps signaling to those in position to do something. Because it was becoming clear that it would be a long time if ever that I would be in position to do something; exercising tact and holding my tongue in the meantime of that unlikely outcome was akin to slow torture, to having my mouth taped and my hands tied behind my back; then being mocked while everything that I loved and cared about was being destroyed – what was most sacred was being fucked by the least sympathetic and not by means of rape, but by offer, as Simone de Beauvoir would say, in “sacred ministry of betrayal”, that “you will never do anything more hateful to me than I have already done to you” – thus offered as a matter of discretion among planet of the apes and abetted by those looking to signal their “pure”, “color blind” morality, fit for stepping on the sensibly prejudiced as means to advancement in the ever more “enriched liberal utopia.” Everything was backwards. Miss-Egenator was held up as the most holy and noble liberator while my values were those of “the most hateful oppressor.”
Despite the profoundly upsetting context, my academic program continued to show progress – and great promise. It was no surprise to me that we’d have visits from the esteemed Milan Group of Family Therapy and then Rom Harre, from Oxford. And strangely, not only was I the only student to be involved in meetings between my prof and the Milan people, but also the only one to meet with him and Rom Harre. Neither of us could understand the other students passing up the opportunity to meet and talk with Harre.
I remarked wryly, that if it was one of UMass’s famous alumni, Dr. J. or Bill Cosby, that they’d be flocked by grad students wanting to talk to them.
“Get out of town by sundown. I said, if they don’t get out of town, we kill the men, we kill the women, we kill the children, we kill the babies, we kill the blind, we kill the cripple, we kill the crazy, we kill the faggots, we kill the lesbians, I said god damn it, we kill ‘em all!
You say, well why kill ‘em all? Why kill the women? First, why kill the babies They’re just little innocent blue-eyed babies! Because god damn it they’re going to grow up one day to rule your babies. Kill ‘em now! Why kill the women in South Africa?
I say kill the women because the women in South Africa are the military manufacturing center. Every nine months they lay down on their backs and reinforcement rolls out from between their legs. So shut down the military manufacturing center by killing the White woman!
Why kill the elder crackers? The old ‘crepid crackers in South Africa. How in the hell do you think they got old?!? They got old opressin’ and killing black people.
I said kill a [at this point there is some gibberish sounding like “culla kipple killa aufra”], god damn it, kill ‘em all! Kill the faggot! Kill the lesbian! And after you kill them all! I said that day about Mandela to let you know what he really knows about me, he don’t know a damn thing!
I said then you go to the god damn grave! And dig ‘em up! And kill ‘em a-god-damn-gain because they didn’t die hard enough! And if you don’t have the strength to dig them up after you’ve done all that work? Just go to the grave and shoot in the damn grave! Kill ‘em again!
Because they didn’t die hard enough!”
Anyway, as I said, things were moving along with “the ORE model” that I was cultivating, this neat thing that was shaping up to be a graduate thesis. At one point, just before my prof was about to go to Washington D.C. as one of a few representatives from our department, he told me in hushed tones as we read over it, “now don’t change it.” Meaning that he thought that it was in good form to show to somebody worth making an impression to down there.
However, ever the perfectionist, not wanting to be misunderstood, I could not resist adding a few more words to the title and first paragraph so that it not be taken as prone to this or that philosophical error. It did not yet take on the full baroque absurdity that I would eventually take it to, but just about. A few days later, I saw Al Gore on the news, talking about how we have and need people with clear and simple answers, not a nebulous bunch of words. When I spoke to my professor’s wife to ask when he’d be back she sounded very disappointed. When my professor got back, he seemed disappointed too, but said nothing. I knew my thesis did contain sound analysis and answers, understood why Al Gore might be put off by the baroque absurdity of the title and introduction; but for myself, didn’t care that much, as I did not really want to help Al – “we’ve got to get past this racism” – Gore, let alone Bill – “Whites will be a minority in America and that’s good” – Clinton and his equally egregious wife, Hillary.
Before anyone suggests that I was foolish, exercising all too much “integrity”, that I should have played along with the program, I would say that not only was this administration and its backing part and parcel of the torture that I was undergoing, but that it wasn’t just going to be hard for me to get into the program, it wasn’t going to happen – it was not in the fate of the deal, i.e., a real education in exchange for raising hell with the liberal professors and students. With a deep sense of that, I could rest content that I really did not want to help the Clintons and Gores, nor anybody who liked them.
Neither did I see the Republicans as a viable alternative. The pattern was clear. The Democrats actively perpetuated racial pan-mixia while the Republicans took the position that “conserving” this liberalism, the upshot of this mulatto supremacism, is what “real American men will do.
Rupturing of Final Grammar Number Two: "We Don't Want."
Naomi’s intervention already achieved a stigmatic, blackmailable reaction in me through the rupture of final grammar number one (I don’t want), which added to the stress of sensing that my phone was tapped, including reports of my ongoing calls to Naomi being issued to my prof; all the while as the on campus anti-White activism of blacks and White girls (mostly, where Whites were concerned) made my blood boil. Nevertheless, I was still immersed in the graduate school course and my prof still saw the academic and moral reason to try to help me, despite his own ultimate liberal bias. He was trying to prepare some grounds of legitimacy of my position by denying its participation in the worst. He said to the class, “of course nobody believes in racism anymore”, intending to move quickly beyond that qualifier.
But before he could go on, I broke out in a hysterical laugh/cry, and went into trance.
He was not going to merely run roughshod over what was emerging as my new and deeper final grammar – we don’t want: i.e., we, the group that I identify with, have the prerogative to reject association with this, that or the other kind of person.
And this time, I was more articulate as to why, because: anti-racism is prejudice, it is not innocent, it is prejudice against the prejudicial act of classifying people for the necessary act of accountability to human ecology and as such, a prohibition of necessary discrimination without which is hurting and killing people.
Now that I consider this trance episode, I am not exactly sure if it happened before or after the incident of the prof going to Washington, but it was around that time and doesn’t necessarily matter if it came before or after. The trance was meant to convey a message that I was here to learn, share an important, under-represented perspective and do some important work with the prof (that might work toward reconciling race and gender relations) …and while I was at it, stir things up in and around campus because the liberals up here thought that they were smarter than they are. As with all my trances, I abused my interlocuters, and this trance in particular was fraught with emotion and highly charged anger (while that was terrible, I would observe that people who were abused in my trances seemed to come out transformed, a better, more pure, strong and confident version of themselves). If one is to give advice to anyone in this primordial, ambiguous state, I’d advise to say as little as possible; because you can feel like a cornered animal, inclined to lash out in self indicting ways; nevertheless, I tried to talk in order to acquit myself, in between threats of mass destruction and war (if my European peoples were going to be treated this way), mostly making stupid arguments (being “didactic”, I suppose) as I was not prepared to articulate my position as yet – especially not in that state. However, some bits of clairvoyance came through, on the trivial side, but enough to lend legitimacy to the episode and me as conduit, purveyor as it were, fated and warranted to be around there a while longer.
This trance began, as with the original trance, with me recounting how the original trance began, with me being told that, “your father is a nigger.” This of course brought a laugh from the prof, who was, of course, familiar with Minuchin, the mentor of Wally, my first trance inductionist.
I went on, following the original trance induction, “you (I) have a nigger nose.” Then went straight to the point, in line with Bateson’s thinking, that I represented the ecological buffering of continental Europeans against the hubris of North Western European vulnerability if not propensity for liberal self destruction based on the rational blindness of its Cartesian absurdity.
But I was on somewhat weak ground here, in that some of my argument was based on the same learning that my liberal classmates were undertaking. But more deeply, the remedy, of taking on the underpinnings of America’s liberalism, i.e., the constitution, rights, expanded franchise of democratic vote and so on, was near impossible to broach in the effort to get into that program and in 1990s America. Things had not yet gotten bad enough for enough people for them to question the constitution and other bedrocks of the American way.
Thus, it became exceedingly difficult for me to effectively rebut the grad student Dave in his push backs when he started talking sympathetically about Rodney King, the black motorist whose beating at the hands of L.A. police was caught on tape, triggering spectacular riots. And then sarcastically asked permission to pursue the freedom of democratic society and intellectual pursuit. Still feeling out my grounds among the arbitrary beyond the trance even, I was reduced, in my ineloquence thus, to ad hominum. I asked him why, as a kraut, if he thinks he’s better, did he have a Polish girlfriend? I never met her but it was augured that I would see them together some other time, in town.
The prof then intervened charitably, saying that he did think that there was a way out for me. And I addressed him, “ladies and gentlemen, ‘nigger loving Jew. indeed, I will return to Europe and then, if you impose your nigger loving values on me, with all moral authority, I’ll kill you.”
Then I turned my vitriol to Julia, who was in the committee to rename the tower library after W.E.B. Dubois. She looked for the prof’s approval by saying that governance by liberal, constitutional democracy has to be better than the K.K.K. With her being very fat, I told her to choke on turkey leg and the professor could not hold back a laugh.
Next, I turned to Trudy, a feminist and not exactly a beauty, though not really as ugly as I was about to lay into her as being. I began by discussing my concept of re-negotiating gender relations through a re-tooling of Maslow by post modern conceptualization. I don’t remember if she pushed back on that, but I was slipping deeper into trance and I started abusing her, calling her ‘cartilage head’ and saying that Italians have the means to buffer Mulatto supremacism. We know how to deal with blacks. She asked, “how do you deal with them?” And I answered with a pathetic tautology, “we just don’t allow them to participate.” Though in the right direction, that was not exactly enthralling rhetoric that was going to persuade liberals to my side. Sensing this, I started coming unhinged. At first, I went on about how much prettier, sexier that the Middle Eastern? Indian? woman student was than her and the other women in the class. Then I sensed somehow that she was partly Jewish and I accused her of being prejudiced as well. Knowing that she was from San Diego, I hollered to let the Mexicans flood in. A look of desperation came over her face. I was getting to her. Then, before I realized what was happening, she started screaming. I realized that I was giggling insanely, my legs parted, rubbing my erect cock through my pants.
She fetched the police as I berated the class. The appearance of the cop brought me to my senses temporarily while Trudy looked at me with a sense of smug satisfaction that she’d fixed me, I did call attention to the fact that she had called upon a man to protect her.
The prof stepped out into the hall to assure the policeman and the chair of the department that all was under control, that this was a trance and he wanted to see where this was going for academic purposes. When he closed the door and sat down, I started singing, loud enough to be heard in the hallway, a rendition – in female voice – of “My Country, ’tis of Thee” to top Eleanor Roosevelt’s black trophy, Marian Anderson. The point being the talent, perhaps hidden, that these literals were short shrifting and killing off by burying the position of White guys like myself.
Then some clairvoyance came through me; nothing necessarily revelatory in the particular examples of what I’d see (or say, or sing), but demonstrably seeing into the future enough to illustrate that neither the experience of myself nor this episode was some ordinary thing, the merely subjective expressions of some merely aggrieved ignoramus to be summarily written off. No, there was the divine underwriting of fate.
About the closest thing to some profound vision of the future was seeing Magda Fuhrman, and repeating the e.e. Cummings line that “not even the rain has hands so small” to underscore a story of romance from a previous life that would cross paths once again. I can say for sure that I saw her in trance and would meet her about three years in the not sure about future, but I am not sure if the story that I told to go along with it is true. I would suddenly cry, “Auschwitz!” and then explain that I was a Polish intellectual shot there in loyalty to my 1/4 Jewish girlfriend (Magda Fuhrman). I allowed for this story to emphasize the fact that as ever, I was not then a Nazi nor sympathetic to it, despite my opposition to blacks and my skepticism of Jews. That is, this kind of narrative might allow me to negotiate a career path with and despite Jewish obstruction.
In fact there was nothing for me to congratulate myself about in this episode, no clever agency generated within the episode, only rather pathetic groveling and shots in the dark amidst the arbitrary state. I remember at one point yelling for about two minutes straight and then suddenly stopping and saying calmly that “I like broccoli.” Everyone broke out in laughter.
Nevertheless, many concrete facts of a meeting that I would have with Magda were coming through as true clairvoyance. I will elaborate on that when I discuss a larger, subsequent trance in which I had these visions again.
I can’t remember everything. Maybe I saw 9-11, and maybe I saw the solving of “The Unibomber” mystery, revealing him to be a Polish genius, Ted Kaczynski, though I definitely would see his capture in the subsequent trance; as I would foresee – in this and the next trance episode – the death of Princess Diana, with her car crashing into the thirteenth pole of an underpass. Perhaps most amazing, I spoke a little bit of Polish – a language that I had ZERO knowledge of – I spoke a little Polish in this episode, as I would the next.
I also sang, or tried to sing some songs, as I would more extensively in the next In fact, I would mostly hum the Anita Lipnicka song that I could hear, but not understand. On this better side of my impromptu crooning, I would sing Oasis’ “Wonderwall” (which hadn’t come out yet and would be the veritable theme of the subsequent trance) to signify the ecological buffering function of continental Europeans. On the low side I was singing childish songs like the carpet bagger’s song from Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, and another popular song (which I conveniently can’t remember for the sake of my ego) supposed to mock Trudy for my aesthetic advantage over her, but only made me look like a total idiot. It got so bad and so deep into the recesses of my psyche, that I was reciting lines from the cartoons that I watched as a kid. I would be more embarrassed if I did not have the excuse of being in a trance and not having much control.
I would rescue some intelligence and agency with the clownish gesture of standing up, turning around, pulling my pants up into a wedgie and squeezing my ass cheeks together; then, while they were laughing at the ridiculous forms of my ass as such, turning around again and saying, “you see? I made you laugh and now you believe in the death penalty. Prof was laughing while nodding his head in agreement. I added a serious note, that I agreed with their liberal position of pro-choice on abortion for the same reason that I favor the death penalty: you can’t value life so much as to make it unlivable.
If I think of anything else that I need to add about this trance episode with my grad school class, I’ll do it later. Oh no, I’ll do it now, almost forgot.
One of the things I was screaming in rage is that “we need to get to the Right!” in order to defend what is to be righteously conserved about American society. I added that, “I want you to show me that you’ve heard my message by symbolically sitting to the right of the professor next class.”
The next thing to mention thus, in regard to that trance is the following week’s class. I came in upbeat, having totally forgotten about the trance the prior week; I guess that’s a normal thing, to suppress the memory of such an event, at least for a time.
I was the first to enter the classroom and sit down (to the right of where the professor would be, of course). Then a very pretty Japanese girl came in and sat next to me; I’d never seen her before; she asked me my name; and I was beginning to get the vibe that she might be some kind of psychology student emissary tasked with keeping an eye on me; with that, some consciousness of the event was coming back to me, but I felt like it was a positive thing, and it conferred a special mission upon me, warrant to be there, not warrant for expulsion. Then the other students started coming in, including the one black student, Peter, who had mercifully not been there the previous week, to hear me wing the “N” word about five million times.
Anyway, as the students filed in, all but one, Logan, sat on the other side of the table (and Logan was still at some distance from me, while on my side of the table), they sat on the other side of the table, to what would be the professor’s left. It was very conspicuous and not a natural happenstance; something like an expression of aversion to me. The professor took his seat and looked to the students with a smile on his face, nodding approvingly, “I see that you’re sitting on the left.” I felt isolated and alienated, a bit angered but not really surprised by this aversion, this defiance of my message.
Now this requires some careful explanation, because it is the kind of thing that the asshole known as Guessedworker will take advantage of, misconstrue, straw man in his penchant for unnecessary mutual exclusivity, to the significantly detrimental obstruction of ethnonationalism ….for another eight years, for the sake of his unmerited, gargantuan ego, which features an autobiography in which he alone makes all academics redundant; what needs to be done rather, according to him, is for all to be swept aside on behalf of his unmerited, gargantuan ego.
Quite an arduous prelude that the wailing modernist boomer requires in order to make a fairly straight forward point – which is this:
This episode did NOT encourage, let alone condition me to become a “Leftist” and certainly not in any Marxist international, anti-national/Cultural Marxist sense (liberalizing in terms of White borders and bounds, “revolutionizing” as such); it did not end my aversion to the term Leftist nor these connotations to the term.
It did not cure my aversion to the term “left” not allow me to disassociate it from these hyperbolic negative associations. All it did was plant the seed of a vague question in the back of my head, “why were they identifying as being on the left?”
It would not be until many years later, after I had taken the academic angle as high and far as I could go (I’ll tell you about that later, because it’s interesting too), that I came down off my horse and listened to some of the people who had been fighting in the same concern for my European people that I had. I’m talking about David Lane’s disavowal of right wing identity and Metzger’s follow up, which made me comfortable with the idea of advocating Whites from a left perspective. Now, of course I would shed some residual right wing ideas that stuck with Metzger and go on to cultivate a White Left Ethnonationalism. But that’s getting way ahead in the story.
I want to talk now about how this and other factors enabled me to look back on what the seed of that question was doing – why identify as “left”?
The answer is in the depth grammar of ordinary language. “The Left” corresponds with social group delimitation and organization, unionization as it were. As such, it structures accountability to social capital, correctivity, coherence, agency and warrant.
This is the classic means, according to Plato, to take on the tyranny of might makes right – to be social justice warriors on behalf of your people – on behalf of your people, not stuck on some abstract principle, truth, moral law – that’s what the right wing does, and gets stuck there in reaction when its practitioners forget or get red caped, as they now are, in this desperate attempt for pure, unassailable warrant, where warranted assertability and operational verifiability is not taken to be enough (which it is, by definition);
That is, people identify with the left because it is the correct priority, centering your people as calibration, providing for accountability, compassion (thus, gaining popular adherence), the means to stave of cynicism to provide incentive for loyalty – providing for correction, homeostasis of group, systemic maintenance, as opposed to the brute, “that’s just the way it is” of the right wing ideal of pure warrant.
And a great deal of (sound) post modern thinking has gone into providing resource as to how a people will manage this group maintenance against the impervious roughshod of modernity’s Cartesianism and the antagonistic, traditional ethnocentrism of other cultures. I.e., we should organize White/European peoples by these “leftist” means as well. But as ever, it is a part of Jewish group evolutionary strategy, their culture of critique, to disrupt White organization/ homeostasis; therefore they red cape post modernity and these leftist concepts in such a way as to get Whites to react and attack the very concepts which are most necessary to their survival. And sadly, there is no shortage of elitist Whites, willing to take the payoff and screw their people in disingenuous, no account, right wing, liberal and third positionist, ‘that’s just the way it is”-sim.
While I ALWAYS held that nationalism was one important means to unionize a people, thus to importantly organize and maintain the species of the European genus, I was forced to explicitly spell it out – awkward though it may be for its lack of brevity and familiarity – WHITE LEFT ETHNONATIONALISM. Because a reactionary boomer asshole like GW is so fixated, in his autobiography, on chasing the Jewish red caping of our organizational resource and doing their work of disrupting it that I had to spell it out. Let me tell you how desperate he has been to misrepresent what I say in order to fit the conceits of his autopbiography and umerited, gargantuan ego. After years and several posts of being explicit about this, spelling out White Left Ethnonationalism explicitly, so that Guessedworker et. al could not just straw man me as advocating the liberal (for us) internationalist/anti-nationalist Marxist/Cultural Marxist Left, what does he do in argument with me in the comment section? He says that I have always argued for a White left! Just a white left, not adding the specification of ethnonational. And, he added the exclamation point ! to his false assertion.
Now, he’s taken that comment down, presumably because he finally bothered to take a cursory glance at what I’d actually been saying and realized that it plainly wasn’t true and it would make a fool out of him. Fortunately, Dr. Eigenvector made an image meme of my response. I’ll post it as soon as I find it and then return from this digression to Amherst ’93, going into ’94 and beyond.
I digressed but it was important because what the asshole Guessedworker has been saying and will continue to try to say is that his “ontology project” is deeper and more preliminary, to the point of mutually exclusive concern, that all else is trivia, mere political decorum by comparison.
But this is not what Aristotle and post modern philosophers such as Vico and Heidegger at his best thought, or were doing, I should say – they were retrieving our people from Cartesian estrangement and recentralizing our world view through praxis – the calibration of our people, their delimited, relative interests as a people. Objective, Catesian pursutis of truth and principle to be gauged as feedback in this service. Aristotle would say, the “political” as such, is a preliminary aspect of philosophy, otherwise all other considerations can be for naught as a people is led astray into dissolution as ours has been with this red caping of post modern thought.
Bateson would suggest that this reactionary wish to sweep aside all linguistic and social conceptual realms is a naïve wish to get back to the innocence of mood signs and to misunderstand human nature: An epistemological error. But it is important to note for all who fall for the Jewish red caping of “the left’s” concern for social organization and justice, that neither mine nor any scholar concerned with praxis whom I respect, deny, the biological reality of race, ethnicity and their differences; it is integral to praxis as is the maintenance of these genus and species a profound concern – achieving the ultimate end of warranted assertability and operational verifiability that John Dewey’s pragmatism would seek at its best. As such, not only yielding more than enough “foundation” for an asshole like Guessedworker, but also providing for correctivity, as the pragmatic recognition of fallibility does not necessitate resignation to radical skepticism. Nevertheless, that is pragmatism at its best. In its focus on practical force and thorough democratic enfranchisement, it runs rough shod, in lock-step with modernity, over pre-figurative force: pre-figurative forms and proper ideals.
But I digress. Bringing this ack to Amherst….
Since Jews are going to Jew, it would figure – and this is place to wrap-up these classroom episodes – it should not be surprising that my prof would favor this destructive side of Dewey, telling the class that ever extended liberal democratic participation leads to ever “richer and richer” human experience (yes, that is where this talk of “enrichment” comes from). Hung-over and wavering in semi-trance, I responded, not so cleverly, “ever bigger and blacker cocks for them to study in the black cock studies department, er, I mean the women’s studies department.”
While the more eloquent work of Bateson would conclude with an admonition that we not sacrifice western philosophy on the alter of pragmatism, I was up against a university system the economic model of which perpetuated this pragmatic destruction for the participation of paying 18-21 year old undergraduates in reciprocally reinforcing conversation with liberal tenured professors in perpetuity.
Hence, while my crazy Italian routine of antagonizing blacks, miscegenators and increasingly (since they were emerging as being among the most active in antagonizing my values), antagonizing Marxists of varying hue, was met with not-so-tacit approval by my prof in some instances as I carried on simultaneously with my course of study, I came came against increasing liberal resistance and provocation from him. This only instigated me to step up my “activism” on campus, on the streets of town and in the pubs….
As noted above, the rather anti-Semitic Louis Farrakhan made a speech at UMass, coming along with his Nation of Islam cohorts. As I was not one of those who favored alliance with blacks of and kind, and still believed that Jews should see the sense of my perspective and be on friendly terms. I maintained tenuous hope of staying in the program (perhaps representing a fellow ethnic White minority contra the hubris of White majorities and black and Muslim minorities.
Islamic student activist Hussein Ibish allied with Marxist Shyamala Ivatrury (head of the “re-name the Tower library after Dubois” committee; proponent of Palestine, etc.), a few Marxist White students and some other Middle Eastern or Indian (I have trouble distinguishing them) graduate student to mock a Jewish professor who editorialized in the college paper that the university ought to enforce a “despicable speakers policy”, prohibiting the likes of Farrakhan and Tony Martin from speaking on campus. That Middle Eastern/Indian graduate student (whose name I’ve forgotten) had lengthy editorial rebuts published in the college paper, mocking the “despicable speaker” proposition, going on about how free speech was at the heart of the university purpose.
In the meantime, I packed one 8 by 11 inch piece of paper with as much rhetoric as I could arguing for the eminent legitimacy of Whites to discriminate against blacks. There was almost no white space left on the page for my concern to fill the page with all that I needed to say (I’m told that this compulsion is a sign of psychological problems; and I guess that’s true). I then made hundreds of photocopies of it, and began posting it liberally throughout campus, including the most provocative places, such the women’s studies department or outside the office doors of choice professors. It was titled
“White Women For Sale!”
At the same time, a female student’s editorial in criticism of the college paper for running ads for a local stripper bar was met with a stinging rebut; saying that while the college paper should not be running these ads, don’t dare obstruct awareness of stripping’s existence. Nobody made you leave your nursing job just because stripping pays better.
I would add that the quick and easy money along with the help and information from desperate men trying to ingratiate themselves to her was instrumental to her getting straight A’s as she was; i.e., so much for the bullshit about career paths being necessarily more difficult for women.
Anyway, a female student editor of the college paper, defended that female critic and others who thought the paper should not run ads for striper bars. She remarked, “how would you like it if we ran ads featuring a long black dong for you to go and see?”
I stormed to the office of the college paper and told the (woman) director and female student by her side, that I wanted to enter a statement into the paper expressing how much I loved sweet, tight, young White cunts. The director giggled but the female student blushed in embarrassment.
The director invited me to the back room to talk to the editorial staff. I began shouting and haranguing them, “I want to talk about sweet, tight, young White cunts, I want to talk about sweet, tight, young White cunts!” …then I left with no resolution to the issue.
Soon after, I called up my professor, as I typically would, to set up a meeting to discuss my ongoing academic work; not to discuss the incident at the college paper, as I did not even know if he’d be aware of that and might have preferred that he not be. However, he spoke to me through a hushed giggle, cluing me on to the fact that he was not only aware of the incident but recognized the legitimacy of my pushback.
I stepped things up with the college paper, submitting, “White Women For Sale!” to be published as an editorial, including its gems, such as “vocalizing the fact that we had noting to do with slavery …. they do not have a grievance with us, we do not want their women.” …that “blacks had evolved some two hundred thousand years prior to European differentiation, giving something of a biological hegemony to their dubious form of selection, which has quantified and maxed-out masculinity, creating a presumptuous, aggressive, hyper-assertive kind of people.” etc.
I was told by the editorial staff that they had to vote on whether they would publish it in the paper or not. I continued to post it throughout campus while wearing t-shirts that I fashioned, saying, “Big Mulatto Bro is Watching. Foil Her Mulatto Supremacist Dream!” and as I got even more angry, “We Have a Consensus! Black Women are Ugly!” I made sure to have a pretty blonde girl – who I happened to know to be miscegenator – to print my copies of “White Women For Sale!” and to find an excuse to turn around so that my t-shirt messages loomed in her face. I had noticed her previously as the type that I would like as girlfriend – pretty, but not ridiculously so.
She would be sullen and sheepish (for the time being) as I left the print station.
I would return to the office of the college paper from time-to-time to check on the progress of their vote on whether to run “White Women For Sale!” or not. And I would sometimes wait outside the office before or after these inquiries, only to see the Middle-Eastern/Indian (I don’t know which and forget his name) activist, proponent of free speech against the proposed “despicable speakers” prohibition frantically running into the office to stop them from running my editorial after ripping down as many as he could from the walls where I posted it. Big “Mr. Free Speech.”
“The crazy Italian” thing of antagonizing miscegenators was something that I brought with me from my days of bar hopping on the Jersey shore. Obviously I carried on with it and continued to get an idea of what was more or less effective and satisfying in intervention as such. But the one thing that I’d known for years was that I could not say or do nothing. It would eat me up inside.
While other people seemed oblivious, I could not help but notice that at least some White girls, some quite lovely ones, were not concerned to hide the fact that they had more than a passing interest in black guys. I saw one brunette playing a fine piano in the campus center lounge one day and then another day standing there and looking at three black guys (who I happened to recognize as being) from the “black students of engineering society” and she was jiggling her pocketbook up and down, as if to say, “may I have your attention, I am available to you.” This flagrant signaling of interest was weird. I’d never seen it before for any kind of guy. Her interests were clear and I would see her in town pursuing such pairing. Every time I saw her, I would yell at her, “nigger women are ugly, nobody wants their goddamn women!” I could tell that this was causing her consternation. So “thoughtful and sensitive” these anti-racist miscegenators are …and what about how they are affecting black women? Not that I gave a damn.
I became particularly feisty if I saw a brunette who was my physical type with a black. Though I might not be able to tell if she was Italian or Jewish, that distinction didn’t concern me at the time; and that may have helped me to play the crazy Italian game on campus a little longer as the faculty was surely over represented by Jews, enough of whom did not want the Jewish girls who were part of a whopping 20% of this public university, to take up with blacks.
Sometimes you could tell. Like the time in a North Amherst bar that I saw a pitch black with his arm locked around a gorgeous Jewish girl with a shit eating grin on her face. Some were quite naïve, as in the instance of a girl who brought a black into that same bar, while another girl was becoming aware of the problem, illustrated by her tears as that black literally radiated biopower.
And there was no shortage of the fairer, Northern European type involved with blacks. Right near that bar in North Amherst was Watroba’s foodmart and liquor store, where I would frequently buy my 40 oz. malt liquors. As I waited in line at the cashier, a really fine blonde – I mean really fine face and body; exquisite, not some gaudy, ornamentative thing – queued up behind me with three blacks. I quickly moved from a few furtive remarks to outright yelling at them. Another Watroba cashier, seeing the trouble that was about to break out, hopped out of his cashier station and took me over to the foodmart section which was closed at that hour and let me purchase my malt liquor from there; I don’t know why he was brave and kind enough to resolve the issue that way, but I appreciated being able to buy my malt liquor.
At that liquor store I would see a pretty brunette pull up with her care covered, literally covered with anti racist slogan stickers. It reminded me very much of the priest in the Omen who well papered his room with pages from the bible to ward off the evil spirits; only in her case, she wanted to ward off the evil ones who were critical of her coal burning inclinations.
Another time that I approached the same liquor store, I did not get to buy my malt liquor.
I spotted a nice looking brunette with a ghetto black and I started giving them a truck load of shit. The black then produced a knife and said “hey, I got something for you!” Now I knew, that especially given the political rule structure, that even if I were to “win” in that altercation, that I would be in big trouble. The only thing to do is to get out of there quick, which I did, running into a nearby restaurant, with the nigger chasing me all the while, yelling, “I got something for you!” The restauranteur would not let the black in; which was good of him and ironic, as just weeks before he closed the curtains on me as I berated some woman who sat with her mystery meat husband near the window. Nevertheless, the bigger irony would be revealed to me in the grand trance still ahead when I would learn more about the then obscure brunette with the black who came after me with the knife.
Not all of my yelling would go unheeded for its merit. Through the zebra stripe crosswalk near the North Amherst library, I could see a young White boy starting to run across the street without having looked both ways; in fact, he looked only in the direction away from a car that was speeding toward him. I yelled, “stop! stop!” and luckily he did, returning toward the sidewalk just in time. He would have been killed. I saved his life..
In the meantime, I am still attending 12 step Adult Children of Alcoholic meetings all over the area even though I did not exactly manifest program goals of acceptance and serenity.
But in fact, the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles and then the O.J. Simpson incident, murder of his White wife, were rather lending credence to my perspective. I pointed out that O.J. would beat Nicole for complaining that he was fucking another White woman in another room of the house. That is a nigger.
At a North Amherst meeting I would meet my friend Kim, who identified with me as the child of an alcoholic mother. “We have more problems.” She introduced me to her husband, a microwave engineer, and I would have dinner and talk with them, of course voicing my racial stuff. While the reality is the reality they were Christians (of a W.A.S.P. denomination, forget which) and so could not agree with me on the liberal theological grounds of the church; they could only hope that their good will would bring me around to Jesus’ universal love.
Anyway, Kim was having very real psychological problems, which I will not elaborate on, but only to say that my communications discipline enabled me to stave off some of the more egregious interpretations and prescriptions that psychiatry might apply to her.
For example, Jim was prepared to believe that she was suffering from delusions when she stood in the middle of her kitchen and said that she “had to turn to gold.” I observed, rather, that she was using biblical type language, the only deep, moral language that she knew upon to say that she had to be more moral and good than she’d ever been before for the sake of her child – a child that they were so grateful to have, and would not have had (they agree), if I had not expressed indignation and told Kim to defy her psychiatrist’s advice that she not have a child. Though Kim still had problems, Jim was able to pick up the slack for the most part; until he nearly got fired for neglecting his work. I told him that he would get fired. He asked me to help for F-sake but I had sense enough to tell him to call Kim’s mother and tell her to make the trip from Ohio once again in order to help Kim. As time went on, they could not have been happier to have their daughter, Amelia, and the psychiatrist could not have been more surprised by how well she was turning out.
Not long after, I was walking to an Al-anon meeting with Kim and her baby. Coming toward us from the other direction was an interracial couple – need I specify that the girl was White? Of course not. She was a blonde, quite pretty enough, with a kindred look, as if a cousin that you’d expect to be able to take for granted as comfortably satisfied and loyal, not wanting to harm “our” people. Instead, she flashed a warm smile at me, taking for granted that I’d be just fine with this, especially because he was a more mannerly sort of nigger. Allowing them to pass on about twenty yards, I let them have it, repeatedly yelling, “Nigger women are ugly! Nobody wants your goddamn women!” Needless to say, this made Kim uncomfortable and she tried to stop me. But I made sure that the message hit home. Indeed, I would happen upon this couple some time later in North Hampton; both of them put their head down. Indeed, what about the natural partners of White men and black women?
It wasn’t as if I had to go out of my way. Another time, as I was about to cross the street to Kim’s house, a black driver pulled to a stop and waved me across with a sheepish smile on his face; again, sure that I would have no problem with a (gorgeous) blonde being in his passenger seat. I started berating him and he wound up turning the car around and going the other way.
Like the obscure girl with the knife wielding boyfriend, the Jewish woman who lived with her black husband across the street from Kim and Jim would become relevant at the grand trance yet to come. And then there was the miscegenation that came to greet me, as it would, where I lived on 19 Hobart, North Amherst.
We had various international students coming and going, renting rooms in our house. I saw this as an opportunity to test my arguments against PC with intelligent people, mostly graduate students in the hard sciences. I also saw it as an opportunity to practice my tact and tolerance in hopes of hanging on for the big picture, i.e., a PhD. At one point we had a girl of mixed French, black, and Vietnamese move in. It didn’t help. She wound up making me furious.
Though I was experiencing reasons to have serious doubts and not particularly surprised, during my time there I’d invite two different half Jew/ half Anglos who would prove to be about the nastiest, most self righteous PC combination. John sobbed about his former half Polish/half Italian girlfriend (my racial admix), very pretty, who ran up his credit card to fueled a drug habit and then wound up going to the projects to fuck niggers. “Women dig black guys, he said; but maintained the psychological view that health meant adjusting to this. When I floated taking a hard line against this sort of thing, he became aggressive against my insecurity. He said, “all I can think about is the skeletal bodies of my Jewish relatives.” Being lumped with Nazis always infuriated me, for various reasons, not only because I am half Polish (by the way, John would say, when he didn’t know my mother was Polish, “watch out for the Pollocks in Hadley”). I won’t elaborate further on his liberal bonafides other than to say that he was accepted to the graduate program at the renowned Smith college; which is an all women’s school for undergraduates, but accepts male graduate students – including ones that hate women, as he did.
Tony was another half Jew half Anglo who moved in. I spent quite a bit of time with him going into town and getting drunk. He was even more aggressively antagonistic in defense of blacks and miscegenators, despite admitting that it “is kind of that way” (a pattern of women favoring blacks). I would say that he represented a point that made it clear that Jews were other, they were antagonistic to my interests, and it was inborn to the them. I began angrily referring to him as a Jew, which I’d never done before. In a semi trance state, as stress and drunkenness could bring on, I told him that he was going to tell me, ‘that he’s not going to let me get away with it.” Never mind what, even I didn’t know, but he gladly complied, stating this emphatically, ‘he’s not going to let me get away with it.” He would add, “what does it matter what you want.” I saw the fear in his eyes when I asked him if he would advocate prohibiting gold fish from discriminating against piranha. Some time later I got into racial altercation at “The Pub” in town. He said that I was guilty of doing something like yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. I maintained rather, that the “theater” was burning. I’ll describe the incident below. He has since gone on to become a lawyer with a powerful California firm, and features pro bono work sponsoring African immigration.
Venice moved in and she had a White boyfriend. At first. I tried to put behind the story she told of her rebellious past, when her parents had to track her down living with her drug dealer black boyfriend in Chicago. Then she took up with another black. Besides the fact that Venice was something of a 4, I found it somewhat conciliatory to blast Tull’s “My God” and The Stone’s “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” (viz., the line when Jagger “says to Mr. Jimmy, I said nigger”…) while they occupied the next room. Then Venice took on another black boyfriend and I must admit, I quite enjoyed giving him a nasty working over when I would answer his calls for Venice (when she was not there). I eventually drove Venice out of the house and that was good. But not before she’d inspired confidence in an optimally fine Italian brunette to go black. I left message with her that I am not the only guy who would never date a scumbag. I saw her in town a few times and could tell that she was stunned and devastated, That was not the end of this indirect, if tacky means of politicking, getting my message out, by trolling over the phone, mostly calling Naomi’s answering machine, sensing that my phone was tapped. But I’ll come back to that.
So, I’m not going out of my way to look for this, and it isn’t just the substandard, the optimal and the ideal that we’re talking about – though again, there was the ideal. As in this sublime feminine creature who came to look at a car that my roommate Xi Li was selling. She came with her little black boy. This one really freaked me out. After shouting a few choice words, I stormed into town, badly needing a couple of 40 oz. Power Masters.
And even if they weren’t coal burners yet, tolerance thereof always appeared as a litmus test of initial interaction episodes. That is, if you wanted to advance past their increasingly powerful liberal gate keeping position within the increasingly disordered fallout of modernity. Thus, another female student who moved in, asked me with a smile on her face what I thought of the movie, “Jungle Fever.” As if I would go to see that shit. Which brings me to another movie that came out around that time, “Pulp Fiction”. Jim and Kim asked me if I wanted to go see it. I told them “no” because I knew that like all Hollywood movies it was going to be about making excuses for White women to go with niggers. Jim, who’d already seen the movie, was surprised, saying “yeah, you know, actually, the movie did end with Lawrence Fishburn congratulating some Whites for their anti-racist work (something like that, never fully stomached the whole movie) while he lounged poolside with Uma Thurman. I’ve come to hate anybody who likes this movie. When I gave in and went to see “The Crying Game” with Jim, I was only proven right again.
During my time at 19 Hobart, my parents sent me a “care package” that included a computer, which my computer studies roommate, Hong Konger Ming, connected to the “internet.” Xi Li’s Chinese associates downloaded viruses which gave me and the print station at the university, fits, running its fonts in perpetuity. The same place that (((Weev))) would troll decades later, having them automatically print out swastikas for “World White Supremacy.” Anyway, there were too many examples between the two for me to get into, but it was clear that for their lack of empathy with Whites and America as such, it was not the greatest idea to have too many of them coming to America. Also included in my parents care package was microwavable popcorn, the partial hydrogenation of which made me faint and break my finger. And a book, “The Prince of Tides.” The title struck me as eerie; and indeed, my mother would be diagnosed with lung cancer and die soon after. As would my uncle Arthur die at that time. When I talked to my father about it, he began speaking in the manner of Arthur, such a Zelig my father was, never fully having his own personality. I mention this as that personality defect would become relevant a little later.
Venice’s replacement, Mike, would easily get hired to the kinds of jobs that I had applied to and needed if I was going to hang on. Maybe, it was because he didn’t have an ethnic sounding name. At one point he invited some girls over and they made a point of being overheard calling me a racist. I was thinking to my self, this is a world full of women who couldn’t ever be bothered to say to me, “Hi, how are you doing? Would you like to talk?” Who have no curiosity about what might be on my mind, and yet, they’d make a special trip to be overheard calling me a racist. Mike turned out to be a nasty piece of work too, calling me a greaser and saying that he didn’t like me at all. A greaser? no Mike, you’ve got the wrong slur. I won’t be too hard on him considering me unlikeable for what he knew (nothing) and may have overheard. I was suffering badly at that point, and using the only means to let off feedback steam that I had in those days just shy of the internet; i.e., my hostile messages to Naomi’s and my sister’s answering machines.
My sister’s response was to send me a note, saying that “You have a very promising future, don’t blow it.” Along with three popular books that I guess were supposed to put things in perspective. But the disrespect of her giving me reading material when I was already overloaded with grad school reading material and that it would be at such a low level by comparison infuriated me. It reminded me all of a sudden, all over again, of her determination to trivialize, humiliate, limit and control me. And I exploded with a phone message, “as long as I’m alive you’re not safe.” Try unburning that bridge. But I was deep on the floor of a toxic liberal ocean, with a meager oxygen tank. Consciousness was always dangerous, liable to set off a volcanic eruption as my ego sought to assert and protect itself from years of intimidation against my interests.
Meanwhile, back on campus… Venice had apparently put word out to try to intimidate and humiliate me. As I came into the campus center lounge area, Venice was showing me her thumb at its most protracted distance from her index finger. Oh, what a surprise, here I was thinking that she was very sensitive to the impact of her behavior, right? More sadly, the optimally pretty girl from the print station was giving me the same hand signal. I hope that girls like this will end up living with niggers, it will serve them right. And as far as I was (am) concerned, if I ever saw blacks or their kind again, it would be too soon.
It what must have been a surreal episode to a group of onlookers from some distance as I cam into the campus center one evening and confronted a healthy looking and pretty White blonde girl who was with a group of blacks, about three or four males and one female, who was seething and saying something about her freedom before she hit me. Then I said to the blacks, “you think that your physical ability is indominable; I can just get a gun and that’s the end of that.” The runt of the males piped in, saying that he would “advance himself intellectually and intimidate me even more.” Then another of the males said, condescendingly, “you’re just drunk (that much was true), you better get out of here.” Finally the alpha put his bare barrel chest in my face, shouting, “go get da gune din!” (go get the gun then). Then he went for a kill shot, hitting me hard on the back of the head. The blonde girl shrieked with delight, shouting “oh yeah!” But the “kill shot” didn’t even phase me. I calmly walked over to the blonde and put my index finger to her head, saying about five times in succession, “I’m talking about this mentally retarded piece of shit right here.” She stood with a look of mild horror on her face, perhaps realizing that the black girl didn’t care that I was abusing her and that the black males had no intention of coming to her rescue.
I then I left, moving past the group of stunned onlookers, saying something like, “did you enjoy the show, you dumb fucks!” and I made my way out through a hallway past a police officer who did not realize that he was hurrying past one of the guys he was looking for.
During the days I continued posting “White Women For Sale!” (it’s concluding statement …”and we support the eradication of Mulatto Supremacism”), moving around campus in my “Big Mulatto Bro is Watching” t-shirt and antagonizing any miscegenators that I came upon.
One brunette really enraged me as she was a type that I fancied. From an adjacent path at some distance, I berated her and her black escort for a couple minutes as they walked by the pond. They would become relevant in the pub incident that was yet to come.
I would make excuses to buy something at the campus center stationary/sweet shop in order to leave a critical remark with the miscegenator cashier, viable, though mediocre though she was. She would become more relevant as well.
I did experiment a little with how things might look from the other perspective; going to a crafts market in the Amherst commons park with my 1/4 black 1/4 French 1/2 Vietnamese girl roommate to see what kind of reaction that I’d get. A lovely woman with straight blonde hair seethed at me from her vending booth, a cage that she was trapped in, all that prevented her from stabbing me. She did not realize that my smile was for her feeling that I was a part of her people that I was disloyal to. Never mind that she was miffed by a pairing that rarely happened and in this case, was not real (of course I never slept with a black woman; in fact, I consider it profound that I have never been jealous of anyone who has). In retrospect, I wish that I had said something to her, like how happy I’d be to have a woman like her for a wife.
I still held out hope of negotiating the situation in pursuit of graduate school. I attended feminist brown bag lunches in the campus center and I continued to talk with my professor.
As I recall, I attended four of the “feminist brown bag lunches” held at noon in The Campus Center. They each featured a speaker on woman’s concerns. There was a black woman attorney, who spoke about her experience at Harvard Law School. There was a woman who spoke of her experience of being incested by her father. It was quite disturbing to hear. She handled it admirably with help from her husband. Politician Ellen Goode spoke on career inspiration for women and did not talk about her step nephew who was the one who burned himself in the commons. Lastly, a pretty but tough edged White female student spoke about how White women needed to stop relying on black women for guidance in how to overcome the patriarchy. At this moment I sensed that this girl’s beliefs about how the power structure was actually configured and where it should go was so far removed from my experience and corrective justice of it that reconciliation with people like her was impossible. My eyes went out the window and to the distant clouds in despair. Interestingly, a White girl with dread locks looked at me with abject fear. As did a White Muslim woman rivet on me in fear. I knew that she was Muslim by her turban, or whatever you call it; not important. Of significance was that she’d be at the grand trance to come.
With pleasure I attended the major three day social constructionist conference at the beautiful University of New Hampshire campus, hosting all the luminaries of the perspective; and I verified what I expected to be true, that through my efforts with my prof, that I was able hold up pretty well with these scholars, particularly for someone at the beginning stages of my program. I was able to meet with Barnett once again as well, and he gave me some helpful advice, observing that my work was a bit different in that I was focusing on general patterns whereas most graduate work focused on more concrete, particular issues. He said make sure to include Carol Gilligan in my assessment of feminism; I assured him that I had. He then pointed to the morass in my paper and asked “is that the thesis statement?” Barnett had a way with subtle mockery; truth be known, I didn’t know how to write an argumentative essay yet. I don’t know if that was the moment I fell into trance, but I sank into trance calling him and an albino with a mail order bride….. and the next thing I remember was waking up as Barnett nudged my leg to stop me rubbing my cock through my pants. I had sunk plumb out of it. Needless to say he and the few other professors who witnessed this avoided me for the rest of the conference.
I did manage to make one contact at the conference though I never followed up on it. Helen Haste of Harvard was a friend of Rom Harre and a feminist, so we had things to talk about. She confirmed for me the passages in de Beauvior that I’d identifies as serving as points of departure for Friedan and Gilligan; and, as the conversation went on, she invited me to come talk with her at Harvard.
My prof was not there to witness this nor the trance incident and was only glad to have my company to discuss the terrific event upon return to Amherst. I was encouraged to keep up my efforts to work my way into the program. However, as I was not yet hired to the program, I would need to find work to sustain my efforts.
My need to apply for jobs brought me something of an area-wide survey of the PC pandemic. Applying for a job at sneaker store in Springfield was tantamount a trip to Planet of the Apes. Waiting for the bus home, there were two other people outside the mall entrance way besides me. There was a tall, sleek black, looking like a lion in front of a public library and a White woman, who could easily grace the cover of a magazine. She stared at him intent on getting his attention, signaling all too obviously, sucking the straw in her drink; while he ignored her, as she ignored me entirely while I made an equal effort to get her attention to let her know what an asshole that she was. I must have gotten her attention enough for her to be perfectly annoyed by my presence when I saw her way back at the Amherst campus.
I continued to pay visits to the print station and stationary/sweet shop in the campus center to make a little statement when I could.
And then there were the two Italian girls (I could just tell); one of them, Aiello (I would learn her name later), had a pretty face, yeah, cutesy, not in the official way that I like; but her ass, that was sublime. And she was similarly flagrant in her appeal to niggers. I’d see her giving them a leering beholden eye as she would pass them in the campus center. So it was a similar thing on my part to get her asshole attention. I would walk up beside her and graze her arm briskly, then walk in front of her wearing one of my t-shirts; stop suddenly and yell something in at her face.
When not alone or with the other Italian girl, she was escorted by this White anti-fa sort, bedecked in dreadlocks and a red beret. And a giant Mulatto cyborg was her other escort. As I stepped up agitation against her, the White anti-fa followed along with me as I made my home one day, menacing and threatening me as much as he could, making like he had some sort of weapon beneath his shall. He followed me until I was able to get to a phone booth and call the police. Then he cleared out.
She wound up filing assault charges against me, and only technically was that true. I barely touched her. I have never hit a woman and I never would. No woman is worth lowering one’s self and risking the wrath of violating that taboo. If she is that offensive to you, and negotiation can’t reconcile it, part ways. Nevertheless, she filed charges against me and I interviewed several lawyers to take my case.
Like my prank phone calls, I used this shopping around for lawyers as an occasion for some politicking. I called two female lawyers from North Hampton. One shrieked, “You called her a nigger lover?!” Yes, I did. Not quite believing it, she shrieked more emphatically, “You called her a nigger lover?!” Yes. “You called her a nigger lover!?” Yes and she responded, “Yes I’ll defend you!” I said No you won’t and I called the next lawyer; who was also taken aback but not so much that I couldn’t explain myself enough to be fairly impressive and provocative – “though their music is overrated, their athletic prowess obsolete and their women are ugly, they still have a formidable biopower to content with.” I then began to flirt with her, telling her that I’m not a bad looking guy, maybe near a “7.” She began to take an interest. Having suckered her enough and realizing that she was not the right lawyer, I asked her if she had a fat ass. It’s alight, she could lose the weight. She saved face by concluding the call by saying that she found me very offensive. On another day, she probably would have taken me up on my offer to get her pregnant.
Next I was asked by a Jewish lawyer in North Hampton to come in to see him personally, “because he wanted to get a look at me.” He tried to intimidate me, saying that I better hope that I am not confronted with the black magistrate. He concluded that he was not inclined to represent me. Finally, I called another woman lawyer in North Hampton and when she responded “that’s not illegal” to my having called Aiello a nigger lover, I felt that I had my lawyer. She knew all the judges and lawyers in town and could represent me as well as anyone – for $500.
On the way to her office I passed through a gas station where a nigger tanked up while his beautiful brunette girlfriend sat in the car. I don’t believe that I’ve ever given a more fierce look of hatred to anyone in my life.
My lawyer turned out to be a big fat woman who pocketed the $500 and then let her arms dangle by her side like a hired gun slinger on my behalf, ready to start shooting.
I explained my project to her and while she said that she didn’t agree, it was evident that she had at least some empathy, particularly as we went into a minor trance, and I called upon her concern for her White son; some emotion came into her eyes; but more to the point, she believed that the charge, “assault,” was bogus, as I’d barely touched her. that I should be charged with harassment, if anything. Furthermore, she believed in freedom of association, that I should be able to discriminate as to who’d be my roommates. She believed in freedom of speech, noting that “sometimes the Right is most concerned with freedom of speech.” I told her that I’m not sure that I identified as right wing. She smiled. Anyway, she got the charges dropped in exchange for an agreement to stay away from Ms. Aeillo.
However, I did come across her on the streets of Amherst sometime later, walking with her anarchist /anti-fa type friend and the Mulatto Cyborg. And, as I moved passed them, I said, “try brining your nigger friends to Italy, bitch.” They seemed a bit rattled. This time I did well (I didn’t always, sometimes came across as a bit silly and neurotic).
In the meantime you’d see groups of White girls marching around campus led by this black guy, Martin, chanting, “racist! sexist! anti-gay!” In similar pc activist fervor there were organized “Women Take Back the Night” marches on different occasions.
I continued meeting with my professor and I must say, he was really trying to help me, work through the transference that had occurred with Naomi, build my confidence and encourage my unanimity, overcoming the obsequiousness that my family had saddled me with.
He said, “you’re not saying that people shouldn’t be able to walk the streets in safety, you’re just saying here’s a different way of looking at gender relations that you might want to consider.” I smiled in thanks.
I assimilated an overture to a broader rhetorical position, saying, “now, these hate infested Mulatto supremacists” …then trailing off… and he smiled, acknowledging that I had the trail of a significant response to PC.
He asked me what I hoped to get out of antagonizing these women on campus? I answered, “I don’t know, maybe they’ll have a nervous breakdown and commit suicide.” He smiled.
To a superficial take that might seem sinister. But it was actually very good of him. He knew that I was not a sadist, that I was overcoming a lifelong oversensitivity, deeply inculcated obsequious concern for the feelings of women. He agreed that there should be critical response to feminism and recognized that on an effective intellectual level there wasn’t much going on in that regard.
I said of all my bluster at interracial couples, “wouldn’t they want me to care?” “Maybe some parents would be grateful for a rebut to swarthy objectivism.” And finally, “it is a relatively safe way to make a point.” He gave me the under the table smile again.
And again when I reviewed some of the things that I was up to in trying to gain ethnographic experience, I explained, “you might see me at feminist brown lunch” .. ‘you might see me at a church.” He smiled.
That was one of the earlier clues that Jews did not necessarily oppose Christianity for gentiles. They might not like it as much as straight forward liberalism, but they like it better than, you know, some other reactions…
And indeed I tried going with Kim and Jim to their church on the Amherst commons, not because I believed in that shit at all, but to be social and move around a bit. I found myself in a pew behind an interracial couple, the woman a font of health and pure beauty. I fixed on them in hatred. The male priest who served my wine forced it on me in anger, while the female priest who assisted him seemed rather amused by me. Though Jim Clark had a bad reputation for sexual impropriety with female church goers, like giving them hugs and rubbing his erection into them, he was nevertheless ensconced as head priest at the church of Jim and Kim’s denomination; so they asked him what to do about this racist friend of theirs – me. He rendered a sermon bragging about having marched with Martin Luther King in Alabama. He went on, saying that “if someone is a racist, that it was his business.” After the sermon, he made sure that I heard him say to the coal burner that anyone who objects must have a short dick. Lovely priest. I made my way to the exit and a White woman was handing out flyers appealing for financial and legal help for a black incarcerated in the Midwest on some felony charge.
Amherst commons. As I once road on a bus there, a giant, apparently mentally challenged black, would not stop needling a nerdy White guy who sat near the rear door of the bus. Finally, the black got off the bus through the rear door one stop before I got off. Relief came over the nerd. Then relief came over the other two remaining passengers, a young woman and surprisingly, markedly over the face of and old woman as I shouted, “Why do they want to bring these goddamn niggers up here!” And as I got off my stop, Amherst Commons, the driver thanked me!
Some people were grateful, the old woman’s reaction to my indignation was as if to say, ‘what a relief, not everyone has lost their mind.’ I got cheered on and met with approval by White guys in a few occasions One pretty White girl working at pharmacy in North Amherst made it clear that she was on my side as I stormed through the isles sarcastically shouting, “racist, sexist, anti-gay!” In North Hampton I shouted anti-anti racist things and two White girls said, “oh, hi!” but I had such trajectory that I did not register that they were taking my side in disgust with the anti-White male, pro miscegenator agenda. I hurtled verbal abuse at them in a foul way. They looked at each other puzzled. I regret my misunderstanding. It should have been clear that there would be some understanding of reaction to the insanity among the PC of North Hampton, the prestigious women’s college, Smith, giving rise to a place where there more lesbians per capita than anywhere else in the U.S.
A WN Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy.
You have to pick your fights, can’t fight everybody all at once, and because I needed my father as a financial life-line to continue my studies, I tried to maintain him as an ally, give him a sense of the situation and what I was learning. If he could stick with me just a little longer and if I was, in fact, able to matriculate into the Gradschool program, I would not be paying, but would be paid (not much, but enough) as an employee of the university . However, I needed the leeway that his help afforded in order to make up for vast gaps in my academic, intellectual and emotional background to concentrate on my studies alone if I was to do well on the GRE test and in requisite preparation. So, I did not prank phone call him, but rather tried to reason with him.
Even though he was kind of an idiot on matters other than making money, which does matter a great deal, I concede; I hoped to get him to see the point in helping me in my pursuits. While not a millionaire, he did well enough; and well enough so that I tried to reason with him on what common grounds that we had, despite his infuriating stupidity in other ways.
We both hated Clinton. And while I could easily see that my father could not think outside of the box to see that the Republicans were basically flip sides of the same liberal coin, only a slower, more torturously burning liberalism which didn’t merit his ardent fanship, it was nevertheless the case that anything was better than Clinton – while ironically, my department was responsible for his Public Relations. It’s the kind thing that should have impressed him more, but my father, in a sense, was one of these idiots like GW who hasn’t been to university but thinks that he knows everything. So, you’d explain something and he’d begin his response, “yeah”, dismissively, quick work, ‘he knew that.’ You wanted to scream, fucker, you didn’t even know that!
Though he took for granted the sense of support that he got from his coherent Italian/American identity, he was, unfortunately, tough enough (and base and thick enough as it were), to actually go along with the fundamental liberalism beneath even the Republican party in The United States propositional nationalism. I tested him on this. How would you feel about a Jewish grandchild? If I took up with a Jewish student (that would be a winning career move). “Beautiful!” he said. He then said, “I want a black baby!” to really embellish his liberal magnanimity. It was very hard to contain my anger and I barked back, “that’s not going to happen!”
My father learned from his childhood days on the doorsteps of the Italian section of Newark, New Jersey, that if he displayed good natured stupidity and was liberal enough, that he could advance enough through the gate keep of American women; and have enough the blessings of the powers that be as he would literally repeat the mantra, “you can’t fight city hall” inculcated in his late call to service in WWII. He would say this with a dumb smile on his face, as he would, when speaking in bad grammar to display how unpretentious, safe and working class that he was. I hated that he would smile at me in this, expecting that I should join him in limiting and disadvantaging myself against thoughtful people. Again, questions to him were treated by him as if an affront. He was distinctly anti-intellectual and strong enough to humiliate nascent attempts to compensate.
Thus, in saying that he “wanted a black grandchild”, my father was displaying his “good natured stupidity”, said with a smile, if you were there in his presence; ready for the pat on head from the liberal powers that be and the female gate-keeper class – gate-keepers of liberalism, as it were. I then tried to steer the discussion to the lighter side of having to deal with multiculturalism.
I related an anecdote of how my Chinese roommate played the Polish “Beer Polka” for me on his accordion. My father’s ‘understanding’ response was that “yeah, everything is all” – pause for words to come – “INTER-MIXED” – pause, ready for register of correct response, high level pat on the head. I cannot over emphasize my rage at this man, my father, who should, even for an instinctive level of understanding, be looking to protect my/our ethnic genetic interests.
To render this utterly hapless response, as if I was saying that the gene pools of the world were so hopelessly intermixed that you should just adopt a pleasant acceptance … and the way he struggled so stupidly to say this word, “inter-mixed”, but said it with assurance that his was the good natured position that should meet with my agreement …well, I would have liked to kill him.
He went on, “I told this black kid that I sat next to on the bus, ‘hang in there, you’ll get there.” Again, expecting approval, while I am thinking what a stupid asshole that my father is. I would respond a bit more plainly, that I did not like niggers, and I explained why. He replied, “I didn’t teach you that” (there was suspicion from the university that he had taught me that; and though he should have, he didn’t; life experience taught me anyway). He went on, “I’ve talked to everyone and nobody agrees with you.” Now I’m seething. He’s messing with the tectonic plates of my second final grammar (“we don’t want”) that had already been jostled once by my prof in class (“nobody agrees with racism”) producing a volcanic eruption. I already sensed that my lines were tapped, the university police, my prof, my sister, Cara, sister in law, Eva, Naomi and other mental health people were all in contact to some extent as to how to deal with me. They were trying to work on me through my father’s ultra-compliant, in fact Zelig like adopt-a-personality: “Nobody agrees with you.” Well that did rupture the tectonic plate of my second final grammar again,
Unleashed were some of my most vitriolic calls to Naomi’s and my sister’s answering machines (Cara insults me by sending stupid books for me to read, I respond by telling her that as long as I am alive she is not safe). At this point, a traditional strategy was adopted of proposing that my father take me on a father-and-son trip to Italy. This would allow us to talk father-to-son, build up my identity and confidence with it, and perhaps steady me through the prospective graduate school program. Even though I could never get along with my father, this I could not resist. The thought of Italy, where I could be comfortable being European, particularly my kind of European, seeing it again for the first time since 1972, when I thought that I might never again experience the beauty and antiquity of my heritage.
It was 1993. The political correctness of the campus, the demographic make-up and rule structure of America was becoming toxic for me; intolerable in an emotional sense.
Though it was never a part of the original trance bargain (viz. “a real education in exchange for being a ‘crazy Italian’ in opposition to the university liberals”), I was not aware that a PhD was not in the cards. Though its pursuit kept me on track of study.
Again, the prof did try, supplying an argument for me to the class, “that (racist stuff) may have been there (in me) but it wasn’t a problem.”
“The good ones”, the exceptions (of name the group that you need to discriminate against); “just what we need!”
And finally, “I think there is a place to go with this (my project).”
If there was any hope of my continuing on to be matriculated into a graduate program, I needed more cultural support and relief. Thus, my father was called upon to make a father and son trip to Italy with me to try to calm me down and bring me around to his more tolerant, liberal American mindset. I played along, wanting the trip to Italy to be sure, but seeing it as a scouting trip upon a place I might have to go to escape the insanity of America’s demographics and rule structures.
At the airport, my sister had a confidential chat at the check-in counter with my father, the kind she does when she approaches the bench in court; this time (by inference, I could deduce that she was) to quietly tell my father to tell me that “nobody agrees with you” – viz. with your racialist positions. Now, again, at that time, prior to the Internet, MacDonald and WN support, to hear that nobody agreed with me was toxic to the point of being poison. I was fighting this battle of my second final grammar very much alone. At the very moment my sister quietly passed this advice on to my father, in the seating area nearby, an exquisite Italian girl was kissing her Negro boyfriend. Of course my father and sister were oblivious to this, a woman whom I would be happy to say was my wife, at least based on her looks to be sure. I seethed with the flagrant reminder that I needed to get out of America, to get to cultural backing and the genetic grounding that I did not have in America.
For it was already this statement, “nobody agrees with you”, that had produced one of my largest trances, one taking place in graduate class. It provoked a trance rage in me that had me lashing out at my professor and the class.
It was a level of pathology that my professor could not ignore. That must have been around the time that he called upon my father to have a conciliatory father – son vacation to Italy.
Since it had become more clear to my professor that I was having trouble being persuaded to go along with that program, and he was apparently in cahoots with the suggestion that my father take me to Italy, he decided to add one more measure of consolation – by telling me a story, the moral of which was to not get my expectations too high about this trip to Italy, or, by analogy, how one should not take things too seriously and get their expectations too high in general:
So, just prior to leaving, my professor related this additional conciliatory anecdote, lest I be disappointed by the experience; he would let me down gentler still.
He told me about a book he’d read, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy. It is the story of a wanderer who travels throughout the galaxy, surveying the planets, enduring much to perhaps find intelligent life. My professor asked me, “What do you think he came across when he arrived at that special planet?”
He smiled when I guessed correctly, “a souvenir stand.”
Anyway, I did go on the trip to Italy with my father. This trip was supposed to render me a bit more relative and tolerant in my thinking – if anything would help to make me educable to liberal sensibilities, this was supposed to do it.
Italians are know for being very emotional; my father was exponentially volatile in that regard, and I was in no mood to put up with his brash assertiveness, so we wound up having fights that escalated in volume – though I loved Italy, first time I’d been there since 1972, having to deal with my father was not doing my emotions and mind the good that it was supposed to do.
It started on the airplane. My father was going to help me be assertive with women; told the stewardess that, “he’s coming on to you!” I couldn’t believe it. I was doing no such thing, and the last thing that I needed was help being an awkward fool with women. She brought a male steward over to make sure that I didn’t try anything. Thanks dad.
We had a rental car, and I was disgusted that he did not appreciate the scenic routes. When we got to a hotel in Rome, he triggered by bellowing when I reached for a beer in the minnie bar, not bothering to explain calmly that minnie bars are a minnie racket, attaching high prices to your tabor anything you drink
We visited a time share in Maratea beach resort (my mother got ripped off by this, another racket – time shares – having bought one; a bit of fate would be indicated later in regard of the time share as well). Two English couples were there at pool side, or should I say one English couple, the other couple that they were with was an English woman and a black man. Last thing that I wanted to see. When I told you before that I was quite often awkward in my attempts at assertive Italian bravado, this occasion was one of them. I attempted to assert my distaste for such pairings in general, warning members of the evening entertainment entourage that I would not stand for this practice coming to Italy, the particular woman that I addressed didn’t quite understand who I was to be making such a claim. It was awkward but my father capitalized on that in a humiliating way, pointing his fingers together in a tedious gesture, saying disgustedly, “he doesn’t like it when the White girls get together with blacks.”
I tried to explain to my father the kind of opportunity that I had before me and how its resource could make a real difference in counteracting the injustices of political correctness. It didn’t register with him as anything more than a business proposition, an opportunity that he and others “were giving me.” He liked America, and was oblivious to everything ugly about it. So, if I told him about John Locke and the technology of civil individual rights as being destructive, it would not absorb, he would be onto a story in great swagger, about how he’d testified before the Supreme Court that he “just wanted the same rights (of union access) as anyone.” Jimmy Hoffa came looking for him after that; the FBI was stationed in front of our house for weeks to come.
And before I got any ideas about Italians being so good, he had to tell me this stupid bit, with pomp and splendor, as if unrolling a scroll “when the Italians invaded the Somali land, there was a lot of fraternizing going on.” He told me “you weren’t raised to think like this. I didn’t teach you that” Finally he said what for me were the magic, poison words, “nobody agrees with you.”
I was seething, and showed him the rashes and skin disease on my hands from washing dishes at Jake’s No Frill’s Restaurant in North Hampton; how wiling I was to make my way through academia independently and as I saw fit. He started inciting me, “wash dishes then, wash dishes then!” Then he said with great bluster, “I’ll give you $800 a month for the rest of your life!” Never one to respond well to didactic incitement, I responded with shrill indignation, throwing peanuts at him and yelling stupidly, loudly, voice cracking with insufficient masculinity, like Richard Spencer on the infamous Milo tape, not like a cool and confident Italian. With my father having cornered the market on masculinity, it would take me a while to ground my manly gestalt. He incited further, “kill me then!” and I bark back, “like I’m going to waste my life to kill you , you old piece of shit. You aren’t worth it!”
But it really wasn’t just me. When we got back to our family villages, I gave advice to my cousin’s young daughter explaining that “she should listen to mother, because mother is very smart.’ I was doing post modernity proper, affirming tradition where it is benign and good. The girl was placid. Then my father turns it into a command that offers no explanation, only dumb resignation, said with the usual dumb smile on his face, as if you should happily accept the restricting of your agentive leeway, and the kid starts screaming, “No! No!”
We go to my cousin’s hotel. Sete Bello in Materdomini. My father is talking to him in Italian and suddenly turns around and asks me to go up to our room and fetch “the envelopes.” So naturally, I go through his bags looking for mailing envelopes. I come back telling him that I can’t find them. He’s very angry which makes me explode at this, the millionth time he has gotten furious for not being understood when he cannot communicate for shit. He had coffee which was packaged like tea bags in ‘envelopes.’ While my cousins understood me, finding this funny, my loud temper tantrum was poorly done. I’d give myself near lowest rating for that one; but it was not the biggest faux pas.
I was doing my level best to gather all the genealogy that I could through the archives and my cousins. My father found this tedious. If I asked him a question about a relative, he would respond in anger, as he would with any question. No explanation as to the connection and relation, he would just bark out in anger, “it’s your cousin!” Then he really pissed me off by saying that “you want to do this genealogy shit!” In the evening while I was mapping details of our genealogy with some cousins, my father slept in the next room. The next morning he told me that he heard everything, as I had made and offhand remark to my cousins that he’ll be dead soon and I’ll have $800 a month. I would have said this in response to a suggestion from my cousins that he might be of help, observing that no, he was not interested in this “genealogy shit.” While my cousin was not exactly wrong to say, ‘he’s your father” …it has taken me a long time to sort out this faux pas. First of all, it is not really me. I am not one who is jealous, would deny people their wealth, happiness and life. I was not only under tremendous stress, typically hung over, but my father was not appreciating the significance of the project that I was taking on here and at the university. But it would not be until many years later, as I was closer to death myself, that before I die, I could think of no better thing than to work with my son (still hope to have one) to help set him on solid financial ground. But moreover, I would see it as my duty, as a father, to protect the family’s genetic interests, not this liberal American shit.
Nevertheless, the faux pas would cost me heavily when it came time to draw up his will.
But I could not keep my composure to play that well. though he turned out to be largely correct about the importance of money, his treating what it could buy (or what other people could buy) by criteria was hard to respect. Growing up in the poverty of the depression made his generation too materialistic. His “can’t fight city hall” compliance was intolerable when the not so naïve were destroying, well, our people. His arguments of how I shouldn’t be racist were especially repugnant in light of all that I was up against and how obviously important our cause should be to a father: It was the opposite of conciliatory – infuriating, extremely insulting to the hard battle and academic work that I was doing to counter the popular sentiments so destructive to our people.
That was enough to have me fly-off the handle at him – enough so that he would all but cut me off from my inheritance thanks to a chain of command: my sister and sister in law’s rank (she had not yet produced a second grandson for him, but already had one), their Jewish overlords pandering, of course. That episode set in motion right then, what would wind-up being an all too costly fight for my life a few years later.
To have some peace from one another, my father let me take the car and he stayed behind in our grandparent’s villages. I had a hankering to go to Sicily, Syracuse in particular – the antiquity and the thought of slinky, raven-haired beauties drove me on.
I drove all day and arrived in Sicily by night. Coming into a Sicilian city like Messina at night can be frightful when first encountered; so fitting that the Bubonic Plague had come to Europe through its port in 1347; it was like some kind of Gothic nightmare, nobody on the streets, shops all closed up and ancient, worn down buildings sooted-up dark from deasil fumes, giving a ghastly effect to the edifices; pretty scary at night, all the stores closed up.. eerie looking, but for me this was nothing but intriguing. I loved the experience of coming into this exotic old world.
I was ill advisedly drunk driving but enjoying every minute of this exotica that was part of my history and carried on to my penzione destination for the night in the city of Catania. As I drove into Catania center drunk, a car marked “Vigilante” drove up beside me, but rather than buckle to fear, I let my euphoria win out and just shouted at them with a big smile on my face, “Catania bella!” The smiled back and asked me where I was going. And I followed them to Piazza Duomo where I would find my penszione.
The following night I came upon a phenomenon, a street-fair in Catania laced with a font of the subtlest White beauty of its kind that I’d ever seen. Like so many wild flowers: their skin was White, bodies so lean and feminine, their eyes so beautiful, so subtle. So much for the urban legend that Sicilians are part black, these women were the most subtle White women that could be. Though I could not know at the time that I’d never again recapture this moment of so many subtly beautiful women of this kind in one place, I was grateful to have it confirmed for myself, just how beautiful these women could be, and it assured that I would have to come back one day (I did notice on black street vendor noticing the same thing, and it bothered me).
The next night I found the hottest disco-tech around, mafia owned Club Banacher in Aci Creale.
I was looking sharp in my three piece custom made suit, but must have cut a suspicious figure to the owners as I waited on line to the entrance. A young boy was sent to tell me, “no whiskey” as I entered. In I went to this club with its palm trees, outdoor swimming pools (well, sort of, more like reflecting ponds) and elegant woman who looked as if they’d walked out of the ancient gallery, off of an ancient Greek vase. After about ten minutes, I went to the bar and turns out that the kid followed me. ‘No whiskey.” It may have made for a more dry experience but it was flattering to be thought of as slightly dangerous. I’d be sure to come back to this place.
Nevertheless, it was Siracusa that I felt destined to see, and I took off the next day to see its complex where three important historical sites exist adjacently.
Having arrived at my ultimate destination, I went straight to where I knew to be the ruins of an ancient Roman coliseum.
What did I see first? Of course – a souvenir stand – with three kindly, pleasantly plump Italian ladies standing around.
I walked in without cynicism and sat down alone in the ruin of this surprisingly small Roman coliseum. I looked around. There was a lot of grass overgrowth and the edges of the rocks had been worn, rounded by the ages.
I was the only one there and sat down about midway in the seating area.
I was moved by how relatively small it was – the scale of it had a subtle quality to it.
Then something happened to me that never happened before in my life.
I saw the crenellations near the top, something diminutive about the spacing of them, the scale…something profound and important in the human scale had been rushed-by by America. I began to cry, then to sob. It was like nothing I’d experienced before. It was only partly grief, partly catharsis, partly the joy of revelation. It was as if my whole body was having an orgasm.
It was something.. the scale of it, the small scale of it, as I looked at the undulating turns of its upper wall.. I realized that America, in its hurry and in its ambition, had passed by, rushed by something profound… a human quality something profound.
I cried profoundly, from the profundity of it – cried as I never had before; though of grief it was not only that, it felt good.. totally cathartic…it was if my entire body was having an orgasm in this grief – my whole body cried.
As I gathered myself a little, I walked out of the coliseum past the old ladies at the souvenir stand. Seeing the tears still streaming down my cheeks were very upset, visibly shaken, not understanding why I had been crying so hard… but I was able to wish them a goodbye, so they understood that I was not in need of help…
It was a great irony. Here I had been prepared for the potential superficiality and disappointment of travel.. I went through the trouble, I went past the souvenir stand and had an absolutely profound experience.
To think, my professor had prepared me for a let down.
I can only interpret beyond the profound feeling that something important of scale was being tragically left behind, run over rough shod by the American project.
Next I crashed a group of English tourists, tagging alongside while they were getting a professional guide of the Greek amphitheater nearby.
This Greek Amphitheater had not only hosted performances of the plays of Aeschaelus and Sophocles, but had actually been attended by them, Plato as well. Fucking Plato!
After that, the tour guide took us over to “The Ear of Dionysius.”
The Ear of Dionysius is a cave where the Roman legions kept prisoners of war. The prisoner’s would be given an option to remain alive as slaves or take the chance to win their freedom in a life or death battle as gladiators – yes, fights to the death that would occur in the Roman colosseum that I’d just come out of. The tour guide added, that colosseum was one of the places where the defeated gladiator would get the “thumbs up”, to spare him, or the “thumbs down” to execute him. The tour guide then claimed that Christianity put an end to this barbarism, “thank god.” And maybe Christianity did do some good, provisionally, stupid Jewish trick, imposter of our moral order though it is.
The Roman coliseum of Siracusa being the scene of vast carnage added much consideration to the cathartic experience that I just had. It was not only America that was running rough shod over much that was profound, but Europeans had a history of it and one might start by considering the great Archimedes who was slain by a Roman centurion who had no idea of the value of this life that he ended.
Archimedes, a Siracusan, had lived nearby. His talents were brought to an end by an independently acting Centurion, one homicide that perhaps set European math and science back thousands of years. In the ear of Dionysus, one could remain as a slave to the death or fight to the death as a gladiator in the improbable hope of gaining freedom. Our natural means of defending ourselves have been interrupted by the call to blind and dumb courage. Christianity is alleged to have been crucial in ending the brutality.
The military campaigns of Charlemagne would seem to argue otherwise. The Teutonic Knights destruction of the pagan Lithuanians was no sympathetic Christian salvation. The cataclysmic Thirty Years War was inter-Christian. And lets not go into the way this obsequious religion, this false moral order has tied our hands behind our backs to where we are now yielding our land and our genome, to our own genocide without a fight.
And beyond this stupid religion, as we hack our way toward a moral order which will look after our biological interests and the systemic homeostasis that will sustain them, we will see among the gladiators, the fratricidal battles, the likes of Caesar contra the Gauls, Pickett’s suicidal charge, The Kaiser army’s rape of Belgium, The Battle of The Somme and Verdun, Hitler’s cataclysmic war of supremacist imperialism, costing more than fifty million European lives and treasure, we will look upon the greatest evil. Among the corpses of these catastrophic avalanches burying our evolution, those surviving will resurrect and rebuild our authentic ontology, its moral order.
Nay to any matriarchal thumbs down to our being: It is time to begin on the true ontological course of our co-evolutionary warrant in European Being.
This brutal puerile female incitement to genetic competition, a weaponization of modernity’s “empirical” rupturing of our necessary hermeneutic group borders and bounds, through the pandering of the YKW, liberals and right wingers, installing them, well, not exactly as a matriarchy, but as gatekeepers of power, letting only the brutally liberal (with regard to our White European borders and bounds) into power. For they will breed with the winner no matter what, and so what matter of the pathetic vanquished males then and their tested inferior genes – they are losers, just like Archimedes.
I returned to Amherst, Massachusetts anything but placated liberal by my father, but with the rejuvenation of the deep meaning for which I fight and the palpable experience of it.
My prof. happily greeted back the world traveler and almost seemed disappointed that I was anything but disappointed by Italy and, he would become aware, discombobulated to learn, that I was anything but placated by my father. I think that I only audited one course that fall while I worked a restaurant job in North Hampton. As there had not actually been anyone in the department focusing on feminism, they hired Leda Cooks, apparently as polemic counterpart if not to me, then to my kind of thing. I noticed that she brought a new field of studies with her: “Whiteness Studies.” I thought, oh, that’s nice, finally they will be taking our side. Then I saw the syllabus and realized it should be called “Anti-Whiteness” studies.
Meanwhile, in evenings I’d be chopping vegetables at Friendlies, not able to say a damn thing as I’d see an alpha blonde female sitting there in a completely taken for granted attitude with a nigger. Waitresses clueless as to what I could be upset about…while on break, the half Jew half Anglo line cook Jhhhon Dhhay (pompous and effeminate prep school way of talking) would be telling me about his beautiful half Italian/half Polish girlfriend who’d run up his credit card (that’s why he was working there, to pay it off) and finally gone to the projects to get drugs and get fucked by niggers; then white knighting her, ready to take issue with me if I took issue with her, Jew that he was. The steady flow of this kind of agitation kept my blood simmering.
I mean, in some of my initial correspondence to Pearce, I offered a rebut to the conclusion that I’d seen in some communicology work that toxic expressions of male masculinity were the result of “social impotence.” I suggested rather, that it may be an expression of “social I-don’t want-to-ness but everything is making me feel like I-should want-to-anywayness.” To alleviate the sense that you would necessarily lose out to rogue males otherwise, the power and incentive structure having been disordered of modernity, there needed to be voluntary secular enclaves of single sex partner for life hopefuls. A societal respect for the institutionalized sacralization of sex and monogamy as it were.
As the script writers for the television series “L.A. Law” were getting ideas from our department and indirectly from me, the one and only bit of feedback I got for that idea was a scene in one episode where a poindexter type White guy with a squeaky voice stands up on his desk, index finger pointed in the air, proudly proclaiming his wife the one and only woman that he’d ever had …. while everyone else in the busy office goes on talking noisily among themselves, completely disinterested in what the little poindexter has to say. So, my proposal was not being considered with eh seriousness that it merited. You think the writers of “L.A. Law” would not lift ideas from me? How about the Corbin Bernsen character (Arnold Becker) repeating verbatim, “this incitement may cast the punishment as not that bad, at worst, if not a necessary lesson, or even an inspiration which takes credit for the achievement”, from the “permanent puerile initiate” phase of the Charmed Loop of Didactic Incitement concept that I developed.
* This is one place, i.e., the scriptwriters of “L.A. Law”, where my memory or rather, my original perception may have been inaccurate. This may have been my mis-perception in beta-state in-between a sleep and waking state, wherein I thought the Corbin Bernsen character was given my lines. However, my sensitivity to the potential for communication between my department and L.A. area media productions is not unfounded; as my professor had just come back from a year exchange at U.C. Santa Barbara, and would remain in conversation with their communications department at the same time that he would be talking to me. Furthermore, as I was talking quite a bit about the importance of life-long monogamy as an anecdote to the tumult of modernity’s Darwinism, another episode of L.A. Law, in which a poindexter type stands on his desk to proclaim his life long fidelity to his wife, while a busy office carries on chattering amongst themselves obliviously to him. Mocking my concern, whether in response to me or not. There were other examples of C.M.M. influence in media, such as commercial for a car in which decision makers reflexively reverse their choice; and the car is shown turning from right side up to upside down and right side up again.
I continued with my “activism” on campus, having the optimal blonde coal burner from the campus center copy shop print up “White Women For Sale!” for me and then giving her the finger as I went to post it throughout campus and in town. I resumed making excuses to buy things at the stationary/sweet shop near the campus center entrance way so that I could make a nasty remark to the brunette mudshark there and let her see my “Big Mulatto Bro is Watching” T-shirt which I wore everywhere. I could see that she was quite upset as she entered the nearby woman’s room, seeing the words, “nigger lovers,” on the door. And I continued to make my prank message calls to Naomi’s answering machine.
With compound irony, the last message that I would send her before a New York City police officer would call me and say, “we have a problem; she doesn’t want to press charges, but we have your phone tapped and you need to stop.” …the last message from me was me playing this from Frank Zappa’s “Joes Garage” to her answering machine:
Neighbor’s mother:
I’m calling the police! everyday this goes on around here! He used to be a very nice boy! He used to cut my grass!
Joe:
Speak to me
Oh no . . .
The golden shower must have shorted out
His master circuit
He’s, he’s, oh my God
I must have plooked him . . .
Hey
To death . . .
Hey
(police sirens)Central Scrutinizer (voice sounding as if through a bullhorn):
This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . .
You have just destroyed one model XQJ-37 Nuclear Powered Pan-Sexual Roto-Plooker
And you’re gonna have to pay for it!
So give up, you haven’t got a chance.Joe:
But I . . .
I, I, I, I, I . . .
I can’t pay
I gave all my money
To some kinda groovy religious guy . . .
Two songs ago . . .Central Scrutinizer:
Come on out son . . .
Between the two of us
We’ll find a way to
Work it out
Actually, I did not have a plan B, but I was still had a sustainable living situation there and more importantly, the prof was still willing to talk to me as I tweaked my would-be thesis into baroque absurdity. I became increasingly frustrated with him as I would sometimes get the subtle message that “your best interests may be elsewhere”, sometimes not so subtle provocation, sometimes a revealing of his liberal bona fides (e.g., he hoped that the races would mix); this resulted in at least two episodes in which I berated him horribly at close range, and then groveled in apology to be able to speak with him again. Though I am loath to describe those instances, I might just do that when they come up in chronology, but he was turning up the heat in my slow simmer; which instigated more of my “activism” over the next two years there in Amherst and in North Hampton, where I worked. But it was not only convenience and the possibility of academic networking that kept me there, but fate and an increasing sense of fate that moored me there.
I continued with my 40 oz., ok, maybe 80 oz Power Master malt liquors two or three days a week, ok, maybe four, sometimes five. That fortified my initiative to move through the streets of the area in my slogan bearing T-Shirts, to keep posting “White Women for Sale!” throughout the town and to antagonize miscegenators to the extent that I might. This coincided with working my restaurant jobs in North Hampton and attending Al-anon meetings (Adult Children of Alcoholics) throughout the area more evenings than not. I also asked my professor for the advice of a good shrink that I might talk to in hopes of getting back on track of an academic career. With that, I got counseling from Harold Raush, a psychologist who was collegial with the big shots of the time. I would go into at least on trance with him and see/say some things that I’d seen and said in other trances and would again in the grand trance to come.
I really liked the new music that I was hearing from Alice in Chains, Nirvana and Pearl Jam. While I resonated with this “Grunge music” as inarticulate heir of the inarticulate hippie motive for White male being, I was sure, am sure, that I had the articulate answer to their angst in the form of post modernity proper, what I would one day call White Post Modernity. Thus, I remember the day that Kurt Cobain died, and telling my prof soon after that this was an expression of an unheeded call-back to Being and the ordinary levels of life from a misfired pressure to self actualization. It is probably semiotic of this “shot out of canon” phenomenon that you can only listen to “It Smells Like Teen Spirit” about a dozen times, excellent though it is. “Come As You Are” is a bit more enduring. Eddie Vedder had his cannon fodder too, in “Once”, but I will probably always be able to listen to “Black” which played throughout the bars and captured the tragedy of the times perfectly. Still, Alice in Chains was my favorite of the Grunge by far. They displayed the aggressive masculinity, strength and creativity that was always there in the hippies, though I always have to explain this to younger people who are misled by right wingers, traditionalists and YKW that hippies were merely drug infested pacifist wimps and therefore “the problem.” in stead of manifesting something profound of White men, Dasein and MidtDasein, that needed to be incorporated. But alas, Alice in Chains was subject to the same PC misguidance and lack of White Post Modernity that would destroy two of its band members as well.
As an aside for a moment, I must say that Kim and Jim gave me a Mozart record to listen to and it struck me in such a way as to cause me literal shame at it’s beauty and depth in comparison to the music I’d grown up with. I must also add, that this was another sublime experience that I was never able to recapture, never finding a Mozart recording that had that effect on me.
As the situation was becoming more and more provisional, i.e., unlikely to support my pursuit of a PhD, not even somewhere else, I stepped up efforts to be sure that I left the footprint of my message on the area. One black started charging at me, can’t imagine why, maybe it was because I wore a jacket that said, “Nigger Out!” I scurried into the open door of a frat house and grabbed a broom. He came in and I looked directly at his temple, causing him hesitation as he knew that he’d get a serious whack. Stupidly, he grabbed and all too heavy item, a leaf blower I think it was; and as he lifted it I saw my moment to run out and I managed to cross the street just before a glut of traffic would block him from catching up to me.
I would see walking around a tall, goofy Mulatto with a decent looking blond, who would wear a “just fucked smile” to try to put it in my face when I remarked on them. After that, there was several instances when a car full of White girls would stop a bit ahead on the street when I walked the sidewalk adjacent to university; the nigger would then stick his head out with a smile on his face, saying “you mama likes niggers.” I would yell, “not she didn’t, that’s why I’m not ugly like you.” … they I really let him have it, as he left his head stuck out the window like a target at carnival, I yelled, loud: “Nigger women are ugly! Nobody wants your goddamn women, they look like monkeys with shit colored skin!” I repeated this three times loud and then laughed as the smile came off of his face and he shrank back into the car; the White women therein probably calling him back in, getting a bad feeling about the dynamics.
In another instance, at Jakes No Frills Restaurant in North Hampton, I’d say that I was a bit more awkward but no less bold as I berated an interracial couple from the kitchen where I worked. I wanted to put on a display on behalf of a waitress of French extraction, seeing it as important to protect the continental buffering and always having a thing for French women, dark hair, white skin and in her case, small breasted – my type. I told the couple that “there is Rene, and she is French! French! Spreads Charles de Gaulle’s butt cheese on crackers and eats it mmmm, pate! French! Now get out of here!” The owner of the Restaurant had to duck back into the kitchen laughing. Not that that and other things would keep the owner firing me a few weeks later, he had to. But everyone knew that I was up to something and the job was expendable. When he saw me in another place sometime later, he made a point of shaking my hand. I’d given him a copy of “White Women For Sale!” You see, he was a southerner and had not gotten used to these things either. And at this place, I would see the same interracial couple that I’d recently seen at the North Amherst bar, attractive White academic lady, all smiley, carefree and confident, fondling the muscular arm of her Negro consort.
I would become friends with Rene for a little while; she was into reading Tarot cards, but even as a seasoned Tarot card reader she was momentarily taken aback, a bit spooked when “the devil and death” cards kept coming up for me despite how she shuffled the cards.
She regained her poise, however, and explained that it might just mean that I am the kind of person who enjoys a worthy fight (true).
That resonated as true enough. I like to fight if it’s a worthy cause.
I would learn that her father and other men were into Satanic rituals in which they raped her; she was aggrieved at having lost a pregnancy by her father when he punched her in the abdomen. For her trauma she would usually be more normal than normal and then occasionally freak out. Not to be outdone, I suppose, I began shouting “incest, incest! ” in a crowded North Hampton restaurant as we ate together. I can’t say that this was good of me, but there was a bit of amateur psychology of exposing it to the light and expressing disgust only at the thought of languishing in guilt about it. Nevertheless, she did say that “I went too far;” and I would swear that she put a curse on me, in which every so often everything that I could ever want would be put before me and then whisked away to sadistically deprive me of it.
A few more events underscore the context of North Hampton and Smith College of lesbians. It wasn’t just x-first lady Barbara Bush’s college, nor even just that of H.M. Parshley, translator of de Beauvoir’s ‘The Second Sex” into English. It was al ma mater to Gloria Steinem, one of the leading figures of second wave feminism, and she’d be there to talk; though I didn’t see her talk, I did see then head of “NOW”, Patricia Ireland debate a Christian minister at Smith. It was a bit sad in retrospect to note that a few nice Christian girls who came along as his parishioners, showed interest in me; but I could not yoke myself with that nonsense. Of course he made himself look silly by denouncing ‘witches’ and when I couldn’t help but laugh, Patricia Ireland smiled, thinking that she had a sensitive male on her side. Then for some reason she mentioned interracial couplings and cheerfully looked for my approval, only to immediately display marked disappointment as she saw me shaking my head, “no.”
Patricia Ireland would just a few years later write a book titled, ‘What a Woman Wants.” This, in turn, was already anticipated by me through the the saturation of this expression, such that I would begin the anti-feminist screenplay that I was conjuring with about five minutes of “what a woman wants, what a woman wants, what a woman wants and what a woman wants” over and over again… to make the point, of this society that I’d experienced for over three decades then, that is all you ever hear and that seems to be the only concern other than the interests of blacks.
With Tony, my other half Jewish /half Anglo roommate, I went to the nearby lesbian bar. One girl, apparently from England, thought that I’d be empathetic when she called English men “pigs” and “racists.” When I responded that “it is England” she freaked out and brought over this little lesbian who was saying that she did like some men, but tall ones, not short ones like me. I am 5-9, neither tall nor short, the average height of men in the world and taller than more than 90% of women in America. And yet indeed, to American women I was “short.” I used to read classified ads, and women looking for men invariably specified 5-10+. You’d always see them with taller guys too. It was daunting. They were getting the interpersonal confirmation and the affection. Tony came to my defense, ridiculing the girl who was half my size. But then Tony, who’s mother was a lesbian and father a Jew with afro-hair, would stupidly accuse me of wanting to go there for the sexual allure of it. In truth it was an ethnographic matter. I’ve never found lesbians sexually exciting in their act, other than the fact that I can see two different woman that I might like. Anyway, even at the time, I held that affection was almost a need, and outside of monogamy and masturbation, lesbianism is preferable to heterosexual promiscuity, especially interracial. However, I do not extend the same understanding to men – sorry Millennial Woes – there are some things that a man does not do.
Speaking of which, there were a few sightings of ‘Miss-Egenators’ in North Hampton that stood out for me. There was a handsome bar not too far from Smith College of lesbians. Walking in before me was a short little nothing Negro with a dapper hat and cute brunette on his arm, who smiled by his confidence as he looked at the door and said, with Ebonic accent, “ah choose this!”
Always so at home in the world and feeling so entitled I’ve found the Negroes. Simply his prerogative. If he chooses to have a woman who could be my wife or daughter, there is no question or doubt. Try counter assertion and experience the rubber hitting the road in their hyper-assertiveness. I didn’t try it this case, because my situation was becoming legally delicate. However, the next time that I walked into that place…
The next time that I went into that place, I sat at the bar some distance from two blondes, one of whom I would never even consider approaching, assuming that I’d have no chance. She seemed a bit on the athletic side by the sneakers that she wore, but everything that she wore was new and nothing vulgar. Ah nice to see, one for our side. But every time it seemed, every fucking time: in walks this Negro right into their delighted greeting to claim the alpha blonde. of course they did not even notice me fuming, but the only other customer at the bar, the Jewish (you could just tell) sportscaster who was on the area news every night, was worried by my indignation. But you know, the woman did wear a baseball cap. This is apparently something liberals suggest for Miss-Egenators to do, “wear a ball cap, you’ll ingratiate yourself to enough jocks, distracting hem and diverting them to their objective concern for sporting excellence and unbiased concern beyond the merit of who helps your (mercenary, surrogate) team to win.”
Since I lived in Amherst, most of my engagement with Miss-Egenators happed there. “The Pub” was the main college bar in town and I was sure to run into them there. “How did you know?”, Tony asked, when I said, “and she has a black boyfriend,” referring to the cool looking half Sicilian / half Puerto Rican girl that was a friend of his girlfriend. As heated arguments would ensue, “what does it matter what you want?” he angrily conceded that “ok, it is kind of that way!” – White women being inclined to be nigger lovers. As if I should be placated by his admitting this.
The Pub would be attended by some ‘What The Fuck is she doing with that nigger?’ types. Another standard blond Miss-Egenator with the ball cap strategy. The cute Italian or Jewish one that I berated along the path by the U. Mass reflecting pond as she walked along with her monkey boyfriend, was there. And in a comical irony, I saw a Miss-Egenator from behind, sitting with a Negro and I yelled at her. I guess it was an “all look the same” moment regarding the Negro. But when the White girl turned around I saw that it was the same girl who’d contacted the police to get me thrown off campus. Now, I’m bold and assertive enough but not so crazy as to continue to provoke a girl who’d already set the police on me. Not with such fervor, and especially not for the kind of mediocrity that she was. However, fortified with Power Master malt liquor I’d go to The Pub to antagonize Miss-Egenators anew. It was a kind of rough sport with me and when it came to The Pub, it would culminate in one of the most marked episodes of my activism at Amherst.
After a morning with my coffee, I revved up with the radio, hearing some Alice in Chains unbeknownst – I don’t think that I even knew who they were, just found the hard music resonating with my soul, so to speak’ and I’d follow that, if scheduling permitted with blissful time by a stream in a wooded area of North Amherst with some Power Master malt liquor. By evening I’d make my way into Amherst center; typically first to some small bar near The Pub, it had a pool table and a juke box with some good music. I liked to play U-2’s “In God’s County.” No need to tell me about Bono’s politics, please, most all musicians and artists are idiots who know nothing. A blond girl, lets call her a 6 or 7, apparently recognized me from my street activism, antics as it were. She said to me, repeating three or four times in succession, “I’m fucking sorry, ok? I’m fucking sorry, ok?” As if this this vulgar and aggressively dismissive “apology” was anything but futile and apt to make more angry.
I emerged from that bar and there was the Negro boyfriend of the one who got me thrown off campus, straining with Ebonic pronunciation that didn’t seem didn’t seem like his natural dialect, “why you comin’ after ma woman!” He had to know that he was not exactly a scary figure of himself, diminutive as he was. But suddenly three White jocks ran over to me, enlisted PC enforcers. The grabbed and tore my shirt and began punching my face; it didn’t hurt, but again, with the police connection and potential legalities, I scurried back into the bar and then through its back door rather than giving them time in the event to impose their meaning. I was waiting to make a statement to a bigger, fresher audience at The Pub a few days later.
Although I did see a few mudsharks that I’d known from around, such as the aforementioned Italian or Jewish one, there were others to pick on here. At dinner time, a very dignified brunette woman, respectable, glasses, that sort, dined with a mildly petulant look on her face, defying anyone to perturb taking for granted the appropriateness of her nigger husband. By evening, there’d be more, such as another blonde, using the “I’m just sportingly neutral” pretext, i.e., wearing a baseball cap. Standing by the dance floor before I began my agitation in earnest, a pretty young brunette, maybe not even college age, was giving me these signals like “oh shucks, we like you too”, when I signaled that I was not ok with her mudshark friends. I too, can have a White woman if I cuck enough (as they say nowadays) ….and let the miscegenators make their selections first, I guess. No deal.
I began to see consternation on the dance floor. I can’t imagine why, maybe it was because I was scratching my ribs histrionically, as a monkey would. One silly looking black with a pretty White girl in tow, was particularly aggrieved, a “c’mone man, daggone” look on his face, wincing in pain as I agreed with him that nigger women are ugly, White women far preferable.
As I increased my volume, suddenly I realized that I was literally picked up off the ground from behind by the giant black bouncer, carried out of the front door and to the side of the building
The whole place was in something of an uproar, inside and out. The giant Negro bouncer asked me what I said, and I told him, ” I said that nigger women are ugly!” Him, “what?” I repeated and he punched me in the nose. It didn’t hurt and I told him that’s assault and it’s illegal (I think that I said it’s a “felony”, which it probably is not, but illegal, nevertheless). Then some other nigger came along with a smile on his face, what did you say? I said fuck you, nigger, or something like that and he punched me in the nose. It didn’t hurt but I told him also that it was illegal; then as a crowd gathered they tried to restrain me and I told them to fuck off, I just want to go home now; wresting myself free, I made my way through the hubbub of parking lot toward the street.
I’m yelling “nigger women are ugly!, nobody wants your goddamn women!” just so everybody in the area can hear the message. Then a mixed group of blacks and White workers from The Pub grabbed me and tried to detain me; which I (correctly) found outrageous. I mustered my Power Master super strength – lol – and pushed the whole bunch of them away; they barely kept their balance. They regrouped and grabbed me again saying that they were calling the police. I said, “call the police, I didn’t hit anybody, I was hit, that’s illegal. Then the same Negro pubgoer from before, with the smile on his face punched me in the nose again. Again it did not hurt and I told him that was illegal. Then suddenly, wham! I was slammed to the ground. It was stunning to hit pavement like that, never had before. On my stomach the cops handcuffed my hands behind my back and put me into the back of a police car. They had a brief discussion with The Pub staff then made a radio call in to the police station to take me in.
The police station is not far away; it’s right across the street from Emily Dickenson’s house. Now I was a bullfrog on a lily pad, as they took my wallet and any personal items, removed my shoes and stood me in a stark interrogation area. I was a little embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing mismatching socks, one white, one black, but it didn’t stop that me from yelling at my interrogator. The young White cop was visibly nervous as I berated him. Why am I the one being taken in when I was hit, when I didn’t hit anybody. He nervously said, “welcome to Amherst.” At that point, a woman cop came into the room and told me to back off, that I was there to answer questions, not ask them. So I gave my account of events and then was taken to a jail cell.
This was clearly a classic ‘cooler’ cell, designed to maximize isolation and discomfort for a night to make you think about perhaps never wanting to be locked up again. There was a small window with bars on it at the top of the iron door. There was a metal toilet and a camera high up on the ceiling that could see everything. Besides that, everything was concrete, including “the bed.” No blanket and not much chance of getting any sleep on that. It was cold and ooh, I was going crazy at the thought of all. Being locked up like that was horrible. If it was meant to make me a bit more cautious so that I was never locked up again, it worked.
Then in the morning I was let out and escorted to the front desk, where a police officer behind plexiglass told me of my charges – “disorderly person” – produced the paper work designating when a court appearance was set in North Hampton; and levied an $80 cost against me; which luckily I could cover with the $90 that I happened to have in the wallet which they returned to me. I yelled some things as I walked out, a futile gesture, but having my agency again after a night of utter constraint, I guess that I wanted to rev up the engines a bit.
I was to appear in the North Hampton Court, which stood beside a statue of Calvin Coolidge, former President and former Mayor of North Hampton. Ironic that such a prudish historical figure would be an icon of lesbian town. When my court date came, the lawyers and judge were apparently disappointed that I adopted a meek demeanor as they were probably expecting and hoping for a firebrand, willing to defiantly inject some testosterone against the world of PC, she-boons and liberal imposers of the dindu, while white knighting for White women. The lawyer who gave me a preliminary interview before I was to appear before the judge, was a beautiful young blond. She gave me a smile as if to kind of approve of my antics and to say, don’t you see how beautiful I am? But I could not show inspiration that was not in me; and just looked at her deadpan. She was disappointed, but I could not be placated by any woman who was invested in the American system. What did she want from me? Gladiator entertainment? Was she going to make the niggers go back to Africa? No, so her being a beautiful woman lawyer only invested her further into this Mulatto pustule of a nation and she wasn’t going to lure me into it. The judge was dignified blond woman who looked at me with a smile on her face. I got the impression that the lawyer I had used for the Aiello assault charge had spoken to her; and the judge thus understood my Pub incident as an activist event backed by some surprisingly well informed consideration.
I must say that I don’t blame her for being disappointed in me for wimping-out, meekly answering, “no objections, not statements, your honor.” But again, I was neither in any position nor with any inspiration to be a hero to these women. I just wanted to get out of the situation as lightly as possible. The court was arrayed by lawyers, almost all of them women. When they heard that I had a degree from Tufts, that seemed to help. I had a future to strive for. So, I just had to cover the few hundred dollars court fees and the judge assigned a six week alcohol counseling class; with some guys who were kind of surprised to see me – I wasn’t the kind of company they were used to seeing that side of the law.
During this time, I was continuing with my Al-Anon, Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings throughout the area. One was headed by a sublime brunette Anglo-creature. I’m afraid that I accidently chased her away from the meeting as I made her uncomfortable, catching myself a bit too late as I would stare at her almost involuntarily. This was the North Amherst meeting where I met Kim, and I met another guy, pre-med student who was cool too. He invited me to a party. His girlfriend was, well, a bit on the wrong side of plain. I’m thankful for guys who’ll take this kind of woman, don’t want them to suffer and be discarded but, then, neither did I want his girlfriend’s sister to be discarded; a subtle beauty, I would find. Where are you from? I asked her. She answered “Pelham.” I didn’t push it, because I’ve always felt reluctant to pursue the trophy women of another man’s culture, especially when my pre-med student friend was settling for her sister who was, well, not a trophy.
I moved back to a conversation with my pre-med student friend and some guy he was talking to, just so happens, talking about the girlfriend’s sister that I so gingerly and respectfully backed off from pursuing. The other guy talked about another party they’d been to, where “she was slow dancing with Henry” he remarked with delighted humor, “she wants black cock!” I said that “I don’t like that.” The pre med student said, “oh, keep coming back” as in the Al-Anon motto, “keep coming back”, assessing a problem in me, needing to accept the (social) things that I ‘could not change.” Not that I would stop going to Al-Anon meetings, but I knew better than to merely accept these things, could not – it would eat me up inside, but would not given that I knew that there was recourse to social change and justice for our side. Nevertheless, I’m seeing a pattern of White guys taking plain White women (of course, not going with black women) while letting the most interesting and qualitatively differentiated women go to blacks. I’m increasingly aware that this situation is hopeless. I’d have to set up a base of operations in another country if I was to have a sufficiently unobstructed path of social justice activism for our people.
Even so, I was sill well situated there to prepare any kind of move, whether to another university town in the the U.S. in pursuit of my lingering hopes or maybe I could somehow latch onto a university in Europe. And speaking of Pelham, I took a job in an apple cider mill there, in part for the challenge of getting into my best shape; as I’d have to ride my 10-speed bike there and back, from Amherst, up mountains, then work the strenuous job of boxing gallon cider jugs into boxes on a fast assembly line. I learned that the Anglo guy and the Mennonite guy who worked there, were not only bigger than I was, but stronger. I had to apply some technique in order to manage it, but did; and could have been hired more permanently if I wanted. As indicated before, even this rural town of Pelham was not immune, and as I walked my bike up a hill I could see an interracial couple coming in a car, and I removed my overshirt on time for them to see my t-shit saying, ‘we have consensus, black women are ugly!” The White women, wholesome looking type with short hair, gave me a look like, “you don’t bother me.” I sneered at her, having no illusions that she cared about other people.
Anyway, I got into the best shape of my life, below my optimal, which is 157.5, below my high school weight, which is 155; down to 149 – a bit too thin. At some cafe in Amherst, a black Muslim guy said to me, “I don’t mean to be insulting, but do you need a sandwich?”
I had some displays of interest from women, a few who were looking at rooms in my house, one was cute and if I had to do it over again, I would have surprised her with a kiss when she displayed interest. Another, Polish girl, nor so cute was almost too interested, and her sister, who was gorgeous, was disgusted with her. A German girl made a special point of buying some furniture that I was selling off and making known that she liked me. I had dates with Rene, the French incest girl that I mentioned before; and finally, I had a date with a half Jewish/half Anglo girl from NYC. She had a cute face, and I did kisser; but then when I went to put my hand around her waist…. oh my goodness, her breasts were bouncing around down there; poor girl had a sever case of wet socks, sagging turkey tits, whatever you might call them. I might have felt a bit more sorry for her, but she was trying to test me with the Italians are not White, they are on our side, right?”… she went on, “these White guys think that they know how to make pizza, and they put ketchup on a piece of Wonder Bread. Italians aren’t really White though.” I told her yes they are, and one of the best things about Italy is that there are hardly any blacks there. Only saw her one other time, as she drove past me on the street and gave me a disappointed wave.
So that was the picture; not much in the way of appealing reason to stay, not even in America, only the dwindling possibility of latching onto a graduate program somewhere. Still, something more was keeping me there through the Spring of 1995, apparently a bit of fate.
The Grand Trance (that's what I'll call it, anyway).
I haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact date, but from incidental reference points, it must have been well into June or July 1995. Superman actor Christopher Reeve was paralyzed after falling off his horse on May 27th and that was not very recent news, probably a few weeks passed. The song, ‘One of US” (what if god was), by Joan Osborn had been out since February. Alanis Morissette’s album, Jagged Little Pill, was already abounding on airwaves, though officially released 13 July. And while Beth Hart’s album was not released until 1996, I can’t claim to be psychic about her single, “Immortal,” either, as it was already getting radio play in Amherst.
Of serious note, but far enough past to no longer bear a great deal of discussion, was Timothy McVeigh’s bombing of an Oklahoma City Federal building, killing 168, including 19 children on 19 April. The last of “the Unabomber” victims had been killed on 24 April, though the Unabomber had not yet been identified as Ted Kaczynski. The O.J. Simpson trial had been ongoing, and by 15 June he had tried on the gloves, which didn’t quite fit, facilitating his black lawyer (Cochran)’s ebonic rhyme to the predominantly black female jury, “if the gloves don’t fit, you must acquit.”
The trance occurred in an Al-Anon, Adult Children of Alcoholics Meeting that I had been to many times, at First Church Amherst.
The church is next to the police station with it’s holding cell, where I’d been guest for an evening.
First, let me make some preliminary remarks as to what is to be learned and some of the things to be cautioned about regarding trance induction. There is the obvious, of course, that ‘the hypnotist, hypnotizers, are trying to induce you to talk and behave as they think you should and induce a self incriminating confession from you where you might be resistant.
Indeed, where one is holding out against popular philosophy as I was, quite reasonably critical of where it was going, in search of yet to be sufficiently articulated better premises, it is advisable to try to be cautious, not to talk too much, since the primordial, ambiguous state exacerbates any unmoored unpreparedness. In an attempt to show off profundity as the medium of this paranormal experience, in order to increase authority, one is as liable to pipe up with childhood cartoons and effect puerile stupidity, to be embarrassingly trite, in order to not be punished for being too, too serious. One can fall into whatever arbitrary buried memory rather than the profundities that one feels compelled to produce in this paranormal state …and seeking relief from this state of thrownness, the anxiety of feeling like one must prove one’s innocence in this ambiguous state when unprepared, one may grapple for relief, bearing, warrant of some social utility; thus “testify against oneself”, as it were; and then feeling exposed and vulnerable in this primordial state, judged and reacting like a cornered animal, one lashes out with all chthonic cruelty to those around who might pass judgment; and then again, to not be punished to harshly for that, revert again to “confessions.”
Tortured in ambiguity, you react into participation of whatever culpability you might be pinned-to, blackmailable, so you can’t object with as strong a warrant, if any, against their own culpability.
These 12-step kinds of meetings were probably given a boost in popularity by the “Bradshaw on The Family” series that was airing on PBS. He recommended the 12 step program and it got me to participate whereas my sister’s screeching – “why don’t you go to Al-Anon or Al-Ateen” – many years ago only increased resistance, as if I was the one to blame. But I’d been participating in these meetings in New Jersey, as I’d said, starting around 1990 and only increased attendance when coming to Amherst.
The particular meeting where the trance event occurred was an Al-Anon, Adult Children of Alcoholics meeting that I’d been to many times; and quite regularly by this point, probably mid to late July of 1995. It was conducted one or two evenings a week in The First Church of Amherst. It tended to be among the most attended meetings in the area, typically drawing more than twenty people. On this occasion, however, there were more people than usual, probably around thirty; a few people that I’d never seen at any meeting at all, and a few that I’d seen at other meetings in the area, but were surprisingly present at this one, on this particular evening; creating an unusual array of people, which would be apparently meaningful to myself, certainly to some extent.
This episode, as with the entire post, but even more so, must bear ongoing revision as I manage to recall things. As it is apparently the nature of the trance phenomenon, and certainly as I’ve experienced it, to cause suppression of memory – the ego is protecting itself, perhaps the trance inducer has some part in blocking out awareness for a time – to a remarkable extent: As with the classroom episode, only much worse, I could engage in the most stigmatic behavior and speech acts in the trance episode and then see the same people a week later, oblivious to the fact that there might be a problem or that I might be embarrassed about something.
I was always on edge in those days, and particularly for an audience such as this peculiar Al-Anon group – an array of the usual Anglo, Germanic and Irish sorts, with a few Jews, of course, but adding Jenna, a beautiful girl of French extraction whom I had a crush on, whom I’d seen at the North Hampton meetings, but never this one, and the Iranian woman that I told you about from the feminist brown bag lunch, wearing her turban and plain white toga, adding to a semi U.N. atmosphere of intercultural negotiations – so I was keen to be a bit provocative, pushing back where I heard others saying “Politically Correct” things and pushing the politically incorrect envelope of my own accord, also a bit beyond parameters of Al-Anon appropriateness.
I was probably triggered by this big (well more than six foot tall) doofy White woman, who made some remark about being worried for people in interracial couples. So when it came my turn to talk, I used an oblique strategy that I’d used at Al-Anon meetings before, saying that I didn’t appreciate people bringing their politically correct politics into Al-Anon meetings; that “it is particularly disconcerting for some of us, here for our difficult circumstances by definition of the program, seeking recourse from indifference to us at large, especially compared to the endless, overcompensating grievance mongering on behalf of these people that seem to be the only thing that women care about and that nobody can criticize” – yes, this kind of censorship, prohibiting criticism of blacks was in effect already in 1995 – and then I let it out, pushed the envelope further, saying, “I promise that I’d never refer to blacks as ‘niggers’, or be critical of them.”
Silence.
Then a guy on the other side of the room, so not in turn (you’re supposed to talk after the person in the chair next to you has finished), remarked in scolding tone, that my comments didn’t seem appropriate for an Al-Anon meeting. Making his authority known as an attorney, this man with short blond hair, not yet gray though he entered middle age, added, “I’m not sure if it was illegal.”
It wasn’t deliberate, but with the stress and frustration, I farted – loud – as if by response to say, ‘oh, shut up, enough already!’
The room erupted in laughter and then just as suddenly this woozy feeling overcame me and apparently everyone else, as we slipped into a communal trance.
Somehow immediately understanding that I was the medium and impromptu master of ceremony, so to speak, I relaxedly and confidently pulled one of my feet to my chair, knee up, arm resting on it, in a kind of scouting perch. I made a teasing sequence of sounds, ‘oueeeoueeoueeou”, something like that to relate empathic understanding of the woozy altered trance state that everyone was in; and establish myself as trance leader/medium at once.
In this moment, a girl from the other side of the room, long dark hair, nerdy, skinny but not of graceful form, turned her face slowly toward me, signaling that I had hers and everyone’s attention; that we were free to get underway for something interesting. I would tag this girl for the duration with the name and song, “rag doll,” for her pathetic shyness and lack of robust form. Also, I suppose that care for such a wallflower belonged to the more traditionally sensitive, socially conservative times of the 1950’s.
Noting the requirements of this sort of person played into a message that I struggled to convey then as now, which is the proper understanding of post modernity as means to negotiate traditional and inherited forms and modernity, to help people past the downsides of tradition, it’s brute ethnocentric particularity and modernity’s impervious, universal roughshod over ways of life, including our inherited forms as European peoples.
I’m not sure if it was exactly then, but maybe, as I would sing the tune “Wonderwall” by Oasis several times throughout the trance, as sort of my theme song for the trance, and this was truly paranormal, as the song had not come out yet.
I then repeated the lines from the initial trance, “your father is a nigger”…”you have a nigger nose” reflecting the dull wisdom of a continental European peasant, come to deliver a message that more respect for continental Europeans is necessary to correct the hubris of north west Europeans with ecological buffering against African biopower, not to be underestimated as their 150-250,00 years of pre-evolution to European differentiation gives them something of a biological hegemony.
I then said “Niggers and Jews”, most everybody laughed, except for the Jews, as I’d put my finger on the problem – and I was not versed or at all inclined to designate the Jews as problem at this point, that was a taboo beyond what I might consciously traverse at that point.
I then noticed an attractive Jewish woman to my left, short black hair with a sarcastic smile of recognition on her face, as George C. Scott might wear when saying, “I’m afraid its you who does not understand.”
I then broke down crying, saying, “Auschwitz!”
I then broke down in tears again, “Ann Frank.”
The Jewish woman affected a reverent sigh.
I then probably yelled something like, “what the fuck is wrong with you krauts!” I felt then as now that more blame should be placed on the German leadership which instigated the wars, as opposed to blaming the White race in entirety; while I am less interested than ever in laying guilt trips on Germans, I do not need guilt trips either, especially for things like slavery and Nazim which not even my forebears had anything to do with.
I then went into this protracted bit about how I was in love with the Jew broad, how I wanted to fuck her, get her pregnant, that she could name our daughter “Rachel.”
I don’t know how I knew, but somehow I knew that she’d been incested and I told her that I don’t care that she sucked her father off, now she sucks me off.
“God grant us incest, I cried.” …going over a verbal reenactment of her going to her father’s room, “where she sucks.” ..Sandy, another Jewish woman sitting to my left cried when I said that.
I then went on vehemently about how I loved this Jewish woman, I love this Jewish woman so much! and then suddenly let out another huge, loud fart, rendering my avowals an immediate travesty; the whole room burst into laughter; even the Jewish woman, who had that same smile of wry indignation on her face, “you, you”…not able to find some word for “rogue”to apply to me for her laughter. Sandy, the other Jewish woman turned to me with a look like ‘what are you, some kind of wise guy?’
I then said, but seriously, sex and its means of confirmation and adjudication of what kind of people come into the world is as important as anything to an individual’s life and its decision should not be taken from a person before they are mature enough to render it of their own well informed deliberation. I think rapists are committing as egregious an act as any and that child molesters in particular should be killed, like these infamous child molesters, backward people from Greenfield.
At this point, the Jewish woman, who always lent a feeling of dignity to this meeting with her classic, if unspectacular prettiness, quiet demeanor and hands minding her own business, knitting away, she looked up and over to Bill the handsome Anglo Saxon man on the other side of the room and he groaned in pain. He had apparently incested his daughter.
Having mercy, I thought to balance off my harsh judgment, putting it into relative context with more rigorous honesty. I explained that the people that I really hated most were nigger loving White women. I went on about how I’d been about antagonizing them throughout the area; I described the incident of the one cute brunette that I saw at a convenience store in North Amherst with a nigger, who came after me with a knife when I verbally berated them. I then added that god is the violent destruction of nigger loving White women, the ripping out of their vaginas, the cutting off of their heads and the celebrative grinding of their mulatto babies into dog food. Bill cried out in abject pain again. His girlfriend, pretty lady with strong features and straight brown hair, winced at me to cool it. I immediately understood that the girl I was talking about was Bill’s daughter. Bill groaned in pain as I recoiled in amazement at the coincidence and described her to corroborate the fact. She looked at me again as to say please be careful.
It’s hard to say this came exactly next, as the episode would go on – and on – and I was like addressing various people from around the room, but I did make an issue of Bill’s girlfriend, I should say woman, as she was an adult, with kids, like Bill did from a previous marriage. I went on about how the reason why she was prettier than the typical woman around was because she was part Polish. I would, of course, be defensive of the Poles and Italians as underrepresented and ecologically necessary for the continent’s buffering qualities.
As the trance would go on for hours, I could not detail everything if I wanted to, but I don’t want to. There are certain things that I’d prefer to forget – like foolishly trying to sing songs that I did not know the words of, people having to hear that along with my utterly retarded childishness in regressive moments and way that I viciously abused people. Perhaps the most regrettable moments were those in which I voiced capitulation to my enemies position, encouragement to them and the trance inducers, condemnation of my self and what I was doing; fortunately this didn’t happen much and I had enough awareness to push back against it with the extent of authentic self that I’d managed to put together a that point in my life, as it could withstand the primordial ambiguity of the trance and fundamental antagonism therein.
I was particularly hard on the Germans for the war and for the idea that their women are big and ugly. With an ad hoc theory that that’s what made them so hostile. They’re jealous. Now, I hate to say that because I do not want to lay guilt trips on subsequent generations; and furthermore, I realize far more now than I knew then that the Germans are like any nation, including the Poles, having both beauties and uglies. But at the time it was novel to be able to vent my spleen, and indeed there was a disproportionate number of Germans and Irish, often mixed – it seems everybody is half German and Irish; so tiresome – as such and a concept of American beauty that went along with it, the blond with the standard features, small nose and big boobs; and well, I was tired of even the beauties, when I preferred skinny women with dark hair, prominent noses.
Ironically, the woman I was most sexually attracted to in the meeting was a mature woman, half Irish/half German, named Irene, I think. She would figure prominently as the trance went on. Another woman of German extraction sat three or four chairs to my right; her sadness (her marriage didn’t work out) made it almost hard to register her beauty; but she did have a pretty, dignified face, glasses and a great ass. I was glad to lift her out of her depression for a moment as the topic of licking ass drifted along and she laughed uproariously; laughed even harder when I said that I would not mind licking her ass. But when the topic came up, she let it be known that she did not like blacks and would like to suck my dick. This made Bill’s girlfriend happy, obviously wanting me to understand that there were women on my side.
Another girl of German extraction was even more keen to make it known that not only was she on my side politically, and empathetic to me, also having a very difficult alcoholic mother, but that she plainly fancied me. So this is really sad for me, the kind of thing that I’d prefer not to remember. I abused her for not being my type. She was, lets say, a somewhat more feminine version of the tennis player Martina Navratilova – i.e., sort of Asiatiatic eyes. I do hate being told what women I must find attractive, and it was an ordeal overcoming my mother and sister’s hatred surrounding the issue of feminine beauty and preferences as such; with that I explained that I have a type of woman that I like, that I believe that it is not superficial but genetically semiotic of a type that will contend with the kind of boldness and dynamics of African features that can be too alluring – nature abhorring a vacuum and all – compared to the plain North West European Americans. Along with invoking “not my type” as the kindest form of rejection (you aren’t calling the person ugly), I added that I deployed an important, though popular quantitative conceptual tool to overcome a horribly neurotic intentional oscillation when it came to women, to find my ownmost innocence in approaching them: that I was willing to take my equal on scales of 1-10 in physical, emotional, and intellectual evaluation.
Innocent though that may be, I lambasted this poor girl in the very moments that she showed that she liked me and wanted to support me, calling her “ass eyes” and such. I accused her of liking bad men – and I hate women who like bad men – like Tommy Fortunato. And if I was superficial in liking women too pretty, then women could stand some correction in their penchant for tall men. she might consider a man 5-9 or under. I told her that would see her one day (in the aforementioned sports bar of North Hampton) happily with a short but handsome man; and then another day, we would cross paths across the street and she would give me a big, “I’m done with you” gesture with her arms to show that she was no longer looking to be abused by a bad boy. It’s premature to discuss, but this seems to have been one of the effects of the trances. The people that I abused would seem to come out a better, more essential and confident version of themselves. I would see some of them around with funny looks on their faces – “It’s a Wonderful Life” kind of thing. More on that later.
There was another girl of German extraction that I abused for the history and her physicality – she was a Smith student and not ugly, not pretty either, a “5”, a bit too sturdy and not helped by her unbecomingly short hair. She would try to talk to me more than anybody else in the trance, both in sympathy and pushing back PC. That’s probably why I abused her so terribly. She would figure prominently in the trance and in its resolution non-condemnatory of me.
I had similar reservations about English women, but was reluctant to take on their women and culture as they were the power of America to which I wanted to ingratiate myself. Nevertheless, AI would yield to this, calling their women plain and angrily calling Bill a stupid W.A.S.P. who expected all people to participate in the guilt trips of self destruction for the hubris of slavery. I was really obnoxious about this, to the point where he would wave me off disapprovingly despite the fact that I was master of ceremonies. However, I was able to save it by saying, in truth, that I like English people and I love the culture, but I don’t like the self destruction their philosophy has entailed as embedded in American politics. Bill and his woman were satisfied.
Nevertheless, on my high horse about Polish women (and really, the Poles do merit some vindication having been the brunt of stupid people jokes and Nazi propaganda footage of them on horseback going up against Nazi tanks shown over and over again on American TV as “the beginning of WWII”), I fell off, so to speak, into deeper trance and some of the most distinctly clairvoyant – if that’s the word – ability to see and articulate to some extent, things that would happen in the future.
"Podgrzybek"
I slowly let out the Polish word, “podgrzybek.”
Now, I never spoke any Polish. Neither did my mother or anybody that we circulated around. My mother taught me exactly one word of Polish and it was not “podgrzybek.”
Indeed, I would add a few more Polish words and phrases as I saw myself being shown what mushrooms to pick by my cousin Ryzard (whom I had no idea existed) in the woods outside of Pila, Poland (which I never even considered visiting). But there I was seeing myself as my cousin Ryzard spotted mushrooms, identifying them for me by name, “borowik” the favorite but tending to be snapped up quickly by other mushroom pickers; and then, among serviceably edible other kinds, he pointed out “maslak” and “podgrybek”, picking them with a knife like this –
After that, I began humming a tune that seemed to be calling me. It was a beautiful tune but the lyrics would escape me as they were in Polish; this too was a song yet to come out and not at all in America; it was a more slight clairvoyance but if I could have understood the lyrics, I would have realized that they were quite meaningful to the circumstance, speaking optimistically and agentively against negative implications of fate disclosed in trance.
Wszystko Się Może Zdarzyć
Anita Lipnicka
This is not a dream
To nie jest sen
Things are really happening
Rzeczy naprawdę dzieją się
You are standing or running, they touch you
Stoisz czy biegniesz dotykają cię
Every moment
Z każdą chwiląYou can carve them with your fingers
Możesz rzeźbić je palcami
You can change them with words
Możesz zmieniać je słowami
Fate is silver at your feet
Los srebrzy się u twoich stóp
You reign over him
Królujesz mu
Je, ii, je
Je, ii, je
Anything can happen
Wszystko się może zdarzyć
When your head is full of dreams
Gdy głowa pełna marzeń
Whenever you want something
Gdy tylko czegoś pragniesz,
When you really want to
Gdy bardzo chcesz
Anything can happen
Wszystko może zdarzyć sięAnything can happen
Wszystko się może zdarzyć
When a heart full of faith
Gdy serce pełne wiary
Whenever you want something
Gdy tylko czegoś pragniesz,
When you really want to
Gdy bardzo chcesz
Anything can happen
Wszystko może zdarzyć sięThis is not a dream
To nie jest sen
Things are really happening
Rzeczy naprawdę dzieją się
An army of colors surround you
Armią kolorów otaczają cię
From every side
Z każdej stronyOpen your eyes, spread your hands
Otwórz oczy rozłóż ręce
To collect as much as possible
By nazbierać jak najwięcej
Sign the days with your name
Podpisuj dni imieniem swym
You reign over them
Królujesz im
Je, ii, je
Je, ii, je
Anything can happen
Wszystko się może zdarzyć
When your head is full of dreams
Gdy głowa pełna marzeń
Whenever you want something
Gdy tylko czegoś pragniesz,
When you really want to
Gdy bardzo chcesz
Anything can happen
Wszystko może zdarzyć sięAnything can happen
Wszystko się może zdarzyć
When a heart full of faith
Gdy serce pełne wiary
Whenever you want something
Gdy tylko czegoś pragniesz,
When you really want to
Gdy bardzo chcesz
Anything can happen
Wszystko może zdarzyć sięSource: LyricFind
Anyway, I would hum that sporadically throughout the trance, and after introducing it, saw a vision of Polish women on the train near Gdansk. I repeated as a question, a suggestion from the initial trance induction, “Polish women are the most beautiful women in the world?” Now, I would not make that claim, but for the place and time that I was seeing, a year and a few months into the future, it could be argued. I then expressed astonishment and delight that the cities and apparently the nation was White. A White city?!? – unimaginable for an American at that time.
I then asked in all innocence, “are there niggers there?”
This brought an eruption of laughter from the room; the Navratilova looking girl turned red in embarrassment over my happiness that there might not be any niggers there as I said this unaware that two blacks had been brought in, sat right next to me. A male who I did not know and a female that I was acquainted with through my Jewish/Anglo roommate Tony’s girlfriend. My therapist (((Harold Raush))) was there for a few moments, then left after having apparently brought them and the Jewish woman who lived across the street from Kim and Jim with her nigger husband. This Jewish woman and the two blacks had never been to this meeting before, so there was a preconceived plan going on here.
I then cried out again, “Auschwitz!”
Then cried again, “Magda!” …seeing her and describing her diminutive hands with the help of an e.e. Cummings poem made known to the public by a recent Woody Allen movie, “not even the rain has hands so small.”
I would then tell a little story about how, in my last life, I was a Polish intellectual shot at Auschwitz because I remained loyal to Magda, my girlfriend; and I was not quite able to understand why they would have such a problem with us, as she was only one quarter Jewish.
Now, in truth, I have no idea if that story was true. But I was willing to go along with it, if it would somehow exonerate me and allow me to escape this hell. What I can say for sure was true, however, was that I would run into her in Italy the following year, recognize her belatedly and feel compelled by fate to visit her where she lived, in Gdansk, Zaspa Poland, the same place where had lived Lech Walesa, leader of Solidarnosc, the union of Polish nationalist liberators from Soviet control and communism; and at that point already, former President of Poland. I would tell the Al-anon group about this.
"You said something about a house?!"
I would also see Magda in a 1990 trance with Don, the therapist that I sought out to recover from Naomi’s intervention. He laughed as I told him that Magda would say to me in a bossy way, “you said something about a house?!” ..and “you cannot have a drink.” (I was doing the driving, while she played “The The”).
Then I cried out again, “Auschwitz!” “How could you do this (probably adding ‘fucking krauts, or something like that)?” I’d see some parts of the contemporary Auschwitz museum, but its hard to say if they came from television or from when I would visit one day.
I would then ask if there were Jewish people here, who lost relatives in the holocaust. A big and tall woman with dark curly hair on the other side of the room to the left, raised her hand. We knew about the proper knitting incest victim and the one with the nigger husband who’d been brought here; but we didn’t know David, a handsome guy with a stupid demeanor and Boston accent was half Jewish in addition to being half Italian. And we didn’t know that Sandy, an intimidatingly confident and intelligent woman, whom I’d been to many meetings, would explicitly say that she lost her grandparents; neither was she aware yet, that this was not exactly going to turn out to be a pro-Jewish evening.
I pointed to Jenna, the beautiful French girl that I had a crush on, noting the peculiar fact that she was never at this particular meeting, but here she was on this night; and I said that I want to protect her, this particular kind of French beauty. I asked Sandy to show me someone that she would like to protect, and she did. To my recollection, my vision was of a man that I’d meet in Poland; I’d utter some random Polish phrases but this was the last of what I could see of my experience of Poland to come. And my meeting with this guy would have some interesting aspects, not necessarily good, from my point of view. Sandy was a pot smoker and she was invoking a part Jewish, part Polish, part German reggae musician from Pila, Poland, same town as my cousins. Anyway, we’d be getting ahead of the story with details of what would happen when I encountered fate in Poland. That discussion is for later.
I will only jump ahead to say that this Dawid merely verified the pattern, that if you seek to protect your people from blacks and black incursions, that Jews and their inveterate pattern are the opposite of what you want among your people. For example, I was with Dawid when he was talking about a program being offered in Lodz, Poland, to teach Polish to Africans for three months after which time, they would be disbursed throughout Poland. And Dawid was talking like this was good thing. As I said, it’s getting ahead of things, but I’d learn (from other people) that Dawid foresaw meeting me as well. Here and here are clips of Dawid in action.
Nevertheless, for the warrant that she had that side of PC given her Jewishness, confidence, holocausted grandparents etc., Sandy was in position that others were not to lend confirmation to the obvious, that far from its being moral to prevent discrimination against blacks, it was immoral. I’m sure that she’d been pushed to consider the social paradigmatic corrective that I was implicating given the less than grateful blacklash against Jews from the likes of Farrakhan and Leonard Jeffries who had recently spoke at the University for Massachusetts, Amherst.
Thus, when I stood up from my chair and said that we were going to be like packs of wild dogs ready to set upon the large beast that was the nigger, she said, “perfect.”
There is a frightful intermittent sequence of motions that a predator goes through when spotting, stalking and seizing upon its prey. Spiders do this creepy, herky-jerky stop and go then sudden dart and seize thing; and certainly the wild dog predation that I was assimilating does this: first of all, I raised my hands like claws, a quivering fierce grimace came over my mouth, and snout, flashing my sharp teeth, squinting my eyes in riveted focus on the prey. Leg and arm motions are in ultra slow motion toward the target at first, so as not to be detected. Then come to a complete stop to make sure that you’ve not been perceived and can maintain focus on the prey. Repeat this sequence a few times until you are in striking distance. Quietly growling, grimacing in focus, then in an instant darting toward and leaping onto the beast, followed by a torrent of fellow wild dogs leaping on to the giant nigger and ripping it to shreds.
Perfect.
I’ll never forget the look of fear and then horror on the face of Missy as I mimicked the wild dog predation. Missy was a regular at these meetings, a very pretty and dignified north west European type; she liked me and made it known that she hoped that I would take up with her. It might have been a good career move as well, as she was the secretary of Sally Freeman, the lesbian counsellor at U. Mass that I tried to talk to when my professors were away. So Missy, in addition to being a decent person, might have had some perspective to help me into a grad school program. Problem was that she was a divorcee with a child and I deidn’t need the baggage.
Speaking of North Western Europeans and baggage, let me say that you might appreciate my frustration ad the puritanical notions of how we are and how we fight that I would be obstructed with at Majorityrights by the likes of Guessedworker and Bowery. Their mistake, as ever, derives from a Cartesian false either or and false sense of mutual exclusivity; such that, for example, in the event I were to propose deploying a wild dog strategy, red lights will go on for Bowery that this is a sheer mechanistic reaction in response to the non-European style of gang strategy and sets Northern European “Euroman” on a course to lose the crucial distinction of his individuality – of course! We could not do something so cunning as to deploy provisional strategies to win, could we? No, there is only one puritanical trajectory in which Euroman fights, he fights to lose, whether its the honor of Pickett’s charge, the World Wars or on behalf of a maiden in Valhalla. Seriously, some of us non-boomers are confident are confident that we have the agency to deploy provisional strategies and win; then, having secured our borders and bounds, that we have the agency and the humanity to correct for any undue constraints on our individual liberties.
And while they might believe that there is only one way that “Euroman” fights in the honor and integrity of his nature, they might well project that I have a genetic commitment to a singular way of fighting, “the gang way,” which, if not intervened against, will set us on trajectory to lose our distinctly individual European evolution. It “must be intervened against” in the belief that I am not open to other ways and considerations, that I am rigidly bound, like the mechanics that they are.
But I digress.
Coming back to the trance then, there was a profusion of me saying the word “nigger” – “nigger”, “nigger”, “niggers”, “niggers”, “niggers” “fucking nigger!” …I would set the record for number of times having said the word rather than anyone try to persuade me not use it or suggest that I might compromise, acquiesce to live and integrate with these people – niggers!
As with any arbitrary circumstance, but as much so in a trace as any, natural “corrective” balancing is in effect.
So, with the intensity, anger, taboo and stigma of my saying the word, “nigger”, “nigger”, “nigger”, “I don’t like niggers!” would come a playful and somewhat funny turn taking of my calling various White persons in the room, “nigger!”
The dignified Jewish woman, incest victim, with short dark hair seemed to almost have the idea that the was going to play some orchestrating, using her knitting and the needles as such to point toward specific White people – people who were comically not black – to underscore the “playfully good natured and intentioned nature” behind the seriousness of confrontation and intervention, stepping up the seriousness of her knitting/pointing orchestration gesture when it came to handsome Anglo Bill, who’d incested his daughter. In fact, as I’d failed to mention it, one of these gestures was the moment it became known that he’d incested his daughter, with him groaning in exposure; his woman with a worried sick look on her face to say, “please go easy!”
I then go into a thing about incest is not so bad, provided that you don’t have offspring and their birth defects by its means, it could even be an anecdote with its tabood allure to the tabood allure of outbreeding, miscegenation. And lets face it, your daughter voluntarily sucked you off, didn’t she, and liked it, didn’t she? So it’s not so bad. God grant us incest!
With Bill relaxed and happy, I suddenly lash out in loud mockery! pointing at him, crucifying him, ha ha! the fucking child molester thought that he was going to get away with it! You don’t take away the most important choice in someone’s life before they are capable of making such a responsible choice, you just don’t do that! The dignified Jewish incest victim stepped up her skewering motions at Bill with her sewing needles.
She looks around the room anytime thereafter with a cute, frumpy “you should know that gesture” anytime that I invoke the classics, Greek or otherwise, surely as I discuss Aristotle’s description of human nature, its biological nature, requiring optimal not maximal need satisfaction, which becomes toxic, and its envelopment in the social world, which means that we care deeply about relationships, but that interactive complexity and human agency requires the humility of being satisfied with practical judgements at bottom, etc. – though her support would waver where (((Sandy might not waver))) in discussion of how Locke’s technology of individual rights is Cartesian and egregiously ruptures cultural patterns – her gesture of finger wagging pedantic supporter of my lessons resumed through my invocation Kant’s Foundations of The Metaphysics of Morals – it’s “imperative principle” of “good will” treating people as ends in themselves”, answering the question, “can this be good for everyone?
And I then repeated a line suggested to me from the initial trance induction:
You thought that you could fool a Corleone?
Dignified Jewish incest victim slowly turns her face to Bill again, in his abject shame. Quite pleased to be in league with m on her side, or so she thinks.
I then turn my attention to her and say slowly, “and you thought that you could fool a Corleone, didn’t you, Jewish bitch?”
You liked sucking your father’s cock off, didn’t you, Jewish bitch? She put her head down in shame. I began to meet with some consternation from others in the group. It did not deter me. “I like the fact that you sucked your father off and now you are going to suck my cock off, you are going to be the woman who sucks my cock.
She was quiet, her head down. I told her that one day I’d see her again and she would put her head down like this to show her agreement, that she “would be obedient to me” Another line from the initial trance induction.
I then launched an attack on her reticence, bringing the group on it, so to speak, telling her that she would be covered in sperm, squirt, squirt, squirt! She popped her head up as if from out of the bukkake goo. It was a bit funny.
Then I said, but really, incest is no joking matter; and she looked at Bill again with disapproval. I went into a sad story, in quiet, sad tones talking about her entering the bedroom of her father where she sucks. Sandy, cried at this point.
I’m trying to resolve all interaction with the Jewish incest victim, when in fact, it was intermittent over the course of three hours, interspersed with focused interaction on others, and songs, songs, songs, me singing some better than others.
Given the arbitrary state and its roulette of cybernetic corrective, it is likely that my psyche would rebound to comport some dignity for myself and others at this point by my bursting into a pristine rendering of “My Country Tis’ Of Thee” in the operatic manner of the black soprano Marian Anderson – the one brought by Eleanor Roosevelt to sing before the Lincoln memorial to shame the White America. In fact,my world fact, my singing, my rendering was superior.
As I had mentioned, I already had a sense that Jews were a problem to the European peoples that I cared about. And thus, judged by cues from others …oh, did I mention that Kim and Jim were there? They were. Very unusual for Jim to come to a meeting. I knew that Kim’s particular Christian background included reservations about Jewry, that they were “less godly.” I implored her to not be anti-Semitic. Then Bill’s woman looked at me, as if to say, “think again.”
I would then turn to the Jewish incest victim and begin going through the litany of grievances that I had with Jews, starting with my sister’s sarcastic remark that “they’ve already been compensated, they own half the world.” …I went on, mentioning the horrible things that I’d said to my professor before I realized that he was Jewish. On to how I think Christianity is a Jewish trick. Adding that I found the disproportionate representation of Jews at U.Mass. to be suspicious, as they made up 20% of the student body, while being only 4% of the Massachusetts population. I added that I did not think that they were smarter but rather were not yoked by Christianity’s anti-intellectualism, their religion was about their people, as ours should be; to their credit, they have a culture that values education, to their discredit, they are perversely ethnocentric hypocrites who are destroying White people with their control of academia, media and money. Building up to, “they must have done something to provoke that kind of reaction from the Nazis?”
All the while as I am going through that litany of Jewish offensiveness, the Jewish incest victim is angrily now focused on me, steadily increasing the rate and implied violence of her knitting directed at me with a sense of intervention, that I was someone to be stopped when I reached a crescendo with the question that there must have been something that provoked the Nazis, yes, why? why? She perhaps thought that she was going to shame me and muster opposition, but it was only Sandy who showed any disapproval. And she was still enthralled with the farts of my barley dinner that I was letting out endlessly. “It’s dad.” Sandy likes Jim Morrison’s mouth and doesn’t find Mussolini attractive? So what? Sandy has the bulbous Jewish nigger ass – its the Jewish white nigger, white insect eeeew. Kim laughed, knowing what I was talking about. So, I turned to the Jewish incest victim unashamed. Neither me nor my ancestors had anything to do with the fucking holocaust. America did all these things to save you fucking people, German Americans killing German Germans, Italian Americans used as canon fodder, making up 20% of the American infantry, disproportunate causalities. And this is what you do?
You thought that you could fool a Corleone?
As she appeared entirely uncontrite, I then lashed into her with a tirade of vitriol and anti Semitic epithets that was shameful in its vicious cruelty, but I did not want anyone to mistake that I was blind to what was going on. And I would not let up until she was broken to tears, knowing that I was not going to defend her no matter what. The group, markedly Bill’s woman, was nervous. I asked if I had demonstrated that I was not naïve about Jews? Was I too hard on her? Sandy turned to me with skepticism anew regarding my leadership of this event. Bill’s woman winced nervously. Not to be intimidated, I directed another volley of savage anti-Semitic vitriol to the Jewish incest victim, breaking her down – at least for the time – from any illusions that she going to get me to share in her Jewish guilt tripping. I don’t need you and I don’t need niggers either. “We don’t need no niggas around heeea!” I imitated a Brooklyn Italian who said as much to the New York media after Keith Mondello had stabbed the black Jusef Hawkins in his heart.
Taking her down from her high horse of prejudice against prejudice, she was exposed as prejudiced against Puerto Ricans, became distraught with the thought of what they’d done in and about Jews neighborhoods. Then it became apparent that she was very upset by homosexuals, turning her plaintiff attention to a very tall guy with short hair and glasses; whom I would not have known was homosexual until then. I then asked him, “you suck men’s dicks into your mouth? You get fucked in your ass?” She looked at him critically for a moment and then gasped when he offered no denial. Laughs came from the group.
I then sense something else, that she would not like either, Jewish men licking the ultimate, that heavenly blond cunt! She put her head down, crying a loud sigh of despondent jealousy. The lawyer guy who instigated the whole trance to being with, could not hold back a genuine laugh. Enjoying the break for humor, I interjected that black women were the best tasting anyway. A moment of silence and the lawyer guy asked me to repeat, holding back a laugh, and I said, “black women are the best tasting anyway.” He laughed, Jim laughed, while Kim seemed bewildered, not exactly amused.
But it was a joke, I assured. I would never do that and I went down the list of black features that I found repulsive. I added that a black woman without clothes on is like an animal without clothes on. I did not know the animal was supposed to have clothes on to begin with. It’s like so what? Now, a White woman with no clothes on, that’s shocking, that’s special, that’s naked!
I added something that I’ve always felt was profound – that I have never been jealous of anyone who’s had a black woman. I would not let one suck my dick! Sandy said, “perfect.”
It took some doing but eventually the lawyer guy conceded that there was not much happening between White men and black women, but White women seemed to have a real thing for blacks…
Now I’m starting to fall a bit deeper into trance.
I’m wearing a pair of those standard blue pants that workers wear for industrial work, but mine have a conspicuous hole in the crotch area. With a giddy smile on my face, I spread my legs and begin fingering the hole with my middle finger as if I am fingering “my pussy.”
When one is not getting much of anything in the way of support and confirmation in setting down the bearings of one’s interests, personal and relative, and rather in the torrent of the thrownness, experiencing the cybernetic balancing against what you resist, one is prone and liable to betray one’s own interests, in this case, at least gesturally, as it were, and verbally, in the sense of “giving” the “they”, the perceived cruel and indifferent, what they might want to make the persecution, perceived or otherwise, stop.
When one’s principles and the place of one’s intrinsic value is not established and anchored, various scenarios may play out for the sake of orientation and bearing; particularly cases of novelty and high contrast tropism, such as black and white, may be nearly impossible to ignore.
When one has achieved liberation from the arbitrary state of mere facticity and is able to marshal the coherence, agency and unanimity of self interest that hermeneutic sequencing affords – which I shall say in a moment, is decidedly the reverse of the case at times in the arbitrary facticity of the thrownness – one might rather look upon tropic attention to taboo and the scenario of one’s defeat and exposure at having “considered” it, how one might deal with it, prevent it, as a single frame in an ongoing film that can direct into a more favorable ending.
This hermeneutic liberation to agency from the arbitrary to the unanimity of self interest, is particularly important to stave off what may appear to one’s antagonists as revealing guilt, the “justification of their victory” and what I want to call particular attention to, the egregious fixed framing of Freud’s notion of “unconscious wish.”
You payed attention to the tropism of interracial porn put before you. Do you want this? is it a “wish”, or were you seeking a critical angle in how to deal with the trauma to one’s personal and systemic genetic interests?
This hermeneutic reading of systemic concern carries into the momentarily involuntary responses of one’s psyche and biology which, recognized as involuntary, comport a liberation from facticity as well. As in a case where a perpetrator or antagonist might sight a woman having an orgasm in rape as proof that she liked it and wanted it. Or the titillation that the viewer of interracial porn may initially experience as proof of wanting it, an unconscious wish as opposed to a temporary biological, cybernetic backlash to orientation in resistance to the trauma of a highly contrasting tropism, and vast difference to one’s Ethnic Genetic Interests being imposed upon one quite unwelcome.
And it is not just the liberation from the egregious modernist foundationalism of Freud’s notion of unconscious “wish” that White hermeneutics afford; but also a liberation from the even more egregious injunction against the liberating hermeneutic sequencing itself in the Jewish hijackikgn of our moral order at its centerpiece, the sermon on the Mount, where the Jewish god Jesus says to the gentiles, “better to pluck your eye out” – in other words, even if you have sensory perception of its possibility, even if you think of it! you are culpable – it’s fixed in condemnation. Whereas hermeneutics provides the liberation from the facticity and fixed attribution that has gotten into the heads of countless European peoples, guilting them to obsequious self sacrifice for fear of damnation through the Jewish hijacking of our moral order. Which leads me to a place in trance where I started to become more unhinged on an involuntary level, merging with weakness, self incrimination and stigma.
I would have talked some proposing black men as superior to White men, a least in some ways, and how I could understand (or something, don’t remember) White women wanting that big black cock; how they wanted to be fulfilled by the best possible sexual experience. I would sing the “hey Margarita song” as signaling the clear for White women to go ahead; and then told the mature woman Irene, whom I found most sexually alluring of the group, probably because of her combination of beauty and mature dignity, the distance I felt from being able to have such a woman, that I wanted her to have an eight inch black cock, just to placate White women of her kind, to make them stop bitching at White men. Dave, the half Jew half Italian with the Boston accent said, “make it biggah.” I remember her response being a bit neutral but the Jewish incest victim was smiling in humor and revelatory approval. I didn’t like it, was coming to my senses. Then I turned to my left and noticed that the two blacks who’d been brought in were still there. The woman, as I said,, a student from U. Mass whom I knew, pretty as black women go, was delighted by this talk. I became enraged and went into a tirade; first against her and then against the Jew.
As I turned in disapproval and began visiting abuse upon the black girl, the smile came off her face and Irene looked at her with a wry, ‘gotcha, you’re busted, better stop laughing” kind of look. That was the thing about Irene. She was the adult in the room throughout the trance, gracefully dealing with any and all of its events with some sort of overriding understanding such that nothing perturbed her too much – on the contrary.
And I lashed into the colored girl fiercely. I would have said how I did not like her shit colored skin. She would have writhed in pain. Irene, whom I would call “mom” thereafter would concentrate on her punishment. I then let up for a second, feigning mercy, she relaxed as I said that really, nobody should be abused on the basis of immutable characteristics; then I sadistically laid into her again when she was relaxed: “But in act I do not like shit colored skin, bubble butts, fat lips looking like a baboon’s ass, Brillo hair and that ugly, symmetrical nigger nostril nose!” Perhaps because shew as light skinned, fair featured and pretty as black women go, she was stoic, only displaying minor annoyance and indignation at first. But then I repeated, raising the volume significantly, and moved from physical characteristics to behavior, that hyper assertive nigger behavior and I did call her a fucking nigger repeatedly.
I yelled repeatedly, “how many babies are you going to have on welfare that everyone else has to pay for nigger!?!” “We are technoslaves for you aren’t we, you goddamn fucking monkey!” I might have said something about the violence and rape but I did not apprise myself of crime statistics at that point, as it was a dead ringer; preferring instead to focus on “their long pre evolution which had quantified and maxed-out masculinity, creating an aggressive, presumptuous, hyper assertive kind of people; and a kind of woman, if you could call the monkey that, that I would not let suck my dick!” “The monkey has no clothes on, what is special and appealing about that? Who wants black women, nigger? How many babies are you going to have at everyone else’s expense when there are the black men who manage to get it up for your bubble butt? Nigger! Nigger”, raising to full volume, “Nigger!!!!” She stretched out, her face the mask of pain; the black male by her side aggrieved and then urgently worried about her, finally took her out of the meeting.
I then turned my attention to two Jewish women, the incest victim and the one who was never at this meeting, Kim and Jim’s neighbor with the nigger husband. But first, of course, I put the incest victim in my cross hairs, as she’d been laughing as if a revelation during my moment of lapse and acquiescence….”you thought that you could fool a Corleone, fucking Jew?! I’ll make a goddamn lampshade out of you!” I repeat a joke that I would only one day later hear in Poland, “one four year old Jewish girl says to the other four year old Jewish girl, ‘hey, what’s your grandfather doing behind that barbed-wire fence.” …then one everybody’s heard, “what’s the difference between a Jew and a pizza? A pizza doesn’t scream when you put it in the oven.” She’s reacting in mixed embarrassment and revelation, this time revelatory indignation, making motions with her sewing needles as if she is going to skewer me. Noting her resistance, I step of the volume and levy torrents of Jewish epithets and abuse toward her until she gasps and crumples up in tears.
Then I turn my attention to Kim and Jim’s Jewish neighbor, the one married to the black guy, her father in “Who’s Who? of Science”, who’d been sullenly watching this…
I began by baiting her by singing the Whitest kind of music that I could think of off the top of my head, a song that I actually liked but guessed that she would think was effeminate. In high falsetto, I sang the first few verses of The Advent of Panurge –
There coming over Charaton Bridge.Look, do you see the man who is poor. But rich?
What do you wish and where do you go, who are you?
Where are you from, will you tell me your name?
Rest awhile, call me your friend
Please stay with me, I’d like to helpThen he said
How can I speak when I’m dry and my throat is burning?
So bring me aid and I’ll answer your doubts
Friend in need, I’d like your help
Please take me home, I’ll stay with you
With her feeling relaxed and superior, having apparently been brought there as an intervention of my racism in her “moral superiority, strength of reality”, warning to her and to me, I lashed into her something fierce – yelling all kinds of things about her being a Jewish pig with a nigger husband.
As I was pretty intense and serious, while still in my depths not a fan of Hitler, a bit of cybernetic corrective kicked in, with me breaking into a poorly executed, but mercifully brief, comedic Hitler rant, including his sort of gesticulation. I must say it was corny, but Jewish incest victim tried to pretend it was scary and underscore the warning of it. While Kim and Jim’s neighbor was not laughing now and seemed mildly worried.
At this point I would have broken into some harder black music in order to demonstrate, I suppose, that I recignized that kind of masculinity, soul and cool base intelligence in my kind: Sly & The Family Stone – I Want to Take You Higher. Les McCann & Eddie Harris – Compared to What? Jimi Hendrix – Little Miss Lover.
This is a perfect place for an aside about music, this trance being fraught with it as I summoned too many songs to detail. This was an expression of regression not only into an earlier time before I made a deliberate choice if not to break something of a music addiction then to put grooving with music aside to concentrate on practical if not more important tasks. Particularly in these days before the internet, selection of music was the closest readily available means to interact, albeit imaginatively, with maps of emotions through the fast currents of the times.
But as I said, I became almost addicted; could be happy with a cup of coffee and my headphones on listening to my tunes. I had retreated in fear, pain and confusion of what was going on in society. Indeed, I could be quite reasonably ridiculed with the question, “what the hell are you doing with your time, what are you learning?”
Indeed, while there was some rock music which was critical of the abuse that could come to men by way of women, some of it unhelpfully morose while seductively artistic, some of it enormously hostile while quite expressive, the predominance of songs treated women as if a panacea, pitting an eminently stressful competition for them in which no obstacle was too great and they were worth any price.
And as interracial couples were no longer a looming threat but a reality that you would see among middle and working class White women, I made a decision, much as I had with sports, to quit attendance. I reasoned, much as I enjoy, am impressed by Jim Hendrix music, for paramount example in my case, I’d rather have my wife, thank you very much.
Now, when we consider how the interpretive/critical model was being deployed to devastating effect against White men by then, it was not enough to develop the practical working skills to be a technoslave to make the good ship mulatto supremacist more comfortable and run smoother for the miscegenating sluts on board.
I needed something like interpretive/critical method, or whatever academic resource I might to bolster an ideology in defense of White men. The time for passive music listening, at most changing in my head the liberal lyrics of these idiotic musicians was over. It was time for my kind of interpretive/critical voice.
For example, if Aristotle would provide arguments to correct the over valuation of black athletic prowess with the observation that this is not a distinctly human capacity, e.g., horses can run faster, so too there should be profound arguments against the overvaluation of black musical ability. Whether Plato’s notion that music, as other arts, is preparing the mind in an overly emotional way or as in my own observations; extrapolating on the idea that the inborn rhythmic capacity of blacks has veritably addictive properties in the parts of the brain that it effects by its expression; that the struggle for rhythmic gestalt that Whites undergo by contrast, the sublimation, as it were, plays a significant part in the White man’s creativity, including in music.
However, in regard to the withdrawn, daydreamy activity of mine in times prior, listening to music for hours on end, the initial trance inductor gave me a very kind altercasting:
“You are monitoring our cultural patterns.”
I would summon Paul McCartney’s “Someone’s Knocking at the Door“, corny beyond tolerance, absolutely pathetic in its wimpish effeminacy, absolute torture to be heard on the playground as somehow emblematic of Whites amidst blacks who would revel with the Isley Brothers cool masculine vibe in “Fight the Power” and “Who’s that Lady?” Add McCartney songs like “Ebony and Ivory” in naïve display of his hideous divorce from racial reality and Sir Paul should be glad that nobody took a shovel to his head for the humiliating contrast.
I elaborated on the positive side of White man sublimation, noting sublime creations through the little White dick, whether the euphoria of pent up sexual repression of the Trappist Monk released into Chimay Blue Ale or in the grandeur of the medieval churches themselves. At this point, I noticed a young woman with short blond hair and a chicken neck seated to my right was laughing. I started cruelly berating her about her chicken neck. Then as suddenly, I stopped myself and said, ‘this is wrong. Nobody should be abused on the basis of inborn characteristics that the are not responsible for. The air was solemn for just a moment, when I pointed to Lucia, a somewhat mongrel looking woman with a pug nose and said, laughing, “like Lucia, what a dog!” Chicken neck laughed as hard as anybody. I scolded her, noting that it was not something anybody should endure. Then I immediately broke out laughing, pointing to Lucia again, “put a paper bag over her head!” Nobody could resist laughing now. Comedy is, after all, someone else’s tragedy. So as to ease the cruelty and add humaneness, I began singing “one of us” (what if god was just a slob like one of us). Chicken neck appreciated it and it seemed thematically important to the trance, while it was not one of those songs that I was singing prior to its known existence.
The lawyer guy who instigated the trance to begin with took issue with me, saying that he found that kind of chicken neck attractive. I assured him that we could agree to disagree about important matters. I stood up, turned around, pulled my pants up to a wedgie, squeezing my ass cheeks together in some odd muscular formation that made everybody laugh. I said, “you see? I made you laugh and now you believe in the death penalty!” More laughs from all.
Come to think of it, there were a couple of other Jewish women there, seated to my right side; one was on the homely side – 4.5 – with dirty blond hair, laughing at inappropriate times, which got my dander up with her; while the other, Hyatt, comported more dignity in her low voice and mature appearance – 5.5 – both of them liked me a little bit. I said some things to 4.5, calling her ugly, I suppose, but she seemed able to deal with it. Regarding Hyatt, I recalled to her the time at another meeting when she looked worried as I turned attention to a black woman. I scolded her for her wasted jealousy. I would neither let the nigger nor her suck my dick, even if she did have a modicum of attractiveness. This would have been followed by another anti-Jewish tirade, qualified in the end with my hatred of Hitler and the fact that while I saw defense against and separation from Jews as necessary, I did not necessarily see this as a mortal struggle to the death. Perhaps sensing that I had a great Jewish grandfather three times removed (I did not know yet, but guessed that I might have this 3%), I told her that she could show the godfather (me) respect the next time that we saw each other and acknowledge the good times we’d had together in lives before this (it would happen, she’d come up and say that to me after another meeting, weeks later). I probably told her that this would acknowledge that she would like to suck my dick too, feeling randy as I was.
Speaking of special attention, I mentioned to the group how I, as an art student, got to study naked models for protracted spans of time. They would start with short poses of a few minutes, then go into some ten minute poses before finishing with a long pose for the better part of an hour. One of these models decided to provide a special treat for me. She was quite pretty, not usually the case with nude models, but probably mentally a bit off; as she faced me and only me for the long pose, lay on her back and spread her legs wide. This was apparent bliss for her. And I was delighted to draw this for forty-five minutes; a pose, needless to say, which was not standard for an art student to draw.
It was about at this point that I would have disrobed, anticipating approval in inspection from the women there, perhaps a modicum of respect from the men that mine were certainly not the cries of a man who could not have women. It was summer, so I was not wearing much anyway; I stood up, removed my the t-shirt that I was wearing, my pants, underwear, socks and shoes. I loosened my cock a bit so that it did not shrink to its smallest position. I turned around, not sure if my ass would be perfectly to their liking; the short haired German 5 from Smith gave me an ok sign and said, “perfect.” There seemed to be general murmurs of approval over my body from the women.
I put my clothes back on and sat down. This gives you a sense of how deep and mutually understood as a trance this was by the thirty some odd people there. Nobody shrieked, rendered objection, called the police or walked out.
“You like our physicality well enough; we may not be best always, in all moments and episodes, but we create a better way of life and culture for you. It’s not too much to ask of you to sublimate for that.” … I began singing more songs, in this case doing a better job of it because I knew the lyrics a bit better to these tunes and the vocals were in my range. Among the songs that I sang:
A few cuts from David Bowie’s “The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars.
I would have sang cuts from other Bowie albums as well, such as “Word on a Wing“
Various cuts from “Diamond Dogs“
Now, even in this state I was feeling uncomfortable that I was making people listen to me try to get through song after song, even if I when I was doing a better than adequate job of it in some cases, it is not all that special an ability (except my rendition of “my Country Tis of Thee), and it would go on and on. This would wear on the patience of folks eventually, especially when I could not remember lyrics and tried to sing anyway. But nevertheless, nobody left and at this point, I had not overdone the singing yet.
The only thing that I can defend in this regard is that it allowed me to engage in a shared cultural common ground with them and subvert stereotypes that they might have of me – for example that I was of such an alien culture as a half Italian half Polish man that I did not resonate with some of their most loved popular music; or that as a man taking a macho racist stance, that I was obligated to pretend that I did not like the music of an androgynous artist like Bowie, or even by flamers like The Smiths.
I broke into some Jethro Tull songs, Ian Anderson being another vocalist that I could simulate quite perfectly. I would have sung, “Mother Goose” “Wond’ring Aloud” … with which I would start to pay more attention to Jenna, the beautiful French American girl who I had a crush on, who never came to this particular meeting.
I bellowed Cross Eyed Mary, Hymn 43 and My God, wanting all to be sure that they were not getting the come to god, come to Jesus talk of revelation stuff from me that tradition would lead them to expect. I sang various cuts from “Stand Up”, including “A Thousand Mothers”, “A New Day Yesterday” and paying attention to Jenna again with “Reason For Waiting.“
I was falling still deeper into trance and sensing others experienced this too, I asked Dave the half Italian, half Jewish guy to acknowledge that my Bowie and Tull was pretty good. He did acknowledge that; and since I knew him to be a recovering heroin addict, I asked him, “Dave, what’s weirder, a heroin trip or this?” He answered in his Boston accent that this is ‘weeadah.”
Particularly in the ambiguity of this primordial state, I struggled to reconcile my sexual appetite and attraction with other issues, such as who I thought was most beautiful, who was most appropriate. I did manage to pass on a tip for the average confused young man trying to negotiate the complexity of love interests, that if you have to reject someone, saying that they are not your type is much better than saying that you don’t find them attractive, let alone ugly. But in this particular ambiguous state, I wrestled more acutely with an inability to make up my mind which would plague me my whole life. It always seemed like I would go through protracted spans where the whole world of women were indifferent to me and then two woman at once would like me, both too good to be true. I could not make up my mind and would wind up with neither.
The conflict in this case was between my ideal of the French beauty, Jenna, who was arguably an appropriate choice as well, but who, in that moment, perhaps for that very reason, did not spark the organic passion of transgressing the dignity of Irene – a woman closer to middle age, divorced with kids, but still no doubt in good shape; with a beautiful official looking face, the kind I always like – serious and respectable and a personality to match that and beyond. She was remarkable in the way that she carried herself. She was the adult in the room. She was like a mother to all, good mother – nothing phased her; the most gross, nasty, sexually lurid and mean things only brought a casual smile to her face, like a good mother calmly watching over kids developing their creative abilities, sure that all would turn out just fine, while in this episode they got dirty making mud pies and wrestling each other in the mud, not worried that it did get pretty rough. With a surprisingly calm smile by contrast to what was going on, she countenanced that as a normal part of life.
And so my passion was drawn toward the defiling lust of Irene’s dignity. I did not even care that she was the gazillionth half Irish, half German woman that I was trying to strike a balance from in America with the introduction of under represented continental European types, like the French, like Jenna. I was going under deep, and before I realized what I was doing I was now rubbing my now erect cock through my pants. I turned to my left and was delighted to see that Irene’s eyes were fixed on my cock. I told her, “good.”
I then indulged in some fantasy, which felt both irresistible and risky, as I’d always felt not entirely at home in America – aggrieved in that I was White enough to be penalized for slavery and Nazism, though my ancestors had nothing to do with it, but not experiencing myself as White enough to have an insider track to be lavished with wealth and the finest women. Always a semi-interloper among other European people’s women, neither wanting their dregs nor wanting the challenge of taking their finer specimens; I would use this occasion to see how the unlikely, full blown, X-rated relationship between Irene and I would be received.
I imagined Irene’s head propped up a bit by a pillow, with me kneeling over her, fucking her mouth. How happy that she would be as my sperm went into her mouth and then how happy she would be knowing that my sperm was in her stomach. With that, Jenna let out a peasant laugh. She was not offended, she was not jealous, she let out a peasant laugh. I was quick to note the significance of it, the folk wisdom and comfort in natural life of the peasant. I pointed to my own pug peasant nose inherited from the villages of my Italian forebears. Though I did not know much about Jenna yet and that was one excuse for my reticence, this was one thing that we had in common. But I would need more skill if I was to get to know a woman, Jenna or any other. I would need a good manufactured laugh that I could summon to ease an otherwise tense situation when trying to get to know a girl. Make the example repetitious enough so that I could really learn how to do it. Bill, the guy who incested his daughter, appreciative of the common ground of the music, and stand in “god”, male adult in the room, provided that. In fact there were a few Limp Bizkit songs that were relevant, but this corporate alphabet agency soup, R rated though it was in its chocolate starfish navigation system, was light compared to the hard core concerns that held the attendees captive despite outright stigma that would normally have people hurrying for the doors or calling he police.
The reason, of course, was that everyone here in Al-Anon, Adult Children of Alcoholics, was dealing with profound guilt and shame, typically about sexual issues. It was evident to all that this trance was no ordinary episode, wherein the kind of transgressions of social norms would call for a halt by authority or rush to the exit. We were being plunged into the depth of our stigma, exposing it, so that we could deal with it. And it was about to get more hard core.
There would be a dredging and bringing forth of the chthonic depths, covered with the slime and perversion of deep ambiguity. I would abuse people terribly who didn’t deserve it and stupidly, for things that weren’t their fault, mostly about their physicality. There were behavioral and political criticisms as well, none of it articulate or clever. One criticism was not hard to articulate, however. A homely Italian girl would drag out her turn to talk in endless tedium in these meetings. “Oh my god!” I protested, and everyone laughed because it was all too true. However, I did give her the post hypnotic suggestion that come next meeting she would start talking too long, as usual, but this time stop herself just before it was about to be typically absurd – she did that and gave me the Italian send off at meeting’s adjournment – “che vediamo” – as I said she would.
That was nice of me but, for the most part, in the primordial ambiguity of these trance states, I was a broken man, and as such, feeling like a cornered animal, I lashed out arbitrarily. I have to be broken to abuse people about their physicality. My sister went through some teenage stages of what some would consider to be homeliness with acne and so on combusting with intense hatred for the beauty criteria. Combining with my own insecurity about my physicality, I became sensitive, to the point of neurosis with regard to assessing people’s level of attractiveness. I hated hearing other people called “ugly” and would not do it myself; and so, when I found myself doing it, that was a sign that I was really broken.
Twice during the trance, how shall I describe this, I went into an exact rendition of the kind of verbal landmine dodging of feminist hatred that I would engage to display my innocence in approaching women as a teenager. Accurate thought it was of how neurotic I’d been made by my mother’s alcoholism and my sisters’ feminism, it was totally ridiculous. Bill, the handsome guy who’d incested his daughter, burst into laughter. While it did kind of prove my innocence in having tried to be sensitive and respectful of women, both instances in spontaneous reproduction of these neurotic teenage routines, in which I would constantly see the opposite, piggish quality in anything that I could assert, and make sure it was known that I wasn’t that, invoked a big laugh from Bill and an extreme raised eyebrow from Jenna. She was neither comforted nor turned on by this, to say the least.
I originally came to Amherst hoping to work with Barnett Pearce on just this sort of problem as delineated in his article, “The Problematic Practices of Feminism.” Even the well intentioned male can be dismissed with either one of two options that he is given within the framework of feminism: If he respects her rough independence and treats her as one of the boys, then he is a typical male chauvinist pig, who does not respect the special quality of her gender. On the other hand, if he is sensitive to the vulnerable qualities of her gender, he is seen as a condescending patriarch and a wimp. Young guys today might think that the thought policing and constraints on what you can say are new. And beyond gender negotiation, in society writ large one experienced the binding constraints: pinkie to the right, “Nazi!”, pinkie to the left, “child molester!”
Whether for the steam necessary to break these social constraints, or for the consciousness of injustice against ones self that one becomes suddenly aware of and unleashed to avenge, one is prone to acts of rage, particularly in this vulnerable, animal state. And where not feeling rage toward a given individual, then perhaps prone to cruel and levelling judgments, as I would render to Jenna, amidst unbridled love songs for a woman whom I knew nothing much about.
Even so, the psychic aspects of the trance would allow me to know a few things about her. That she had been incested by her brother and had experimented having sex with a dog. I assured her of a fact that remains true for me, that I would any day accept a woman who has done these things rather than one who has had sex with a nigger. I told her that unfortunately I found these things erotic, and while I am sorry for the pain and embarrassment that this brings to her face, and I wouldn’t want her to do this again, her humanness (fallibility) only makes me love her more. Yes, that’s right, ridiculously, I felt obligated to win this woman’s love over then and there. What, after all, was this French girl of my ideal, doing here in a meeting that she’d never been to before, if I wasn’t meant to win her here and now?
But the story of women being a panacea within the disorder of modernity, is as much pressure for men where they used to seek out a father, a priest, a doctor, a scientist, a philosopher in traditional society, to develop the resources of a worthy man. Nevertheless, one feels within this disorder, that if one does not make a straight line, that one’s appropriate and best match will be snapped up by the undeserving as she is pandered to from all angles and kinds, modernity having collapsed all borders and bounds. And so I sang.
As with any exaggerated passion, propped-up by circumstance but unbacked by much in the way of experiential motivation, the cybernetic balancing effect of nature will draw one back in correctivity. Particularly in this state, rife with ambivalence, unmoored for lack of the stabilizing premises and principles of philosophy and politics that I was yet to settle on. That I was unprepared to settle on an identity and anchor with a particular woman as such was a fact thrust thrust forth by my involuntary laughter at the vision of a film of a French WWI solder who’d had his face blown in by a bomb shell and was trying on facial prosthetics. It is embarrassing that I would laugh at this, particularly as I was presenting myself as a man who cared so deeply about French under representation in America. In embarrassment for my own dishonor, it ranked with laughing about Christopher Reeves paralysis upon falling off a horse.
I’d make up for it somewhat by foreseeing my visit to Verdun battlefield of WWI, and reading a letter from a young British soldier, 18 years old, saying how everything in him wanted to survive and yet he knew that there was no chance. I recited that excerpt from the letter that I would read in the Verdun museum in 1998 and I would be moved to tears, honestly.
In additional fairness to me, there wasn’t much articulate defense of White men available, quite the opposite. No internet yet folks. Furthermore, while I cared very much about the continent generally, and even though I recognized the great artistry of France and French women struck my fancy, I was literally being beckoned to Italy and Poland. Thus, I can understand why motivation to win this girl was not in place and why heroism might fail in this case.
Indeed, for all the impassioned pleas and sappy singing, artificially enhancing motivation for a girl that I did not know, for what skill level that I did manage to comport, Jenna would write her number on a piece of paper and pass it on to me. …only to have me, in the end, ripping it up and crying like a baby. Though it seemed to make no sense in the moment, in truth, I was protecting her; and saving us both the acrimony and waste of effort that needed to be better spent. My message for Jenna was that I needed for her to remain French through this life time; and that I’d reinforce her in another lifetime; fathering children with her; nothing could be more satisfying. And I instructed her, in words suggested to me in the original trance induction, that “you will be obedient to me” – you are not to leave this meeting until it’s nearly over, a long time from now; you will leave slightly earlier than the others, making a display of the fact that your eyes would be fixed on mine as you walked out, in confidence and trust that you would be happy to suck my dick and have my children. That we would protect and advance you and your French kind.
But that was quite some time away yet. This would be the longest Al-Anon meeting that anyone had ever been to and nobody would leave until it was good and over after something like three hours ….despite what was to come.
Indeed, if the cybernetic balancing effect of nature would call one back into the arbitrary of the chthonic, into perversion even, to offset unmoored principles and falsely encouraged motives of the social they, it would in this trance state. Hence, more than a few times I would tell Jenna that I would like to fuck her mother. That should even be part of the deal. Jenna was hurt, saddened by this, apparently thought it was strange, as apparently her mother, older, wasn’t very good looking.
You see, I was not looking upon Jenna as necessarily being enough at this time because I had an incest and mother thing still going on. Perversions of this kind, overcompensating through the arbitrary to a root motivation are semiotic over corrections of healthy direction.
Fascination with breaking the taboo of incest would be corrective of fascination with breaking the taboo of miscegenation, corrective of that and other overcompensating outbreeding. And the mother thing aims at the social orientation of a woman mature enough to be a mother, hence the attraction, the defiling lust toward the dignity and purifying love of women who already are mothers. Which is why sex with “mom” Irene would have the most fascinating appeal to fantasy throughout; only challenged in appeal by the fantasy of taking turns with Bill having sex with his daughter and solidly good looking woman friend (also a mother); but we’ll come back to them.
Now attention turned to “mom” Irene, into chthonic depths of the defiling lust to capture her grace, poise and dignity, without any conscious control of appropriateness. As was the case throughout, she mostly had a big smile on her face, as if presiding over children at play on a playground, unworried even where they got quite dirty, things got messy, just happy that they were learning as such, sure to work things out for their essential goodness as people. .
There was a blessed trust conferring from her, as I vacillated from the most abject stigma to sublime innocence. Saying how Ted Bundy didn’t kill enough of these American bitches; the reason that they don’t complain more about this sort of thing is because they know that they are getting away with murder. I need to kill more of them! I would go from that to describing an episode when Kim and Jim left me to babysit Amelia, only a few months old. I tried to avoid it, but she would not stop crying, so I realized that I had to change her diaper. I took her into the bathroom and dutifully removed the diaper. She was still crying and very stressed. Just for a second I looked at her parts that needed help and then looked into her eyes. She stopped crying, calm came over her face and she relaxed her whole body instantaneously. She knew that I was not going to hurt her. I did not touch her skin, but rather dabbed her with a wet towel and then put some powder there and a new diaper.
“How does a baby know that you are not going to hurt it?!?”
I said to the group, and broke down sobbing for real, head in hands.
And speaking of innocence, that look was on the face, captured in my mind, of Rene, another attractive French girl who I worked with at Jakes No Frills Restaurant in North Hampton. I discussed liking her not only for her Frenchness, the continent as I was tasked to defend, but because she had that striking contrast of dark hair and very White skin. She didn’t have the cutesy look either, but rather the official, serious type of good looking that I prefer. Formidable. She was skinny, a kind that I adamantly liked, against my mother’s hostile protests. She had unusually narrow hips for a woman, was nearly flat chested, which I found incredibly erotic, as I’d discovered from my first girlfriend, Sharon. Having started from an aesthetic perspective to begin with, on this point I had confidence, and ridiculed what was upheld singularly as the American ideal of female beauty: the blond with the inoffensive but not particularly interesting straight up and down face and big boobs. This was unecological. Along with dynamic features, peculiar quirks of beauty, qualitative differences, were being shunned as “Latino”, “Hispanic” even, not a vital part of our human ecology, but something to let get sucked into the black hole of miscegenation. That we have buffering qualities and interesting, dynamic features that could offset the allure of African difference, but these qualities are being thrown under the bus.
There was much that Rene could understand, and she was more normal than normal for the most part. Such that I almost took up with her; could have. She fancied herself a mystic and maybe she was. Reading my tarot cards, “the devil” and “death” came up repeatedly. She told me that might just mean that I am the kind of person who likes to fight. I know this to be true, if the fight is necessary. In two years time, I would be in Gdansk, Poland, having my tarot cards read again, and no matter how the reader shuffled the led the cards, unbelievably, the devil and death always appeared. But I digress.
Ok, let me digress a bit more to say that it was probably at this point when I told a story about how I had long since put aside the notion of my being the personification of evil. On a June 6th day, having read Revelation 13:17 the night before and seeing three sixes appear on my hand, moving creepily. Waking up the next day for work, throwing on a Philips 66 jacket, I could see the other 6. In fact, I couldn’t help but see three sixes form everywhere. The radio that day was playing music all day from 1966. The New Jersey Lottery that day -yep: 666. I came home morose, doomed and I told my father about it. He said that “you should’ve told me, I would have played that number!” The Al-anon group laughed along with me for that which cured me of any such concern.
Coming back to Rene, the more normal than normal was mixed in with moments of utter insanity. There was a reason. Her father had incested her, invited Satanist cohorts to use her for sex rituals with him. He wound up getting her pregnant. She wanted the baby but the unborn boy fell out when her father punched her in the abdomen. Insanity.
I recalled the look of innocence on her face, “like Bamby!” (the cartoon deer from the Walt Disney movie, I sobbed to Bill, the guy who’d incested his daughter. I’m literally crying, “how could you!?!” The Jewish incest victim gave him the confrontational look of intervention again.
And again the primordial ambiguity would not allow undigested social cliché and taboo to go unprovoked by cybernetic correction.
“You liked sucking your father’s cock, didn’t you, Jewish whore!?!” She squirmed. “Didn’t you!” I turned to Bill. “Your daughter liked sucking your cock, didn’t she!?!” He smiled not broadly but in concession. His woman flashed a quick, partial smile a sign to play an angle which takes some heat off of Bill, while not giving the situaion a green light.
I then noticed the German 5 expressing a curious kind of pain. I screamed at her, “you think that you are above it all, don’t you kraut, nigger lover. Let’s be real. The only people that you care about are niggers! The only thing that you care about is niggers! She broke down sobbing, for the pressure of the all too much truth of it in her and in the social pressure around her at Smith College and vicinity. Bill’s woman gave me a look as if to say, ‘have mercy on her.” I was calling her a fat ugly German pig, saying that her kind of jealousy had much to do with World War II. It was terrible. I talked aba pictue of whole Polish middle class family having been hung by the Nazis. Hung, right in their well tailored clothes. She said that ” I feel terrible about what happened to the Polish people.” I said, “what happened? Was it an accident of nature? “It happened? Nobody had agency and responsibility?
But I would not continue to grill her, noting that she was a German American and had nothing to do with it. In fact the majority of American troops were German Americans while the disproportionate number of American troops put in the line of deadly fire, cannon fodder, were Italian American. I was just pissed off being blamed for this shit that in fact victimized my people. They’ve given these goddamn Jews a warrant so that nobody can say anything critical of them and an excuse to sick these fucking nigger monkeys in every which way.
She said in a pained tone, I don’t know what to tell you’ perhaps go to the Holocaust museum in Washington? I said, “are you kidding me?! I’m not the one who needs to learn about this stuff!” I pointed to Sandy, the frightfully intelligent Jew to my left, and said, “here she is, like a skeletal Hannah Arendt, sucking her father’s cock, like a starving baby sucking for dear life!” I know what this is about!
I sensed that there was something more about her pain and jealousy.
“You are not condemning Bill and feeling sorry for his daughter. You are feeling sorry for your self. You are jealous. You wish that you could be his daughter sucking his cock!
She cries some more, but I come to the rescue, “well, the Godfather is going to permit you to suck your father’s cock in your next lifetime. So long as you are a choosing adult and sex with your father does not lead to children and the inevitable birth defects of incest there is an argument to be made for it. Obviously there are arguments to be made against it, psychological, sociological, etc., but there are arguments to be made for it – particularly if it is just fantasy, to overcome the Christian prohibition of the sin of thinking, and as a bio-systemic counter balancing taboo to miscegenation to a society rife with outbreeding and its overpromotion.
She fervently wagged her finger, “yes!” She wanted this, wanted to be able to suck her father’s cock and wanted other girls to be able to do this too – to express their ultimate love and loyalty to their own. I found her confession surprising, kinky and perhaps unfortunately, appealing.
“God grant us incest!” I cried.
I’m starting to get off on this a bit…
I don’t know if it was exactly then, but this may have been the first time in the trance that I pulled my pants down and started jerking my cock off. Now, you would think that everyone would be yelling, screaming, calling the police and heading for the exits, but, no. There were a few worried looks, Jewish incest victim made a few noises expressing nervousness but I scolded her, you’re going to admit that you’d like this cock in you, that I am ok with you having sucked your father’s cock. Now you suck my cock. You are going to put your head down in submission the next time that I see you. When I finally reached an orgasm, Jenna the pretty French girl gave me a look of serious approval, like a supervising mother keeping a child on track, a peasant woman serious and satisfied that fundamental peasant business had been performed properly and to completion. I was impressed by her poise; not only calm through this stigma, but having the poise to look upon this as a normal biological function and a fundamental remedial lesson in an aspect of our humanity that that should be treated as familiar enough in order in order to gain common parlance and control. I was impressed.
I indulged in further incest fantasies, one surrounding Irene and one surrounding Bill. Now, coming to Irene, this woman sexy in part because she was unlikely as a sex object for her mature dignity and good looks, she was as poised as anyone through all this, as I’d said. Her dignity was not really beyond reproach, as it was revealed that she’d had a long affair with a married man. But this was not of concern to me. She was mom, the sexy Jocasta that Oedipus’s fate would be irresistibly drawn to. But this Oedipus didn’t mind. And this Jocasta didn’t seem bothered either. I went into a fantasy about how in our next lifetime, she would be my mother. One early summer day she would come to look upon me in my work, at my brilliant mathematical work and be so impressed and happy that she could not resist hugging and kissing me – and then it turned to real kissing, tongue kissing; one thing leads to another and we enjoy a whole summer indulging in sex with one another.
I conclude by telling her that I’d see her at two meetings in the future and that at the last one before I left the area she’d affectionately refer to me as “you” because I was referring to her as “you” – for some reason, I could not remember that her name was Irene. This would be at a meeting in a town north of here, a meeting populated almost entirely by WASPS and North Western European types and she would be welcoming me to share body fluids and genetics as such. And then there would be another occasion before that, at this same meeting in Amherst but another time, another week, when she would give me a huge smile to let me know that she would love to have sex with me, suck my cock, the fantasy could come to reality, ok with her, the works. She knew that I was trying to save our European people. That I cared and liked all our kind.
With that, I told her that I’d see her one other time. And this time she would not be smiling. She’d be worried – worried for the impact that miscegenating White women was having on our people indeed. I’d walk into the cafe situated right between her and the police station’ and she would be worried, consulting with a bohemian lady known to attend these meetings (though not this particular one). I would presume that her worry was about the predictably treacherous behavior on the part of young White women, including good looking, middle class, educated ones, like the one who walked in at the same time with a black child in her arms. Irene would be worried, see the angry look on my face, then look at Kim and Jim’s baby Amelia, as I was with them in that moment, and regain a sense of calm as she sat down to talk with the bohemian woman.
And indeed, I would attend that Al-Anon (ACOA) meeting that I’d never been-to before and would never attend again, in a town North of Amherst. The meeting provided for me the provisional relief of Anglo-Northwestern enclave. In fact, the one non-White there, a “Hispanic” girl (this one really wasn’t the kind that I railed about discriminating against, because they were really European. This one was Not European) voiced grievance that she felt unwelcome with no real evidence other than the fact that there were no other non-Whites there and yet they went on talking about their problems, one of which was Not the lack of “diversity” at the meeting. In fact, the chair of the meeting, a middle aged White man, was more ballsy than the standard PC line would have and responded that it was the right of this group to focus on its concerns as people from alcoholic families. Irene was there, she referred to me as “you” in the most affectionate way, but apparently farted, which was not altogether pleasant to me; reminding me perhaps not only of vulgar reality as opposed to fantasy, of the fact that these people were a bit different a kind of European American; and that I was not quite at home with joining their vessel, despite Irene’s welcome. I worried that it was at sea and not seaworthy. In fact, a fantastically optimal Anglo sort of woman, child bearing age, talked to me after the meeting and tried to encourage my ongoing participation in the meeting (I guess that she liked me a bit), saying that “we have a very special group here.”
I’m embarrassed to think back on what was presenting as a huge opportunity for a fine wife, only to have me react as a mean spirited snob, saying “I’m neither so sure that they are so special nor that they should consider themselves special according to Al-Anon rules; maybe I would think about coming back.”
She was hurt and while in the gamesmanship of panmixia, I was flouting a good opportunity for a lovely Anglo woman with ethnocentric sensibilities still intact and sensitive and thus a means further into the American mainstream and out of the margins, I realize that my cruel dismissive with regard to the value of her culture was meant to provoke more ethnocentric distancing, worried as I was for the vulnerabilities of their ethnocentric barriers, their philosophical seaworthiness, as it were.
…and furthermore, my unconscious fate was leading me elsewhere. As I would indicate back in the Amherst trance, adding a bit more Polish gleaned from mushroom picking with my cousin Ryzard sometime in the future; wherein he’d distinguish edible mushrooms such as podgrzybek from poisonous mushrooms.
“True Cheese Now”
Is the way I’d learn the Polish vocabulary word for “poison” and the pronunciation of: trujące.
I burst out spontaneously with the statement that, “Kim doesn’t have the right to exist!” …this was a bit of hard joke, of course, that I’d said a few times outside of trance as well; finding its contrast to the common sense of what you might say to such a sensitive and neurotic woman hilarious. I figured the absurdity of it had to be therapeutic. Anyway, I figured that I had “the touch”, holding up my hand sensitively, I proposed that this was one of the contributions that Polish people had to human ecology: “Polish people have ‘the touch.”
Boy would I come to not be so sure about that – at all. It would probably be coupled with a vision of a young man that I would come across in “Bar Hades” in Pila, Poland, who looked like the spitting image of my (WWII torn, alcoholic) uncle Ed, only younger, of course. I would learn that this guy would be going to debtor’s prison – yes, they have that in Poland; but it was not a fraction of the bad surprises I would find in the woods of this post communist culture – where the culture is to blame the victim – true cheese now indeed.
It would be at that same Hotel Hades, Pila, that I would meet up with the beautiful Edyta Jakubowski, who was in town from The U.S.A. to see her grandmother; it was just a friendly meeting as she had a boyfriend of course. But in the lobby was playing a weird, reggae version of Crowded House’s, “Don’t Dream It’s Over.” … the words eerily, “they’ve come, to build a wall between us, you know that they won’t win.” ..as if the niggers had every intention to rupture the Wonderwall I intend for the sovereignty of European peoples.
I turned my attention to healing matters of betrayal and incest with fantasy and music in address of Bill’s predicament.
I tell Bill that he is a corn kernel in the giant piece of shit that is his life.
We are going to take that corn kernel out of the giant piece of shit and re-plant it for a new life.
I have a vision of his x-wife and her black boyfriend on the cover of a local magazine. I sang a song that would resonate with his pain for the utter betrayal, “These Eyes” by The Guess Who. I add, isn’t this getting to be a bit ridiculous, the “coincidence” of White woman nigger male couples? And now his daughter? He’s in pain. My saying that I’d like to kill his x-wife doesn’t ease his pain. Let alone saying that I’d like to kill his daughter. I back off, but am quite clear, that to me there is no doubt, their betrayal is worse than his. And while I had once thought child molesters should unquestionably get the death penalty, Bill has presented me with at least one example where I would not pass this sentence.
At around this point, I notice the turban wearing Muslim woman who’d expressed fear over my despair at the feminist brown bag lunch was taking a keen interest. I yelled at her especial anger, telling her ot mind her own business, that I want no part of her mulatto supremacist religion – it’s shit. Your god is not my god. I bat her and the room, saying, you probably think this is about god’s presence. There were quite a few laughs, because several people there were obviously convinced that only god could explain the the phenomenon of this trance. I wasn’t going to give that to them and I told them so. I would not deprive the agency and the free thinking of those who were not willing to commit to a traditional notion of god, especially not the god of Jews, the Jewish trick that is Christianity, and the gutter, nigger religion that is Islam. She tried to gesture defiantly but I wasn’t having it.
I turned my attention to Bill; this was between us, as Europeans, outside of this fake Jewish moral order…I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. There’s going to come an evening…
You and your woman are going to cozy-up on the sofa with your daughter on the living room sofa to watch a movie. By movie’s end there is going to be much affection and warmth between the three of you and your woman is going to give your daughter a sense that the sex and the enjoyment that she experienced of it with you was alright. And to further claim the agency through the valence of the enjoyment, you were all going to go to the bedroom together where she would be encouraged to enjoy affection with Bill until they finally took turns sucking him off; Bill would take turns eating his daughter, who’d be eating his woman; his daughter would eat his woman while he fucked his daughter from behind. His daughter would experience a innocent simplicity to this and admit to enjoying sucking her father off as she had enjoyed it before. Bill smiled at the plan.
I then burst out in loud mockery – ha! ha! ha! you thought that you could get away with this, you fucking child molester, incesting retard!!!
The Jewish incest victim would give him an interventionist “gotcha” look as I would mock him.
Interspersed three or four times throughout the trance, I would repeat this set up, in which I would invoke social permission for incest with his daughter and then suddenly, sadistically ;mock him when he was relaxed about it. Then just as quickly, cybernetic balancing effects would kick in the other direction for the overcompensating lack of empathy for him.
I would propose, almost insist that his woman have sex with her son, and I met with a sense of strong resistance to that from her. The thing was, I found her very sexually attractive. I insisted that her mature, healthy look had much to do with her Polish admixture. True, she was a tiny bit overweight in the ass. I brought a big laugh from Bill saying that she could lose about eighteen pounds – eighteen being a comically arbitrary and fat sounding number. But she was good looking, no doubt. Her maturity, intelligence and stature added to it almost but not quite yet to the appeal of Irene; and I was willing to make a deal in order to secure sex and progeny with her.
She may not have wanted to have sex with her son but she loved her man Bill understandably, and wanted help negotiating the harrowing polemic of two taboos – incest and miscegenation – that Bill was torturously embroiled in.
And so I began where taboos were more likely to be out of line. It is certainly a bad idea to make masturbation a taboo and deem only actual sex valid and healthy. In fact, I would argue that young girls should be encouraged to masturbate more, and be much more careful about actual sex. And when it comes to actual sexual experimentation, a normal male would prefer that she experiment with a little bit of lesbianism, learning to appreciate the beauty of her kind that the White man appreciates rather than give herself to aliens, let alone to niggers.
But the baseline taboo that is warrantably assertable as in need of being broken is in the realm of incest fantasy. It is necessary to undo the Jewish thought binding strictures of the Sermon on The Mount – “even if you’ve thought of” breaking a commandment – and it is one of a few taboo fantasies that is powerful enough to effectively counterbalance the miscegenation taboo. Indeed, it should be fairly harmless if it remains in the realm of fantasy. Nobody should argue that having children with close relatives is a a good idea, the evidence against it being overwhelming as it is.
So, fantasy is relatively safe space, where alternative course of action is not closed off. In point of fact, my own very strong fantasies evaporated instantaneously the moment when Wally, the guy who set these trances in motion to begin with said, “enjoy it.” The fantasy lost all appeal and I was glad to be rid of it. I didn’t want to fantasize about my sister, she’s a nasty piece of work.
That doesn’t mean that the incest fantasy in the abstract, that is to say with your mother and sister being someone other than they actually are, does not have appeal and utility for said reasons of counter taboo.
…and while we are brokering the world of arbitrary facticity, dealing with world of facts into which we are thrown and connecting them with narratives to take them in a potentially innocuous, remedial direction, we might consider the negotiation between the fact that biological harm is not particularly brought about where no offspring are produced by incest and the psychological effects, ranging from very detrimental, to fairly neutral … to, potentially helpful? It would seem that the lack of psychological harm and potential benignness would depend on maturity, agency and ability to make a decision in the partners. We should thus agree that children should remain off limits.
But hence the fact of Bill’s daughter not being a child and rather exercising some agency and enjoyment in sucking him off would be a mitigating factor. So, not so bad; and Bill smiled. Or was she a child? The Jewish incest victim gave him a plaintiff look again.
Bill’s woman was struggling to support him through this.
In a lame attempt to ennoble her, I altercast to her, as representing her, a great song that had just come onto the radio. However, sadly, I would exhaust her with the speculative insistence repeatedly that it represented her – great a song though it is, meaningful though the lyrics are, I could barely remember any lyrics, perhaps because I had been smashed drunk any time that I heard it. Thus, my renditions were terrible in addition to being overbearing in my attributing this as representing her.
Tryin’ to fly mountain high
Are you tryin’ to be immortal
Come on here’s your chance
Take your dance
Say goodbye to your mother
Just let your life shine now’s the
Time what you’ve been given will
Do just fine
Just let your love come through
Your song for the people
Listen to the voices of your soul
Are you trying to be immortal
I can see the future’s been painted
Red white and blue
I won’t whisper if you won’t
You and I know that it ain’t true
I couldn’t come close to matching Beth Hart on this one. Nevertheless, my will was good, my libido in tact and we were deep enough in trance to venture re-direction of the primordial factcity.
Thus I proffered again that not only was tolerance of the incest taboo remedial to the Christian prohibition on thought crimes, but also remedial to the miscegenation taboo. But moreover now, provided no inbred offspring were produced, actual incest between consenting adults could potentially be a benign if not remedial option as well.
I observed that the German 5 would like to live in a world where it is valid for a girl to suck her father’s cock. She wagged her finger vehemently, as if to say, ‘yes, that is a point, a possibility that I would like to see as a reality in the future world. I said to her that despite all my brutality then, for my anger at Germany for having started these wars, my abuse of her for not being my type, that I would grant this possibility and she, at the meeting’s end, would show her intelligence and judgment by talking to the lawyer guy who provoked this trance to say that I should be forgiven and allowed to go on my way in pursuit of my fate.
I then turned attention to Bill and his woman. I told them that in this world I could take turns on either end of his daughter with him, fucking her and getting sucked off by her. And his woman would be there for the same to get face fucked and so on while his daughter was being fucked by one of us. Not only that, but they would all like this. Not only that, but “mom” Irene would join in as well, and would enjoy this as well. The smile on Irene’s face indicated that it could well be true.
I could be the one to get his daughter pregnant to avoid inbreeding problems. So good of me.
But the godfather wanted something more. I required confirmation from Bill’s woman. At meeting’s end, just after Jenna proceeds out of the meeting, eyes locked on mine, to let me know that in the next life, she would like to suck my dick and have our children in order to secure her legacy, Bill’s woman would be in no hurry to leave, but would rather sit there passively, to let me know by locking eyes with me and flashing a code smile, that she would be happy suck my dick, engage in this sexcapde with Bill’s daughter, etc. That would transpire.
I told Bill that I would see his daughter alone at the small bar downtown with the pool table. “She’s a Venutian” I’d say. Bill’s wife gave me a cutesy smile, to approve the altercast of the naïve girl in the movie “Hardcore” who explained that she was in the sex trade because sex was not very important to her; she was about love; and she had this in common with the George C. Scott character’s Christianity. I repeated George C. Scott’s line, in his voice, with the menacing smile that he wore on his face, “I’m afraid that it’s you who doesn’t understand.” I then promised that his daughter would be petrified when she recognized me at this bar as the man who would love nothing more than to kill nigger loving White women. Only might not do it for lack of expedience. It would happen in a few days time, just like I said, that I’d see her at this bar and shed be mortified at the sight of me, perhaps hearing me issuing the N word, getting the idea that what she was doing wasn’t cool; that there would be severe limits on her safety so long as people like her put us all at risk with this transgression.
Furthermore, I would pass Bill on the sidewalk of Amherst center in a few days and he would have a big smile on his face both to acknowledge the fantastic paranormalcy of the trance event and to let me know that the suggestions were ok with him. … happily amazed at how divine countenance was looking after us, brought us together with me as medium and now “coincidentally” crossing paths as foretold to bear witness to the miracle.
It was perhaps on the same walk through downtown Amherst that I would see Dave the half Jew half Italian, former heroin addict from Boston with a grin of curious amazement on his face for this little path crossing being foretold.
There would be several of these happenstance meeting with people from the trance meeting on the streets and about in Amherst and North Hampton, including people who I’ve talked little about so far where at all.
But there is much more to detail in this Al-Anon meeting in trace before we move beyond its episode. Beginning with banter with David, whom I’d try to set up with Sandy, since he had said to me that he liked her – didn’t mind her nigger like ass and disagreeable Jewish face. I would be behind her in line at the bank one day after, noticing her ugly nigger ass as she bent to write something at the teller booth; she would turn around and give me a dirty look as if to say that I had been ineffective, but I would only remark in equal annoyance, “what’s the problem.”
Just one more foray for now to an episode that would be foretold beyond the trance because it connects with this idea of Jewish matchmaking as with my attempt for David and Sandy. I would one day be working at a Manpower temp job dismantling a printing-press factory in Newark, New Jersey when I’d make a bizarre attempt to set the Jewish owner up with the Jewish incest victim from the trance. More on that episode later. Coming back to the Al-Anon trance… I would tell her that she would “succumb”, getting a little charge out of pronouncing it “suck-come.” I would add, “you’re going to suck his cock good and hard.” Sandy would shake her head at my immodestly.
Since David was a baseball fan, it provided occasion to address the absurdity of a sport which had lost the totemic value of teams representing a people and a place. Baseball, America’s sport, had only ever gotten worse in that regard with players from a given cities team being more or less mercenaries from any part of America; from any ethnic group and from any race, once the Negro Jackie Robinson was imposed to break the color line with endless beatification by the Jewish laced press. The teams had become practically meaningless, representing not much more than uniforms, emblems, owners and local tax payer mercenary investment.
So I set about to correct this by selecting with Dave an all-time White team which, in that episode, would include Jews, since I was not yet Jew wise enough to realize that Jews could not be trusted to include on our side as a part of our genome with our interests at heart. So it was that Sandy Kofax would be selected to the pitching staff and Ryne Sandberg would be at second base (though I’m not sure that Swedish name doubles as Jewish); while “Saint” Jackie Robinson would remain on the bench as a whipping boy, martyr in testimony to the fact that there are Oreos and Uncle Toms – nice, talented, but compliant blacks, who would stick to their own kind in marriage – let them stick to their own kind on the field of play as well. We don’t need them. Indeed, they cannot replace us, or we are no longer “us” in the sense of our fundamental biological genus.
Naturally Lou Gehrig would play first; good as (((Hank Greenberg))) was, he wasn’t as good, maybe not even as good as Jimmie Foxx or Chuck Klein. Third base would be another German American, Mike Schmidt; there would be complication over the rest of the team, whether Honus Wagner would be a good enough short stop, whether Mantle or Dimaggio should be in center. Not much doubt that Ruth and Ted Williams get an outfield and DH spot; but Cobb or Musial for the final outfield spot? Kim endorsed Lefty Grove for another pitching spot, while Dave asserted that Tom Seaver could not be left off the rotation. Most argumentation on the side of Johnny Bench being the catcher, but a big one on the side of Yogi Berra – ten World Series rings. In that episode to come, where I’d be dismantling the Jewish guy’s Newark, New Jersey printing press, the nice German American man who headed the crew taking apart the factory would gently offer yet another alternative to Yogi Berra when I idly proffered my line-up. “What about Bill Dickey?”
Back in the meeting, I would argue that the notoriously racist Cobb should be consigned to the bench where he could nettle Jackie Robinson indefinitely while the Polish Stan Musial should get the starting nod because “Polish people have the touch” I put my hand up gently. “Having the judgment to know where to draw the line.” God would my experience with criminality in Pila, Poland ever show me that was questionable.
I’m moving on from that topic in the Al-Anon meeting and for some reason my brother in law came up: “Ukrainian guy.” Everybody laughed at my invocation of nationality before anything else. I had not predicated the specification as and endorsement of a kind that could add to the robustness of the White male kind in America.
My endorsing Poles as necessarily having “the subtlest judgmental touch” is still not as embarrassing as my touting my aunt for marrying a Jewish man and producing a “Jewish genius” son. Then nerd’s industrial psychology degree was good enough to leave him unemployed with seven children, living with another aunt in Alabama. His father, Mortimer, was good for a laugh for the Al-Anon group as I told the story of his having his dentist take all of his teeth out and give him a pair of false teeth, as he did not want to be bothered with more dental work and its expense.
I’d continue with a bit of ethnic self deprecating humor, describing a few “public bath rooms” in the villages of 1972 Italy, land where the Romans had led the way and set forth the standards of pluming refinement. Empty rooms, where you had to tip toe so as not to step in one of the piles of shit all over the floor before delivering your own load; hopefully having some candy wrappers or something to wipe up. That brought a laugh, but I got serious again.
Laugh at the foibles of Italians though you may, they were still exercising stronger, therefore better ethnocentrism.
I discussed the Brooklyn, New York case, in which Italian Keith Mondello killed black Yusef Hawkins who came into Mondello’s neighborhood while he was triggered at having been spurned by White Gina Feliciano, who was said to be “dating” blacks. At the time of its occurrence, 1989, my father asked me, “was that worth it (i.e., going to jail, as Mondello would)?” I told the group that I answered “no, but I don’t care that he did it.” …my father accepted that answer and he was correct to do so.
I then recalled the black New York City TV news anchor, Reggie Williams, sticking a microphone in front of another local Italian boy for a comment in his Brooklyn voice: “We don’t need no niggas around heeeah!” I described his short dark hair, clean shave, clean clothes and already narrow eyes squinted to the purposeful fixation of a predator. Fierce and frighteningly cold indifference to the rising “political correctness” of anti-racisim. For that time, a surprising, quite ballsy display of ethnocentric loyalty, unabashed “racism.” I squinted my eyes and put on a Brooklyn accent to mimic admiration, “we don’t need no niggas around heeah!”
Bill’s woman was giving me worried but understanding looks for these sentiments.
Falling deeper in trance, I would see that I would be tested for my ethnocentrism as it were, “punished for my racism”, if you were of a liberal mindset. In Pila, Poland, alpha male Oskar Matyszczypka, widely hated for his abuse of people that ran a gamut of narrow racist ethnocentrism to reckless, scolding liberalism, whatever displayed his self interest, would turn the town’s gossip against me as an Italian American interloper, ripe for the Pila criminal element to take advantage of. To set me up, he took on (i.e., gave his big dick for a month straight in another room of my apartment to) Magda, “Mika” Moiztejko, knowing that she had local social capital in spades to deploy against me, with her mother being a lovely Polish woman respected throughout the town, her divorced father, while of Lithuanian extraction, nonetheless a policeman on the Pila force.
It is all part of a long story for another post, but long story short, I did not expect them to invoke a criminal element against me when I was not only willing, able and setting about to help them, but could not help them if they ripped me off. But Mika, spurned by me as her vehicle to American status once she had her fill of Oskar’s dick, decided that she would take it to me, and invoke a didactic lesson against my “racism.” Her English was quite good, good enough to inflect the frumpy tone of traditional moral authority, by pronouncing the “H” when deigning to address me with moral warrant.
“Do you know wHhaat? You should be more tolerant!”
When Oskar ditched her and I didn’t want her, she became indignant, “they think I’m stupid!”
Always finding it tedious that Oskar would bring her around, not understanding that Oskar was using her social capital, I was glad to be done with her. Or so I thought.
She had already infuriated me by playing off my sister’s uncaringly reckless suggestion that I go with the flow, and took advantage of the relief in help that I craved and never knew, with a delightfully encouraging tone that hit a sweet spot in my brain, telling me to me to “buy it! buy it!” an overpriced car with a large part of the money that I had from my father’s house to invest, as if the car could help in a business idea of Oskar’s, which of course would not materialize (he wanted to steal the car). I thought that had made it clear to her that I wasn’t so naïve as to put full trust in Oskar. I had safeguards in place. This did not deter Mika in her penis head shaped head.
She called me and when I told her that I don’t want to associate with women who like blacks like her and her friend Justyna, with regard to whom she asked, she “fantasizes about being married to a black man; would you still be friends with her?”, she became indignant when I answered “no.” She retaliated, “Agniezka (her other friend, who I did find attractive) doesn’t feel that way, doesn’t dislike blacks!” And I said, “yes, that’s why I won’t pursue her, even though I find her attractive.” Ending the call, I patted myself on the back for my nifty coherence and for being done with her.
Only a few days later I ran into her in a bar and she was indignant still. Her arms folded in resolve, “and to think, my mother said that I should invite you over for dinner!” Uh oh. that’s the woman who has all that social capital in town. And Agnieszka, the one that I find attractive, is sitting right by Mika’s side giving me a look like I should ease up and have warm, friendly, trusting relations with Mika again.
As big as any mistake that I’ve made in life is letting someone back in after I’d shut the door on them. Mika was one of three times that I did this. I invited her to hang out with me again. And again in that delightfully encouraging voice of help that I yearned for she enthusiastically suggested that, “I think that you should call Roman!”
Now, Roman was a hideously ugly computer technician that I’d met through Oskar, and came to trust as a critic of Oskar. As I was more than willing to help Roman, in fact wanted to work with him, I did not see him giving me a bum steer. His spitefulness with masked in Christian virtue, which only catered to his resentment that I had a little money – no matter that it was from my recently deceased father’s house, that I was 39; and he just a 27 year old man that I was willing to help with this money. This man who grew up in the psychological harrow of imposed communist ideology, hideously ugly, looking like a combination of Heinrich Himmler and the Creature From The Black Lagoon, buried irrational spite deep with in him, though covered by words whether soft or stern, always sounding careful.
He told me that he could think of no other business to do but to import wrecked cars from Germany for refurbishment with Thomasz Marcin Pacocha; a car mechanic (and junior member of organized crime, unbeknownst to me) that I met with Oskar (to his delight) when we were adjusting the Passat for Polish specs. When I tell the long version of this story, it is going to look even more strange that I went along with this having already been abused by this creep, Pacocha. And hew would basically torture me for six months of sadistic lies, ruses and deception, all the more sadistic for its being more a matter of what are you going to do about it than my not being able to see what he was doing once “the business” got in motion – getting enough money out of it to buy an apartment while simultaneously destroying the investment capacity that I had in the money from my father’s house.
I had incorrectly figured had I had incorrectly figured with Roman, that he was rational enough an actor to realize that he could make more money in the long run by playing it honest and not ruining me as a functional source of finance. I had figured that they could not be so cruel as to destroy this once in a life time money that I was so generously using to help them, that they would want to bolster their good reputation – not to be risked as I involved my cousins in the business as well, had reputable business people apprised of the project, even the Chief of police looking over the final car that we brought back from Germany.
No recourse that I took in the end would matter. In this post communist hellhole, a “good reputation” could be made with through narrow ethnocentrism deployed in elaborate sadism against an outsider who has the nerve to have a little money and be happy.
This had turned out to be a protracted from of the prisoner’s dilemma as described by Bowery, on a social group scale, deploying ugly Roman in the crucial role as as the hypocrite liaison to me, the outsider to be “taught a lesson” in the evil of racism and money by facilitating Mika, yes, “do you known wHat?” Mika in taking the ten, leaving me with zero and having a baby with Pachocha.
I risked the long digression into a story that is nevertheless only a fraction of a long story that I need to tell another day because it fits here as a story that I’d hint at in the Amherst trance, placating those critical of me by trance’s end, notably the German 5 and the lawyer who instigated the trance to begin with, that I’d be punished more than enough for whatever transgression. As liberals, they could look upon this as a punishing lesson: Ugly Roman’s hypocritical betrayal for my sometimes superficial judgement and abuse of people for the way that they look and Pacocha’s sadistic thievery a punishment for my lack of better tact and sense of context in my unabashed racism.
I would tell them that I would get screwed over for having empathy for a guy that looked like a combination of Himmler and the creature from the black lagoon. That I would be tortured, the investment value of my inheritance exponentially ruined by the narrow, sadistic ethnocentrism of Pacocha, who indeed bore the same slit eyed countenance and fierce, predatory demeanor as the Brooklyn greaser Italian who said, “we don’t need no niggas around hee!”
However, for me this was not a lesson of racism to unlearn, but rather as test for my perseverance for more competent stewardship of ethnocentric praxis, as I had failed so utterly, shown in the narcissistic dupe delight in Mika’s face when she saw my pain and horror at the destruction she’d caused me, having done to me among the worst things (ruin inheritance) with among the worst excuses, “do you know wHat? you should be more tolerant” (to protect mudsharks from more direct accountability). Indeed, Pacocha and she were both narcissistic sociopaths, exhibiting a sense of superiority, dupe delight, contempt and lack of significant empathy. In fact, it was a pattern among the whole Pila community.
This was probably to be my biggest failure ever, as two narcissistic sociopaths had gotten together to give birth to a child, likely then to be a sociopath as well, birthed with the expense of the money from my father’s house. I would be terribly cucked by them (long story that needs more explanation). But they were not the big brains behind this; as unbeknownst to me, Pila was the place where the legacy, the last vestige and stronghold of the Polish version of the KGB remained in governmental power after the fall of communism.
But more than learning that framework remained behind the scenes, was the need to persevere in recognition that a Jewish hand lurked there, pulling strings, with a keen sense of psychology, instructing how to manipulate, knowing who I needed and how to turn them against me, vilifying me for my very generosity, principled accountability and loyal patriotism to my Polish kin.
Coming back to the circumstance of the Amherst Al-Anon meeting trance, it would take at least a modicum of clairvoyance – seeing glimpses into the future – to hold people there, to instill the idea that there was a message for them in this trance episode; and it would be fraught with my sometimes good/sometimes bad singing of popular songs in order to invoke a common ground – so many prosaic tunes interspersed that it had to be among the most difficult aspect to endure, held captive as they were for three hours by the phenomenon – my serenades even more trying perhaps than the few more rounds of live masturbation that I wielded before them. Again, they were in trance and the undeniable psychic phenomenon kept them from walking or running out… indeed, I have to round out the cast of characters at this meeting, several of whom had never been to this meeting before; and clearly had meaning in relation to me and this trance.
I will go briefly though the cast of characters of this meeting, in order to cover those I’ve not discussed much if at all; there would be uncanny encounters with several of them in places throughout the Pioneer Valley (Amherst/North Hampton) area in weeks following the trace.
Before going into that, I will more or less list the songs that I broke into, trying to relegate this to no more than one or two paragraphs in order to spare you, my reader, the tedium to which I subject these Adult Children of Alcoholics. Yet it is necessary to list at least some of the songs as they would bear upon events that would be happening in the future and the fact that there was a hint if not outright foretelling of things to come.
Before that, let me discuss those items that would come through / or to me during the trance of the meeting, which would in fact, come to pass in the future; as it was of course that phenomena as much as anything which held the meeting attendees captive for three hours in this anything but typical 12 Step meeting. In order to keep the Al-Anon meeting attendees beholden to the trace experience, it was necessary that some extra sensory phenomenon, i.e., seeing some occurrences in the future come through me.
There is nothing that I can recall in terms of clairvoyance that was especially significant – that would have mattered a great deal historically speaking if people could have known about it and found a way to prevent it – but then, it would not even have been predictive if they prevented it, would it? Unless you subscribe to the possibility that different fates or different variants of future junctures are possible – which may be the case, and part of the lesson.
As vivid as any event that I foresaw in the trance was the death of Princess Diana. I said that her driver would be intoxicated and crash her car into the thirteenth pole of an underpass in greater Paris. Now, while I certainly did not wish the Princess harm, she was very far from a meaningful concern to me. Quite the contrary, I found the media hype and popular hoopla about her annoying but mostly easy to ignore except where she did tend to champion liberal causes – markedly A.I.D.S, the disease of stupid and horribly irresponsible people who, in their cause, require responsible people to pay vast sums to medicalize their stupid, reckless and horribly irresponsible behavior regarding the very important act of sex. To say that she was superficial would be going soft on Princess Diana. On the other hand, while you may look askance at Prince Charles, the counter point to the Princess of pop culture, for his taste in women, il tamponini did show a sense of judgment regarding a cause befitting his royal office when he critically surveyed the modern architecture – hideous, no better than Soviet in its reverse of human significance and ennoblement – blighting London and other U.K. cities.
Identification of the UNIBOMBER was a little more murky, in that I’m not sure if I knew his name, Ted Kaczynski, but I did say that he was a Polish genius hiding in a cabin off the grid in wilderness of western Montana. I proffered sympathetically that he was disgruntled with the manner in which technology and transportation were facilitating liberals in bringing people together at rapid pace, running roughshod over ancient ecologies, including human ecologies.
“Sant-An-ge-lo-Di-Lom-bardi”
Slowly and mechanically the head of archives would struggle to read the town’s name of his own town! as I presented him a piece of paper looking for birth records from Sant Angelo Di Lombardi. This man’s retarded response to my inquiry made me realize instantaneously that my arduous trip to this adjacent Italian village would not likely offer much help in my search for family genealogical information that was destroyed with the earthquake of 1980 that destroyed my Italian family’s village and church archives along with it.
Before the Al-Anon group I would repeat his slow, retarded reading of “Sant-An-ge-lo-Di-Lom-bardi” and relate my frustration at the futility this would represent in my genealogy search. I would repeat the same reading and my somewhat insulting frustration before a group of Sicilians when I returned there in 1998, but that’s getting ahead of things. For the Al-Anon group I would add to the description of this futile inquiry my own pathetic struggle with a stomach ache and the mere act of breathing, as I gasped for the deasil fumed air on a rickety bus that made a slow, painful way through the winding roads between the villages of the Irpini mountains. In the Al-Anon group, Kathryn, the Irish girl with pretty face and ungainly body would show sympathy for my pathetic pleas for air, as she would at my desperate worry aloud that I might never have children. She made this gesture of kind sympathy, after I had earlier inthe trance brutally mocked her body, saying that she had “elephantiasis” of the ass.
Perhaps it was my shame which caused me to rise up and assimilate a gun, shooting at the various members of the Al-Anon group. While these Americans would, of course, by their experience, not react at all to what was to them a silly gesture, I would tell them that I would repeat the same gesture of standing up suddenly and pretending to shoot at the group of Sicilians that I would meet in trance with in Catania when I returned there in 1998, and their reaction would be quite different based on their experience – every one of them would show fear at the suggestion of a gun being suddenly fired at them, knowing too well that its arbitrary happenstance could well happen to them. Whereas I had, like most Americans, been filled with naïve notions of mafia Cosa Nostra honor and defense of blood ties, I would learn rather that mafia was ruthlessly loyal primarily to money and power, that would kill twenty members of a family in once instance in a Sicilian village and the daughter and young nephew of a rival mafioso in revenge, while I was there in Catania.
I would emphasize for the Americans and for the Italians, that bad as the Mafia is, and it is bad, it mainly sacrifices old men for the dirty work of cultural administration of Mafia don-ship. And bad and breach of loyalty and honor that mafia killing was, it paled by comparison to the violence of niggers in America; with Catania registering 56 murders that year, primarily mafia on mafia, while nigger Baltimore registered 364, just about one for every day of the year. And the Sicilian man who told me about the family of twenty that had been wiped out by a mafia hit, was citing this as a reason why he’d rather live in Chicago – ! Thus it was debatable, Who was the naïve one, me with my romantic, Hollywood notion of mafia loyalty and honor to family, or him and his faith in America’s civic nationalism, its Jewish media’s depiction of the victimhood and benignness of niggers.
I would tell the Al-Anon group in the same words and tone scripted for Michael Corleone, “this is what is going to happen.”
And I would repeat the same words in my own godfather script when I met with two lady teachers from the psychology department in Palermo, “this bitch” (they would laugh) in the Catania meeting (really Aci Creale), who is “friends” with the mafia, same people who own “Club Banacher”, the dicotech that I fancy for being so cool, thinks that she is the godfather. I would take her down a notch and appoint a new don. Indeed, would not exactly acquit myself when the trance materialized, with my teary-eyed begging for forgiveness and this beautiful Sicilian woman who I insulted and accused of purporting to be the godfather, was not superficial at all. Indeed the Sicilians were much deeper than the Americans in the way that they took the trance phenomenon in stride. And this Sicilian beauty was not so superficial in her concern to protect her people and culture. The look of fear that came over her face, as if I was trying to pull a rib from her body as I told about thinking better and not prying a stone from the pathway leading to Tiberius’ Castle on Capri. She, displaying that she was not cynically all about money, happily complying to give a warm hug to Maria, the Sicilian lawyer who brought me to the meeting, who I abused mercilessly for being fat, while “the godmother” trumped the ploy of my shallow abuse that it was meant to provoke this act in gesture of sympathy and reunification of disparate fortunes in this human ecology. The group of Sicilians clapped as they hugged. I cried as I told them how I loved them, my Italian kin, how I reviled their mischaracterization by pop culture as being mixed with black African. That they were the wonderwall of Europe against such.
Still not yet disabused of over sympathy for Jews and the futile hope that they would be reliable allies, I would describe for the Al-Anon group how I would demand that the mafia put the hit on Louis Farrakhan (in their depth, they would completely ignore this as stupid). I would recommend the Jewish philosopher Richard Bernstein, describing his man-boobs (“he has big tits”); and I would tearfully describe how I would go one night to a monument to Garibaldi in the park of Catania, and scribble out graffiti that said, “Auschwitz lives” and leave instead as votive offering at its base, a denim jacket of mine that said, “Nigger, out!” on the back.
Coming back to the Amherst trance before I foray more into subsequent happenings, after I, “the godfather” said, “this is what’s going to happen”, I outlaid a sequence of events in which: I would finally abandon hopes of matriculating in Amherst and go to a house owned by my father in my grandmother’s old Italian neighborhood of Newark. From there I would write and phone the U.Mass college paper staff, trying to get “White women for sale!” published. There in Newark, I would suffer the godfatherlike indignity of having my cheekbone bruised, having been pushed to the ground (while I awkwardly held pizza in my hand) by a nigger who was made indignant by a comment I’d made to an Italian girl with a nigger boy child on another day, apparently his “son” – “Are you a racist!? You will never look at my son again!”
I responded by putting him into a double bind. Sending a note to this pizzeria where he worked, that “you, nigger, would never hit a White man again.” Thus, he would either humbly follow my orders or stupidly assert defiance and display contempt for laws against assault and risk the legalities. But with my badly bruised cheek one I would phone the U.Mass college paper from that very same street corner, and learn that they’d voted to Not publish my “White Women for Sale!” editorial. So, I would drive up to U.Mass. Amherst and plaster the “White Women For Sale!” document all over the campus. Whereupon the campus police would give me a second two year banishment from the campus. This all showing me that I could not well fight anti-White PC within America, and that I needed to take up a base of operations in my home turf of Europe.
In the Amherst Al-Anon meeting trance, I would sing the Alanis Morrissette song, “Ironic“, observing its line regarding the fate of one who died on a crashed plane flight that they’d planned their whole life for, while I would arbitrarily decide to not try to get the last remaining standby seat on a flight to Paris while on board the JFK airport shuttle bus between terminals, it’s being a flight to Paris that would take off just forty minutes before Flight 800, also to Paris from JFK, would take off. I would read about the flight 800 explosion in the newspapers the next morning upon my return to Newark.
Not to be deterred from my sense of fate, I would catch another flight more directly to Rome, from where I would follow my destiny back to Sicilian mafia club Banacher – its beauties needing my fatherhood, as they had the lowest birthrate in the world – only to find, this time, ironically, not many especially pretty women at club Banacher, but sure as the comic anti-climax of Hitchhikers’ Guide to The Galaxy would notice among the few remaining women straggling there by evening’s end, one with a silly, box shaped ass, much the same feature as Naomi, the trance interventionist, that I would mock in mean revenge for her heavy handed intervention. I broke into laughter as I commented on the irony of this Sicilian woman’s box shaped ass that fate would have me behold. And I was glad for the levity of comic relief, as the German 5 chuckled along with me.
Speaking of box-assed Naomi’s heavy handed intervention that forced self incrimination and was didactically expository of my weak points, there is a category of aspects to the trance which I am naturally not eager to discuss as it was self incriminating and illustrative of weak points of mine.
To my credit, I did have enough consciousness to push back against this, but I allowed some of it through in order to lend credence to the trance being a more public square event, prone to exposition and debate.
Hence, I allowed for what was to me a revolting message to come through, that she sends her regards and support to her friends here in Al-Anon working through their problems.
After doing a darn good imitation of Louis Farrakhan saying, “We yo fathers”, I pointed to myself, saying that I was “a demagogue like him; and it was the point of democracy to nip demagogues in the bud.”
I told the group that I would one day fight racism (which was a lie, I would never do anything so stupid).
I addressed Kim and Jim’s Jewish neighbor, the one with the nigger husband, saying how “we supported her and respected her prerogatives.”
But this one was really too much, much too false; and no sooner said than having me lash into a tirade against her.
Even so, because my protests to this self incrimination and betrayal of my true interests were both very angry and rather weak – for some reason, I was wheezing and coughing a lot – it did not tend to fully acquit myself of the self incrimination. But at least I did resist.
Occasionally I was stupid in silly and obvious ways. The German 5 had a good laugh as I fumbled with basic math and physics. The whole group laughed when I mistook the singer, Sade, as a woman who should be considered White, or White enough. I might have said before, that I am still embarrassed to think that I touted my aunt’s union with a Jewish man as having produced and gifted a “Jewish genius for the world.” I would see that I would retrieve my Italian grandfather’s World War I U.S. Army records, and pronounce that I am no longer a “W.O.P.” – “Wthout papers” having been a derogatory term for Italian Americans at one time; and it was as corny as it was anachronistic for me to invoke this petty warrant of my civic place and rights in America. And perhaps most pathetic was me sitting there and sadly crying in despair at what liberalism had done to our people; that I might never have children, that I might get fat when middle aged, that I might have this or that health problem. I would push my hair back to reveal my Richard Nixonesque male pattern baldness, which can make me look bad in a funny way, when I arrange my hair that way. Indeed, Jenna would raise her eyebrow in skepticism if she could find such a man attractive. But mostly the group was if anything more sympathetic than they should have been to my pathos; and did not seize heavily upon self incrimination. They could have skewered me – pulling the Freud on me of ‘unconscious wish” – when I confided that I had viewed interracial porn and not let me get to the point that I wanted to confront the competition, learn how not to be beaten by it and be done with it, no longer watch it.
There was a twenty something Anglo-Saxon guy, a graduate of political science studies and not the sort that seemed burdened with troubles of the Al-Anon kind. Indeed, he took everything in stride, with amazing calm and detachment. It’s one thing for women to put up with a guy jerking himself off before a group, in a way it takes even more grace for a man to not let it bother him. Knowing that he’d become disillusioned with the Republican party that he’d once worked for, I tried, rather pedantically to bring him around and gains support for Bob Dole, as I really hated Bill Clinton. And so I held up a coin, saying that the Republicans and Democrats were flip sides of the same liberal coin, turning on Lockeatine individual rights to the detriment of our group patterns. But especially as both parties operated on the same basis, he should advocate Dole for the sake of Whites. Now, I imagine that I did not teach him much and he let my pitch role off his back, as did the nation which would, unfortunately, go on ot elect Bill Clinton for a second term.
I guess that I may as well continue rounding out the cast of characters, as it were, the people who were at this Al-anon trance in Amherst. As I said, Kim and her husband Jim were there; very unusual for Kim to bring her husband along to a meeting. In fact, I don’t remember him ever having been to a meeting before. He had laughed uproariously when I pushed back on the White female miscegenating trend by joking that “black women were the best tasting.” (in reality, yuck, can’t even imagine it). But I told him that in the future we would be attending a last minute re-election rally for Bill Clinton (who Jim liked) in Springfield, Mass. and while we watched the floundering piece of shit being introduced to the crowd various pop songs would be played, among them, “Macerina“, which would signal Bill Clinton’s inaugurating of increased puerile insolence in license for miscegenation. When we attended the rally indeed and the song was played, Jim gave me an incredulous look.
It always strikes me as very strange and very wrong when I hear younger White folks speaking of the 1990’s as “the last good decade” or “not that bad yet.” On the contrary, PC had reached a crescendo and there was no internet, so platform for resistance at all, let alone to be de-platformed from.
True to their Christian faith, following its passive tolerance and liberal trajectory, though perhaps troubled by the concomitant cultural destruction, grateful for having encouraged Kim to have a child, in some sense needing my mutual support, perhaps wanting to assimilate some of my conservative talking points but more on balance to liberalize me in line with their Christian altruism, Jim and Kim would actually take me in to live with them when I had to move out of 19 Hobart. And that worked out amicably enough until one day after the trance they brought over their Jewish neighbor, the one with the Negro husband. Thinking that they were going somehow reconcile me to this and improve relations they were instead greeted by me doing a loud, profanity laced parody of Martin Luther King. Mortified, Jim would require me to leave by morning and that is when I would go to live in the North Ward of Newark for a while, where my father owned a couple houses.
Jenna, the very pretty French girl, a stated ideal of mine, who coincidentally was at this meeting that she never came to, would, as I said, fix on my eyes as she exited the meeting, agreeing to our union in another life time in exchange for my pledge for the continuance of her kind. However, I would forget that the deal was for another life time, and be prompted to somehow chase after her, making an irrational trip back to Amherst when I heard the Jenna 8675309 song on the radio. Of course I did not find Jenna at any meeting but Kim and Jim would be delighted to find me on the street near campus and take me in once again for a few days, believing that I would be transformed in accordance with a statement that I’d made in the trance, that “I would fight against racism” or something like that. They would find that wasn’t true, but they were impressed by the trance phenomenon enough, as anyone would be, to not dismiss me easily.
This was after I would somewhat boldly if not irrationally, follow a combination of Jim’s advice that I pursue life in Europe, as he diagnosed my aspirations as decidedly un-American, advice compounded by trance suggestion, that had me flee to Italy for six months from August 1995 to February 1996 and then even more irrationally by post hypnotic suggestion to be prompted go again to Italy (and then Poland for the first time) from July 1996 to October 1996. But those are stories for the for the next post. I have to finish up telling about this Amherst trance, its cast of characters, subsequent happenings and phenomenon in the Amherst area segueing into occurrences in Newark, N.J.
Living in Newark was sandwiched in-between my trips to Italy in 1996. As I said, I would make an irrational trip to Amherst singing Jenna, Jenna 8675… the whole while in pursuit of my fate, only to be happily greeted by Jim and Kim who’d be entertained by tales of my adventures. They would take me in for a few days after my second trip to Italy as well, when the return and post hypnotic suggestion had me arrive in Boston and then pass through Amherst. That was when we attended the Clinton last minute campaign rally in Springfield, Mass.
In making these swpl middle class rounds with Kim and Jim, we would come across two of the (Jewish) Amherst, trance attendees at “Whole Foods,” a massive upscale supermarket on Amherst’s outskirts. One was the homely, dirty blond haired Jewish who sort of liked me and sat to my right during the trance. I don’t remember what she said, but she greeted us and would have said something friendly but mildly suggestive of her appreciation for “diversity.”
Whereas, “coincidentally”, the Jewish incest victim was also there, and I could tell that she got on the check out line behind us, even though she was not finished her shopping, but was rather obediently (“you will be obedient to me”) following post hypnotic suggestion that she would stand behind me with head bowed in submission; acknowledging that she would like to suck my cock and bear my children, she was appreciative that I found her having enjoyed sucking her father’s cock more erotic than offensive; and if it sounds as if I got off on this sexual provocation a little, it’s because I did.
She was /is a cute lady, reminiscent of the “Adriana” character played by Talia Shire in “Rocky.” I spent the early part of the trance with a crush on her, telling her how I loved her until I followed it with a loud fart that brought uproarious laughter and ruptured any pretense of sincerity; following that, in fact, with a savage expression of the will to tear her up if she, fucking Jew, dared to try to impose niggers upon my people. Until then, however, I played a little cat an mouse with her, like Rocky, to the shy, pet shop attendee, “I always knew you was pretty”, behind her frumpy glasses and attire. Her head would peak up, like an involuntarily stimulated clitoris, I would say, with these more gentle remarks, as it would with those sexual remarks a bit more fresh, to remind her, that the godfather expects her to show respect for the Italian culture that her Ashkenazi genes passed through on their way to infiltrating, if not infecting Europe in their Rhineland base. Thus, she would peak attentively when I would say to her, in premonition:
"Seniorina, avera pantaloni nienta."
It means, “young miss, you are not wearing any underwear.” And in the trance, I would utter this provocative phrase in Italian, as I would experience it being said by a classically sexually aggressive Italian school boy to an Italian school girl (who laughed it off) a few meters from where this photo was taken in the park in Catania, Sicily, some weeks or months after the Amherst trance.
Oh, I almost forgot. At the same episode at the Whole Foods supermarket, the young, chicken-necked, Anglo woman, with short blond hair, who sat two chairs to my right during the trance, was there. She recognized me and talked worriedly about me with somebody that she was with. She had incurred my wrath during the trance in two different moments. One time laughing uproariously when I mentioned all the great achievements, cathedrals and so on that had been accomplished by the sublimating modestly sized White weenie. Another was the time when I set up Lucia, the Italian girl, then smacking her down for being such a dog, with everyone laughing, including chicken neck, that we should put a paper bag over her head, as I pointed to Lucia. I guess that I figured who the hell was she to be laughing so uproariously at other people’s physicality, when she had this receded chin, chicken neck. And I lambasted her brutally for it.
I tried to save dignity a bit by stating that there were probably men who don’t mind it, or even find the frumpy look a bit kinky for its sexual unlikelihood. Fortunately perhaps, the lawyer guy who instigated the trance, stepped up and said that he liked this look, mitigating the cruelty. We were all relieved and then he asked what I thought of him. Betraying the call for tactful decency once again, I announced, “you’re no spring chicken!” which brought uproarious laughter once again. I cushioned the blow, however, by saying that just as I was a bargain basement Howard Hughes, he was a bargain basement Robert Redford. And in fairness to chicken neck for perhaps laughing in a glass house, she had apparently fallen deeply into the trance. My singing “What if god was one of us? Yeah, yeah, yeah!” brought her to an expression of euphoric revelation, and this was not even one of the songs that I was singing before it came out; it was quite commonly played all over popular radio and T.V. Still, while I am loath to place too much interpretation on the trance, even refused to join the others in proclaiming this an expression of god in any conventional sense beyond patterns, this song did seem to be central in the suggestion that we could get a profound god message through ordinary slobs like me.
And speaking of sappy popular songs that were on the radio at the time, I would altercast this to soothe the German 5 after having roughed her up for her physicality;
But as with all aspects of the trance’s deep ambiguity, the German 5 was nor merely placated by the soft music or the potential held out for a future world where it might be legitimate fore her to suck her father’s cock. I was able to see another vision into the future, of a man, more like a boy, that I would come into circumstance with, who looked like the Beatles first drummer, Pete Best (handsome but needing replacement by the better drummer, Ringo Star). This would be an Italian, quite literally, who came over to work in America and would be working on a house that my father owned in Newark, where I would stay after leaving Amherst. I can’t honestly say that I knew this Pete Best look alike would be the German 5’s man in the next life, but she seemed more than satisfied with the deal when that’s what I promised her – she said, “perfect.” When I did meet this boy, we talked honestly about women and things, how America tends to wreck women and so on; he agreed, “you got that right. Italian women are not the same here.”
Still under the illusion that Jews were misunderstood and should be very powerful allies, I argued with him and ostensibly won for my verbiage, even if insufficient understanding; saying that blacks were the only real problem. He withdrew from argument, believing that he was not up to my level of knowledge yet. But before his withdrawal, he had said, “I don’t want nothing from Jews. You can’t trust them. And I don’t need their women! He added enthusiastically, “I like German women!” That I would experience this man that I’d seen in trance and that he would say these things, I can attest to, that he would go on to be the German 5’s man, I have no real idea.
A further note on this Italian guy and a stereotype that I freely admitted to the group, that Italians were particularly jealous of women (even where I was not interested in one of his paramours) and too quick to fight. “You thought that you could fool a Corleone?” I asked him, as he thought that I was messing with my friend Denise, the half Puerto Rican half Italian (realtor, whom my father employed to sell the house along with Anthony, whom he employed to paint it in preparation while I preferred to read “the Godfather” etc.) whom he was sleeping with in competition with a Muslim man whom Denise met in Sweden (yes).
Anthony (I think was the name of our Petr Best look alike) was put at ease by the machismic Italian culturism, but nevertheless a rather pronounced case of Italian assertion, frantic that I was another pair of toes (“I counted another pair of toes”) as those he’d spotted through Denise’s blinds, protruding from out of her sheets a few nights before. While I brushed him aside as a cultural ally, his assertion landed him in jail during the very time that I knew him, as he stabbed a man “for acting like a jerkoff”, said something about his mother or something. Luckily for him, the guy lived through intensive care. Maybe that kind of loadstone was what he needed for humble appreciation of the German 5 and her calm intellect. And indeed, I wouldn’t say that she was less attractive than Denise.
But I digress. Back to trance characters at Amherst. Just to wrap up the German 5, as I said, at the end of the long trance, she would converse with the lawyer who instigated the trance, obviously agreeing with him to back off and let me be on to my fate.
Returning to the cast of characters at the Al-Anon meeting, so to speak cast of characters, as there were some people at this meeting, which I regularly attended, who I’d never seen at this meeting before; thus lending a sense more than uncanny, but of synchronicity – meaningful “coincidence.” As I’d mention, Jenna, the beautiful French girl that I was enamored of, was never at this meeting before; I’d seen her at North Hampton meetings, bot not at this one. There were the two blacks that I’d mentioned, who left after I berated them in the early part of the meeting; never been to this meeting before (or any Al-Anon meeting that I’d ever been to); there was Kim’s husband Jim, who did not usually accompany Kim to meetings. And there was their Jewish lady neighbor, the one with the colored husband, who I’d never seen at this or any other meeting. Finally, I had a vague sense that the ancient (((Harold Raush))), a therapist that I was seeing at the time, had a hand in orchestrating the trance; and had escorted the colored couple there; also gave word for Kim and Jim’s miscegenating Jewish neighbor to come.
Oh, I almost forgot in the way of my “didacticism” for the uncanny cast of characters; there was the turban headed, toga wearing Muslim woman who I might have seen once or twice at this meeting – if that; but she was the same one who gave me a sympathetic, very fearful look when she sensed my sense of hopeless despair as I looked out the window in disillusionment to the distant clouds from the campus center meeting, a “feminist brown bag lunch”, where a pretty White girl was saying that White women needed to take initiative against the White male patriarchy and no longer look to black women for guidance and leadership.
An earthy crunchy granola type White girl with dread locks, gave me the same look of empathic fear at that brown bag lunch. I can’t remember if she was at the Al-Anon trance meeting or any other Al-anon meeting that I’d been to; I don’t think so, but maybe.
But the (White) Muslim woman was definitely there. And while I had already explored Christianity deeply enough to reject it and its universal Abrahamic god – a Jewish trick – and was thus prepared to reject her spearhead in this meeting, the suggestion that this was all an expression of the universal, Abrahamic god, about bringing us all together; I cannot say that I was articulate in my denunciation of Islam to her; anything but. Ok, there was the first war against Iraq. But Islam was an Israeli, oilman, business and economic problem, maybe, not a personal problem for me, certainly not interesting to me – right from the get go, with its sterile lack of organicism and human form in its aesthetics to its sour moan in call to prayer for a bunch of dopey seeming adherents, it held no interest to me; there was no personal reason to become articulate about it, even for the sake of criticism; I already had the sense that a new moral order could and should be forged for Whites/European peoples, including a new sense of the sacred and the profound significance of an option to commit to life-long monogamy.
Thus, while I might be embarrassed about the cliched and hackneyed insults I levied at “turban head” and her “gutter religion” (turning Farrakhan on his head), I am satisfied to have rejected the “knowing” laughter from the group, that it was a particularly understood Abrahamic god that spoke through this trance. I explicitly rejected its universalism for the sake of supporting people to defend their kinds against it. And this Muslim woman was indeed spearheading the attempt to assert the Abrahamic god, pushing back with aggressive gestures as I berated her and Islam in an otherwise not very intelligent way. Most of what I knew, or rather sensed of Islam came from discussion of “The Nation of Islam”, the radical black ideology spoken of by Malcom X, who said that its leader, “the honorable Elijah Muhamad proclaimed that the black man would rule.” No thanks! Nor was I moved by his conversion to a more conventional Islam upon pilgrimage to Mecca; with its joining cause, black and White, coming together with men of the bluest eyes. Again, no thanks!
From time to time throughout the trance, I would mimic Farrakhan saying “we yo fathers.” And I’d be quick to reject his call for Whites to have respect as such, at least in secular terms of evolution, saying rather that indeed, we evolved from monkeys, differentiating some 35,000 years ago to become progressively more distinctly human ever since and we do not want to go back. I would run down the list of pejoratives that I included in the “White women for Sale!” posting: that they had something of an atavistic hegemony that needed to be disseminated against, as it had quantified and maxed-out masculinity, creating an aggressive, presumptuous, hyper assertive kind of people; who had more sex partners, younger, more babies (I observed that the population of Nigeria was tripling), typically outside of marriage, so single parent families and attendant social problems, such as poverty and violence; a the expense of Whites, even our most sublime and precious women now; whereas they had nothing to offer in the way of equal exchange; certainly not their bubble butted, shit colored, atavistically symmetrical, presumptuous females. She is is naked? I didn’t know that the animal was supposed to have clothes on. Not attracted. You disagree? You show me exceptions, who do have pretty features? Good. You can keep them, along with their concomitant, bestial culture (like being in a monkey cage).
Brutal. Put that together with the dozens of times I made defiant sure to say the word, “nigger!” and I made my point, that I wanted no part of them, wasn’t about to be guilt tripped about slavery, a disaster of hubris that not even my ancestors had anything to do with; nor was I about to let any stupid, universalizing, Abrahamic religion impose them upon me and any other of my people who had sense enough to want to separate from blacks; to go a different way, into a separate moral/political order.
I was somewhat more articulate and experienced of the J.Q. than the Islamic question at that time, but not very (I thought that Whites were more or less jealous of Jewish success and should similarly organize in their interests); saying obsequiously that “Israel has the right to exist” and “I want Farrakhan killed for threatening my Jewish friends. I’ll get the mafia to put a hit on him” (again, when I did talk to mafia, they ignored me). It would take me until decades later, with critical ebbs and flows in-between, before I was sufficiently aware and critical of Jewish and Muslim power and influence. In fact, growing up in days between World War II and the advent of internet, it was a criticism that one almost dared not think, let alone articulate aloud, stigmatized and blocked by a Jewish controlled media and void of support that might come through the internet. In a sense I was protecting myself given Jewish power and influence and buying myself time to become articulate of what was going on.
“Only their chin” I would say, with a deliberately silly oversimplification, noting the way some blacks jaw line extends far and gracefully from their neck, to give my White interlocutors a palpable guide as to where we might cultivate aesthetic improvement among our own to reduce the lure of black exotic difference (as opposed to chicken neck to my right, for example). Oh, but I quickly came up with some other features that would help us: one of my old pet peeves being a preference for big, elegant noses, dark hair and small breasts, high cheek bones and eyes far apart, at least some times, as opposed to the standard American ideal of beautiful, i.e., blond, small nose and big boobs, all of the time. I hastened to add that the former were classic features of the demographically under represented and would-be ecologically buffering Italians. Indeed, rectifying the neglected respect for the ecological buffering of continental Europeans to protect from outsiders taking advantage of northern liberal folly, was an original point for the first trance induction back in ’85 and the mission up here; “to these North Eastern Universities, where the liberals thought that they were so smart.”
There were a couple of Italian Americans at the Amherst meeting, as I’ve addressed, not exactly for their beauty and grace, quite the opposite in both cases. In the case of one of these homely Italian American women I was straight out candid. Noting how she tortured everyone by talking seemingly to no end; every time she came to a short pause and you thought she was ready to pass for the next Al-Anon person to share, she would go on talking, and on and on. My loud candor in frustration over this brought laughter of recognition in shared truth from the group.
As ever trying to be conciliatory when I humiliate someone, I told her that next meeting she would be doing the same thing; come to what would be about her third false ending, in fact already having spoken too long, but at least this time stopping and passing to the next person to share before it got ridiculous. That happened. I also told her that I’d come upon her at another meeting (not “Over Eaters Anonymous”, though she claimed that to be her regular meeting), but some North Hampton meeting where I’d never been before and at meeting’s end, she say goodbye to me at me in Italian, “che vediamo”, in recognition of our Italian kinship as I had instructed her to acknowledge, and apparently to send me off to Italy, where I’d be going in a matter of weeks.
Speaking of that trip to Italy, which I had no plan on taking at that point in my life, it would provide another few instances of clear psychic clairvoyance, seeing into the future while here in this trance; and also in another trance prior which I’ve not mentioned – because you cannot detail everything; this post already being as protracted and long winded as the aforementioned Italian American woman.
But briefly, I would also break into spontaneous trance with the (German American Harvard graduate) psychologist that I sought to overcome Naomi’s intervention and to try to help me into graduate school myself. And while I will not detail that trance because it was relatively minor and personal (he supported me as I’d see myself masturbating in the Amherst church bathroom to build up my ego), I did see several of the things I’d see in the Amherst trance as well. Such as my watching a calm and even tempered speech given to a crowd of Italian ethnonationalists, surrounded by riot police who were not called for in a piazza in Venice. With him also, I fumbled to remember the name of the the politician made famous at the 1992 Democratic convention by saying “poor George (Bush). He can’t help it. He was born with a silver foot in his mouth!”
I proposed her name to be Millicent Fenwick, but she was actually Ann Richards. And with the same inability to remember her name in that predicted future encounter – by a narrow walking bridge over a canal in Venice – I would greet her enthusiastically as “hey! Silver foot in the mouth!” and Ann Richards would turn around with amusement, big smile on her face, “yes!” as we both moved on our way. No major psychic revelation to predict here, only that this was a predicted event, an occurrence seen, that would happen in the future. To underscore the relative trivia otherwise, I had voted for Bush, in the only U.S. Presidential election that I ever voted in; not so much because I liked Bush but because I hated Clinton, seeing him as pandering to women from the get-go.
I should render at least an additional side note to the trance I went into with the good psychologist (relatively good as a psychologist can be, in defense of his profession which I was by then more than critical of) whom I’d enlisted. Offhand, I do recall another instance of seeing into the future with him in that episode, which must have been in 1990 or 1991. I did a good job of maintaining dead-pan serious anger to leverage the humor of the fact that I would be staying in a hostel in Dusseldorf, Germany, must be 1998, and I would notice that one of the workers there, kitchen help/cleaning lady or something, was a Mulatto who had an uncanny resemblance to this German American psychologist of mine. I angrily chided my psychologist, “and if she were your daughter by a black woman, which she well looks like she could be, you would love her anyway (you son of a bitch implied)! Ever ready with disarming sense of humor, he agreed, “I sure would!” I might perhaps come back to this trance another time; but prefer to leave it for now, just noting that there was this trance and some others, some already noted as more significant than others, that occurred a few times a year since the initial trance in 1985
Back to the the case of Lucia, the other Italian American to lend a smattering of the U.N. or cosmopolitanism to the Amherst meeting as it were, my treatment did not provide so straight forward and gentle and ending as I would for the long winded over eater, as I set up Lucia like a bobo doll…knowing that she bounced back upright only in preparation to be slugged down again… much the way the male characters in the T.V. Show “L.A. Law” would be used to vent feminist venom as bobo dolls, ever ready to receive more punishment.
The Corbin Bernsen character, “attorney Arnold Becker”(bobo doll for feminist hostility) actually having been provided script lines from my “Charmed Loop of Didactic Incitement”:
I believe that I paraphrase the Bernsen character to have said, “one may be forced to treat the incitement as not that bad at worse, if not a necessary lesson or even an inspiration thus justifying the abuse.”
A “Permanent Puerile Initiate”:
The instigator(s)/others can always treat the abuse as a “lesson.”…and one may be left with little choice but to treat the didactic incitement as an experience not that bad, at worst, if not a necessary lesson or even an inspiration which takes credit for the achievement, thereby justifying the abuse in this case also
I must be honest enough to say that in this case I may be mistaken. That I merely had a vivid dream, in a beta mental state putting my words from the charmed loop of didactic incitement into the Bernsen character. However, with my department doing Public Relations for the Clinton’s and Gores; and my professor having just returned to U.Mass. after having spent a year as visiting professor of communications at U.C. Santa Barbara, it is possible that my work made its way to the screenwriters of the popular T.V. series. In addition, there were other clues to suggest that they were looking at me for script ideas – the wimp announcing his fidelity to his wife from his desk top while the entire office ignores him; the Italian boxer who is overcome with jealousy while his girlfriend goes on a sexual escapade in Atlantic City; while Arnold Becker rebuffs her, not wanting to be part of her incitement to sexual competition – but I won’t go into detail.
Back to the prosaic and homely Italian American, Lucia….whom I had made a bobo doll of my own; having reprimanded the group for laughing after I laughed, pointing to her and saying “what a dog!” .. then, “no, nobody should be abused for their appearance” …and bursting into laughter with the group once again – whap – as I laughed out, “put a paper bag over her head!”
The laugher only intensified when I ordered her to suck Bill the incestor’s dick. “I said suck his dick!” Uproarious laugher all around. Unfortunately, I did not pull off all of the interaction with Lucia with as much aplomb. Corny and rather pathetic, I said ot her tearfully, that “we had fun back in the Italian villages, didn’t we Lucia?” … I did a bit better in (somehow) ascertaining, intuiting by contextual probability that she had a big black, or partly black boyfriend. And Lucia did have an undeservedly confident demeanor which deserved to be brought down a notch. So I imitated her, “my name is Lucia, I’m an ugly nigger lover.” Though I ordered her to leave that son of a bitch! (her nigger boyfriend), I have a hunch that she might not listen to me, even though she did exhibit shame. Awkwardly, I chided her for liking big men, and said that we’ll provide her with really big men, big!, not like most Italians who were no longer good enough for her.
Despite some weak moments, she would be beholden to my command that she would be obedient to me, adherent to the profundity of my message and willing to acknowledge that sex, children and whatever other despotic requirement I would impose upon her would be obliged by her, demonstrated by submissively following my command to stay seated at the meeting’s end, alongside the virgin “rag doll” girl whom I’d spoken of earlier, who sat next to her; to acknowledge the importance of loyalty to one’s (White) people, the possibility and serious treatment of and life long monogamy. That she would remain seated extra long, with her eyes sadly fixed on me to demonstrate her submission; while the rag doll girl , in her infinite wallflower shyness, would have her head down and then pop it up suddenly in a characteristic gesture of hers, to bring her head above the water of her shyness. This time not to talk, but rather to acknowledge her obedience to me, given the message she’d received, along with Lucia. In fact, these two girls stayed there, sitting in demonstrable submission, would be the last marked speech act of the trance, following Bill the incestor’s woman giving me the acknowledging smile she’d been ordered by me to do, and Jenna the French darling standing up moments before to walk out in slow deliberation, with her eyes fixed on mine to let me know that she was with me in the plan/concern.
Although those were the final speech acts of the trance, I still need to round out the “cast of characters” and a few other things in the trance; notably to list the songs, including most of the songs and artists I’ve not yet mentioned who featured in the trance; speculating a bit about the significance; and with the content of the trance captured well enough, I can move on to discuss a bit more the uncanny run-ins with people from the trance in and about town afterward, their being somehow prepared for the encounter; and finally this will allow me to conclude the Amherst chapter; to follow the trance adventures as they take me to other parts of America and Europe.
I have raked my brain to remember as best I can the full “cast of characters” from the Amherst 12-step ACOA meeting/protracted trance, which probably lasted about three hours duration. I count at least thirty one people who I remember definitely as having been there; three or four others who were regulars at this meeting but may not have been there on this particular night; and I may have forgotten about four to six others. But I remember thirty one distinct people definitely; they could act as witnesses to the meeting and its paranormal phenomenon, that is to say if I cared a great deal whether you believe me or not. There is very little margin for error in what I’ve written and, as I see it, if you choose not to believe me I don’t really give a fuck at this point; it’s your problem.
Let me round out the cast of characters (those in attendance) with the few that I have not mentioned or hardly talked about yet.
I’ll start with “forehead.” This woman was attractive in a mature, official way, high 6 or low 7 on a scale of 1-10. She would probably show 100% North-West European on an Ancestry DNA test. Her demeanor, or posture as it were, of integrity and poised wherewithal requires some explanation as to why I would give her the demeaning tag, “forehead.”
It is because I needed some handle, any possible flaw that I could latch on to bring her down from her aloof confidence, perched, as she was, condescendingly looking down from her high horse of the liberal moral order. She had a somewhat longer than average forehead which, in truth, wasn’t really ugly or unbecoming, just a bit beyond standard range, enough to be a tiny bit awkward but only made slightly more respectable as a few faint lines began to cross it, while her dark blond or light brown hair fell straight to its sides.
So, why speak to her derogatorily as “forehead” and why the intensity of anger that I directed at her? Because, although I was not yet fully articulate (and I knew that), I was sure that my basic complaints and general prescriptions were more than legitimate, they were profoundly warranted. But by contrast, this woman displayed the most surprise, upset and aversion, posturing as if she should do, in reaction to me, what I was saying/doing by this trance.
More sure than anybody that I was “wrong”, she was first to laugh in bodacious condescension when I invoked Immanuel Kant, his moral order – particularly she laughed, of course, when I said that just because something is popular does not mean it’s right. This dismissiveness of Kant meant to me that she took it for granted, how important it was for me (or would be for anyone else in the confusing morass of post modernity) when I found his moral order as stepping stone to making coherent sense of life. We don’t have to get into how Kant is a vehicle of liberalism also; he is more a vehicle out of the trap of the liberal tradition of Christianity. And this woman was the kind to not only take for granted Kant, but readily put it aside on the hubristic advice of philosophical insiders, not concerned that it represents and important step.
But that was just one piece of her liberal hubris, the condescending smiles, the worried look, concerned that more people might go my way, not take the “clear lesson that I was to be resisted.” And so she really made me mad. I don’t think that I changed her from the kind of asshole that would vote for Bill Clinton, but I certainly put a few speed mumps in her taken-for-granteds. “The Godfather” (me) required proof of it, in fact, that she would be obedient to the legitimacy and warrant of my paradigmatic conservatism.
I was able to remember the names of very few people, not even regular attendees of this meeting, nor her, as a semi-regular attendee. but no matter to me; her name was mud. After giving her the same rough treatment that I gave any woman there that I found half way attractive; telling her that she would be obedient to me in recognition of the legitimacy of what I’d been saying, that she would admit that she would enjoy sucking my cock, and that she would acknowledge this subsequently – in this case, after an ACOA meeting in North Hampton a few weeks later, wherein SHE would remember MY name and repeat it several times in correspondence with my being OK: “OK, my name, OK, my name, OK, my name, OK, my name.”
She remained nevertheless true to her pillar of moral condescension with the frenetic repetition of this command. It was supererogatory and in fact, irritating to be reminded that something had gone down that was disturbing to her; I say reminded, albeit faintly, as it is the way of ego and consciousness, apparently, to suppress the expository ambiguity of a trance subsequent to its occurrence, as one’s psyche apparently seeks to protect the ego by suppression of memory of the trance state. Anyway, I was not pricked to consciousness more than another nudge that something uncomfortable had happened – and how I made a point in the trance at how furious that I was regarding women’s complaint about being made “uncomfortable”, the high grumble of it, while such basic, low grumbles of White men were being bled dry and ignored – nudge enough to know that I’d forced my perspective to be looked upon as legitimate, but that it was still uncomfortably enough outside of the overwhelmingly liberal mainstream in this area and of the USA, for that matter, that I’d be nudged to pursue my destiny and identify in Europe.
Another guy who I mentioned only briefly was a young, tall (maybe 6-4 or 6-5), generic looking White guy, clean shaven with with short brown hair. I would not have guessed that he was gay, but that turned out to be the case. I’d known him from the North Amherst meeting, where my personality came to take charge a bit; and the fact of that came through one time when a middle aged German American guy felt comfortable to drift over the line of standard ALANON sharing, and described his work in a trade union (dealing with black seal gas/hot water boilers, I believe); he described his dislike of having to work with a black guy who made him feel small; how he just wanted to call him a “nigger.” Then he added, “I just wanted to know how you guys felt about that.” After the meeting I shook his hand but of course I did not parlay this into anything.
Now, why do I mention this in the context of the gay guy? Because he was there as well and sort of greeted me in a tone of warning and disapproval. I now imagine his opposition to my influence over the group had more to do with a prior meeting, in which two gay guys (whom you also would not have guessed) came out to the group’ one very liberal guy who chaired that meeting said some sappy things about admiring their courage. I would have said something by contrast, either in that meeting or the next, to the effect that I didn’t think that it was something to be proud of’; that some people may have an inclination but it was proper for society to discourage it, especially for men; and I have a line of reasoning that I do not need to go into. So, that’s were the tall gay guy who happened into the Amherst trance meeting also, would have come to be somewhat at odds to me – somewhat.
Now, having been often enough mistaken as gay myself and learned the folly of trying too hard to prove my masculinity, I developed a fairly sophisticated position with regard to gays; one which nevertheless afforded latitude to mock them a bit, in display of my disapproval, especially of the men; without advocating utter condemnation and persecution. On this matter I was by this point more up to speed on a position that I could stand by than, say, on the J.Q. Speaking of which, the Jewish incest victim would gasp in despair as I would ask him with brazen candor, what he sees in another man’s asshole. I then made a ridiculous gesture of sucking a dick, which brought uproarious laughter from the rest of the group while the Jewish incest victim was practically in tears. I had not been fully attendant nor particularly concerned about how this might hurt some women, but that added another reason why it might not be something for society to endorse uncritically. Interestingly, however, as I began to unfurl my nuanced position with regard to gays, he relaxed a bit; and admitted that he could understand my position with regard to blacks. He added, however, what about Puerto Ricans?
That would be interesting also for the fact that the Jewish incest victim was manifestly upset by only one other topic besides gay men, and that was Puerto Ricans. The mere mention of the word would conjure images for her, one can imagine, of a once fine Jewish neighborhood, now rife with graffiti, garbage, arson and other crime, welfare queens and despoiled Jewish girls. So, an unlikely anti-Puerto Rican position was found between them.
While again, I was forced to take a somewhat more nuanced position. I told them that I only take a very hard line to Puerto Ricans and other so called “Hispanics” inasmuch as they are black. Puerto Ricans, for example, can be any combination of native American, black and White. Sometimes, basically, just one of those things. And just as with other so-called “Hispanics”, when they are White, I advocate them; when they are native American, I don’t see them as my in-group, but neither am I as averse tot hem as I am to blacks. Very few things make me more angry than this category of “Hispanic”, a language group, by which obnoxious Nordicists can toss some of the some of the most exquisite southern European women into this mixing category that leads to them getting sucked up into the black hole of miscegenation.
I’m reluctant to go into my spiel about homos, since I’ve had to give it many times; but since I was about as articulate then as I am now and it is an important matter in that it is not nearly as important as some people make it out to be, while it can occupy the supposedly hard line sort as a diversion from issues more important, far more worthy of angry vigilance from anyone concerned with conservatism, I’ll try to capture the spiel briefly again as I would have given it.
Biological nature, species, are about optimal balance, not maximal. You aren’t going to out-macho blacks and you shouldn’t try, what with their long pre evolved biopower having quantified and maxed out masculinity, creating a hyper assertive, presumptuous, aggressive people, sexually irresponsible, over predating and violently destructive in the day to day. This calls not for White men to be more masculine to assimilate African masculinity, but rather for a platform with a critical stance regarding the exponentially pandered to puerile female predilections within the disorder of modernity, where group classificatory bounds have been broken down for the disingenuous weaponization of Lockeatine civic individual rights over group patterns. It not only calls for criticism of puerile female predilection for the over-confident, aggressive, imperviously undaunted but also constraint thereupon in favor of a balance of male predilection for the cooperative, sensible and appreciation of refined, even symmetrical beauty, its semiotic of evolutionary advance and biological health – including sublimation of brute reproductive sexuality as opposed to optimizing intellectual sublimation.
While border control and provisions for the option of life long monogamy should be treated as a matter of utmost importance by those with authority over the social group from the top down in order to provide for individual and group autonomy and agency, some critical stance to enlist at least a modicum of choice in the matter, human agency, but also recognition that inclination for a small percentage of homosexuality probably has survival value from the ground up evolutionary standpoint as as an optimization – overtly masculine men and overly feminine women can be more than a drag, but an absolute hazard. Thus, a certain amount of “gender neutrality” in service of optimization and normalization of human priority calls for both a modicum of tolerance and criticism that they remain discrete and accountable, in order to invoke their agency and responsibility to the group’s inherited social capital.
This combination of social and moral order structuring, accountability and reasonable lenience provides the incentive structure for loyalty to hold up to the universalizing, liberal incursions perpetuated by Abrahamics (Judaism, Christianity, Islam), while they propose themselves falsely to be the proponents of moral rectification.
Hence, it is not to say that there are not good reasons to be critical of homosexuality, especially male homosexuality…
First of all, as I’ve indicated, people who go beyond the gender neutral range into gender reversal, might be seen as depriving the population of representatives in the middle range of humanity’s balancing effects and compassion for concerns that are human while gender distinction not particularly relevant. But less speculative in regard to what they might deprive the general population by going beyond the somewhat gender neutral range is that, by not being called upon to take up the challenge and rigor of heterosexual relationships, they might not develop sufficient empathy with how difficult that heterosexual relationships can be; and thus deprive the general population of a critically corrective voice against those who can be real bullies in the realm of heterosexuality; again, very feminine females and very masculine men can go beyond being a drag, they can be an absolute detriment to the population.
The result of their not being called to account to take up that challenge of a monogamous heterosexual relationship can typically be an overly liberal view and overly liberal politics. Preferring not to be called to account, as it would tickle some agency over the matter, they might rather take the liberal, objectivist view on their “sexuality” (obnoxious word, ranks up there with “lover”) that they simply cannot help it; it is merely biologically caused; no further account or argument necessary; this liberal objectivist divorce from social responsibility can then extend to having ridiculous numbers of sexual partners, irresponsibly promiscuous sex, that can spread disease into the general population; and in extending their liberal objectivist “they can’t help it” politics to the general population, will tend to be overly defensive of miscegenators – “they can’t help it”, “they’re in love”, “how could you be so hateful”, “you’re just jealous”, “it’s just natural” etc.
A lack of socially approved criticism of gays can also be a problem in that it defaults to the popular and the puerile to exercise corrective criticism and action, compelling young males, for example, to do stupid and destructive things to self and others in order to prove that they are not gay – ranging from excessive engagement in sports to the detriment of intellectual betterment, to outright unwarranted violence. Thus, in a well calibrated society, male homosexuality would be discouraged as the social default and presumed as the preference of males, who are defended as such, innocent until proven guilty; no need to overcompensate in order to prove your innocence, that you are not gay; after all, the normal male heterosexual position with regard to male homos is, well, less competition and more women for me! And, with that, a measure of tolerance for lesbianism, especially as it might be an experimental dabbling phase to appreciate one’s own prior to engaging in marriage; it would seem normal for a heterosexual male to prefer his fiancé having had a few lesbian flings in her past as opposed to having promiscuous heterosexually, let alone in miscegenation.
I hasten to add that there are gays who appreciate and advocate conservative politics; and they can be a real asset in that regard’ for example fighting against the tyranny of Muslim incursions; recognizing the need to get past that false conservatism, that tyrannizing universalism which, along with its Abrahamic cohorts, Judaism and Christianity, only calls for conservation of liberalism as opposed to judgment upon the ecological delimitation in the relative interests of praxis, the group species, re-calibration of which is the post modern turn – proper, in White interests as well.
Rounding out the "cast of characters", i.e., those who were there, in the trance with me at the Twelve Step Adult Children of Alcoholics meeting in the First Church of Amherst, July 1995.
First, let me list, by names which, in almost all cases, are pseudonyms, tags that I’ve given to people to label them while protecting their anonymity. After that, I will talk about those few who I have not said much, if anything about. And then I will talk about the interesting phenomenon – which I have already gone into a bit with some of the people – of running into some of these people, as predicted, uncannily, in times after the trance.
I can count thirty one people – 31 – who I definitely remember being there and interacting with through the trance. There may have been at most a half a dozen more, who I don’t remember or, if they were there, were not there long, not for the full trance (which probably lasted about three hours in duration); there are a few people whom I’ll mention because I associate with them with trance because they were typical attendees of this meeting but I don’t recall them being there on this particular night.
7. and 8. There were my friends Kim and Jim Mead (the only people that I’ll name); I met Kim at the North Amherst meeting. She struggled psychologically with the repercussions of an alcoholic mother and her psychiatrist advised her not to have children. I encouraged her to have a child anyway, against doctors advice and this kindled a friendship with her and her husband as I came over with ice cream and pickles upon Jim’s telling me by phone that Kim was pregnant. Jim, a microwave engineer, would carry the load as Kim continued to struggle; and they invited me to live in their spare room when things started falling apart for me in Amherst; and it was in part for mutual support; as I was up to date in helping them to make sense of this post modern stuff/situation (that was, after all, how I was able to counter the psychiatrist); while they would struggle with the mandates of their Christian tradition as they understood it, to try to bring me around, tested as they might be to see my angle when things happened like O.J. Simpson murdering his White wife, their religion required that they try to bring me around from my “racist hate.” And culminated with an episode wherein they brought over their Jewish neighbor, the one with the nigger husband and kid, to try to reconcile with me or something; that incident marked the end of Amherst.
9. Speaking of this Jewish neighbor of Kim and Jim, she was mysteriously at the trance meeting, and I’d never seen her at this or any other meeting. I remember her laughing at my joking around, in saying that I would have liked to “pear” the ass of Brenda, a high school beauty. She continued laughing along as I pretended to enjoy some of Eddy Murphy’s fart humor. Then I lashed into her something fierce, nigger loving Jew. She was a bit stunned and reacted with sad pensiveness. While I would humor hypotonic suggestion that the over seers of the trance were supportive of her; I was sure to let he know – with repeated berating – that while I humored them, I was not going to accept her – at all.
"Succo di Banana"
…almost forgot. There was yet another instance of genuine psychic foretelling, even if a trivial matter. The Jewish neighbor laughed at this, as everyone would, in fact: I was soberly and sincerely describing the day to day life that I would encounter in Salerno, Italy; providing some prices that I would find on items in the supermarket, for example, “1,500 Lira for Succo di banana.” Everyone burst out in laughter, with me catching on slightly belatedly, having been matter of factly focused on “Succo” as the Italian word for juice – thus, “banana juice”, nothing particularly funny as I went through my psychic shopping list, or so I thought.
This was not the first time that the “succo di banana” vision came through (with attendant humor). It also occurred with my good German psychologist, same trance where I saw Ann – “silver foot in the mouth” – Richards in Venice. And I’m pretty sure this vision happened in the graduate school trance as well.
10. I’ve said almost all I need to in regard to Matt, the tall, White, generic looking gay guy. His asking “what about Puerto Ricans” was a good sign that his kind might be worked with. My acquaintance with some gays and lesbians subsequently would confirm that there are some who understand the need to discriminate against Jews, blacks and of course, Muslims. However, my acquaintance with some of them would also show a pattern of irresponsible promiscuity and liberalism regard sex. But if they can discreetly go to their bars and bear social criticism, are not also pedophiles, I’m prepared to believe that a very small percentage of the population has a near irresistible inclination to that (while I don’t believe that sex is a need, affection comes close to a need); and that it would not be extant if it did not have some survival value to group patterns.
11. The Islamic garbed White Muslim woman was there. I had known her from the feminist brown bag lunch, reacting to me in abject fear for my utter disillusion with the White female feminist who stated that their agenda against “White male patriarchy must transcend their reliance on black women to lead the way.” I had never seen this White woman at this or any other Al-Anon meeting and thus, her being there for this occasion strikes me as meaningful as in the case of Jenna; but as with the caseof Kim’s Jewish neighbor in particular, the “cohencidene” struck me as being in Jewish interests, as I was inarticulate as yet regarding the J.Q. and Islam, thus could be said to be “didactic” in my less that intelligently organized lambasting of them.
There was also a White man who converted to Islam apparently at the behest of an Iranian wife. I don’t think that he was at this particular meeting but I knew him as a regular to this and other Al-Anon meetings around; and he was in the vibe. He surprised me once by accosting me in a downtown Amherst café, grabbing me by lapels and demanding respect for the convictions of him and his wife, having apparently sensed my skepticism. Surprised and not interested in Islam in any way (to me, it’s boring and sterile in its lack of human and organic imagery; that is why I was inarticulate of the religion and angles of criticism), I made him back off by assuring him that he’d misunderstood, that I was prepared to back off direct antagonism of his and his wife’s choice. I’m pretty sure that he was at the next Al-Anon meeting there at The First Church of Amherst and manifest an interesting phenomenon of catharsis that I’d observed in all others that I lambasted in trance. They emerged a calm, confident, renewed manifestation of their best self in essence.
Doofy giant woman: I won’t put number 12 before her name, as I am not sure that she was at the particular trance meeting, though she might have been. She was a regular at this meeting and I would have found a way to make her feel the nub of my anti-anti-racist politics, as she had the nerve to use her turn to talk one time to say “how worried that she was for those couples in interracial relationships.”… I talked to her briefly after a meeting subsequent to the trance, and the giant doofball – she must have been 6-2, maybe 6-3 – looked down on me with an air of advantage and subtle mockery which added to my dislike – I say dislike because this oaf, with her thick glasses, limp brown hair and clumsy body was too pathetic for contempt. Though perhaps I should reconsider, as this type may be quite dangerous.
12. Speaking of unbecomingly tall women (though not that tall, maybe 5-10), with doofy, graceless form, there was another Jewish woman at the meeting however impossible to look upon with anything like contempt; she was simply too friendly; and with that, most eager to treat the trance as a participatory, healing event: her curly black hair jiggling as she would quickly raise her hand to volunteer her identity as Jewish and related to holocaust victims. A bit more on her friendly wish to treat this as a healing episode when I discuss my brief encounter with her among the uncanny encounters of those in the trance who I saw again in days following.
13. Missy, whom I’d only briefly mentioned before. While I had said that there was a three way tie for second place in attractiveness, my assessment of “attractiveness” was based in my needs, never having been a cuck, I was not especially interested in this single mother despite the fact that a general vote may well have her voted the most attractive woman of the group; this Anglo lovely maybe garnering an “8.” If I had been more calculating, perhaps a sociopath…
Missy was a woman with whom I had contact prior to Al-Anon, as she was the secretary to the lesbian (unbeknownst to me) psychologist, Sally Freeman, who worked in The Berkshire clinic of U. Mass, Amherst. After I had learned that not only had Barnett Pearce, who I moved to Amherst to study with, left to take a teaching post in Chicago; but also his partner in C.M.M., whom I’d begun to talk to in lieu had gone on exchange for a year to U. Cal. Santa Barbara, Sally Freeman was the only remaining faculty on campus who used the C.M.M. theory that I was interested in studying; thus, all roads seemed to lead to Sally Freeman: She worked with C.M.M. theory; she was a psychologist, thus might help council me through a monumental transition from what was really an academically unprepared background to a rigorous, world formidable graduate school program; and finally, she was a feminist, familiar with this literature that I was investigating whereas, surprisingly, nobody else in the Communications Department was familiar with the feminist literature: hence, at one point, all roads seemed to lead to Sally Freeman; that is, until I tried talking to her twice and then tried to talk to her again… taking tangential note of her pretty secretary, Missy, of necessity, as I tried to make my way through this obstruction that I had thought was a road to an equifinal destination…
Staying with the Sally Freeman issue for a moment, whereas I had thought that she must be empathetic to the plight of White men in America, the overwhelming need for a platform in their defense against the torrents of disingenuous PC feminism and anti-racism unleashed against them – building to a crescendo after thirty plus years of saturation – and especially since I had nicely conciliatory ways of integrating feminist and traditional women’s concerns with White male interests, I was profoundly disillusioned with her response and her stone-walling.
To begin with, I set about discussing the article that Barnett had sent me, the one on “The Problematic Practices of Feminism;” co-authored by a student who synchronistically had the same name as my feminist bitch first girlfriend who laid my mind to waste and necessitated this whole inquiry of mine. While that article diagnosed a crucial dilemma that feminists could wield over even well meaning men, viz., that they could be “found guilty” of being either a “wimp” or a “pig” no matter what recourse they took, thus sorting a crippling dilemma not just for me, but I dare say for the multitude of decent men, Sally expressed sullenness over the article, saying that she didn’t like it, citing the article for “stereotyping” by using an example of a certain type of woman who wears masculine clothing, lumber jack shirts or business suits, or something like that – that she would obstruct what could be such important information for normal guys on the basis of such a trivial objection was just the beginning of my frustration with her.
Mind you, this was after she had initially been enthusiastic about me. But, I guess after she read some of what I was looking into and realized that I was not going to go along with the full feminist program, her range was a steady glum. with a blip of indignation, a dash of trivializing and scarcely helpful resignation, following a psychological “gotcha” trick.
She had at first mistook me for a pro-feminist, liberal anti-racist.
But I could not help but react angrily when she referred to this (1991 America) as a “patriarchy” and I lashed back that “I think that we live in a matriarchy!” Then she would pull a psychological trick that in a moment would have me reveal more of what I thought, but not just yet, that I thought that we live in a female, mulatto supremacist tyranny; with first by responding in earnest dismay, “what are you talking about?” … I angrily lashed back in equally dismayed earnest, “what are you talking about? what are you talking about? She got up out of her chair and began walking the other way from me; this somehow induced me to make a few counter arguments against my position (th trick), but when she turned to face me, I quickly regained form, and the look of wry “gotcha” on her face returned to disappointment.
She would say that she is glad that I am working with the other C.M.M. professor, that maybe there would be a woman in the department that I could relate to (which really annoyed me; it’s the old, ‘he’s only complaining because he isn’t getting laid” trivialization) and that “this department, with a qualitative approach, would never exclude someone with a minority opinion”, which totally outraged me; the idea that I was supposedly representing an obscure and fairly absurd opinion and that PC was not torturing and destroying White men in broad pattern.
I broke down, into trance, but not of the psychic kind, of the chthonic type, emerging with the slime of the deep, exactly as I had with Naomi, my first final grammar broken, I was relieved of responsibility, as I could not reason with this person and their backers, so fell into primeval hysteria, laughing hysterically, “I can’t be treated like a human being, ha ha ha! The only thing that they care about are fucking niggers! ha ha ha! I’m not a tall, generic looking kraut, their only admissible alternative, ha! ha! ha! I would suppress this trance from consciousness; and would greet Sally with enthusiasm as I happened upon her in a local supermarket some days later, thinking that we understood each other on mutually supportive terms. She was in sad despair as she acknowledged my effervescent greeting, attending to her groceries at the checkout …the same check-out where months later, I would see a beautiful blond, touring stripper /some famous porno star (I think Victoria Paris), with a nigger boyfriend.
In weeks to come I would try several time to talk to Sally Freeman again, and would, of course, have to deal with her secretary, Missy, who was nice enough; more than pretty enough; but I was neither calculating, cunning or confident enough to pursue her, nor superficial enough to be placated as such, to pursue Missy, following the “he’s just angry because he can’t get laid angle.”
But indeed Missy would be a regular attendee of the Amherst First Church Al-Anon meeting; and she would send a strong “go signal” to me, saying that she “put out candles, hoping for the right man to come into her life”…and while I was appreciative that she noticed that I cut a handsome figure with my three piece custom suit; when it came to the trance meeting, I am afraid that I lambasted her; basically saying that she must be crazy thinking that I’d ever be a cuckold teaming up with a single mother. Finally, that I’d better not see her with a nigger; which I would do in a few weeks to come; more on that when I talk about the uncanny encounters after the trance.
14. Perhaps the next trance attendee that I should discuss more would be Sandy, the intimidatingly confident and intelligent Jewish woman, “age 37, in my prime …tell me the name of the step that we’re doing today”… too confident to be neurotic about not having memorized them after all this time in Al-Anon. She falls in line with Missy a bit by being respectful that I was up to date philosophically through my university connections; but beyond Missy, for the vanguard of her Jewish perspective, she would be appreciative that I was taking the post modern turn against the prejudice against prejudice; what with Farrakhan and Tony Martin in town; with miscegenating alpha Jewesses betraying their own; she, as much as the Jewish incest victim, believed that this trance was serving her interests; her arms folded, she didn’t mind my prodigious farts, treating the pheromone as of a warrior on her side.
Like the other Jewish woman who raised her hand in the air of participation, Sandy raised her hand to acknowledge that she’d lost her grandparents in the holocaust. She was forgiving of my very crude analogy of her being like a Hannah Arendt type, starving in Auschwitz, sucking cock, like a baby sucking a bottle for dear life; but in her case, for the life of her people.
When I stood up in a growling, hesitant, slow creep, then sudden leap to mimic the style of White wild dogs ganging up in attack on the giant nigger beast, a gesture4 which horrified Missy …Sandy said, “perfect”, understanding the dangerous biopower of niggers and appreciating the fact that something had to be done.
However, as I brutally – brutally – lambasted the Jewish incest victim after she laughed, thinking that I had submitted to black sexual dominance; after I brutally lambasted Kim and Jim’s Jewish neighbor, the one with the nigger husband; and finally, after I ridiculed her face, slightly negroid lips, Barnabas (Babes Toyland) like, witch face, bulbous nigger ass, all tell tale Jewish features, wryly adding, “you thought you could fool a Corleone?” …she would begin to gather that neither I nor this trance was necessarily preoccupied with her interests. If Jews were going to bring niggers to bear against my people, then I’d be happy for them to die in Auschwitz all over again as far as I’m concerned. And I told her that I’d see her again, and she’d be forced to recognize that as not necessarily a problem in itself, even if it angrily disappointed her best hopes for this phenomenal occasion and me, as medium.
15. The next person that I should mention is Dave, the former heroine addict. His face heavily pock marked by acne, but a ruggedly handsome man, I would learn that he was half Italian and half Jewish. He had a slow, clumsy and mechanical way of talking in a thick, Boston accent; and while you learn through experience to be careful not to treat these kinds of signs as a clear indication of stupidity, I could not help but think he had no chance for Sandy, whom he said he was interested in when I asked him once, outside the meeting whom he might be interested in among the Al-Anon attendees. Dave, a jock, helped me compose the all-time White baseball team, at that time including Jews, as they “looked huWhite” to me still. Along with Sandy Kofax and Ryne Sandberg, we’d include “Tom Seavah” (Boston accent for Tom Seaver), but Hank Greenberg, great a hitter as he was, not as good as Lou Gehrig, sorry. To non-Americans, this baseball stuff may seem totally ridiculous, but for Americans, it is a means of bonding. Other than his saying that “mom Irene” should have a “bigga” black cock to placate her, hinting at Jewish uncaring, I experienced him as quaint and cooperative, even if overboard in that instance. Dave was the one who, early on in the trance, would respond in his Boston accent, that this was “weadah” (weirder) when I asked him, what was weirder, heroine or this trance state? Dave would be another that I’d encounter uncannily after the trance.
16. Another woman there that I should mention in terms of being sympathetic to my racial politics and emotional circumstance was the German American who looked like tennis player Martina Navratilova’s sister. That is, having a sort of Asiatic eye, as some East Germans seem to do. This was terrible, as the poor girl liked me, and made plain in several instances; she was clearly frustrated as I came unglued in trance, struggling to implore me to keep myself under control so that I could matriculate into the graduate program and exercise social influence. I also knew her to be empathetic to me as she too had an alcoholic mother and knew how fucked up American women could be, and how this was an under criticized group.
Despite this empathy, liking me as a potential husband even, I was enormously cruel to her, shouting that she was ugly, repeatedly calling her “ass eyes” in contempt of her Asiatic eyes.
Though terrible, embarrassingly wrong of me, it was a bursting forth from my family’s bad means of trying to socialize me – through force, ridicule and obligation first of all, rather than conversation among a range of legitimacy.
First of all, in this cruelty, I was rebelling against the cruel obligation of my mother and sister. I hated the hatred of my mother and sister with regard to my having physical preferences among women, and the psychological/intellectual handicaps they would try to apply to me for doing so. If a woman was nice, but I rejected her because I did not find her attractive, this would arouse a shrill hatred in my sister with which she was very intimidating. This contributed much to a horrible intentional oscillation in me with regard to women, as I was overwrought with ambivalence for the mental persecution. I would finally secure a measure of innocence and stability in my motives with regard to partner selection by stating simplistically that I was willing to take my equal on 1 to 10 scales of emotional, intellectual and physical evaluation.
But it was not just my sister that made selectivity difficult to fathom. Both of my brothers mocked the idea of a qualitative, selective approach to women and sex (let alone sacralizing), inciting an irreverent, rather vulgar and profane, less discriminating attitude toward sex, which was also the overwhelming script which American society prescribed for men. I would embarrass myself many times as I would try to assimilate my brother’s vulgarity. There was no popular concept of the sacred. How many times had I embarrassed myself, or should I have been embarrassed, trying to assimilate my brother’s sexual vulgarity because I thought it was the cool way to be. It wasn’t me and I had no natural feel as to when it was semi appropriate to play around with. It would take a life time, really, to flush this inauthenticity out of my system, the idea that it was unmanly to not want to fuck any half way respectable woman just because she has a vagina. That might have been an ok disposition for my brothers since they were not as handsome as I and thus had less chance for some of the finer beauties and responsibility for their stewardship. Having that vague sense of stewardship, however, I was made more than uncomfortable my my brother’s profane, celebrative and demotion of the discriminatory importance of sex in a society rife with niggers and wan overwhelming taboo, the greatest sin being to discriminant against them, White women often being the police enforcers of this rule against discrimination, “racism.” And in yearning for correction, I would embarrass myself in another way, by going through a Christian phase, this Jewish red caping of our moral order being the only recourse that I knew of; though I had, by the mid 1980’s already begun to float the idea of a need for a new secular moral order, one which would offer an option for life long monogamy and sex as sacrament. I would remain alone at sea with that one for a life time, going from being mocked on “L.A. Law” to being stupidly told by the asshole knowns as Guessedworker that you can’t start a religion in your garage” as if I was trying to start one in my garage, by myself, the way this mechanical idiot thinks everything has to be done, and as if a religion is not socially constructed, when of course, they all are.
In terms of quality of selection, another stabilizing factor, enabling more social grace would come by the simplistic device of “not my type.” Rejecting people can sometimes be harder than being rejected, but in saying “not my type”, you are not destroying people, not pronouncing yourself as making an objectively incontrovertible assessment either. Thus, in the end, I was able to mollify the situation somewhat by saying that she was like Martina Navratilova’s prettier sister – pretty, but not my type.
However, there was a yet deeper matter at work in the intense cruelty that I directed at this young woman. She was manifesting a tendency that I despised in girls/women, and quite rightly so; their attraction to cruelty and obnoxious aggression and assertion in men and their perpetuating of that and its consequences over society. Their selection of this kind of man together with the relatively vain, high grumbles on the hierarchy of motives, compared to the all but ignored low grumbles of males on the hierarchy of motives, made a misogynist of me through my teens and twenties, with a dirty, societally kept secret: that I had good reason to be a misogynist. It was a wonder that there were not more serial murderers of women; and no wonder that women do not complain more about the surprising existence of this phenomenon; as they know that they, as women in America, are getting away with murder in the context of their being pandered to from all sides, with weaponized “civil individual rights” destroying group barriers that would otherwise instantiate means of accountability to social capital.
I ridiculed her for liking bad men, like Tommy Fortunato, who my high school friend, Erik Stadtlander’s sister took up with to my disgust. And so the godfather told her what was going to happen. In this case I will go directly to the uncanny meeting in days after the trance.
As per her instructions from the godfather (me), we would happen to be walking on the sidewalk across from the church, coming toward each other; she would have the same smile on her face, showing that she liked me and expecting reciprocation. As usual, I would only be a bit puzzled in my response because, well, she was not my type. She would show me that she had learned not to try to pursue and obsequiously ingratiate the man who would be cruel to her and disposed to irresponsibly use women that he did not respect, by a gesture of her arms, crossing each other back and forth, saying “no, this is out.”
And then I would see her again at a bar in North Hampton, the same bar where two unseemly instances had occurred that I mentioned before. The first instance was when I was at this bar and the only other three customers there where a guy who I recognized as a sportscaster from the area T.V. station, Jewish, obviously, though a handsome man. He was seated at the small end of the bar, near the door. To my right, at the bar were two blond girls; one was a bit average but the other was a thoroughbred of the jock type – very pretty and healthy, showing it in her spandex, bright sneakers and a ball cap at her extreme ends. But if I had learned anything from my sister and other shrill feminists; hell, from traditional women applying their rigor, that the only way for a guy lacking in confidence as I was to prove his innocence, was to do his best to pretend that he didn’t notice a beautiful woman, let alone have the nerve to approach her. And so I did that, hands of, eyes to my beer. Then, of course, in walks nigger right up to them, puts his foot on the bar stoop right next to the pretty one, asserting his claim on her, while she greets him with beaming smiles and the other one does too, jumping with receptive delight.
They didn’t have a problem ignoring me though I quickly turned up the heat of my consternation; however the Jewish sportscaster did notice my display and showed worry. I quickly finished my beer and stormed out, making sure he’d hear a few choice words from me on my way out.
The other incident that occurred at this bar, or should I say, outside its front door, was one evening as I approached… I noticed a nice brunette, no movie star, but very nice, the kind I would have liked a hundred times to have as my woman, quite nice, pretty… being escorted toward the bar by this little, five foot nothing nigger, who had nothing discernable going for him other than dapper attire and the usual surfeit of nigger confidence as he approached the bar, “ah choose this”, his White escort pleased, as if this nigger’s choice was something that should matter. Though I had been headed toward that bar as well, I decided not to go in; I did not need any altercations involving the police; this was not long after my hearing in the nearby North Hampton Courthouse for “Disorderly Person” outside The Pub in Amherst.
Anyway, a week or two after the trance, I went to this same bar and what did I see among the bar, not very crowded but not empty either and no niggers? There was Martina Navritoliva’s prettier German sister once again, following the Godfather’s directives. In a booth, smiling contently as she saw me walk in, she was with a handsome man, not tall, just as I told her to pursue.
I told her that she did not have sacrifice looks, that she could have a good, intelligent, handsome man, if she was willing to sacrifice a few inches of height; say somewhere from 5-6 to 5-9 – my height. I told her that it made me crazy that the classifieds, women looking or men, specified by vast majority that they were seeking men at least 5-10+. And I found this dismaying and unreasonable, as 5-9 was taller than 90% of the women in America, and yet, here I was being told that I was not tall enough. So, Martina’s prettier sister was rewarded with a good man – even if perhaps 5-7 – for her respect given the Godfather. And they sat there as centurions in this bar of infamy, a defying bulwark against the pattern of Mulatto supremacism launched against White men, with teeth, especially in this feminist town, with the all woman’s Smith College right across the street; and one in seven women there being a lesbian, bigger concentration of that kind than anywhere in The United States.
17. Forehead: is the ridiculous derogatory handle that I give to this woman, who I mentioned before. I’d known her from this Al-Anon meeting and ones in North Hampton – and I would do something with her there that I rarely tried with any other woman at an Al-Anon meeting. I would cop a hug from her, sensing that it would not be a problem for her outlook. Quick to smile, but presenting a middle class sophistication which poised confidence in the liberal system and the good will of people to democratically manage its correctivity.
The fact that I would come to call her “forehead” in the trance was in order to get a critical handle on any potential imperfections (and what were those? caps on her teeth?) an angle against her liberal hubris as it lent fuel to PC and its destruction. In truth, she was a good looking woman of some sort of North West European extraction, easily a “7”; and of course, better than the higher numbers in many ways, as slight deviations from the golden mean in aesthetics, say, in the example of a slightly longer then average forehead, will broker out the superficial, and let in those who have the good judgment to give more weight to process, function and competence over pure form. In a word, just enough imperfection of form to provide for just enough sublimation, to provide for just enough critical skepticism to instantiate a stalwart middle class liberalism against elite exploitation – under normal circumstances, that is; which these were no longer; liberalism had been weaponized to a poison against White men.
Thus, when she retained her same old confidence in the liberal system, smiled, laughed, subtly mocked in confidence my invocation of Kant’s refrain against popular philosophy and other conservative remedies that I might propose, I became infuriated with her, and berated her. I don’t believe that I shook her confidence enough to question the liberal system, but she did show marked concern, as if to say that I could be a problem and people like me, might be a problem. With a sense that I had done a workman’s share in chipping away at her liberal confidence that had turned to hubris and fallen into enemy hands, I instructed her that she would show the godfather respect the next time we saw each other, which she would do.
18. At this point I should probably mention the classic Anglo poly-sci graduate. As I’d mentioned, this guy represented the handsome breed which already seemed to be dwindling by this time,; where were the English?, The kind of people you see on American currency? I’d known him from this meeting and from the same North Hampton meeting where I’d encountered Forehead and Jenna. I’d always heard him as a level headed and thoughtful guy, certainly not some crazy liberal; and I tried to get him on my side; for example, as a poly sci major, with focus on politics, to take a stand against the liberalism of the Democrats and Clinton; to encourage people to vote for Dole (“he would give his right arm to be president”, yuck yuck); but thoughtful guy that h was, he could not join me in my enthusiastic call to take a stand for he Republicans. He explained that he had worked for he Republican party in Virginia, and walked away disillusioned, that they were just as corrupt as the Democrats. Condescendingly, I took a coin out of my pocket and said, “ah, yes, the Democrats and Republicans are flip sides of the same liberal coin, centering on individual civil rights to the destruction of cultural patterns.” I told him that I’d see him again another time, outside of the trance, which I would do at the North Hampton meeting. I believe that the he was more than thoughtful and levelheaded, but had some stuff, as I said, to float the turbulent waters of the trance, looking for its meaning beyond, even while I would be jerking off in front of the entire group. Of course that kind of thing would recede from my consciousness, while he would be a bit uncomfortable, understandably, the next time I’d see him, as foretold.
19. Next I should mention Hyatt again. A Jewish woman, not quite middle aged, she was almost good looking but for her eye lids, which sagged in a comical expression of worried urgency. She did have a deep, sexy voice and I got the impression that she liked me, having known her from this and another meeting in Amherst. However, if the racist ideas that she suspected of me, confirmed a thousand times over in this trance were not enough, if the fact that I abused her physical appearance was not enough, then the fact that I was not about to defend the genocidal liberalism of her stinking Jewish religion and people should have put the kibosh on any notion that there could be a bonding or, for that matter, reconciliation between us. Indeed, I wild tell her, true or not, that we knew each other from former lives in the middle east. And she would show respect for me, the godfather, the next time we meet, by talking to me after the meeting, and saying, “we’ve known each other from around.” In retrospect, it is only more surprising that mature, intelligent adults would so faithfully follow instructions; as she would, in fact, come up and say this rather odd thing to me following a subsequent meeting. I suppose there has to be a modicum of respect for the phenomenon of the trance, but it also seems fairly complimentary to me as something more than just the trance medium. As I would tell the people in trance, there is a god looking after me too.
20. Another Jewish woman whom I mentioned briefly as sitting to my right during the trance. I’d known her from this and the other Amherst meeting, same as with Hyatt (not North Amherst). Like Hyatt, I got a sense that she was interested in me, and sort of hoped to recruit me politically. However, this was even less flattering, as she was on the homely side, a 3 or 4; maybe not fat, but short, with a beaked, boyish face and long, frizzy, dirty blond hair that fooled nobody into thinking that she had feminine charm. With a soft, pedantic tone she spoke like “I’m mildly apologetic, but you should forgive me and I’ve enough confidence to instruct you as such.” She too would be disappointed, but hold up, I will give her that, to my lambast of her appearance and withering contempt which made it perfectly clear that I had no intention of endearing myself to Jews. I believe that she was with Chicken Neck at the upscale super market, “Bread and Circus”, same time and place where I d’ run into the Jewish incest victim in weeks following the trance.
21. Chicken Neck, who I mentioned, sat to my right as well, and earned her moniker for casting stones in a glass house. She was always first to laugh, doubling over when I mocked other people’s physicality, whether calling Lucia an ugly dog who needed a paper bag over her head or suggesting that the sublime cathedrals of Europe and America required the sublimation of guys with little White dicks. I was quick to point out that she had no chin, not even a double chin, just this trapezoid angle that went from her chest to her face. An Anglo with short blonde hair that didn’t help anything nor the turtle neck sweater that she’d wear to hide her chicken neck.
Still, my ridicule of her was harsh; and she was one of the most, if not the most willing and susceptible to the trance, reaching a perceptible ecstatic state as I sang, “what if god was one of us, just a slob like one of us, and yeah, yeah, god is good, and yeah, yeah, god is great, and yeah, yeah, yeah , yeah yeah….” I would not remark about her acting as if this was remarkable, but it was Not one of the songs that I was singing before anyone knew about it (there were a few like that, which I’ll go over again) but was rather a song that was abundant on the air waves of the time. Though not necessarily a bad thing, this suggests to me that she was more ready than others to suspend disbelief and go along in deep enmeshment with the trance.
Uncannily, I would see her that time at the Bread and Circus, and she’d be speaking worriedly about me upon spotting me, unfortunately, probably more worried that there were “racists” like me than that I had been persuasive that there is a clear problem with liberalism; though maybe she was not completely oblivious and saw the necessary connection, that there was a systemic problem of which I was symptomatic. The lawyer guy who instigated the whole trance in motion to begin with tried to come to her emotional rescue by saying that he liked her kind of neck…
22. The lawyer guy who precipitated the trance in me to begin with by remarking angrily about some racist thing that I said (I think that i used the “N” word), “I don’t think the the broke the law.” Upon which I farted loudly, everyone laughed and went into the trance with me.
A 40 something year old attorney from the area, he was fairly regular at this Al-Anon meeting. And in this particular trance meeting, offered more discourse with me than the others; mostly push back, but not hostile; it was clear that he had a constructive dialectic intent, even if he maintained disagreement.
Pushback:
One of the main points that I had hoped to get across in the trace was that with blacks having evolved some 250,000 thousand years prior to European differentiation that it was dangerous, terribly wrong and horrifically destructive for liberals to impose blacks upon Whites as if blacks are oppressed and discriminated against unjustly without reason. In defiance of all the “saming” of them, I maintained that they needed to be “othered” and that is why, in the trace, I may have used the “nigger” word over a hundred times.
Their long pre-evolution to White differentiation probably constituted a biological hegemony, I hypothesized. Lawyer guy pushed back on this late in the trance, saying that he was not sure that blacks had a biological hegemony. In retrospect, I would agree that hypothesis would have to be refined. Blacks would have a biological hegemony in certain ways and episodes, with hegemonic ramifications, particularly opportunistic following modernity’s disordering of rule structures.
Not only would they not be at a disadvantage, but at an advantage in significant ways, but they were at a dangerous, a predatory advantage that more than justifies discrimination, let alone the anti-discrimination of anti-racism. I would say,
Anti-racism is prejudice, it is not innocent, it is Cartesian prejudice against prejudice; with that, it prohibits necessary classificatory discriminations; and as such, is hurting and killing people.
While blacks might not have biological hegemony across the board, their long pre-evolution does give them “biopower”, which can be compounded to hegemony when precipitated by modernity’s disorder and weaponized by Jewry against Whites; Jewry, disingenuously imposing blacks on Whites, purporting that to discriminate against them is “racist and White supremacist.”
I would imitate the Klansman from “The Blues brothers” movie, saying through a loudspeaker, “the Jew is using the black, as muscle, against YOU, White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant.” and, with that tone of levity, I would add, that “it’s true.”
But coming back to the serious matter of biology and the necessity of discrimination against them, as opposed to this disingenuous imposition of blacks upon Whites….
By this point, it was clear that I wasn’t going to be able to be honest about these matters through the university. So, I was posting a dense, one page statement throughout campus and adjacent towns, “White Women For Sale!” I would also try to have it published in the U. Mass. newspaper.
In addition to the Cartesian issue, I would add, the kind of selection that blacks had engaged in, had quantified and maxed-out masculinity, created an aggressive, presumptuous, hyper assertive kind of people, with ramifications of more sex partners, younger, single parent families, poverty and violence. This is expressed by their females as well; I go through a litany of their unbecoming characteristics; adding, “they do not have a grievance with us, we do not want their women.”
Lawyer guy did make a sad concession, however, that there was apparently a pattern of White women being inclined to go with black males.
But most of the pushback from him had more levity and comforting, traditional stereotyping to it.
On the matter of cultural exchange of partners, he said that he liked Sophia Loren. This was easy for me, as I don’t find Sophia Loren attractive; he “can have her”, I said. “I prefer mom” (Irene).
I went on charitably, “you like women like chinless chicken neck over here? Well, I like women with big noses, like the wicked witch of the west. She’s got a great ass too!” This brought laughs.
I got a little mean again, saying that I have never been jealous of a man who has dated a black woman. And that one way to hurt White women for their cruelty and betrayal was to emphasize enjoyment of cunnilingus on their sweet White rivals. Then, for sport, I added, “but black women are the best tasting anyway.” This brought laughter from some of the men (like Jim Mead), including Lawyer guy, who asked me to repeat what I said, which I did; which was followed by laughter again, by some of the men, anyway.
I could not keep up that charade, adding that in fact, “I would not let a nigger suck my dick.” Sandy, the confident Jewish woman, said, “perfect.”
Trying to push the idea that this might be an episode about healing of racism and the transcendent virtue of god and the liberal American way, Lawyer guy would act into the role of lawyer for that defense (of liberal anti racism) against my self incrimination in post hypnotic suggestion, when I was really deep under, saying how Naomi (my second hypnotherabpist) and Harold Raush send their support greetings to their friends down in Al-Anon, including Kim and Ji’s neighbor with the nigger husband) calling myself a “demagogue” and a “dilatant”, leading the group on by saying that I would fight racism in the end, which, of course, I would never be so stupid and irresponsible to do, but led some of the liberal to enmesh, as such, in order to keep them at bay.
Thus, it was rather corny, but good natured and in keeping with this role play that he made the last remark before the trance episode came to an end, “will you be back?” i.e., me, “the devil”, asking me as if asking a medium in séance, or a Ouija Board. I answered, “yes, if I have to.” But I really did not like this interpretation being put upon the profound ambiguity of the trance, from which might be drawn a myriad of stories. And really, I was not “the devil”, not the bad guy at all; quite the opposite, I was saving the lives of good people. I cried and said that I love you my you my White, European people. He asked, “and blacks?” I answered honestly, “not really, but as a separatist, not a supremacist, it was nobody’s business.”
But that was at the end of the evening. There was much more banter in between. While the German 5 was also offering pushback, some of it kindly to say to me, “there’s one thing that I don’t understand, you are always saying that you are not so good looking; but I think that you are very handsome.” Lawyer guy would play off of that, and ask, “what do you think of me?” I would answer a bit too honestly by saying, “you’re no spring chicken.” This brought uproarious laughter.
I then made it up to him with a conciliatory, “you are a bargain basement Robert Redford, while I am a bargain basement, Howard Hughes.”
I played with the group a bit by asking in an accusatory way, “you don’t like David Duke?” (He’d not long ago come into the news by running for Governor of Louisiana), as if maybe they should; while I certainly had sympathy for Duke’s wish to separate from blacks, I honestly did not like his Klan angle with residual Nazism, Christianity, prejudice against Catholics, i.e., including southern and Eastern Europeans, along with other right wing stuff and general seediness. True to his dialectical interlocutor form, defender of democratic heterogeneity of voice, Lawyer guy said that he “likes David Duke.” I berated him for that, still taking the angle that pandering to Jews might pay off with their acting more fairly with regard to Whites or better, that Whites might learn to take a less reactionary stance and look after themselves better – with better, up to date philosophy. “Like your philosophy”, Lawyer guy would kindly say to me. I was a bit embarrassed by that; but I can say that my philosophy is well aimed and considered, and in good health.
There was one more bit of humor between us. He asked if it was necessary to be so pessimistic. I told him in truth that I am not pessimistic. I asked, “when black ants fight red ants, who wins? The red ants win, of course, and I have 1.1 billion red army ants (Chinese) on my side.” This brought uproarious laughter from everyone, including Lawyer guy.
Finally he asked, if there was anything that he could do for me as lawyer of the area? I asked, well, was it not felony assault for the nigger to punch me, even if I did call him a “nigger.” He answered that it was not necessarily a felony, but it was assault and it was illegal. He said that he would talk to the people at “The Pub” for me. While Lawyer guy would not be one of the people I would see uncannily in days following the trance, I did see the giant nigger bouncer who had punched me in the face on the streets in downtown Amherst. ….looking sheepish, chastened with the idea that he’d better not antagonize me any more, that he is not free to hit people and he had already crossed the line once, broken the law.
As I said, after the trance was over, when everyone was standing up and preparing to leave, Lawyer guy had a little confab with the German 5, who had been sitting next to him. he being a local attorney and she being a student at the prestigious Smith College, they both carried some clout. However, it seems that through the trance I had demonstrated that I was no immanent threat. I had subtler concerns and aspirations than violence. Singing the Nirvana lyrics that “I swear that I don’t have a gun, no I don’t have a gun.” probably helped, in addition to my visions well into the future, showing me to have done no harm, nothing illegal and having sublimated aims in mind. Thus, I could tell from their brief exchange that they were agreeing that I should be let to go on my way to my adventures in White separatism.
23. The German 5: I saddle her with the unbecoming tag, German 5 (according to the physical line on the aforementioned 1-10 criteria), because she was giving more liberal pushback than anyone else – frustrating of itself, but also frustrating as her pushback was based on guilt trips that had to do more with her background while there were nuances of marginalization and even outright victimization of my Polish and Italian kin that were being conveniently ignored by the liberal system; my groups were White enough when it came to being punished for so called White privilege, but not White enough for an insider track to any such privilege in America indeed.
I mean, I’d be railing about niggers and she would suggest to me to visit the holocaust museum in Washington D.C. She was going to tell me to be against Nazism? After the adherents of this epistemological blunder had wreaked so much destruction on my Polish people? After Italian Italians had gotten stupidly dragged into it, to their destruction? After Italian Americans suffered disproportionate American infantry losses, cannon fodder more disproportionate than any other American demographic? And for that matter, German Germans, German Americans, all Europeans and all White Americans suffered frrom it, not only through the war, but for its implications as it allowed pernicious liberals to stigmatize healthy ethnonationalism, brushing it with the same stroke as Nazism.
Unfortunately, I still had to work through some anger that I had toward the German perspective for the wars, for the hubris/guilt that their far greater numbers among American Whites took for granted and so I did unleash my anger at the krauts; and of course it wasn’t fair, this was a German American, had nothing to do with it, and in fairness to myself, I was quick to rebound to acknowledge that. Nevertheless, there was a German American perspective that took certain things for granted and needed to be jostled a bit, as it overlooked important facts from the perspectives of other Whites. And so I was hard on her, particularly given her liberal provocation. I would be damned if I was going to be punished for an ideology, Nazism, which I detested, and which, in fact, victimized my people.
As an interesting side note, my experience of Polish would put an end to any “blame the Germans” narrative that I might float; as they would look upon that as quaint and anachronistic for preponderant concern.
But feeling as if I had to produce theory as the impresario of this trance, I took some hackneyed, amateur theory out of my teenage dresser draw. I accused German women of being big, fat and ugly; and that that was a factor in their popular support of Hitler; i.e., they were jealous of other European women. That is not an angle that I would nurse today. Perhaps there is a slightly higher percentage of beauties among Slavic women. But German women age better and have their beauties as well. All of the European nations have their beauties and uglies – plenty of uglies; so that I would not care to throw stones in this glass house.
Nevertheless, my sister’s shrill hatred of my “looksism” did compel some overcompensation if I was to overcome her intimidation. Thus, if this Smith Student was going to visit the rigors of Darwinian liberalism upon me, well then. Let’s have a look at who is talking. She has her blond hair cut pretty short. But would growing it long help? Probably not much. She’s not really fat, but the problem is more a matter of graceless form. Is she ugly? Not really. But neither is she pretty.
She’s a “5” and perhaps this should be taken into account when considering her opinions, for or against. For example, for a White girl, she does seem to care an awful lot about blacks. Could they serve as a two edged sword of intimidation? That is, with the majority of black women being pretty undesirable, she might not be intimidated by them; while she might use black men to intimidate and punish White men for rejecting her.
I zeroed in on her.
What else do you care about but niggers?! What else do you care about but niggers?!!!
She broke down sobbing uncontrollably; the accusation hitting home, all too true.
Bill the incestor’s women gave me a worried look, to say, “ease up, have pity.”
I moved to shift her concern.
“Do you have a brother?”
German 5: “Yes.”
“Is he popular with women? Does he have a girlfriend?”
German 5: “No.”
“How did I guess?”
“Well, I care about your brother; while your sisterhood is preoccupied with niggers. How about you, do you care about your brother, are you worried about him?”
German 5: “Yes.”
“How about the Polish victims of Nazi Germany?”
anina@Ojdadana
·
Hitler’s Obersalzberg Speech
22 August 1939 – a week before the German invasion of Poland, Adolf #Hitler addresses Wehrmacht commanders at his #Obersalzberg home. The speech details in particular the pending German invasion of #Poland and a planned extermination of Poles. #WW2
Warsaw Uprising of Poles against the Nazi occupiers, August 1944
German 5: “I feel terrible about what the Nazis did to Polish people.”
“Do you know that Italians and Polish people had nothing to do with the enslavement of niggers in America?”
“I don’t want to be penalized for that shit either. Bringing those monkeys to America was the biggest mistake ever. I wouldn’t let them pick my cotton.”
…”but since they are here, may as well partake of my favorite sport: the Olympic hammer throw of nigger babies.” I stand up and do the twirl and toss motion of the hammer throw; which brings some laughs (not from German 5).
I’m getting mad now. I demand that she do her share in helping to separate from blacks.
German 5 (tearfully): “I can’t do that”
I clap my hands over my head in a weird way (like the football referee signal for a “safety.” And I say, you will do more than your share (the statement and the gesture would be oddly repeated by another person in the future).
I tell her what I’d really like to happen for blacks and she says, threateningly, “I’ll tell them” (her classmates). She had been suggesting that I talk to women more. She brought looks of consternation from Kim and some other women when she said, “they’ll tell you that too” (letting the cat out of the bag that there was a pattern of betrayal from White women in that regard) in response to my contention that not all niggers have big dicks and that there are plenty of heavy hung White guys if that’s what a woman feels that she has to have.
Her defiance intensified my anger; and with the stress of potential backlash from venting these emotions on her and others, I would fall deeper into trance, in unhinged waves of anger and with to compensate for my over correction.
I was furious that she would say that she was not sure that O.J. Simpson was guilty. I was sure that he was. Furthermore, that he should have been lynched just for having been with Nicole Brown. …later, as the trance subsided to a lighter state, Lawyer guy asked me again what I thought should happen to O.J. Simpson. Something about the comically organic way that I hung on the “L” – “I think that he should have been LLLLynched just for having been with her”, brought laughs from everybody.
It’s true that most would have been laughing at my sentence so primitive and anachronistic as to be funny; but German 5 really took it much too for granted, as expressed by her saying, “you apparently know its wrong too, given that you laughed along with us.” My laughing was not an admission of absurdity at all. It was more a relief at being able to be simplistic about it.
It’s only tangentially related, but there is the classic example of a woman having had an orgasm when raped. Does that mean she wanted it? Of course not. Well there are many instances in the shit test and betrayal of women where men’s bodies and psyche’s are trying to gauge response; and it is a pernicious interpretation to say that they “wanted it” as if an unconscious, “Freudian wish.” I added, that is why I find the aspect of the Sermon on The Mount where Jesus says, “even if you think about committing adultery”, you’ve as much as done it, so egregious. Where the Freudian wish would freeze-frame a damning interpretation in your psyche, “an subconscious wish”, the truth of the psyche is more like an on going film reel, which allows you to move onto the next frame in order to gauge and reframe meaning and action in one’s authentic, human ecological systemic interests.
And so she enraged me; particularly in deeper parts of the trance. While it was not of good tact on my part to call O.J. Simpson ugly, neither was it good tact on her part to not lend wiggle room to rhetoric for the prosecution; to not suspend her liberal objectivist criteria for a moment, to to at least make is looks a criteria overriding his character and OBVIOUS crime.
She really pissed me off. And you know what I think of HIV? It’s the stupid persons disease. What’s to know? Don’t conduct yourself like a pig and you won’t get it! AIDS is a beautiful disease. It kills the sexually irresponsible. I have more respect for people who abuse drugs than I do for people who abuse sex. But that is why women are always so anti-drug, isn’t i? It is a way for men to have fun and reward in pleasure that they cannot control. In fact, it’s a good test for a woman – if you need a condom, she’s not a good woman.
What about unwanted pregnancy? Well, I’m pro-choice without being self-righteous about it. I can understand how some people would think it’s unconscionable, but then, that’s what choice is about – – don’t have one if your against it. But as far as I’m concerned, anyone who is against choice across the board is an asshole. Try telling me, motherfucker, that my daughter can’t have an abortion if pregnant by the result of rape.
You can’t value life so much as to make it unlivable. That’s why I believe in the death penalty as well. And by the way, it is more-so women who are anti abortion, involved in these “operation rescue activities” at the abortion clinics and so on…like with everything, women just force men out front to take responsibility, blame and punishment, while they exercise undue control and reward behind the scenes.
At this point, to my surprise, German 5 starts sobbing. She is apparently against abortion across the board. I find this frustrating as the nuance and call to Not be self righteous about “pro-choice” aside. I do think “a woman’s choice “is an offensive term, as if a man’s wishes on the matter don’t matter; I can concede that the woman should have a little more say on balance; it also might be the case that people promoting adoption should be given a chance to make a pitch to the girl… but after that? I stand up and start making these grinding motions, “grind up those babies.” ..I’m afraid, that in frustration with her, I suspended my call to not be self righteous about it, and she began sobbing more heavily. Bill the incestor’s woman gave me that look again, like “oh please ease up!” so I refrained, reiterating that I am not self righteous about it. I can understand how some people would think its horrible. And so I say, without self righteousness, if you are against abortion, don’t have one. I add that personally, I could live in a society where it is illegal. Moreover, that would force women to be more careful about sex partners, which they need to be anyway.
But I repeat something that Barnett told me. We are pragmatists because we have to be. And with that, I repeat, without being self righteous about it, that I am pro-choice for the same reason that I am for the death penalty: you can’t value life so much as to make it unlivable.
Unfortunately, I will repeat this bit which I already told above, which is that at this point I stood up, pulled my pants up by the waste until I made an extreme “wedgie” between my ass cheeks. I turned around and pinched my ass cheeks together to display the ridiculous, baby lump symmetrical formation that my ass made as such. Everyone, including German 5, were laughing uproariously. Then I turned around and said, “you see? I made you laugh and now you believe in the death penalty!” Which brought more uproarious laugher.
I also got some laughter unintentionally, terribly bungling some mathematical calculation – – don’t remember what it was about — it was embarrassing, but I defended with annoyance, that this sort of calculation does not need to be relegated to instantaneous computations in the head which cannot stand corrected. I take it for granted that these calculations can be corrected, that is why I do not worry too much about instantaneous perfection of mental calculation. And I am not necessarily wrong to think that way.
The other salient matter that I should not fail to reiterate with regard to the German 5 was her surprising and enthusiastic endorsement of the possibility of a society where it would be ok for girls like her to suck their father’s cocks. She enthusiastically shook her index finger in the air in two or three instances of the deep trance when the proposition came up, of this being a conciliatory gesture that she would accept for loyalty to our people. Of course any breeding by way of incest is out of the question; that’s understood. Without consent is also out of bounds.
I had suspected that jealousy might be lurking in the background for her when the topic of Bill and his daughter came up.
While I would hesitate to give a full fledge endorsement to flouting an ancient taboo in most cultures so far as I know, as it may have significantly negative psychological and sociological consequences, even if it does not produce offspring – I am here exercising the caution of paradigmatic conservatism, same as with drugs; I’m a bit open but believe in the necessity to exercise caution when messing with ancient evolution; life is weird, thrilling and challenging enough in its standard offerings of pleasure. Hence, where incest is appealing, it should be relegated to fantasy for the most part. And as a taboo, it can be an effective counter to the interracial taboo. And personally, I would accept in a heart beat a woman who had engaged in incest over a woman who had miscegenated. In found the German 5 being into this, wanting it as a possibility in some future world, to be rather kinky. And if indeed consensual, and not producing offspring, maybe – maybe it is not the worst thing. There was the tacit acceptance, no objection from the group, and some furtive agreement; for instance, the rag doll raised her head suddenly, as she would to display interest or consent. And finally, again, with regard to my own attitude toward those who’ve been a part of incest, I’ll take that any day over miscegenation; though bearing scars that I would not wish upon anyone where it was involuntary, when it cam to Rene, Jenna, the Jewish incest victim and Bill’s daughter, not only did this not particularly bother me, for my sake, but I found it a bit erotic, frankly. The problem with Bill’s daughter was not incest, but her miscegenation; we’ll come back to her in a few.
German 5 also expressed bisexuality; but this was hardly a surprise given her enmeshment in Smith College, North Hampton, Mass., epicenter of American lesbianism. But again, I would propose dabbling, or diddling as it were, as far preferable to miscegenation. Love of one’s self, and one’s own kind is necessary, affection is practically a need, and this is an imperfect way of doing it. Maybe not the best, but not the worst; and a far more forgivable transgression than male homosexuality.
I did manage to connect with her sympathy to other kinds of European women in this way; surely, for example, she must have come across some nice, intelligent Italian women along the way? Surely you would not want to be without this kind of friend. Do yo know that Italy has the lowest birth rate in the world, while the population of Nigeria is tripling?
And I tried to connect with her femininity, sensitivity, and love for her northern kind, by designating the song (You’ve got, the most beautiful blue eyes, I’ve ever seen”) “I Love You, Always Forever” that was on the radio in those days, as “her song.”
Again, at the evening’s conclusion, when the trance was finally over, she stood up and had a confab with Lawyer guy, apparently agreeing with him that I had acquitted myself enough and should be allowed to pursue my adventures in Europe without any persecution from them.
Anyway, they were appraised by another vision of mine, that I would be punished more than enough (far more than was just, really; so much for the idea that Polish people necessarily have “the touch”) for whatever lack of tact and decorum, arrogance in flouting social norms in regard to race when coming to Poland. Oskar, Mika, Marcin, Lucy and Andrzej would all play insider roles in the protracted social version of prisoner’s dilemma – to “take the ten from me, and leave me with zero” – while a soft spoken computer nerd named Roman Sznajdamuhl would lure me into this trap, playing on my compassion for him as a potentially competent asset, who doubly deserved compassion for the hard deal he had as an ugly man; he would turn out to be a grandiose wall flower; who thought his computer ability translated to eminent philosophical ability; which in reality, was very poor (but don’t dare insult him, he was insider enough, the hypocrite) and his Judeo Christian punishment of my investment aspirations – even though I conceived to help him, include him in the win/win – were motivated in reality by egotism, spite and jealousy with the guise of moral lesson giving (including for my “racism”*). He was acting quite like the fable of the scorpion that stings the swan that would carry it across the river; why did you do that? Because that’s what bitter, spiteful STEM hypocrites (raised in the Judeo/Christian/Soviet mindset) do; and they can justify a myriad of abuses as “testing and lesson giving”; while a “wall flower” is not the right metaphor in this case, for this hypocrite, looking like a combination of Heinrich Himmler and The Creature from the Black Lagoon. I distinctly remember the Lawyer guy asking me to repeat, “what would this hypocrite look like?” I repeated, “The Creature From the Black Lagoon.”
* The Jewish overlords of this criminal enterprise against me would coach Roman to try to turn my thoughts on their head. I would say him blacks have evolved over a much longer period of time giving them a fundamental biopower head start over us; and their kind of selection has quantified and max-out out masculinity, creating an aggressive, presumptuous hyper assertive kind of people who have more sex partners and babies, sooner, and more social problems as a result, including violence. It’s not my opinion, it’s just a fact. Roman would come back days later and say, black people are just making the reggae music, White people are the cancer (right out of Sontag’s book), it’s just a fact. etc. As if a stupid metaphor like White people being “cancer” could be just a fact. etc.
Jezioro Płotki (“Lake Gossip”), Pila, Poland.
#/media/Plik:J_plotki1.jpg){kind=link}
But I digress. That is to be fleshed out in future chapters. Back to the “cast of characters” in the Amherst trance… in that regard, I might note that the Muslim woman who I mentioned #11, took a defiant, third world type in your face, you got what you deserved posture, every time she would hear of these travails that I would be up against. That is why I lashed into her and her stupid religion quite so heavily, even though I was unprepared for articulate critique of Islam.
24. and 25. I might mention Kathleen and her boyfriend next. This one saddens me because I can’t remember offhand any apparent reason why I would have directed venom at Kathleen, and yet I did direct some scathing ridicule of her physicality and a few things about her Irish heritage to the extent I can recall. I can’t pin point what triggered me to attack her, but perhaps it was just because she was Irish, and sort of seemed to be normalizing what was happening in America by her graceful disposition. The thing about the Irish was similar as with the Germans; they were an over represented White perspective in America, second largest to the Germans; and not always the perspective that Whites needed. Like the Germans, they would not be quite so motivated to oppose association of White identity and nationalism with Hitler, not having been in the path of his wrath.
And so, despite a beautiful face in striking contrast to black hair, and completely amiable personality, I attacked her for the taken for grantedness of the Irish. If not German, its seemed every White person in America was Irish. Often both, half German half Irish. It can be boring and tedious, especially having their share of uglies, paunchy and nerdy White sorts compared to blacks and other exotic challenges in the interface of America’s demographics.
And so I punished her as the example of a human ecological need not served completely by her kind. I cruelly attacked her for being big and, well, not pretty from the waist down. True enough, but did I have to say that she had “elephantiasis” from the waist down, of the ass?
I felt terrible about that almost immediately in the two or three times that I did that. She was easily the nicest, most forgiving person of the group and I told her so; but to make matters only worse, I showed my general negligence by not even being able to remember her name (Kathleen, was her name. I had some kind of mental block; just like I did with Irene, who I called either “you” or “mom”). Further instilling a sense of guilt was the fact of her boyfriend sitting next to her all the while, silent, stoic. A handsome young man, handsomer than me, I’d say, a beard and long straight blond hair; he sat in respectful attendance as if I had something to say; with an ocean of poise in reserve, he was un-phased, even by the insults to his girlfriend; not that he thought it was good, but his opinion of her was not about to be shaken by me; none of this impulsive, emotional reaction and hair trigger will to fight that you’ll find perhaps more frequently in Italians.
As foretold in this trance, as suggested through me, this woman would kindly tell me her name after a meeting at another church in Amherst a week or two later, though I’d heard her dozens of times in these meetings identify herself as her turn came to speak – “I’m Kathleen.”
Quite embarrassing to be shown such kind grace after having abused her for no fault of her own.
26. 27. and 28. I will talk about next. I mentioned 26 earlier as a black girl (U. Mass student) that I knew through the Jewish housemate of mine, Tony, and his girlfriend. Now, she had never been to this or any other 12 step meeting that I’d been to; however, early on in the onset of the trance, she was mysteriously brought in and sat down in a chair to my left next to Sandy. She was with another black, 27. a more mild mannered sort of black guy. There is no doubt and no mere imagining that they were there, as I will explain in a minute. Having a more unclear, dreamy quality about his presence, was the psychologist that I was seeing at the time, 28. Harold Raush, having been there in the chair next to the blacks, between them and Sandy to my left. I recall him being there only a few minutes, seemingly escorting the blacks in and then escorting them out when my vitriol became too brutal for them. It seems that Kim and Jim’s Jewish neighbor, the one married to the nigger, was also somehow brought to this meeting that she had never been to – say as a part of “an intervention” – by Dr. Raush. It is likely that the whole trance as least partly his orchestration.
But even with motive, the act of coordinating these people to come to this particular meeting is mysterious to me. OK, maybe Dr. Raush would tell Kim and Jim to tell their neighbor to come. But who would he notify to get the blacks to come? It’s possible to contact people who knew both them and myself; but quite circumspect. And even if you answer that question, who the hell knew that I had a crush on Jenna the French girl, whom I’d known from a Northampton meeting, but never came to this Amherst meeting? The presence of the Muslim woman was unusual too; although I believe that I saw her once or twice at this meeting, she was by no means a regular. My point being that the cast of characters, particularly in the case of the blacks, Kim and Jim’s Jewish neighbor (for that matter, Jim did not usually escort Kim to these meetings) and perhaps most unusual of all, Jenna, who had never been to this meeting, was almost as strange a phenomenon as the psychic, seeing into the future stuff.
Now, in my limited reading of Bateson’s colleague, Jay Haley, who was an enthusiast of Milton Erickson and his hypnosis techniques, I do recall his discussing cases where they had hypnotized people and directed them to encounter people by some strange phenomenon, for some reason: the case that I remember was of a queer person (woman or man, don’t remember) who was given a post hypnotic suggestion to go to a particular place where they would meet a fellow queer person and learn to accept their queerness (which the patient had been struggling with).
It would almost seem like some kind of phenomenon like that was at work, using post hypnotic suggestion to direct people to a meeting – in this case to address and reconcile cultural conflict to some extent – but it still does not explain very well Jenna’s being there. That’s almost as weird as the future seeing stuff.
Anyway, to flesh-out and finish-up discussion of persons 26, 27 and 28…
"Are there niggers there?"
27 and 28 are the two black people somehow introduced early on to this Al-Anon meeting/trance; viz., as I began falling deeply into trance, delighted to describe visions of Poland that I would encounter, very unlike the gray, dreary Soviet block stereotype that we Americans had during the cold war; delightfully surprised to ask of what I saw – “Polish women are the most beautiful in the world?” and to see nothing but White people there; a circumstance hard for me and other Americans to believe; I asked, as if incredulous right along with them, “are there niggers there?”
Laughter burst out mixed with embarrassment for me – I distinctly remember Martina’s face flushed red – and not just because this casual and sincere use of the “N” word was not done in Amherst, Massachusetts circa 1995, but because unbeknownst to me, seated directly to my left and privy to my psychic commentary were two blacks. I only became aware of their presence upon the laughter.
Not that I was embarrassed or ashamed. On the contrary. What were they doing here? What were they doing on this continent for that matter? My kind didn’t bring them here; that was one of the biggest disasters for White people ever. I would not let them pick my cotton. This country and White people profited from Slavery? I beg to differ. This would be a much richer country had slaves not been brought here. And I certainly don’t need their women: wouldn’t let a nigger suck my dick! The two blacks sat there in stunned silence. I perceived Harold Raush seated to their left. Then, in a wave of the trance ambiguity, buckling in the stress for my stigmatic position, perhaps feeling responsible as the “trance master of ceremonies” in guidance, to assimilate the old liberal stance of objectivity as such, and bribe support from the most powerful of liberals by tribute to their rigorous liberal adherence to biopower….
Thus I attempted a liberal position beyond my strength, above it all, chiding “mom” Irene, mocking her as “Betty Crocker” (WASP name of commercial American baking products; kind of like calling her “Wonder Bread” – commercial white bread, with minimal bread substance), people laughed. Then I offered her, asked her in away, how big a black cock it would take to satisfy her, for her to give us our freedom as Whites? At best, I was attempting to take on and root out some of the more daunting challenges of liberalism. I repeated a discussion from a book that I had browsed in a local store, a black woman talking about a “coming out day, where White women were coming on to the streets with their black boyfriends, while black women would look on in pretend disbelief; and the White women would give their reasons, some pseudo political, some ‘just honest, because black cock is the best cock in the world.” I went on, oh yes, and mom would have that big black cock – holding my hands apart, “that big enough Dave?” He says, “biggah” – and it would stretch her cunt in ways that she never could have dreamed of, hitting the bottom in the most profoundly satisfying way; she would have orgasm after orgasm, etc.
I looked to my left and the black girl was delighted by this. Then I let her have it.
How many babies are you going to have at everyone’s expense, monkey?! Mom Irene looked at her sternly, seeing to it that the giddy smile was wiped from her face. Do you think that I need you, that you can compare to Jenna, you goddamn monkey?! I backed off for a second and she regained her poise, being confident, good looking as black women go – as black women go – she raised her eyebrow in annoyed, critical disapproval, who was I to …. then wham! I let her have it again. Do you think that I need your fat lipped, Brillo haired, shit colored self? When a White woman is naked, that’s something special, that’s shocking, in a good way; but a black woman? I didn’t know that the monkey was supposed to have clothes on to begin with. She’s stunned at this point. Then I scream, “even your own ape men don’t want you , you goddamn shit-colored monkey!” Now she is stretched out, howling in pain, the black guy that she is with is trying to console her. How many babies are you going to have at everyone else’s expense, nigger?! She winced again; finally I yell about five times in rapid succession, “get the fuck out of here, nigger!!”
At that point, her boyfriend took her by the arm and led her out, apparently with Harold Raush escorting them both. Though frankly, my perception of Harold Raush was very vague.
As those three chairs to my left were vacated, I relaxed and fell deeper into trance. I developed an erection which I rubbed through my pants. ‘Mom” Irene, who was now in the chair closest to my left, kept a stare fixed on my erection. I pointed this out, her gaze, to everyone, “look at how and where her eyes are staring”, and I told her, “good.”
28. Harold Raush, who had just vacated, was an esteemed psychologist in the area (worked with some of the big names in the field, e.g., Carlos Sluzki); I took to his council when the chips were really down; I’d gotten thrown off campus; had nervous break downs in frustration over my Jewish professor’s ultimate liberalism, doing disgusting things like blowing bad breath in his face and calling him a fucking Jew! I hoped that Harold could help me negotiate an apology; and help me back onto my emotional feet so that I could perhaps pick up pursuit of a graduate career in Italy. (((He))) would tell me quite ambiguously, that I was very trusting.
Now, I’d never seen the black guy that she was with before, but as I said, the black girl (can’t remember her name, now) I’d known through Tony, my Anglo/Jew housemate and his girlfriend. I guess that he depicted me to her as sort of irreverent PC, rough sporting but a bit funny. She had a friendly, happy disposition toward me thus. But in truth, there is not much more to say about her. My opinion about blacks was well informed.
Since he’s come up, Tony the half Anglo/half Jew and John Day, another half Anglo/half Jew housemate (Anglo/Jew is a very self righteous combination) as well as the other Jews that I was experiencing bear remark on the general take-away from my experience of them. My conclusion is this, that there is definitely a biological difference and distinction of Jews. As a pattern they are indifferent or uncaring, where not outright antagonistic to Whites. What exceptions to the pattern that there might be, do not justify their inclusion; Whites who care about justice for themselves need autonomy from Jews, national/civic separation, same as with any other non-White people.
Jh-h-oho hon –Dhey hey hey, J-Hon d0he-hey-hey, I mimicked his effeminate, elitist Exeter prep school way of speaking. Everyone laughedm but I didn’t find him funny at all; the way he incited me for being angry with his ex-girlfriend, a pretty half Italian, half Polish girl, white knighting for her against my mere displeasure at having learned that she maxed out his credit card and went to the projects to fuck niggers. Upon learning my assessment of blacks, he told me that “all I can think about are my ancestors dying in concentration camps; and I will do everything in my power to prevent that.” Not only had I said nothing about killing blacks, I said nothing at all about Jews.
Tony was another case of self righteous, malicious Jewish paranoia. When it became clear to him that I was not joking, that I was serious about my anti-political correctness, he became aggressive. He did attempt to placate me, saying angrily, “ok, it is a little that way”! (White women being inclined to be nigger lovers); as if I would be placated by that. I told him, “you know, AIDS is a beautiful disease; it kills people who abuse sex. AIDS education; what is to know? Don’t conduct yourself like a pig and you won’t get it. He said, “now you’re trying to piss me off. But you’re not serious.” Oh, I’m serious I told him; it is an absolute disgrace to spend the kind of money it takes to keep a monkey like Magic Johnson alive; who the fuck does he think that he is, “trying to accommodate as man women as possible.” He should die. Tony reacted in rage and fear, “what does it matter what you want?! I know women who think that he’s very handsome!”
Even if he was handsome, he was exponentially out of line; and as it stands he is about as handsome as if a monkey had a baby with E.T. He looks like fucking E.T.!
I asked him, “Would you tell a goldfish to not discriminate against a piranha?”
He reacted in abject fear, knowing that I had a serious, legitimate argument, not based on any old fashioned right wing Christian stuff, or that sort of thing. He grabs me and pushes me a few times. I say to him, “try it Jew, try and hit me Jew!” I had never called anyone a Jew like that before, but that’s not the way he took it. He said, “oh, so now it comes out!” as if it was a revealing, something uncovered. But I told him truthfully, that I did not harbor strong ant-Semitic feelings; on the contrary, I had thought people were largely jealous and ought to organize in their interests the way that Jews did; furthermore, I find some of their women attractive; and finally, if you have intellectual pursuits, you were bound to come into contact with many Jews, as I have here; where I have discovered that Whites need separatism from Jews as well as blacks. Discovered it, not uncovered it. He told me that I could take my racism, or whatever he would say, take it to Italy, not here in The U.S. At this point, I gave him my own version of a post-hypnotic suggestion. I told him that the next time I saw him, he was going to tell me that “he is not going to let me get away with it!” (get away with what? was left ambiguous).
I wanted a nick, a little scar to remind me that this guy and his kind were not only an enemy of my species, but an enemy of human ecology more broadly. Indeed, I Googled him years later to find that he had become a partner in a high powered California law firm. Among his specialties, immigration and asylum law. In his profile he proudly cites among his notable cases having done pro-bono work to bring an African man (he provides a photo) to The U.S., getting him citizenship.
29., 30 and 31.
They are not perfectly representative of the concept, but persons 29, 30 and 31 tie-in the concept of “marginals” and their significance well enough; as these three were marginals, even by 12 step Al-Anon standards, despite the fact that this is a group for people who are threatened with marginalization if not marginalized already.
While the asshole known as “Guessedworker” cannot find it in the limited space of his unmerited gargantuan ego to acknowledge this or any of the many important and useful ideas that I’ve brought in service and defense of White interests, the significance of “marginals” to group homeostasis (i.e., group autonomy, which is, after all, what we’re after), remains an important requirement for Whites to understand properly as opposed to its red caping, which I hypothesize is largely a deception of Jewish academics and the liberal minions they empower.
Having developed the concept with prompting from Heidegger’s hermeneuticist student, Hans Georg Gadamer, the concept of marginals as they are supposed to function in the proper post modern sense (which I call “White Post Modernity”, in order to distinguish it from misrepresentations of post modern purpose), i.e., to reconstruct cultures/people as opposed to having them run over by the liberalism and Cartesian “pure” objectivity of modernity” or the brute ethnocentrism and anachronistic ignorance languishing in traditions was for them to be appreciated as a source of feedback; like centurions on the frontier, just inside the border of the system, they know where the shoe pinches, can have a keen sense of where the system is prone to be breeched; and they can have a broad perspective on the system and its function.
Their feedback can be valuable thus in service of systemic homeostasis. There should be accountability to and from them thus in order to cooperate with the justice of their needs and also so that they remain loyal to the system, even if they are just barely within.
There is the distinction that I have diagnosed of the proper concept of marginals as they are supposed to function in the post modern service of group praxis maintenance and reconstruction, i.e., that these are people who bear attention, account and inclusion as they are within the system, albeit barely in.
Now it is precisely because post modern concepts are conceived to facilitate the survival, reconstruction and homeostasis of peoples/group systems – including Whites – that Jews (and those who somehow gain by going along with their liberal destruction of gentiles) have misrepresented (successfully misrepresented, I might add) “post modernity” in they myriad of its resource; they have (((red caped)))its ideas, distorting them, rendering them antagonistic and repugnant to Whites, especially – who will then attack the very concepts that they need to survive systemically, as it is that disruption of White group homeostasis (“ethnocentrism”), as Professor MacDonald also observes, that their politics and biology, apparently, are about.
Thus, they have taken the good and healthy post modern idea of marginals, their place in reconstruction of the system, e.g., the human ecology of Whites, their place as those just within the system facilitative of its maintenance, and they have (((red caped))) the concept of marginals, misrepresenting it to the public as those from without the system of Whites. Non-Whites, or those antagonistic to White homeostasis, as those who are “marginals”, who ought to be included; barely deceptive misrepresentation of a post modern concept, its flagrant, chutzpah!
Just to wrap up this concept of marginals and its red caping for a moment and bring it back to asshole, where I began, if you are purporting to be an expert on Heidegger, as GW does, and want to focus on the empirical end of the hermeneutic circle, as GW does with his “ontology project”, and are concerned with these concepts for the service of ethno nationalism (viz. of The English), then the idea of marginals that I discuss as generated from Heidegger’s hermeneutic disciple, Gadamer, should be respected and recognized as perfectly serviceable to that “ontology project.” The concept of its being “red caped” ought to be appreciated in service of his “ontology project” as well. But as a supremely arrogant and uneducated man, he prefers the coloring book of ‘the left’ that the Jews have handed him: if they say “that’s what marginals are” the, by golly, that’s what marginals are and he is going to get it right by the right reactionary altercast and chase of red capes that the Jews have given him. Instead of recognition, incorporation and deployment, he emits two kinds of gas: he gaslights the ideas, pretending they are not important as his ego can’t abide; and he emits the gas of his farts from his armchair, believing that their stench is some kind of wordless Za-Zen ambrosia for all. “Speak, oh toothless wonder!”
Coming back to our Al-Anon marginals the…
29. This homely Italian American woman also attended 12 step meetings for over-eaters anonymous. How do I know these things about her? Because you had to know a lot of things about her. She talked and talked interminably it seemed when it came her turn to talk. The group burst into laughter as I vented my frustration at her in trance, “oh my god! one just sits there wondering when she will finally shut up!” Perhaps her talkaholism is a symptom of her marginalization as a homely Italian American in an Anglo Saxon culture. Not sure, but she needed to be held to account for this selfishness. I told her, the next meeting, after three or four apparent endings to her talk, false endings being part of what made her so frustrating, she would finally stop and pass to the next person to share before it became unbearable.
I told her than she would show that she had learned a little respect for the public space and etiquette; in a way, her Italian American place within, yet another time after, in a Northampton meeting, where she would give me a proper send off to my Italian adventures, having civil public concern and regard for another, passing on a turn in the public space as it were, saying to me, “che vediamo.”
30. Lucia was another Italian American who I’ve already talked about enough, so I will try not to be too redundant. With a prosaic, peasant like face and reddish brown hair bespeaking hybridization to match the cobblestones of an Italian piazza square, along with the flocks of unbecoming pigeons, one could see no reason for her confidence, but at once admired it a bit for exactly that reason. It seems that her body was ok, but she wasn’t anything that I was going to call another man to duel over. ..not in authentic reality; which makes my sniveling appeal to her for sympathy about “the fun we supposedly had back in the Italian villages” one of the more embarrassing things to think back on of the trance. While others may not have known how corny and phony this was, inauthentic, in a word, it goes to show that this primordial thrownness, as Heidegger calls it, also offers us recourse as humans to hermeneutic liberation from mere, arbitrary facticity; but that does not mean that our narrative direction will not bear correction in the non-Cartesian stasis of the hermeneutic circle, if we will not correct ourselves.
I was not really very sympathetic to Lucia nor was her confidence especially merited. She had gained unjustly from the increased one-up position of females, pandered to from all angles, building their ego’s sometimes to egomania, beyond all merit within the disorder of modernity (another of my good ideas, that GW is too stupid and jealous to acknowledge the significance of). And so I got the cybernetic call-back to balancing authenticity. She was more like a marginal gone rogue. I imitated her confident way of talking, saying, “my name is Lucia, I’m a nigger lover.” Not knowing yet that she had a big, partly black boyfriend. But of course.
Then she became my “Bobo Doll”, the tall, air-filled, soft plastic doll that bounds back to be hit yet again after every punch. I let up for a moment, feigning sympathy, suggesting that everyone should have sympathy for her, admire her confidence despite the fact that she is coming from a marginal perspective as an Italian American, not exactly part of the main stream, and despite the fact that she is not very beautiful. This all said sincerely and with sympathy. Then, suddenly burst forth with a spontaneous and sincere laugh, pointing at her, “what a dog!” Everyone laughed. It was impossible not to. Then as the MC and adult in the room, I brought just as sudden a corrective stop to the levity at he expense of another’s immutable characteristics. No, no, that was wrong. What would Kant say? I burst out in hysterical laugher again, “put a paper bag over her head!” Everyone laughed again, even louder. I’ll never forget Bill lurching away from Lucia in laughter, his woman laughing, and chicken neck, to my right doubling forward in hysteria. I already explained would punish her for that, and chicken neck would be wearing a turtle neck the next time that I saw her.
But coming back to Lucia, she was the poster girl for the bad girl who needed to be chastised, seated right next the virgin girl, 31.”rag doll”, who’s virtue needed confirmation in the sacred option of sex and life long monogamy as sacrament. And both of them would show obedience to me, as godfather, in respect of that sacred option at the end of the trance.
It came out, more or less by process of non-denial that Lucia had some kind of big, partly black boyfriend; and what a surprise! I told everyone. Just like my housemate, Venice. I don’t have to go looking for this stuff and everyone is acting like I am imagining, exaggerating things.
Again I am afraid that my response to this was not one of my moments of better style. I was corny in the way that I chided her for going with big and black – big! – instead of Italians. Finishing by screaming a futile order for her to “leave that son of a bitch!” But at least she sat quietly and humbly and neither she nor anyone else tried to take advantage of the fact that I did not project a confident and commanding masculinity as I might have, staying more within myself. But on the contrary, she would be obedient through the full trance and pull back in an apologetic gesture when I would look at her; also showing sympathy when I would discuss problems that I’d have in the future.
31. Rag doll is the only other person that I can concretely remember as being there in the trance /12 step meeting that evening…
She represented a marginal lacking sufficient institutionalization and respect for her virtue – her virginity and respect for sex, the means by which people come into the world, hopefully in a careful way; a social respect for a naturally incentivizing reward to compel reproduction which should be shaped and harmonized with responsible political structuring, assuring as best as possible justice for those responsible as such, for the maintenance of the species social systemic function and accountable to inherited social capital, to which we all have indebtedness.
Whereas the philosphy of Europe might have respected and protected her virtue, it now makes a mockery of it (I cited the “L.A. Law” episode in which the poindexter wimp stands up on his desk to announce before the office that his wife has been his one and only while the rest of the office goes on talking among themselves, completely disinterested). Liberalism, Neo-Liberalism and Neo Feudalism, particularly as weaponized, will bear no such institutionalization outsized of Abrahamic religion, the sine qua non of its controlled opposition, our very moral order red caped.
That is not to say that these virtuous sorts do not owe accountability to the rigors of brute nature, which , by and large, liberals can hold up to for a while, even while they destroy the society around them. nature and those who bear its harsher rigors absent that social structuring quite so, particularly when they manifest that ability in their people’s interests are owed respect, that this sort of marginal not drag them down, become parasitic. Hence, in the arbitrary of the thrownnnes, I was brutal on this poor girl.
I particularly wanted Lucia, who sat right next to her, to see this; to see the chastening from another perspective, what sort of brutal rigors and destruction that her hubris was bringing to bear against the virtuous. Summoning an all but defunct word from my Christian fundamentalist phase, I defined the word “Wanton” for the group; this went back to the original trance, when the therapist saw the utility of this word that I dredged up in desperation from the only resource I had to fall back on, and here I was again following in post hypnotic suggestion, defining the word “Wanton” and its derogation of “the whore, drunk with the blood of the saints.”
Chastening of the Whore and Saint reprisal and conclusion of the cast of characters.
Back to the prosaic and homely Italian American, Lucia….whom I had made a bobo doll of my own; having reprimanded the group for laughing after I laughed, pointing to her and saying “what a dog!” .. then, “no, nobody should be abused for their appearance” …and bursting into laughter with the group once again – whap – as I laughed out, “put a paper bag over her head!”
The laugher only intensified when I ordered her to suck Bill the incestor’s dick. “I said suck his dick!” Uproarious laugher all around. Unfortunately, I did not pull off all of the interaction with Lucia with as much aplomb. Corny and rather pathetic, I said ot her tearfully, that “we had fun back in the Italian villages, didn’t we Lucia?” … I did a bit better in (somehow) ascertaining, intuiting by contextual probability that she had a big black, or partly black boyfriend. And Lucia did have an undeservedly confident demeanor which deserved to be brought down a notch. So I imitated her, “my name is Lucia, I’m an ugly nigger lover.” Though I ordered her to leave that son of a bitch! (her nigger boyfriend), I have a hunch that she might not listen to me, even though she did exhibit shame. Awkwardly, I chided her for liking big men, and said that we’ll provide her with really big men, big!, not like most Italians who were no longer good enough for her.
Despite some weak moments, she would be beholden to my command that she would be obedient to me, adherent to the profundity of my message – bracing under the implication of the “wanton” whore of Babylon, drunk with the blood of the Saints” – willing to acknowledge that sex, children and whatever other despotic requirement I would impose upon her would be obliged by her, demonstrated by submissively following my command to stay seated at the meeting’s end, alongside the virgin “rag doll” girl whom I’d spoken of earlier, who sat next to her; to acknowledge the importance of loyalty to one’s (White) people, the possibility and serious treatment of and life long monogamy. That she would remain seated extra long, with her eyes sadly fixed on me to demonstrate her submission; while the rag doll girl, in her infinite wallflower shyness, would have her head down and then pop it up suddenly in a characteristic gesture of hers, to bring her head above the water of her shyness. This time not to talk, but rather to acknowledge her obedience to me, given the message she’d received, along with Lucia. In fact, these two girls stayed there, sitting in demonstrable submission, would be the last marked speech act of the trance, following Bill the incestor’s woman giving me the acknowledging smile she’d been ordered by me to do, and Jenna the French darling standing up moments before to walk out in slow deliberation, with her eyes fixed on mine to let me know that she was with me in the plan/concern.
Those were the final speech acts of the trance.
Standing up from their seats to the left of Lucia and Rag Doll, after the trance was over, there was the German 5 and the Lawyer guy’s brief talk together, apparently agreeing not to persecute me.
After this rounding out the “cast of characters”, I will list the songs, including most of the songs and artists I’ve not yet mentioned who featured in the trance; speculating a bit about the significance; and with the content of the trance captured well enough, I can move on to discuss a bit more the uncanny run-ins with people from the trance in and about town afterward, their being somehow prepared for the encounter; and finally this will allow me to conclude the Amherst chapter; to follow the promptings and provocations to trance adventures as they take me to other parts of America and Europe.
I have raked my brain to remember as best I can the full “cast of characters” from the Amherst 12-step ACOA meeting/protracted trance, which probably lasted about three hours duration. I count at least thirty one people who I remember definitely as having been there; three or four others who were regulars at this meeting but may not have been there on this particular night; and I may have forgotten about four to six others. But I remember thirty one distinct people definitely; they could act as witnesses to the meeting and its paranormal phenomenon, that is to say if I cared a great deal whether you believe me or not. There is very little margin for error in what I’ve written and, as I see it, if you choose not to believe me I don’t really give a fuck at this point; it’s your problem.
Reprisal from the onset of the trace…I had used the word “nigger”, the Lawyer guy remarked sternly, I don’t think he did anything illegal; but implied a warning.
I farted loudly. Everyone laughed and went into a trance with me.
In this moment, a girl from the other side of the room, long dark hair, nerdy, skinny but not of graceful form (as one could plainly see by the unbecoming Jack LaLanne era leotards that she wore) turned her face slowly toward me, signaling that I had hers and everyone’s attention; that we were free to get underway for something interesting. I would tag this girl for the duration with the name and song, “rag doll,” for her pathetic shyness and lack of robust form. Also, I suppose that care for such a wallflower belonged to the more traditionally sensitive, socially conservative times of the 1950’s.
Noting the requirements of this sort of person played into a message that I struggled to convey then as now, which is the proper understanding of post modernity as means to negotiate traditional and inherited forms and modernity, to help people past the downsides of tradition, it’s brute ethnocentric particularity and modernity’s impervious, universal roughshod over ways of life, including our inherited forms as European peoples.
I’m not sure if it was exactly then, but maybe, as I would sing the tune “Wonderwall” by Oasis several times throughout the trance, as sort of my theme song for the trance, and this was truly paranormal, as the song had not come out yet.
The song seemed to comment on my imperfect (to say the least) carrying off of the episode, while at the same time acknowledging that I had something, an important philosophical message and program, which could well save Europeans, our “Wonderwall.”
Wonderwall
Today is gonna be the day
That they’re gonna throw it back to you
By now you should’ve somehow
Realized what you gotta do
I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you nowBackbeat, the word is on the street
That the fire in your heart is out
I’m sure you’ve heard it all before
But you never really had a doubt
I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you nowAnd all the roads we have to walk are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
There are many things that I
Would like to say to you but I don’t know howBecause maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You’re my wonderwallToday was gonna be the day
But they’ll never throw it back to you
By now you should’ve somehow
Realized what you’re not to do
I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you nowAnd all the roads that lead you there were winding
And all the lights that light the way are blinding
There are many things that I
Would like to say to you but I don’t know howI said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You’re my wonderwallI said maybe (I said maybe)
You’re gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You’re my wonderwallI said maybe (I said maybe)
You’re gonna be the one that saves me (saves me)
You’re gonna be the one that saves me (that saves me)
You’re gonna be the one that saves me (that saves me).
…
Uncanny encounters with those in the trance in days following...
Particularly in retrospect, the encounters with “mom” Irene were most thrilling. She wasn’t old, but certainly mature, well over thirty five, but healthy and good looking in a dignified way that made her seem a highly unlikely partner for me. Hence the thrill of her good natured acceptance of all the X-rated fantasies that I would subject her to in the trance’ and with that, her obedience to the instruction (post hypnotic suggestion) that the next time that I saw her at this meeting, she would sit passively, staring at me with a big smile on her face, to let me know in no uncertain terms that it was all ok with her. Absolutely thrilling. It makes me horny just thinking about it.
In trance, I got off, as I said, on her eyes fixating on my erection after the blacks had vacated; I flaunted fantasies of fucking her head as it would be propped up on a pillow; her being happy because my sperm was in her stomach (which made Jenna issue a spontaneous peasant laugh; which was great); I indulged the fantasy of her being my mother in the next life’ she being aroused by my mathematical ability, would run her hand down my thigh, kiss me and we would spend an entire summer in incestuous delight. Another fantasy, in which I would take turns with Bill the incestor in all the sex acts with his daughter, Irene, and Bill’s woman, who sat by his side. Bill’s woman would also signal that this would be alright with her by the trance’s end.
I would caution the group about the Mulatto cyborg types that this liberal panmixia was threatening our human ecologies with. I had trouble remembering his name, but the group offered it up – Olympian, Dan O’Brien – as an example of the Mulatto cyborg (interestingly, he relocated to Phoenix from northern Idaho in 1997). And I would cite a local version of the Mulatto cyborg that I would be confronted with as a hybrid came with an oriental girlfriend to Jakes No-Frills in Northampton, where I would be working with Rene, a French incest victim. I’ve mentioned this highly stigmatic lambast that I gave him and kind of got away with; but the full description will have to be in the next post. The long and the short of it was that I saw him as coming for Rene and mom Irene, to the destruction of our European culture, and I warned him off with a protracted fury. I pretended to offer him as a lover for mom Irene, but she knew I wasn’t sincere. This Mulatto cyborg would later see me browsing through books in an Amherst book store; he’d approach me, thinking about saying or doing something; then stop short and walk away (just as I told him to do), realizing that it was futile.
And there would be two more encounters with mom Irene after the trance.
Reprise::
Irene, this woman sexy in part because she was unlikely as a sex object for her mature dignity and good looks, was as poised, probably more than anyone through all this, as I’d said. Despite my indulgence in racist vitriol and unjustified abuse, talk of sexual perversions, bestiality and incest fantasies, one surrounding Irene and one surrounding Bill and his daughter. Her dignity was not really beyond reproach, as it was revealed that she’d had a long affair with a married man. But this was not of concern to me. She was mom, the sexy Jocasta that Oedipus’s fate would be irresistibly drawn to. But this Oedipus didn’t mind. And this Jocasta didn’t seem bothered either. I went into a fantasy about how in our next lifetime, she would be my mother. One early summer day she would come to look upon me in my work, at my brilliant mathematical work and be so impressed and happy that she could not resist hugging and kissing me – and then it turned to real kissing, tongue kissing; one thing leads to another and we enjoy a whole summer indulging in sex with one another.
I conclude by telling her that I’d see her at two meetings in the future and that at the last one before I left the area she’d affectionately refer to me as “you” because I was referring to her as “you” – for some reason, I could not remember that her name was Irene. This would be at a meeting in a town north of here, a meeting populated almost entirely by WASPS and North Western European types and she would be welcoming me to share body fluids and genetics as such. And then there would be another occasion before that, at this same meeting in Amherst but another time, another week, when she would give me a huge smile to let me know that she would love to have sex with me, suck my cock, the fantasy could come to reality, ok with her, the works. She knew that I was trying to save our European people. That I cared and liked all our kind.
With that, I told her that I’d see her one other time. And this time she would not be smiling. She’d be worried – worried for the impact that miscegenating White women were having on our people indeed. I’d walk into the café situated right between here and the police station’ and she would be worried, consulting with a bohemian lady known to attend these meetings (though not this particular one). I would presume that her worry was about the predictably treacherous behavior on the part of young White women, including good looking, middle class, educated ones, like the one who walked in at the same time with a black child in her arms. Irene would be worried, see the angry look on my face, then look at Kim and Jim’s baby Amelia, as I was with them in that moment, and regain a sense of calm as she sat down to talk with the bohemian woman.
And indeed, I would attend that Al-Anon (ACOA) meeting that I’d never been-to before and would never attend again, in a town North of Amherst. The meeting provided for me the provisional relief of Anglo-Northwestern enclave. In fact, the one non-White there, a “Hispanic” girl (this one really wasn’t the kind that I railed about discriminating against, because they were really European. This one was Not European) voiced grievance that she felt unwelcome with no real evidence other than the fact that there were no other non-Whites there and yet they went on talking about their problems, one of which was Not the lack o “diversity” at the meeting. In fact, the chair of the meeting, a middle aged White man, was more ballsy than the standard PC line would have and responded that it was the right of this group to focus on its concerns as people from alcoholic families. Irene was there, she referred to me as “you” in the most affectionate way, but apparently farted, which was not altogether pleasant to me; reminding me perhaps not only of vulgar reality as opposed to fantasy, of the fact that these people were a bit different a kind European American; and that I was not quite at home with joining their vessel, despite Irene’s welcome. I worried that it was at sea and not seaworthy. In fact, a fantastically optimal Anglo sort of woman, child bearing age, talked to me after the meeting and tried to encourage my ongoing participation in the meeting (I guess that she liked me a bit), saying that “we have a very special group here.”
I’m embarrassed to think back on what was presenting as a huge opportunity for a fine wife, only to have me react as a mean spirited snob, saying “I’m neither so sure that they are so special nor that they should consider themselves special according to Al-Anon rules; maybe I would think about coming back.”
She was hurt and while in the gamesmanship of panmixia, I was flouting a good opportunity for a lovely Anglo woman with ethnocentric sensibilities still intact and sensitive and thus a means further into the American mainstream and out of the margins, I realize that my cruel dismissive with regard to the value of her culture was meant to provoke more ethnocentric distancing, worried as I was for the vulnerabilities of their ethnocentric barriers, their philosophical seaworthiness, as it were.
…and furthermore, my unconscious fate was leading me elsewhere. As I would indicate back in the Amherst trance, adding a bit more Polish gleaned from mushroom picking with my cousin Ryzard sometime in the future; wherein he’d distinguish edible mushrooms such as podgrzybek from poisonous mushrooms.
“True Cheese Now” – poison, like Oskar, Mika, Marcin and Roman.
The next person to mention as I would see him after the trance was Bill the handsome Anglo/incestor from Greenfield. And I told him that he would see me on the sidewalk of downtown Amherst; we’d be walking toward each other from opposite directions, and he would not be able to resist a broad organic smile (recognizing a friend) mixed with a tinge of curiosity for the uncanniness of it as we would pass each other, recognizing that I had been ordained with a particular task as one to look after our European interests, including his Anglo kind, of course.
And, as foretold in the trance, I would see his daughter; rather, she would see me, as I did not recognize this girl who I’d seen only fleetingly with the nigger boyfriend who came after me with the knife in North Amherst. Any number of women could have recognized me from my frequent racial antagonisms at the nearby Pub and around, so this girl transfixed on me and wavering in fear by the pool table in the bar adjacent to The Pub was only discernable to me as Bill’s daughter in retrospect. While hurt, Bill was grateful for the sense of fear that I instilled in her, knowing that there would be bad consequences for her kind of transgression. That there were people out there with ability and desperate motive to never accept it.
In fact, among a queue waiting to get into that very bar one evening around that time, was the colored girl that I lambasted in the trance; she was with the black guy from the trance as well; and they were in a state of mild shock, shaking their heads, helplessly muttering and not knowing what to do as I cursed in my anti-PC vitriol, reminding them all too well of the trance, and that there were people like me, who wanted nothing to do with their kind, to say the least.
Since it was precisely the same circumstance as the uncanny encounter with Bill, the next uncanny encounter subsequent to the trance to mention is Dave, the crater faced but ruggedly handsome, half Jew/half Italian kind of slow seeming but amiable jockish type, former heroine addict who said (when asked by me, which was weirder, heroine or this, the trance), said in his Boston accent, that this was “weadah.” Precisely as with Bill, as foretold, he would pass me on the sidewalk of downtown Amherst in days following the trance with a huge, involuntary grin on his face – gratitude tinged with incredulity, at the paranormal if not miraculous phenomenon of fate operating on him, through me and through the trance.
The next person that I should mention as having encountered uncannily in days following the trance was Sandy, the thirty seven year old Jewish woman, with the typical half good looking, part ugly witch face, with a tilt toward ugly for her slightly negroid lips. …not to mention a slightly bulbous negroid ass, which I did not notice in the trance. While I did comment on the general phenomenon of the disgusting White/Jewish insect beetle with its White nigger ass …eeeww the White nigger Jew…with its afro and bulbous nigger ass (this made Kim laugh), and I commented on her negroid lips, making her self conscious, which was not easy, as she sat there in her supreme confidence, arms folded in resolve of her intelligence and esteem.
She apparently thought early on in the trance that it was largely about and in the interest of her Jewish people; that it was more or less a participatory healing and reconciliation session fo Jews and Whites in mutual support against the threat of blacks, particularly with the anti-Semitic Tony Marin and Louis Farrakhan having recently been to campus; and me, early on in the trance expressing solidarity with Jews, and disdain for blacks of any sort; indeed interested in Jews as love interests and allies. She was ready to suspend disbelief in the story of my past life, as I broke down in tears in saying the word, “Auschwitz”…and sobbed, why would you kill me, a Polish intellectual and my girlfriend there, just because she was one quarter Jewish?
Thus, with me adding sobs about Ann Frank and so on, when I asked for a show of hands, she was quick to see this as a participatory occasion in her interests, raising her hand as one who lost relatives, in her case grandparents, in the Holocaust. And at this point I had not given up hope of gaining alliance with Jews (why would they be antagonistic?)’ and I yelled out, “you people are just jealous of Jews for their accomplishments through their solidarity; and you should exercise solidarity for yours/ours as well; don’t you threaten my Jewish friends! I want the likes of Farrakhan dead!” That’s when I did my imitation of the would dog as pack animal, in slow, growling creep, then suddenly darting in a fierce frenzied collective attack on the big black beast. I’ll never forget the look of horror on Missy’s face; and Sandy said, “perfect.”
… as she would say “perfect” when I would say that I would not let a nigger suck my dick. Of course I did not mind this, admiring the aspect of confident and fierce ethnocentrism. However, the trance went deeper than that, and the primordial threads of this profoundly amorphous state would not bear solidarity with Jews, nor their status as victims in the current circumstance.
Thus, as torrents of vicious anti-Semitism were unleashed through me in the cybernetic balance, Sandy would get the idea that this trance was not about reconciliation and alliance with Jews, not as far as I was concerned. And what’s the problem? I thought. Free speech as Americans; we fought and died in part to save your fucking people, now we’re looking after our own, like you do yours. I told her that she would show me that she had gotten this blunt message in days to come.
There was nothing of this giddy, ‘I can’t believe that I am encountering you’ that I got from Dave (the crater faced Jewish guy who liked her). No, it was all a stern business negotiation for her now. Symbolically, I stood behind her in a line at a teller’s booth at a bank in downtown Amherst. She bent down to talk through the teller’s window, her bulbous, nigger-like ass protruding. I did notice. She must have somehow sensed this and turned around to give me an angry look. However, I rebuffed her with equally stern confidence, “what’s the problem?” She just stayed shut up and turned back around to attend to her transaction at the teller’s booth.
Let me mention the uncanny encounter with Missy next. Missy was the pretty single mother, secretary fo Sally Freeman, who was interested in me. Until the trance, when I made it clear that I would not be cuckold; and when she showed abject fear with any inclination of violence coming from me, the ‘wild dog act in particular. I would give her a look to show my extreme consternation as I encountered her uncannily on the sidewalk astride the U. Mass campus walking with a formidable nigger. The kind who in a few different criteria would better me; all the more reason to resist the swarthy objectivism of the liberal culture that Missy was a part of; in order to protect the patterns and relative interests of European human ecology. But my consternation was not especially awesome or fear inspiring to her this time, unfortunately. She greeted me with an annoyed, “hello!” as if to say “wake up.” But wake up to what? That I shouldn’t be a racist? That she wasn’t with this guy; it was just a technical conversation surrounding matriculation?
Nevertheless, I believe that in this sarcastic “hello!” that she had gotten a deep message that there was a real problem with blacks; and while she was not ready to accept a radical position like mine just yet; she had some sense that there was reason to beware even a casual, civic interaction of this kind (if indeed, that’s all it was). But for all the sensitivity and fear that women like Missy express …saying how they are scared of men like me, it remains a major curiosity then, how they could be (in any way) with a nigger like that.
I’ve said almost all of what I have to say about the homely Italian American over-eater, who selfishly talked interminably, it seemed, when it came her turn at meetings. That at the next meeting there in Amherst, that she would finally stop talking just as it was about to get unbearable. But what I hadn’t mentioned was that the uncanny encounter with her would happen in some obscure and far off Al-Anon meeting that for some reason I went to, though I’d never been there before. That’s where she would say “che vediamo” to me at meeting’s end, to show me that she had learned to be less selfish and drew a bit deeply, as such, upon the socialization of her Italian heritage. And I realized in retrospect that she was not altogether selfish to begin with, as she saw my lust for mom Irene in a meeting weeks before (mom Irene put her foot up on her chair, creating a suggestive position), happy that my anger could be placated at least some by someone like her. And ooh that look that mom Irene would give me, with a big smile, patiently letting me know, all that chthonic sexual stuff, no problem. My heart pounds at the thought of it.
I’ve talked already the young (about my age at the time, early thirties) Anglo, poli-sci major (under graduate, possibly master’s degree); solid looking guy, who was completely unflappable through the trance. You wouldn’t know anything peculiar was/had happened judging by his reaction, or lack thereof, rather. I spoke to him at a Northampton meeting (same meeting where I met Jenna; was probably hoping that she’d be there, but she was not). I talked to him after the meeting, again hoping to bring him on my side against Clinton. And, in retrospect, about that I was right, Clinton was an evil man; and in that regard, he should have been “flappable.”
Instead, he repeated his story about having worked for the Republicans in Virginia, coming away disillusioned with them as well, the formula that they required you to adhere to. At this point, I pedantically whipped out a coin from my pocket, holding it up and saying that the Democrats and the Republicans were two sides of the same individualistic coin, the Lockeatine technology of civil individual rights impervious to organic group patterns. And while I remained oblivious, the trance goings-on suppressed from my memory, he started to become uncomfortable, becoming more aware, and apparently aware that I was not aware of the trance; moreover an imperfect medium not beyond critical distance (in his estimation) to the extent that he was aware of the trance to begin with: from its amazing phenomenon, to keen and intelligent insights, to the greatest stigma and utter stupidity. A bit disappointing, but we parted ways respectfully.
At that same Northampton meeting, there would be “Forehead.” And, again, while I was oblivious in suppressed memory of the trance, she was anything but. In fact, she wore a bandana on her forehead, apparently to hide its longer than average length, with my having berated her for it. She was nervous throughout the meeting. I don’t know if I got the hug that I always used to steal from her at the end of a meeting, but I certainly did not get the smile that went along with the liberal attitude, that everyone will be ok, we just need to work the correctivity of the liberal system. As I had instructed her in trance, she would let me know that she had gotten the message, that not everyone was going to be down with the liberal system and there would be hell to pay: while I had trouble remembering names, she’d never forget mine; she would nervously repeat my name, ok (my name), ok (my name), ok (my name), ok (my name) as we parted. I doubt that I discouraged her from voting Clinton in ’96; but I certainly would have added to the brute reality coming her way in future years…which would mitigate against her liberal enthusiasm (causing her to lose some of the modernist, universalizing narcissism) if she is worth her salt.
Working and going to Al-Anon meetings there would bring me to Northampton almost daily. Across the street from Smith College, I would be spotted muttering angrily by the same interracial couple, cute blond (who looked like she could be my sister) who beamed a smile at me as I walked by her and her oreo boyfriend, with Kim and her baby, as if would have no problem in the world with her miscegenation. That is, until I berated them repeatedly, saying that nigger women are ugly and that nobody wanted their goddamn women! Upon spotting me in Northampton, I could tell that they were disillusioned, in a conundrum, as their kind of pairing was bound to hurt black women and White men; so much for their “thoughtful” liberal “sensitivity.”
But although that episode had a storybook tale, karmic recapitulating aspect, it was not quite the cryptic, uncanny – “It’s A Wonderful Life” – type recapitulating encounter that I’d have with the Al-Anon trance people – four more of these synchronistic encounters in Northampton.
The first to mention is the jolly big, good natured but doofy Jewish woman with curly black hair. Because she was good natured, she was quick to raise her hand in the trance, to identify herself as Jewish and suspend disbelief in it as a participatory healing episode with the aim of conflict resolution between cultures, reconciliation.
In days following the trance, as I walked into a book store across from the Northampton Court House and statue of Calvin Coolidge, there she was, smiling, raising her hand to be sure to have my attention, and greeting me, “Hi (my name)!” as if ready and expecting this uncanny encounter.
But ready for what? I was instantaneously… uncomfortable is not the word, given all the stigma come through me in the trance, and my take away, which was not to stay there in some simple and friendly reconciliation with Jews and other cultures in the liberal American way. I’m sorry to have disappointed her, left a mystery as to what she might have said, but I had nothing to say to her and was spooked. I turned around and scurried out of there.
The next uncanny encounter to mention was with the pretty, in a standard way, but depressed German American woman. Very good face, slender body, great ass, but her glasses maintained an air of dignity for her even so. I’d heard her discuss her misery over her break up with her husband. He threatened her. She said, “kill me, I can’t stand this.” She chased him away; and she was still bothered to see him with another woman. She chided herself, what did I expect?
I am not against Germans, especially not German Americans. Why would I be? I would not lay trips on them or anyone else unless they laid trips on me. My only thing was that the Italian and Polish demographic was under represented and sometimes getting the worst of both punishment for “majority white” exploitations, while actually being a bit marginal, and being short shrifted accordingly. But the last thing I would do is lay any trips on this woman. And I did not. On the contrary, I was delighted to at least temporarily rupture her depression as the topic of ass-licking came up in trance and she burst out laughing. I was happy to be clued-in by Bill’s woman that she did not like niggers. And that she liked me well enough, would like to suck my dick.
She probably would have been a better catch and choice than I could have hoped for, but I was all about breeding Polish, French and especially Italian, given their lowest birthrate in the world.
I would encounter her uncannily a week or so after the trance in a café caddy corner across the street from that castle-like city hall building. As I walked in, she would be sitting there, greeting me with a “hello” that said in tone, ‘I’m a bit sad, but have some hope and am open to you.’ I said a respectful hello to her, then made believe that there was nothing on the menu that I wanted and I left. This was not my fate in this life-time; if in the next, that would be very good.
The next uncanny encounter, really two of them, was with another German American woman, “Martina” (because she looks a bit like Martina Navratilova), whom I’ve discussed at length, so I’ll keep the reprise short. Even though she liked me and made it more clear than anyone on several occasions, I was a bit hypocritical in saying that I would never abuse people who did not abuse me. I abused her in the trance, rightly or wrongly believing that she was doing, or going to do me harm: she was going to go for and breed with bad men, despite their abuse of her.
I was a misogynist in my teens and twenties, and topping the list of reasons was women going for and breeding with bad men; believing this wrecked the power and incentive structure of society. I hated that even more than their license and abuse of sex and penchant for liberalism.
And so I saw a reward for her having learned from “the godfather”, me in trance, demonstrated by her in two uncanny encounters following the trance. I told her that she would be walking toward me with that same smile on her face, making it clear that she liked me; then she would see the puzzled, “you\re not my type” look on my face whereupon she would briskly cross and then uncross her arms, signifying that she was done with her infatuation with me. At the time, I was a bit insulted by this; but upon reflection, I realized that I wanted her to do this; wanted her to show that she was careful to choose men who were motivated to be kind and loyal to her.
The next time I would uncannily encounter her would be at a bar, down an alley across the street from Smith in Northampton. This was the same bar that I did not go in when I saw a short, cocky nigger walking in walking in with a cute brunette, saying “I choose this”, as if his choice was all important, as if it should matter at all. This was the same bar that I walked briskly out of, with a few choice words for the (clearly) Jewish TV sportscaster to hear, to make sure that he knew that I had no concern to ease his worry over my angry reaction to the nigger walking in to boldly claim the beautiful blond jock girl at the bar, who I myself would not dare to approach, considering her clearly out of my culture and out of my league.
Hence, this bar would be an appropriate place for an instantiation of my wonder wall. I would walk in to an uncanny encounter of her, sitting in a booth, looking at me with a contented smile on her face as she sat nestled with the kind of man that I recommended for her. I told her that she did not have to compromise on looks, intelligence, career path and all the prospects that go along with that. Best if he is of German background, as that would keep the referents in line, but any kind of White guy is ok as long as he is going to be kind and loyal to you.
However, for fuck sake, give us a break. The classified ads, women seeking men, are constantly specifying that a man must be 5-10+ …5-10+, 5-10+. 5-10+ at minimum. Often 5-11 or 6 foot + For fuck sake, I am 5-9, the average height of men in the world, taller than more than 90% of women, and yet they are writing me off as “short.”
So, be willing to take a few inches off the expectations – maybe like 5-7, just a little bit taller than you – and you can get a really good bargain; don’t have to compromise on looks or anything else. So it came to pass and the godfather was pleased; kiss my ring.
The last uncanny encounter in Northampton would be with my therapist, Harold Raush. He was coming the opposite direction through a crosswalk toward the Court House, while I was waiting to go to the other side to the used book store. He greeted me politely but less enthusiastically than I greeted him, holding one hand behind his back as if holding cards that he was not showing. The encounter was that brief, and I had not used his services for weeks if not months by then; planning to leave the area as it were.
In fact, I was in the process of trying to unload my book collection, trying to sell them at the used book store, same place where the jolly doofy Jewish woman from the trance had tried to greet me. But when I got there, I found to my consternation that not only would they not buy my books, they wouldn’t even take them as a gift. A White girl and a Mulatto girl stood by in stunned silence, recognizing me and my anger from loud racial altercations in downtown Amherst, not able to process how a man like me could hold interaction with blacks in such contempt.
Coming back to Amherst then, to wrap up the uncanny encounters with those from the trance in days following…
It was at an Al-Anon meeting at a different church in Amherst that four other post-trance encounters occurred. I came timidly to a meeting at a different church in Amherst about a week or two after the trance; having only a vague sense that something had happened through my suppressed memory; and that I better keep quiet and assimilate part of the woodwork if I did not want to rekindle the attention of stigma, as there were only a few people at this meeting who were not in the trance. So, I might hope for their discretion to be mitigating amidst those who didn’t know, and might thus maintain some normalcy to my person among the Amherst rhetoric.
One of the few people, actually two, who had been at the trance meeting, was Hyatt. She was a Jewish woman who always came across a bit worried that political correctness might be going a bit tactlessly far for her liberal interests to sustain. Her worry in this regard naturally brought her attention to me which was mixed, it seemed, with a ting of attraction to me. I almost shared the attraction, but her creep toward middle age had caused her eyelids to droop in an unbecoming, Mr. Magoo-like way, over-emphasizing her worried personality to cartoon-like effect. After the meeting she came up to me, showing surprising obedience to post hypnotic suggestion, I mean, saying this weird thing that would be totally out of the blue other than that I had told her in trance that she should/would say it to me in respect for our having common dealings with each other in past lives. I can only guess at this point, because I don’t remember clearly, only that I was aware of some trace Jewish ancestry (less than 3% and maybe coming by way of a great, great, great grandfather from Reggio nell’Emilia – “where I would have been around her a lot in the past”) but I apparently hoped to invoke a modicum of kindred concern from Jews in order to divert them from direct attack enough to give me time to develop a platform in defense for my European people. Anyway, she would come up to me after the meeting and say in her sultry voice, as she was foretold to do, “we’ve known each other from around a along time.” Which was weird because we’d known of each other from some weeks, months maybe, but not “a long time.”
The other person from the trance who was at this particular meeting was Kathleen; easily the nicest person of the trance, she was an Irish American woman with a pretty face, dark brown hair and a handsome White boyfriend, silent, stoic with long blond hair; he did not come with her to this meeting but I mention him because her choice to be with him represented a key part of her good nature: she was with a White guy with long hair; indicating that she was both loyal to and not constraining of White male Being.
So why then, would I attack this woman so cruelly on the basis of her physicality in the trance? saying that she had “elephantiasis of the abdomen”, even referring other simply as “elephantiasis” because I could not remember her name?
It does bear some consideration and would impugn my character, rather lack thereof, even more were it not for the trance state, which had moved me to provoke and explore the primordial depths below what was taken for granted.
I suppose that it was an attack on what her kind might be taking too much for granted and an opening to be critical of the Irish American perspective along with it.
But to begin with, aspects of the male/ female alone provoked me.
Part of it was an organic backlash against my feminist sister’s searing hatred – hatred – equipped with the will and capacity to humiliate for evaluating women at all on the basis of their physicality. This screwed up and made it hard to sort out a distinction that Heidegger drew between first and most essential in evaluation. My sister’s hateful intimidation was a big part in instilling in me a timidity and horrible intentional oscillation with regard to women; at once finding them irresistible for their beauty but lacking the poise and skill to deftly tease apart and negotiate my way through social situations with them. “Fair” or “unfair” was a harrowing issue.
From one of those public service pamphlets one finds in a clinician’s waiting room, the kind illustrated with circle headed stick figures, I gleaned the tri-part criteria of “physical, emotional and intellectual.” I then took another criteria from the common public realm, viz, the 1-10 scale of beauty (a prominent aspect of the physical) and extended it to the three part criteria, physical, emotional and intellectual; settling on the idea that I was willing to take my equal on 1-10 scales of these three features; i.e., I was willing to be fair.
This went a long way toward alleviating – at least in my head – the anxiety and intentional oscillation that my sister’s, feminists and traditional women’s hatred had instilled in me.
Be it as it may that this unapologetically simplistic criteria might have helped in my head, it did not do a whole lot for negotiating the complexities of social reality.
Hence the emergence in trance of unresolved primordial and compensatory corrective indignation that women were being unfair, as I observed that Kathleen’s boyfriend was a better physical specimen than she, for her badly shaped body.
Hence, while it was ok with me that they would be together, they were two White people paired up; and I had no idea of what other criteria went into his electing to be with her, not much my business anyway, but the storm waves of the primordial trance lashed in cybernetic corrective of that which is at all dubious in natural criteria – that she might be taking for granted this injustice as merely her prerogative as a woman; and provided occasion for interrogation as such.
It also provided occasion to enlist my theory (good, important theory, the kind that the fucking asshole known as Guessedworker would try to gaslight as trivia where at all original – which it is) that the (((weaponized))) technology of Lockeantien civil individual rights has ruptured group classificatory bounds that had traditionally protected group ecological patterns and allowed White women to be solicited and pandered to from all directions, including when puerile and unsocialized to their group responsibility, susceptible to the subsocial function of incitement to genetic coemption in order to drive a better and unfair bargain for themselves in partner selection through their increased one up position as such within the social disordering effect of the modernist, Cartesian detachment from social accountability, which would otherwise be brought back to sustain historical social capital, human ecology and social justice by the legitimization of group bounds – currently prohibited, certainly for White people, as “racism.”
In a word, this was nothing to take for granted even if my overture was overly cruel. …how anti-racism, plays into the brute predilections of unsocialized, puerile females, their selection against those sublimated with broad time horizons, in favor of the over confident, anti-intellectual and over assertive, prone to brash liberalism and the rash destruction of human ecologies. Anti-racism is Cartesian prejudice against prejudice, against group classificatory bounds which might protect human ecologies and their vulnerable members; it is far from innocent as such – it is hurting and it is killing people.
And while there is a rigor to be respected in the female tendency to select for strength and demonstrated function, itis a criterial tht can be taken too far, this admiraitonof conficence to tat he expense of intellectual survey, being undaunted no matter what, impervious to even necessary social consideration and corrective. …such as from the male predilection, which values cooperation, support, thoughtfulness and beauty, as semiotic of health.
Next, there was the matter of Irishness, it’s perspective taken for granted. No willing problem with the Irish, of course; but like with the Germans, there can be a nerdy, lily Whiteness about them that does not always interface well with blacks; rather awkward, no more the complete equipment to hold up to the biopower and antagonism of the middle east and Africa than other European peoples; but the southern contribution to the buffering of European human ecologies can be under-appreciated for the over-representation of the Irish perspective, like the Germans.
That the the Irish can be liberal gate openers with their opposition to Anglo-Saxon discrimination being pandered to and exploited by the YKW – think of John and Bobby Kennedy with the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Ted Kennedy forfronting the cataclysmic Hart(also Irish)-(((Celler))) Immigration and Naturalization Act of 1965 – is so noted.
But their sheer numbers, like the Germans in America, leaves prone susceptibilities to pandering as a market in which to distribute false currency of right wing reaction, for the historically antagonistic position of their people to the English and for their lack of having to give more pause and thought to the complexities and even monumental injustices to perspectives of those nations in the path of Hitler’s wrath. The eminent legitimacy of opposition to Hitler as such can somehow be ignored completely, astonishingly enough, through marketing, and selling the idea to a prone Irish American, like this, that “Hitler did nothing wrong.”
Sometimes it seems that every White person that you come across in America is half German and half Irish, which is probably why the false currency that is passed through the half German half Irish Pat Buchanan in the form of his book, “The Unnecessary War”, is not more commonly ascertained and greeted with, “take it back to the Kaiser, if not Hitler!”
Hence I could not hold even the lovely Kathleen, nor her Irish folk beyond serious critique, central though they may be, as not Celts, but Basques, certainly one of the oldest, if not the oldest of European forms; whom I sung praises and reverence for in trance, as such.
And nevertheless Kathleen put me to shame, for the grace that she showed through all my abuse, including the indignity of my forgetting her name, which I must have heard dozens of times. She came to me at the end of this Al-Anon meeting and said, “my name is Kathleen.” An odd thing to do, even if decent, but these were uncanny encounters following the trance.
Even though he was not at the trance, I should probably mention another fellow who I met through this other meeting place, as it is relevant. Probably of Anglo, German, Irish descent, something like that, don’t remember, but a really nice guy – too nice.
He was a graduate biology student at U. Mass, who I could relate to and respected as such; and he apparently held the same estimation of me, as he asked me to be his 12 step program sponsor. But in feeling out this request, I gingerly approached the race issue, as it was the major issue for me and I did not need additional obstruction with all the massive anti racist activism on campus and in the surrounding towns. “What do you think about PC and the race issue?” I asked. He responded that “race is just a few genetic markers designating skin tone. not an important distinction.” Regrettably, but gently as possible, I had to decline to sponsor him, as I held race to be more than that, of course, and it was an important issue for me. Maybe I should have sponsored him and try to bring him around, but it didn’t seem the right place for either of us.
At this meeting, which followed my declining sponsorship of him by a few weeks, it was sad to see him practically in tears, really, as he “struggled with his inner child” as we would say in program, trying manage those emotional surges with the daunting requirements of a graduate program in the unsympathetic rigors of science. However, he did provide a perfect example of “scientism”, i.e., bad science or bad application of science with saying, “race is just a few genetic markers designating skin tone, nothing important.”
Oh, that’s right, there was another person from the trance there. How could I forget? Well, easily. There was the beaked mug that was only made more annoying in her pathos, not more feminine despite the long, frizzy blond hair. She was the short Jewish woman who sat to my right, next to chicken neck during the trance. She had previously liked me, maybe said hello, but was mostly quiet now, realizing that the door was shut and my point of view not very sympathetic anyway.
I was going to save remaining discussion of her for when I would indeed see her again, in another uncanny encounter following the trance, but her homely pathos, the tedium and irritation it evokes in me, bears upon a few important matters.
Unlike the inclination to neurotic, weak and furtive responses to misdeeds coming from those beautiful and more powerful, there is a primitive urge to not be bothered, to directly flaunt your superior power over the weak and pathetic by contrast to yourself where they venture misdeeds and annoyances. The primitive impulse in response to the annoyance of the weaker is to just up and hit hem, if not do away with them altogether in the event of more serious offense.
That is the primitive impulse and perspective that I can’t help but believe that blacks must often act on in their pattern of violence against Whites. But while there is a tiny part of me that would like to just be done with the tedium of this pathetic kind of woman and punch her, I am not black: I have impulse control and time horizon in concern for the consequences of momentary and episodic acts.
I do recall in the trance proclaiming quite proudly and importantly, since I was trafficking heavily in misogyny, even saying that I’d like to kill a lot of women, that in fact, I had never hit a woman, and never would. If you find a woman that offensive, you should just leave. Even if a woman were to want that, I would not do it and risk being on the wrong side of the law just to satisfy her dumb stereotype of how a man should be.
Taking the issue of violence, specifically violence against women to a further orbit, the genesis of my misogyny is seen in the astrological constellation of boomer Jim Goad, where he correctly says that blacks are the undisputed champions of rape, bar none; a malevolent transformation from my sympathy for women occurs with the kind of hypocrisy in women/girls that understandably rails against rape and other violence against women on the one hand, is so enamored of confidence, hyper-assertiveness and niggers, in a word, bad men generally, on the other hand; while indifferent, sometimes contemptuous of White men the least bit timid; as gate keepers in their increased one up position within the disorder of modernity, they continue to let through and empower liberal men who white night for their license to indulge in sexual extravagance and gamble on indulgences beyond their merit …keeping any correctives from normal White men at bay through the ready enlistment of thuggery; it’s latest form, “cancel culture”, censorship of any critical objection from White men as “racism” to be sanctioned.
I always felt that sex should be treated as one of the most, if not the most important act between people as it is the means by which people come into the world, hopefully in a responsible way; but also a matter of reward and confirmation, should be of persons of good character and politics. While I always found my boomer older brothers and sister, for that matter, to be promoting dangerous vulgarity in their casual and celebrative attitude toward sex within the expanding multiculturalism, I paid it lip service so as not to be perceived as gay or weak.
Nevertheless, to not know me better took an almost studied indifference willful ignorance; in the case of my sister, a will to maintain a negative stereotype of a male chauvinist pig to serve as a foil to her feminist autobiography, a bad will to maintain a stereotype to serve as foil on the level of the asshole known as Guessedworker.
My sister’s feminism was always kept cunningly in the background beyond risk to critical inspection. I was belatedly able to decode the means by wish she had instilled neuroses on me, with an ongoing wish to trivialize, humiliate limit and control the men in her life. This was done in large part through attributions, even where presented as a compliment, which were disconfirming of identity, because they bore no real resemblance; but they were often not meant to be compliments, but rather stereotyped attributions to justify her scorn and hatred.
The link between my neuroses with regard to women, and her reliance on attributing stereotypes to me in shocking disregard of who I am came to the fore. I realized what she had been putting me through when I bemoaned having been stood up for a posh date that I arranged with a cutie (the nerve of me). And my sister angrily objected to my disappointment, “what would you think?” The lawyerly rhetorical question serving to keep me backpaddling. I responded, “think what? by the way she dresses you can tell that she’s no wallflower.”
My sister: “I don’t believe it! You’re not the kind of guy who thinks a woman should be raped for the way that she dresses (are you)?!” That did it. Not even in the privacy of my mind had I ever thought a woman should be raped for that or any other reason. I stopped talking to my sister for ten years and only resumed talking to her as I had to by force of circumstance – regarding inheritance; and then I was “all about money” and should only be concerned with working, not investing; and I should stay far away from women who care about money.
Finally with regard to violence against women as with any offending group, one may even have initial thoughts en mass, but one realizes upon reflection not just the impracticality of it [Kant cast his tomes on morality in terms of “practicality” for a reason], but the futility of it; and the likely blowback which will only make matters worse; especially if that group is one’s own women. Nevertheless, considering the level of violence against women, one has to wonder why women don’t complain more about it and think maybe because they are indulging in the conceit of their high grumbles while thwarting, cancelling the low grumbles of beta males (who make families, while alphas make bastards), know that they are getting away with murder given the bad men that they are inclined to and the harm that they do to both women and good men.
I digress in regard of the pathetic ,”please don’t hit me” Jewish woman; but will come back to direct trance consequences as I would encounter her uncannily, along with two others from the trance at ‘Bread and Circus” high end supermarket.
But before I move on to discuss the appropriately named Bread & Circus episode (appropriately named, because the Romans prescribed bread and circus entertainment to distract the masses from the infamy of imperial Rome’s leadership and the empire’s state of immanent decline and fall), I need to discuss a crucial episode which brought to a head my acute awareness that I could no longer even pretend to defend “the new Roman empire” that was America by my interests enough to participate in its means to reward.
Precursors To A Pivotal Episode
My roommate situation at 19 Hobart degenerated from graduate students to undergraduates and then more transient types to where finally, the rental could not be sustained and I had to move out. I found a sublet room in a house with undergraduates just a block away on North Pleasant, but my connection to the area was getting more and more tenuous. I was already kicked off, prohibited from campus by then. The legal actions for my racial altercation at The Pub and “assault” charges for brushing up against Ms. Aiello’s arm had gone down. The Al-Anon trance had just transpired, adding further stigma to the trances that occurred in graduate class, with other students and teachers. Jobs were hard to come by to sustain me there, and where I could find them, the PC environment made them difficult for me to bear.
While matriculation at U. Mass. was no longer viable, I had to tell my father that graduate school altogether was not looking very possible. I had some vague hope of catching on with a European university, but really, that was just a shot in the dark excuse and hope of a way to get out of America and into Europe.
The stage was set for the the pivotal and infuriating episode that would trigger me to throw off remaining tact and caution and launch myself into Europe whether my father was prepared to help or not.
Suffice it to say, the abusive way that he pulled the plug on any idea of helping me, triggered desperate thoughts in my mind.
What was I to do? Try to explain to my father the new understanding, the interactive nature of psychology, to where it was no longer psychology at all, but communication, an interactional perspective bearing upon a new philosophy and worldview? and that he should understand that hews privileged to be a part of this?
Well, I tried, but I had not recovered from my orbital retreat, not remotely enough to develop the skills through enough practical participation to negotiate with sufficient tact to make a better deal with my father.
But why my orbital retreat to begin with?
Well, the endless hostility, negative attributings to me and blockage of metacommunication by my mother that might have facilitated re-negotiation of false attributions; “the hurried child” also comes to mind, ever the “no nonsense” command to do something now, without reflection; obviously this was compounded by her increasing alcoholism – I am not discussing this trance under the rubric of Adult Children of Alcoholics for no reason. And her bi-polar syndrome, which manifested two severe episodes in which I bore the brunt of her insanity at the critical ages of 11 and 13 (my father told me that “she’s going through menopause, all women go through that”).
My brother re-channeled this (and by the way, those who think its clever to mock the concept of anti-bullying, please shut up) with anything but my real name, rather a litany of “imaginative” degrading names for me, implying repugnant, retarded and otherworldly strange. Coupling this with endless indulgence in two of the most disconfirming speech acts at my expense: viz., smug sarcasm and loud mockery; followed by a display of whimsical merriment such as whistling carefree if I showed any discomfort; studied indifference displayed in the sucking of his snot as he attended to a book; then arising suddenly, to say “face!”, as in, in my face, if I thought about just treatment for myself. He was the most sarcastic person that I have ever known; and more given to deploy mockery than anyone I have ever known. any person that I have known. These are two of the most specifically disconfirming, disturbing and discombobulating speech acts; but generally, he was doing what he could get away with to disrupt and and hinder my capacity for calm and poised thinking (and treating my objections as if I was the bad one). But then, you see, he was being “good” to me; this was the charmed loop of didactic incitement. This was all after I finally got him to stop the physical abuse, in the form of constraining me and tormenting me; as I finally blacked-out one day and hit him in the eye with a pestle.
Still he remained, as ever, a fat bear waiting to feed to himself whatever idea of mine that he could feed to his ego as it might make its way through this turbulent maze and, also like a fat bear, to swat and kill any ideas not necessary to his appetite (an offense to his ego). I learned to do a “baseball bug” thing with my mind, not letting my thoughts out in coherent form and practical application lest they justify his abuse, or enlist by him dismissive social approbation where not useful to himself.
Try to get my brother to stop it and my sister would say, “stop it, both of you!” As if I had equal responsibility. Try to explain any of my complaints to her direction and she would use of her two modes of hatred, ice cold or searing hot: “oh, you’ve had such a hard life!”
Of course with her prerogatives everything was permissible, fun, light and breezy, her sexuality, “delightful”, mine, a grievous offense the moment that I specified any physical preference.
Though an increasing array of predation was being set -via laws of the 50’s, 60s and beyond – to lay waste vast swathes of the more sensitive among European peoples, my sister could not see any complaint with her liberalism.
No, the second wave of feminism that came along with it was too opportunistically timed for her to be bothered; she could out-do the male chauvinist pigs at their own games, build up her ego and her bank account all at once, as divorce attorney for Jews against their pretty shiksa wives.
But defending mostly male clients was just a well paying career. The queen bee emerged first and would sting all competition.
Still, her outlook was feminist, its resource kept cunningly in the background beyond critical redress, the queen bee aim in her venom with regard to males: to trivialize, humiliate, limit and control. Have to keep working to keep the bitch, er, good ship feminist sailing toward Mulatto Supremacist destination. Now, if you’re a good technoslave, you can have a White cow to produce a daughter for us to throw in its engine room furnace of miscegenation.
Upon entering a room, or just about any time, she’d let out a loud belch to metacommunicate what she cares for your opinion on any of this: nothing.
My father’s part in this; his position in society; his reaction to what was happening in the family; society’s impact – not helping (to say the least); the trance deal, as one where I would act like a crazy Italian to stir the pot against liberals, while getting a real education in exchange – not a PhD; while I held up a PhD as a pseudo goal in order to get the information that I needed to recover fully; and to make my way in the world and into critical defense against liberals; while my father expected a PhD. While our interaction lacked the ability to re-negotiate objectives (e.g., investment in Europe in order to set up family formation).
My father’s part and position.
My father was the son of Italian immigrants from two adjacent villages in Southern Italy. His father was very mean, heading a family of four children in the depression era poverty of Newark’s North Ward; an Italian enclave. He seemed to inherit one means for combatting boredom from days of the Italian village; and to cultivate another on the door stoops of the depression era Newark neighborhood; but both depended upon a common culture to back him up.
Absent the physical violence, my father would fly into fits of fantastic histrionic rage, for reasons marginally justifiable, or for no apparent reason at all, directed at perfect strangers or directed at family members, the “raging bull” character was tame by comparison.
I surmise that this was an adaptation from the Italian village, to breakup the boredom, and taking for granted that the villagers were all kindred, and would be understanding, willing to pick up the pieces from this localized chaos. The problem of bringing this behavior to America, of course, was that the people were not so kindred, were not going to be sympathetic an pick up the pieces.
And my father brought the hatred that he got from working with his father to me. Always a horrifying experience of his rage seething over; teeth gritted, eyes bulging out of his head, shaking with rage, he let me know that it was all he could do to resist crunching my head. I’ll never forget the look he gave me one time; I must have been 4 or 5; my psyche just collapsed somewhere far away. What’s the point of life with a father like this?
And this was the worst penchant of my father, to attack vulnerabilities. This is what broke my mother, and turned her into a relentlessly hostile battering ram in response. When someone, particularly a parent/spouse attacks you when you are vulnerable, it makes it doubly hard to trust, one feels they cannot let their guard down.
But these volc anic eruptions were set mostly in withdrawal to a passive acceptance of a quaint working class role; the snapping turtle, when not attacking you for asking a question, would have a dumb smile on its face, ready for the pat on the head on the door stoop of 1939 Newark, repeating to the neighbors the fantastic stories heard from the radio, of martians coming down Broad Street, Ted Williams, while able to see the commissioner’s name on a speeding baseball, could not shine Joe Dimaggio’s shoes; and he came home from service in WWII wearing the same dumb smile expecting approval and agreement when he would throw up his hands and say, “you cant fight city hall.”
A catatonic and chronic TV watcher by time we moved to Montclair, I would be sickened as he would turn to me with that smile on his face, expecting me to be equally entertained by some dumb thing that the television was trying to program into us.
While my mother would give him approval for his quaintness, the dumb smile on his face expecting approval for his bad grammar, “he come” not he came”, “it don’t work that way”, the same signal that would meet with approval form the ladies in Newark, that he wasn’t getting uppity with the gate keepers.
Call me a snob, and I can admit that my high self esteem prevented me from dealing with this effectively – i.e., I did not feel that I should have to deal with any of it – but I sensed that this altercast was putting me at a disadvantage in this society and I hated that. Sunday school too. And I hated that self hatred; while the Africans beat the war drums of their group self interest.
America was changing, becoming more and more toxic compared to the traditional forms that the boomers, including my older siblings, took for granted and benefitted from, along with their birth order advantage over me, including not being subject to the worst of my mother as she slipped into alcoholism and insanity, that my father was never intelligent enough to take into account when he would say in response to issues raised, “you were all raised the same” … or walking into the room when my brother was bulling me as a kid and saying, “I don’t understand.” Nothing more. Asif it was so hared to understand that this was a fat, jealous older rother who was doing everything in his power to fuck my mind up and attach a deficit to me.
When trying to discuss it years later: My father, “don’t you think other people had that deficit?” Always imploring me to think in disagreement with myself. Kant and his unanimity were not part of our Catholic upbringing. “Why don’t you see Naomi (Jewish hypnotherapist, opposing unanimity as well), she wants to help you. I just want to be done with this. Please recall that Naomi was the Jewish (unbeknownst to me) hypno-interventionist that my mother heard on the Susan (((Forward))) (Men Who Hate Women and The Women Who Love Them) radio show, that my mother hired ostensibly to “help me to do better”, but really to do a mechanist Jay Haley/Milton Erikson style Brief Therapy intervention against me to be “done with my problem” as she could never admit that she was wrong about anything; while I was suckered in by my mother’s “lets go for it”, me thinking that Naomi was a rational actor who would give my perspective fair consideration, me declining to see her again as I felt un-comfortable with her (general attitude that this society was ok; i.e., the problem must be in me); then my father saying that, “why don’t you see Naomi, she wants to help you” …”I just want to be done with this.”..me taking that up when I got the job on Wall Street, thinking that she might help me calmly negotiate the transition to a brokerage career; with my final grammar anchoring my possibility to participate in the liberal society [I don’t want a woman who has dated a nigger; not you can’t; I don’t want]; lured in by the rapture of her hypnosis and then subject to the various intervention techniques meant to humiliate and rupture my final grammar: I don’t want a woman who has dated a nigger. Naomi, in a meek, hesitant voice, “even if it was a long time ago?” …coyly getting under the skin of my final grammar, as if I was the oppressor, I had a break down and did not realize it at the time, that I had to go back to school directly, to take on society directly, to present a second final grammar, “we don’t want.” But in the meantime, I had lost the means to pay for that education and lost most of my remaining respect for my parents for hiring Naomi. I had to sell my father with the ostensible goal of pursuing a PhD in order to get the intellectual resources necessary for psychic recovery, to understand what is going on and to develop a critical platform in defense. I.e., to “get an education” according to the original trance mandate as opposed to cramming for a degree, as I had done at Tufts. That is, it was about an education, not a PhD, though it’s pursuit was the guise by which I gained some financial support.
You see, while my father was emotionally and intellectually below zero, I’d be jerk to complain about his material /financial providing; even though we were not wealthy. The problem was the blockage of meta communication, such that you/I could not even know what amount of help might be reasonable to negotiate from him; any such inquiry was greeted with an attack. That is why Naomi ‘s blockage of meta communication, in Brief Therapy pragmatic technique of trying to create frustration, get the patient to seek a human response, turning everything back on me was intolerable; I had no perspective.
But through the braille of his materialism, maybe pursuit of a PhD and the production of another grandchild for him (my brother had only one at that point and did not plan another) would be enough to gain his support for this education that I needed.
And it started out showing promise that way, with my ideas being recognized as worthy of development in a graduate thesis; until my side of the trance deal kicked in, and my “crazy Italian” thing put the kibosh on any hopes of a PhD, or certainly not at U. Mass. and certainly not with any help from them.
While my PhD prospects still seemed hopeful, as I really did have good, important ideas, recognized as such, a trip home found the curios sight of my sister in law kissing my brother like it was their honey moon, and a second grandchild for my father soon after. I got the impression that this selfish, competitive asshole sister-in-law of mine (chief force on my family’s side, manipulating my Zelig-like father into mouthing the liberal narrative (that my Jewish professor wanted), subverting my second final grammar, “nobody agrees with you”, i.e., there is no “WE” don’t want” knowing that this was the way to box most of my father’s help and resources to her; and me, well, “you still want to have children?”
In his tortoise shell, obliviously stepping on his own eggs, my father liked America. The depression had made him materialistic; it was enough for him to come out of that; he could not understand a serious, let alone a profound complaint with America. If there was a problem, it must be me, must be in my head ..just wonderful here.. “anything goes when the whistle blows” he’d say with the dumb smile on his face; anyway, “you can’t fight city hall!”
America commenced on the Lockeatine anti-elitist class idea, which was quite good in a way of course, in that it gave everyone a shot…a liberalism still problematic in reality, in a big, unwieldly society like America, with so many ethnicities, but when the anti classification of civil rights was weaponized as “civil right”, where this anti classificatory idea was weaponized as anti racism, specifically weaponizing blacks against Whites, the notion of giving the underdog a shot (as if blacks were exactly an underdog in context) became a nightmare.
Thus, when my father was going along with the university intervention against my attempt to muster a second final grammar, saying “you weren’t taught that” and “I talked to everyone and nobody agrees with you”….”good naturedly” saying, “I want a black grandchild…bragging about his testimony “with a famous Jewish lawyer before the Supreme Court that broke union restrictions (in Jimmy Hoffa’s rule), how “he just wanted the same rights as anyone”…. I began to hate him for the cataclysm that his values were aiding and abetting in the destruction of EGI, a shirking of an important part of paternal responsibility.
And while my father was liberated from mere facticity in the vulgar popular sense of being able to take a pat on the head for playing stupid (or maybe just being stupid enough to not threaten the powers that be), going along with fantastical pop ideas for the “fun” of it, and maintaining loyalty to the liberal American idea as if it was “conservative” this vulgar pragmatism took for granted the backing of his Italian culture and indeed, put aside objective, Augustinian concerns with a penchant for negotiating Manichean trickery instead. I always hated this and it made me purity spiral into “objectivity”, truth and honesty being my only apparent means to make sense of this confusing family and society by reaction.
Furthermore, while a liberation from mere facticity is necessary for a coherent personality, it must not be untethered to the extent that it cannot gird coherence. That was my father. He was Zelig like, the Woody Allen character who adopted his personality from his surroundings. When my uncle, his brother died, I sent a respectful note; then my father is sounding exactly like my uncle, quietly grunting on his death bed), I guess thinking that’s the way to gain respect. It was obnoxious and concerning to realize that this was the caliber of character that I had to contend with the world by means of my father.
But again, with the high self esteem that has always been the tragic flaw in my part of the equation, I withdrew aloof, believing that I simply should not have to deal with such family and societal foibles and obstacles, and did not develop well enough the practical social skills to negotiate complicated circumstance, antagonistic points of view and difficult personalities.
Indeed, I was not yet myself liberated from facticity enough myself, in my reactionary objectivist orbit, white knuckles only beginning to loosen up as I began to get a hold of the manichean trickster Jewish rhetoric, the (((red caping))) of praxis and our moral order thereof. …but even in the liberation from mere facticity that I had by this time, to move into a narrative coherence for myself and my people, I did not have support enough nor practical skill yet to use it for one of its most important functions: to liberate from the mere facticity, that most of our people are not worth it and those who are worth it can still have serious flaws.
Not having the practical skills to sort that out well enough is why I got taken in Pila. But that’s getting ahead of things.
The moral order concerned with our people’s existence, that would have facilitated this transcendence, for enough perspective to rise above the moments, episodes and relations of our own bad people and the bad aspects of our good ones, to keep an eye on the justifying pattern and not get caught up in moment, episode or even in a particular bad relationship, being able to gracefully put smaller problems aside for the bigger perspective ..was not operative… I was still operating on my old fall back of the braille of my emotions as my maps to make reliable sense close (all too close) to the vest, to try to follow the arbitrary facticity of modernity, and try to transcend for myself the world of social disconfirmation.
While it may seem ridiculous in casual reading as to why I had stayed in the orbit of U. Mass for this long, particularly after I had been thrown off campus, I still hoped for help launching from there to another university, as I had done much work with a professor here, who had connections around the world.
But now, despite sincere apology for the hideous emotional assault on my professor, that reason to stay and try to link to a pursuit of a PhD had dwindled as well.
A few final indignations to my sensibilities brought home the need to call my father and discuss the likely need to take a new path other than academic.
As I said, this was after the trance and I had moved to a sublet with undergraduates a block away from 19 Hobart on North Pleasant Street. I leafed through a porno magazine that they kept below the sink in the bathroom. Not that I had not seen this kind of thing in porno before, but there was an exquisitely beautiful blond Swedish woman sucking a nigger’s dick. As opposed to being reminded of what I am doing all this for then, I was reminded what the hell am I doing this for? Not that I was resigned but my disillusionment rekindled and set ablaze when a car stopped patiently to allow me to cross through the zebra stripe across North Pleasant Street to Kim and Jim’s house on Berkshire Terrace. I looked into the car and see a nigger with a grin on his face, happily waving me across, like everything is copasetic as a beautiful blond sat in his passenger’s seat. I decided to rankle his placid mood with an epithet heavy tirade. He pulled the car around, seemingly in shock, his White passenger side window next me as I stood on the curb yelling; they both seemed a little worried but he leaned over and was going to say something but I was not going to let them; just kept berating them until the gave up and screeched away – in the opposite direction (!) to which they had been patiently and placidly proceeding. To note, they turned around in the parking lot of an an adjacent building where I had weeks before ducked in to make a phone call to police after having been stalked and threatened all the way from campus by a dreadlock and beret wearing fanatical anarchist/anti racist type cohort of Ms. nigger loving Aiello (recall the first lawyer that I spoke to regarding her assault allegation: “you called her a nigger lover? You called her a nigger lover?!? Yes, I’ll defend you!” No, I don’t think so. lol).
And so the time had come to make a call to my father, to tell him that I needed to change my plans, resign on pursuit of a PhD in America. It was intolerable. Maybe in Europe, but I needed to get back to Europe no matter what – there at least, in Italy or Poland, nobody could say to me, “Where is your stronger claim to national identity? we’re all immigrants here; how dare you!”
THE PIVOTAL EPISODE
I called my father to try to explain. Although I had been working (at the restaurants in Northampton) I had also had to hit my parents up enough for money (mostly dealing with my mother at first, but she had died a few years ago). At first he was sympathetic when I said it did not look like things would work out at U. Mass. He said, “well, you got your foot in the door.” Meaning that he thought that I might pursue a PhD at some other university in the United States.
Then I had to bridge a complexity that I was not even fully conscious of my self and could not really say to him anyway, even if I was articulate enough. I could not say to him that this was never about getting a PhD according to the original trance deal, but rather about getting a real education. I began to explain to him that I could not bear America any longer. He began to turn on me, saying, “oh no, I’m throwing good money after bad!”
While my father sided with me in hating Clinton and the Democrats, for him, the Republicans and America were still more than good enough. I could not explain to him that this wasn’t about a PhD, not even about a mere education, but I was getting what I needed to articulate and overcome the nightmare family that he had created and the nightmare society that he liked – snapping turtle that he was, retreating obliviously into his shell rather than face the nightmare that the American dream was turning into.
I tried to explain how it had not been a waste, how I’d engaged with prominent academics from all over the U.S.; and while it is true that Helen Haste had invited me to Harvard to discuss feminism and gender relations with her and that a chat might have been nice, she wasn’t going to be sympathetic to my point of view and I wasn’t going to get into Harvard.
Furthermore, I had also engaged with professors from all over Europe, such as Harre from Oxford, also psychologists from the Milan Group; and also, I had written a well received analysis of John Shotter’s work on social accountability.
My father bellowed, “isn’t that what you’re supposed to be! accountable!”
It was difficult enough or me to rise above his more trivial stupidity; I had always despised his “I’m rubber, you’re glue” and “that’s nothing, I knew all that already” dismissiveness; when I knew good and well he didn’t know shit, let alone better than the best scholars.
I think back on when he was asked to take me to Italy and we were talking to my cousins. I used some Milan Group type thinking with my cousin’s daughter, creating a legitimate space for agency by saying, “listen to your mother, she is very wise.” Mother and daughter were happy. Then my stupid father, “knowing all this”, throws up his hands to signal resignation, while translating this into an unqualified command, “listen to your mother!” The kid starts screaming.
I try to explain to my other cousins there an important way in which the American project was going bad after having started out as a nice idea to give the little guy a shot, but …and then my father, with that dumb smile on his face, always with the instantaneous dismissive, ‘yeah”, he knew all that, you are no source of information, “the big fish eat the little fish. It’s like that everywhere.” He is arbitrarily dismissing me as a respectable source of information and America as having particular problems.
Now coming back to our phone call. Of course he immediately “knows everything” that Harre and Shotter have to say and is going to dismiss me as a worthy source of information; but this was more serious and more on the order of the fierce, snapping turtle type of attack that was not uncommon for him either in response to inquiries. “Accountable! Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be! You have to stand on your own two feet!”
I might have wanted to explain that sheerly standing on one’s own two feet is not exactly what social accountability is about; it’s more about mutual accountability and conjoint cooperation in the construction of means. But I was getting fatigued by it all, the lack of perspective that his didactic incitement left; the tedium of having to deal with this hostile, ignorant man. And so I just said weakly, “oh no, no man’s an island.”
He starts bellowing louder; “you have to stand on your own two feet and don’t come back here! (to his house); to make matters worse, he was not entirely wrong. I had leaned on him for a year; true, Naomi put the kibosh on my effort to fund my education by myself, and I kind of needed the help now, but still, he was forking over money.
Maybe I was grasping at straws at trying to be rigorously accountable as leaving America and its opportunities had always been an unthinkably emasculating thought.
I said something that makes me mad even now when I think about having said it, so stupidly unlike me, not even honestly what I felt: “I feel ashamed.”
Then, like an ice pick in the center of my psyche, he bellowed, “you should be!
This was a manifestation of my father’s worst penchant, viz., to attack vulnerability; it triggers a second order change where it is impossible to trust (it broke my mother psychologically; and triggered me to new height of negative reaction in this episode).
This caused an immediate eruption from me. Beginning with, “well, I’m not ashamed!” then, “I’ll kill those fucking kids!” (my brothers two sons). It was a spontaneous psychic explosion probably relating to the sense that by having a second kid, my sister in law had taken away my angle of being necessary to provide an insurance kid; thus doing away with any sense in my father that gingerly negotiations were necessary. Infuriating, because I did want to have a kid and I had the means to develop a platform that could reconstruct a world worth bringing a child into. While Mrs chewed bubble-gum head was the “everybody” behind the “nobody agrees with me.” It must be said, in her stupid, Long Island accent in attendance to nigger ball. I wanna watcha the Giaaants (niggerball team). I want everything to be noaamaaal. No, I don’t agree with you (about what?).
I gathered my senses enough to say, that I am not going to waste my life to kill her piece of shit children. But I do need to come to the house only to get my Passport, because that’s where it is.
“By now, I should have realized somehow what I’m not to do”, I suppose they might say….and still transcending the charmed loop of didactic incitement is no easy task.
But after all, I’m your wonderwall.
The next day, I took the bus from Amherst Mass. down to Brielle, New Jersey. When I got to my father’s house, for some reason my sister in law was there with her younger kid; and she scurried out to the car with him and locked the door while my father waited with two Passports, one mine and one my grandfather’s old passport (I guess that I wanted it to show people my relation in the villages). I snatched them from my father, while he said, “you can’t stay here, I’ll call the police!” I said fuck you! and drop dead and left.
It probably took me all night to get back to Amherst as America’s public transportation is notoriously inconvenient, when not like being trapped in a monkey cage (remind me to tell you about the incident that happened on the tram outside of Boston when I came back from Europe).
I got back to Amherst with nowhere else to stay, and even there my sublet about to expire.
Kim and Jim had mercy on me and decided to take me in.
I told Kim and Jim that I considered doing “the dirty work” for mafia sorts. With their Christian charity mindset, they took me in to their house, as my other arrangements were falling apart. They could nurse me to some sense of normality and health with their Christian charity following the trance phenomenon, all of which they’d witnessed.
And so I was no longer living at 19 Hobart or the nearby sublet, but was living at Kim and Jim’s house in Amherst. It was a few weeks after the trance and I went shopping with Kim at Bread & Circus, a high end supermarket (I think that it was on the Mass. Turnpike west of Amherst).
As Kim and I moved through the supermarket’s abundant spaces, I furtively noticed the Jewish incest victim shopping. Although she featured heavily in the trance, no significance centered in my consciousness. I think I was curious; there was something in my suppressed memory that I attempted to call to Kim’s attention, but Kim was attendant to her shopping.
My curiosity increased as we moved along and I spotted two others from the trance, Chicken Neck and the homely Jewish woman that I spoke about two paragraphs above. Chicken Neck noticed me as well, and stopped to worriedly discuss me with the homely Jewish woman. So, she remembered the trance and had some idea of what I and the trance meant to her; it worried her; and she discussed it with this sort of bohemian Jewish woman, with her tedious sympathetic schtick. They did not approach me, but I remember feeling a bit satisfied that I had piqued the taken for grantedness of their PC world view.
Kim completed her shopping and I had whatever few things that I might have wanted to add and we got on a check-out line. And then moving in behind us on line was the Jewish incest victim. I don’t know exactly what cued me, but I had a sense that she was not actually ready to check out her groceries. She had only gotten on line behind us because she had been instructed by me in the trance to do so – with her head bowed in obedience.
As Kim and I left the supermarket, I said to her, “did you see”… and she said, “oh yes, I remember.”
Coming back to the trances then, “you will be obedient to me” was one of the original post hypnotic suggestions that I was given to say from the initial trance with my therapist back in 1985. “You will succumb” and ‘you will suck his cock off good and hard” were my “innovations”, lol, related to my premonition that I would make a ridiculous effort to set her up with a Jewish man who I would work for, helping him to shut down his printing press factory in Newark, N.J.
The therapist who induced the original trance back in 1985 made another post hypnotic suggestion that would carry into the Amherst trance. That I would assimilate the Godfather character through parts of this trance. That beyond its aesthetics I actually don’t like the Godfather story is not altogether relevant. Although I did manage to tell the group, as I said, about experiences that I would have in Sicily with mafia.
While I initially had the typically romantic notion of the godfather that Americans have through the movie, or that they were some brute fact of life necessary in order to protect culture, viz, Sicilian people from outsiders, my experiences in Sicily would lead me to conclude that these were crude criminals who cared primarily about money; and that Italian society would only go to hell through their system of “honor.”
There were several glimpses of my future experiences in Italy and Sicily that I would have in the Amherst trance. Some of them I’ve already mentioned. I will save details of my experiences in Europe for part 2, and try to put here only those visions that clearly occurred with in this trance, adding them as I recall them; which will probably happen as I move on to the next post and reflect upon my experiences in Europe.
Recall my echoing Catanian school boy teasing an Italian a school girl, “seniorena, avera pantalone niente” and addressing it as if to the Jewish incest victim.
Just to sketch a bit more for now, among the things that I would see was my meeting with two lady professors of psychology from The University of Palermo. I would tell them that I was going to Catania to address “this bitch” *which made them laugh); how I knew that I would be meeting this woman in Catania I have no idea, but so it would be.
I would befriend a lawyer lady who hung out at a book shop, who would take me to support group she attended (maybe something like a 12 Step meeting but without the 12 step rules). And there would be this beautiful Italian woman presiding over the group. I would provide some description of some of the people in the group, including this beautiful woman, who in fact, was friends with Mafia. I’m sure that it is a bit of a stretch to accuse her of impersonating the godfather and arrogating his role, but she may well have had undue power behind the scenes’ and was friends with the mafia owners of Banacher, visions of which would end anti climatically, if not comically, with my seeing a woman with a box shaped ass like Naomi (making me and German 5 laugh).
Lightheartedness aside, I was indeed learning contempt for the mafia. From the vast pollution around Siracusa from their unregulated oil refineries. To the toxic landfills that the Camora controlled waste disposal bushiness, had left around the Naples area; the Nigerian prostitutes they had strewn just as toxically upon Italy’s highways; the busts of assassinator judges that I would see in the park of Trapani where I read William James; the two dozen innocent people who I would learn from an archivist that I spoke to, had recently been shot in a small town for some reason of imposing his fear. The ruin to the economy in southern Italy; and while Catania’s 86 murder’s in a year raised a point to Americans, that these were primarily contained to mafia on mafia; in a city the same size as Baltimore, where there were 364 murders the same year, mostly black perpetrators and black victims, of course.
Catania remains heaven by comparison, albeit with terror in the background; I performed the same experiment in Amherst as in Catania; standing up and pretending that I was shooting; the Americans looked at me like I was ridiculous; the Sicilians started ducking for cover. It was all too real a possibility. my hypothesis that this terror in the backwound was protecting the culture was looking very questionable as it necessarily weakened the solidarity and trust between the people; I would see the most exquisite young Sicilian woman with a mulatto radiating some kind of energy, as if from a broken Sicilian goddess.
Now, this is July 1995 when I’m seeing stuff that would happen in Italy and elsewhere.
I would wake up late on a morning as it turned September 1996 to see an unusual funeral procession moving through Piazza Duomo. Two coffins were being moved.
I saw the names of those who I would learn were Salvatore Botta 14 and Santa Puglisi 22, the nephew and niece of a rival mafioso. They were shot on August 27th while attending the funeral for Santa’s husband – who had also been shot..
A final word on the mafia experience as I must leave detail for the next post. While it is probably is true that women like the one I was calling the imposter godfather do wield disproportionate power – badly – behind the scenes, and reap disproportionate reward, while men are fore-fronted to take the responsibility and the blame, like many of the women I berated in my trances, this one I would gain respect for, as I found her to truly love her Italian people and heritage. I’ve given the one example for now, of her reacting in horror, as if I was tearing her rib out when I described trying to lift a stone from the ancient path leading to Tiberius Villa.
Besides the “godfather” script that acted through me with the psychology professors at the Palermo psychology department, where I said, “this bitch (in Catania) thinks that she is the godfather” and how I knew to say that and how I knew that I would meet this woman, I have not idea (other than the trance administrators being able to instill their wishes somehow)…but it was a clear script acting through me beyond my agency…besides that, there was only one script that was as clear and beside my personal agency. That happened toward the end of the Amherst trance. Everyone sensed to listen attentively, when I said with Godfather authority and clarity,:
"This is what's going to happen"
While The U. Mass student newspaper staff would be debating whether to publish my one page “White Women For Sale!” statement, I would be posting it around town (banned from campus now), while wearing my t-shirts, “Big Mulatto Bro is Watching: Foil Her Mulatto Supremacist Dream!” and “We have a consensus! Black Women are ugly!”) and stirring up my usual conflict, especially for interracial couples.
While matriculation at U. Mass. was no longer viable, I had to tell my father that graduate school altogether was not looking very possible. As in the pivotal and infuriating episode that I described just above, suffice it to say, the abusive way that he pulled the plug on any idea of helping me, triggered desperate thoughts in my mind.
I told Kim and Jim that I considered doing “the dirty work” for mafia sorts. With their Christian charity mindset, they took me in to their house, as my other arrangements were falling apart. They could nurse me to some sense of normality and health with their Christian charity following the trance phenomenon, all of which they’d witnessed.
Their Christian mindset and inference from the trance that it was about reconciliation was probably why they thought it would be a good idea to bring their Jewish neighbor (the one who’d come to the meeting where she’d never before been) to talk to me with her mulatto daughter.
I wasn’t having it. I stood at the top of the stairs and bellowed in a faux M.L. King voice, “I have a dream, that some day, men will not be judged by their shit colored skin or monkey like faces, but by the size of their dicks. And nobody can question their shit colored authority!”
Needless to say Kim and Jim were mortified. Jim settled down enough to let me stay the night and leave in the morning. I’d soon be on my way to Europe. America was not working for me.
But while I would indeed go to Europe, almost entirely Italy for six months to begin, there would still be back and forth between me and U. Mass and the Amherst area. And as I would tell the Amherst trance group, I would for a few months move to the still largely Italian North Ward section of Newark New Jersey upon return from Italy in February of 1996.
From a telephone booth by a pizza parlor on the corner of 1rst Ave and North 11th Street, I would call the U. Mass newspaper staff and try to get them to publish “White Women For Sale!” Finally they voted to Not publish it. That made for one occasion for me to return to U. Mass, as my 2 year banishment was over, and I wanted to plaster “White Women For Sale!| all over campus.
I returned to the North Ward of Newark, with its eroded Italian ethnocentrism, and racism, unsurprisingly, not what it’s cracked up to be. As I waited in my bank on the corner of Bloomfield Ave. and North 11th Street, I saw a pretty Italian girl. And I remarked from a safe distance, and in a casual, unthreatening way, “is that an Italian girl with a nigger baby? What a shame.”
In days that followed, I’d be buying pizza at that parlor on the corner of 1rst Ave and North 11th. Sickeningly, they had a brash young nigger working there. Of course I did not say anything directly to him, but I made furtive remarks which let it be known that I was not about to accept living with niggers and intermarrying with them.
Then one day, I spotted the Italian girl with her nigger baby outside the pizzeria; and I think that I made some disapproving noise as I made my way into buy two slices…
I walk out with these two hot slices awkwardly in my hands. Suddenly out of the door comes the nigger, screaming at me, “are you a racist! are you a racist! are you a racist!” He pushes me. My shoes are slippery and my hands are full so I land on the side of my face.
A crowd was gathered and they were all more afraid, well, I was not afraid at all. In fact, I got up smiling. I grabbed a chair and raised in the air with both arms, ready to lower it onto the nigger’s head. Some other worker there, Hispanic, said, “don’t, I’ll call the police.” I said, “call the police. He’ll be arrested for assault.” The owner of the pizzeria, balding blond guy, said nervously, “just stay away from here.” I said, “just give me my three dollars back” (for the pizza that had fallen onto the ground), which I think was pretty cool of me; i.e., to show that my concerns were ordinary, that I was not at all worried.
He gave me the three dollars and I proceeded back to my house, past he Italian girl, who said to me, “remember the bank?” I said to her, “you’ve had it.” and the nigger starts screaming at me again, “you will never look at my son again!” Like I want to look at that piece of shit. I stopped at the liquor store on my way home and got myself a lot of malt liquor. As I stepped into my house, I noticed an old White woman and an old black woman across the street nervously assuring one another, that they were not trouble for one another (didn’t use to be blacks in that neighborhood at all). And the next day, a nigger bitch sat perched across the street, supremely confident that this land, the United States, was her land, looking at me with corny cool, and calm contempt, as my face had swollen up.
But it was the day before, the day of the incident that was most interesting. As I got drunk, my mental state was awash with trance re-capitulation, as the radio was playing many songs that I had “sang” in the Amherst trance.
And as I looked out of my top floor window, what do I see? Nigger is sitting on the curb across the street, hugging this pretty, slim blond girl (is it surprising that he’s with a different White woman now?), they are hugging each other in comfort of solidary against me. They sat there all afternoon, for more than three hours; while I got drunk and listened to the songs and recognized my fate calling me back to Europe, even though I’d just come back from there and didn’t to really have the means. i.e., it was irrational, but I had a narrative of fate to follow now.
In fact, as I looked in the mirror at my swollen face, I would be reminded that I had described this incident in the Amherst trance, that just like the incident in the Godfather, when Al Pacino having his face swollen by a beating from a cop realizes that he must take matters into his own hands and become the Godfather that this would be a symbolic turning point for me as well, to take control of fate’s call, even beyond rationale.
That evening I went out for more beer and just so happens the blond was pulling out of the parking lot with her car, nigger in the passenger seat. She had this stupid look about her, gesturing that she was so innocent and just taking the virtuous stand by this nigger. I would see this nigger one more time, from a distance. I could see him by the pizzeria, a pretty White girl coming up to him, interested and the Hispanic guy, same one who said he’d call the cops, walking away in disgust, saying “enough.” Apparently the nigger had a number of choice women, even though he was not handsome.
I would leave the area with a note to him at the pizzeria. “That “you, nigger, will never hit a White man again.” It was a double bind that I put him in. He is either obedient to my orders, or he is dumb enough to defiantly hit people and start getting on the wrong side of the law.
Be that as it may, I would be awash in malt liquor, semi-trance state quite often and music all the time, much of it from the trance, reminding me of my fate.
One of the songs that I would hear quite often and which would featured prominently in the Amherst trance was Alanis Morrisette’s ‘Ironic.”
The song would bear upon how I would skirt fate’s whimsy, particularly the lines:
Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down, he thought
“Well, isn’t this nice?”
And isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?
By mid July of ’96 I had a stand-by voucher, ready to fly to Europe, even though in financial terms it was irrational; I was going to follow my fate. The voucher was cheap, a hundred something bucks, but would allow me to take any vacant seat on a cooperating airline (which sought to get something as opposed to nothing by filling up their unsold seats). The only problem is that you might not be able to get a flight when you want, and what might happen is that you could go to the airport as there had been a few open seats, but they are take-up at the last moment; and there you are at the airport. That happened to me once before and it happened again on July 17th, when I went to JFK Airport looking to snag one of a few seats remaining available on a flight to Rome, only to find they’d all been bought up by time I got there.
So I called up the voucher company and asked if there was anything else available to Italy if not Europe? Well yes, they told me. There is one seat – one – (talk about a weird, fatalistic implication, THE seat for for you), but it is on a flight to Paris and it leaves in just 40 minutes from another terminal, so you’d better hurry.
I hurriedly got on the airport interterminal shuttle bus; my first impulse being, yes sir, let’s see more of Paris! Only seen it once before for three days and I loved it; fate wants to show me a good time in detour on my way to Italy …my mind is made up, there’s one seat for me!
Then as the shuttle bus arrived at the terminal where that flight was departing from I suddenly started to think, well, wait a minute. Isn’t my fate to rediscover my Italian identity? Don’t I need to get to my grandparent’s villages in southern Italy on time for the feasts in late July and early August. I thought that I didn’t have any money. That’s a rather extravagant and expensive side trip for a place I’ve already seen once. The cost of transportation from Paris to southern Italy alone will negate the thrift of the standby voucher. So I stayed on the shuttle, resolved that I should go back home and pursue one of the four seats that were still available to Rome later in the week.
And then I think to myself, chicken! Sour guy, all hyper practical when fate is offering you a juicy chance to see Paris. Fate has reserved one seat for you! I thought you believed in fate now? What’s the matter with you? you’ll work it out. You’re here, all packed up and ready, what do you want to go back to Newark for? So I resolved to go to Paris, staying on the shuttle past the exit were I would get off to go back to Newark… and I came around again in about seven minutes to the terminal where the flight to Paris was leaving from. And then I start thinking again….wait a minute. Yes, you care about France and all of Europe, but your fate is supposed to be Italy and finding an Italian wife; get that birthrate and ethnocentric position back in gear; you are not French for F-sake. How are you going to find an Italian wife if you waste your money on tangential extravagances like that? Besides, you’ve already been there, had a great time; and you know how it goes, the next time won’t be as good, maybe even present a bad side.
So I stay on the shuttle and, of course, go through another round of chicken! martyr! Why should you deprive yourself a little vacation like all the middle class kids have. Everyone needs to see Paris right. It’s the epicenter of European culture! So I resolve again to go to Paris, stay on the shuttle, going past all the other terminals again and arrive at the terminal where the Paris flight is to take off still with a few minutes to make it happen. Then, as the bus halts there, I say naaahh!!! Let me go back home and catch a flight to Rome in a few days.
I wake up the next morning and see big headlines on the newspaper on my neighbor’s porch:
Flight 800 JFK to Paris Explodes Mid-air, Cause Unknown.
All 230 people on board died
Now, OK, OK, the flight JFK to Paris that I was going to get on left about a half hour earlier than TWA Flight 800 to Paris from JFK. It wasn’t exactly the same flight. But they both left JFK destined for Paris, less than an hour a part. Weird enough to make the point of fate. And there was that creepy “one seat” available to underscore the cryptic fatalistic aspect.
Notes:
I will be back tracking quite a bit in the next post, as I skipped ahead to the flight 800 episode, it’s being the best place to segue from having been mired in The U.S. to following my fate into Europe. However, before coming back to Newark in February 1996, there was an entire six months, mostly in Italy, fraught with strange, fatalistic occurrences, that I have to recount in the next post; and I will need to recount the highly charged events which caused me to make the decision to flee to Europe that first time, given any rational means; before the second time, when rational means be damned, let fate take me where I need to go.
Musical Bibliography (of sorts):
The trance in Amherst had me singing or humming parts of dozens of songs. Most of them were meaningful to the trance in some way, a few maybe not so much, and a few almost uniquely meaningful to this trance. And while I sang some of the songs very well, in some tunes, not so well, largely because I could not remember the lyrics. I have something of an excuse for pushing the music beyond what my repertoire of ability and memory could bear, as popular music can form a calming common ground when referenced; and it was a suggestion made by the original trance inducer, that this was a means by which I was monitoring our cultural patterns. So, it was one of my primary entering points into the public discourse; and, again, I was phenomenally good in executing some of the pieces. Furthermore, Bill the incestor was apparently in the pop music business and because he was one of the key interlocutors in the trance I wanted to fully deploy the calming referential effect of commonly known and appreciated tunes, as Bill seemed to appreciate it. Finally, in the case of some songs it was involuntary, such as my singing My Country Tis of Thee like like the black opera singer that Eleanor Roosevelt wanted to promote. Or even more phenomenally, singing songs that nobody had even heard yet, such as the Anita Lipnicka song, which I would hear in Poland; or the Wonderwall song by Oasis, which had central implications for me in the trance, but which I would not hear on the public air until months later.
However, not all of the trance was intelligent insights, wisdom, clever zingers. I comported plenty of stupidity. And my pushing the music bit was a big part of that. I managed to make a fascinating, amazing phenomenon of trance, boring and tedious in swathes as I made people hear yet another popular tune, struggled to remember words that they probably knew better than me; pressing on, trying to assign meaning, such as attributing Beth Hart’s “Immortal” to Bill the incestor’s woman; trying to compliment her by shoveling the partly remembered lyrics to her; but exhausting her with the unskilled tedium of it by the trance’s end.
In the service then, of avoiding the reconstruction of that tedium, I did not try to recount every song that was invoked in the trance as it occurred. That would be a tediously protracted bore. Unnecessary. Nevertheless, the dozens of songs were a vital part of the trance, often conveyed significant meaning of themselves, that’s why they were invoked. But because there were too many songs and it would be too complicated to figure out where they fit in the trance without side tracking essential matters, I will simply list them, like a bibliography of sorts, adding remarks about particular significance where I should, starting tomorrow.
Songs/Musical Artists Referenced Through Singing, in Part, Some of Them Performed Well, Others Badly Because I Did Not Know or Could Not Remember the Words.
I will not worry too much about order to begin with, but will for the most part simply try to list songs as I remember them and then rearrange them according to order and significance later.
There were two songs that standout significantly in the trance, however, apparently for the fact that neither I nor anyone else there were aware of them before this.
- Oasis, Wonderwall: At least to my conscious knowledge I’d never heard it. Wikipedia says the song was recorded in May 1995 and that Noel Gallagher debuted the song for BBC television on June 24, 1995. With the trance probably being in July of 1995, it is possible that I would have heard the song and not realized it. Nevertheless, implications of the song that can be drawn to my place in the trance, not altogether flattering, are salient. Such that it appeared to be “my song”, about me in the trance. In fact, the first time I heard the song to my conscious knowledge was in the bar below The Irish Hostel, Boston, in February of 1996 (upon return from Europe), and I was stunned, having then recalled singing it in trance. So, it also may be that I never heard it before, that it was “in the air” like “podgrzybek” and “succo di banana.”
2. Anita Lipnicka, Wszystko się może zdarzyć: was most assuredly a matter of clairvoyance, as it came out in 1996 and is in Polish. I don’t remember if I sang any of the words (included above), though with meaning to the trance; but the tune, which I hummed, captivated me as a muse.
3. Marian Anderson, My Country Tis of Thee: A divinely inspired moment, I actually sang the song in a female voice and more beautifully than Marian Anderson. I “performed” this not only at the Al-Anon trance, but also at the grad school class trance, in trance with my family, maybe others. A bit of the, who needs Eleanor Roosevelt imposing inspired niggers upon us, when you have me.
4. Alanis Morissette, a few different songs: Alanis seemed to be what the doctor ordered in display of conciliatory empathy with female anxiety under the circumstance (conciliatory, given my misogyny). A) Head Over Feet (You’ve already won me over) seemed to be for Jenna, who I was trying to win over. B) Ironic, which I’ve discussed above, not only seemed to have the foreshadowing of my near board of Flight 800, but to capture the roulette of the pursuit of happiness from a young woman’s perspective. C) You Learn. Self explanatory. D) You Ought to Know (about the mess that you left when you went away), was one of those songs that made me feel like I had unfinished destiny in Amherst when I would hear it later; causing me to return irrationally. Another song that cause me to go back to Amherst in pursuit of destiny was
5. Tommy Tutone, 867-5309/Jenny: Captured the kind of enthusiasm that getting a number from a woman like Jenna could inspire. I sang it in trance; and when I heard it afterward, I rented a wreck and drove back to Amherst thinking that I’d find Jenna. She wasn’t there, lol.
6) Gin Blossoms, Found Out About You
7. Gordon Lightfoot, If You Could Read My Mind
8. KC & The Sunshine Band, Give It Up: Not everything was heavy.
9. Jethro Tull, several cuts. Tull, like Bowie, had the advantage of my being able to assimilate his voice, as with: A) With You There To Help Me; B) Wondering Aloud C) Mother Goose D) Living In The Past E) A New Day Yesterday F) Jeffrey Goes To Leicester Square G) Back To The Family; H) Nothing Is Easy I) My God J) Bourée (ridiculously, I mouthed the flute sounds); K) Teacher L) Skating Away On The Thin Ice of A New Day M) Thick As A Brick O) Cross Eyed Mary
10. David Bowie, several cuts: A) Soul Love B) Moonage Daydream C) Starman D) Big Brother E) Sweet Thing/Candidate F) We are The Dead G) Heroes H) Word on a Wing I) Ziggy Stardust J) Wild is the Wind K) Stay L) Lady Stardust M)Suffragette City O)Rock’n’Roll Suicide P)FiveYears
11. Heart. Several songs; such as Even It Up
12. The Sundays, Here’s Where The Story Ends
13. Everything But the Girl, Missing
14. Captain Beefheart, Observatory Crest; I Got Love On My Mind (but I can’t make up my mind, who to love).
15. Donna Lewis, I Love You Always Forever
18. Toto, Africa
19. Joan Osborn, One of Us: This song seemed to have direct meaning for the trance. To alert the people to look for the potential of the divine through ordinary people, even slobs like me.
20. Nirvana, Come As You Are; Smells Like Teen Spirit
I’d have talked about Nirvana and Alice in Chains in terms of male Self Actualization having long become a toxic expectation in modernity, which needed to be mitigated and ameliorated with priority, leniency and respect for Socialization, Organic Being, Ordinary level tasks and the Sacred.
21. Alice In Chains: A) Would B) Down In A Hole C) Dam That River D) Nutshell E) No Excuses F) Man in the Box G) I Stay Away H) Rain When I Die I) Rooster
22. Pearl Jam, Black
23. Beth Hart, Immortal: which is a heavy song. I tried to impose it as meaningful of Bill’s woman toward the end of the trance and exhausted the poor woman. A swansong for the American way.
25. John Lennon, Mind Games: Instant Karma!
26. The Kinks: You Really Got Me; All Day And All of The Night; Ordinary People; Sunny Afternoon
27. The Beachboys, Good Vibrations
28. Carol King, The Porpoise Song
29. Limp Bizkit, Rollin’ (interestingly the video is filmed defiantly, in your face on top of The World Trade Center); Hold On; My Way (or the highway; captures the thug mentality of the organized criminals who would seize upon me in Pila, Poland, and my struggle to deal with them). Outro (protracted generated laugh instruction to provide grease to smoothen social interaction).
Limp Bizkit had the hallmarks of a band cooperating with government operations. They took from and gave to the popular lexicon. For example, they made generous use of “the slang dictionary.” Presumably, “Chocolate Starfish Navigation System” refers to the sight of a woman’s anus, facilitating navigation to the vagina. On the other hand, feedback was required from the populace as to how a young man might get that far. I explained to “god” (I altercast Bill the incestor the god position at times because he was a handsome and mature American Anglo) the awkward difficulty of initial interaction episodes with women (recounting a hilariously muffed episode with a girl I had a crush on in high school); and I told him that I noticed that guys who had a good fake laugh seemed to do better. I lacked the skill of a good fake laugh and it made things much harder in awkward moments; thus, I requested a an opportunity to hear and almost ridiculously protracted repetition of a fake laugh to practice by; I proceeded repetitively with the fake laugh, as in Limp Bizkit’s Outro
However, while “god” did offer that help (and this fake laugh qualifies as another bit of clairvoyance, I suppose), he also pushed back on another idea, incorrectly, I would assert, as he did not quite understand me; while I did not make myself perfectly clear. What good is confidence? I asked, questioning the puerile overvaluation of this characteristic. Now I will explain where I was going with that now that I am more articulate, but Bill was taking me too literally and precisely as if I were saying, “what good” as in it is “no good” when in fact it was a sketch, meant to be crafted with other balancing factors, whereas mere confidence could be taken too far. While it is true that I could use more confidence, the trivial and popular misunderstanding produced a White zombie that the godfather (me) had to symbolically assassinate at The Jersey Shore (more on that in a moment); and this vulgar and insulting to me pop song, truly one of the psychic offshoots of the trance:
Now, this requires an explanation of the important misunderstanding and the White zombie that it created…
The first problem is my interlocutor. It has been a problem particularly with persons coming from STEM perspectives that they treat, for example, a phrase that I am saying, like “what good is confidence?” as if it is meant to be a precision statement among praxis – i.e., among the social world, where the on going interactive and agentive negotiations among people put limits on the practicality of precision and favor heuristics instead: somewhat more sketchy and deliberately unspecified by precision sense making structures, what Shotter called “specificatory structures” given to an interlocutor, knowing that it is an imperfect and unfinished, but with generally focused framework, offered with the expectation that the interlocutor will correct, shape and craft the idea back and forth, hopefully achieving warranted assertability by the end of the interactive process of negotiation. While I understood that much by this time, “god”, i.e., Bill the incestor, did not.
He figured that when I asked, “what good is confidence?”, that I was offering a finished statement made precisely to dismiss any and all value to confidence whatsoever. I might have expected him to guess that I was speaking more in relative terms, anticipating a request for specification, whereupon, I’d have responded, of course a certain amount of confidence is necessary, but”…
But he took me as making a literal and categorical statement, which should be taken to task – “don’t you understand how important confidence is?” You’d almost have to wield as much bad will, stupidity and dishonesty as Guessedworker to impose that kind of pejorative literal mindedness on an important inquiry among popular philosophy as it bears upon the social realm.
But while I did not anticipate this chiding video nor the White zombie, whom I’ll discuss only briefly for now, and then flesh out in part 2, let me adumbrate how I could have been a bit more articulate in response to this mockery of my question, “What good is confidence?
You would have to be as imperviously stupid as Claire Khaw to raise the kind of universalizing objection that the video gives, but a proper response which might be heard by someone other than her or the White zombie, would go something like this:
We know that women, particularly puerile girls, when they are operating more instinctively (even if not pandered-to on that level; which they are, from all angles as the constraints of group delimitation are broken down with modernity’s anti-social classificatory ’empirical’ emphasis weaponized as anti-racism) when they are not socialized into accountability to the delimitation of their inherited social group, are enamored of confidence in males.
However, confidence isn’t the sheer good that the unsocialized puerile female might ascribe to it. It stands with sexual assertion in relative balance against sublimation, empathy and intellectual survey of the broadest possible time horizons; thus, in social biology, there is an optimal balance of confidence and these other qualities if a distincly human system is to function.
With too much confidence, the society manifests the problems of the hyper-assertive, testosterone laden African populations – the social consequences of a lack sublimation, empathy, intellectual survey in broad time horizons, not far beyond episode, not far beyond moment even, where the infamous black lack of impulse control is concerned. Thus, Rushton’s comparison of black, White and Asian rates of sexual maturity and sublimation would bear important attention and concern; with White biology properly described and thus prescribing different and quite arguably better levels of sublimation with regard to confidence in their socialization process, which corresponds, at once, with necessary delimitation from those with other rates of sublimation, the Africans; the delimitation and reconstruction of which, by the way, is what the post modern project is supposed to be about as opposed to Cartestian modernity’s universlization of qualities, like “confidence” …a wigger-like pan mixing universalizing as in this video which is so repugnant and which is why those who maintain the Jewish red caping misrepresentation of post modernity should be flushed down the toilet; or symbolically shot, as I did the White zombie, symbolically executing him (telling him to go to hell and stay away from me.) when were are talking at the Jersey shore beach.
The White zombie Scrivani, whom I would encounter while staying in a winter sublet on the Jersey shore in my last full year in the United states, 1997, manifested with zombie-like unflappableness an extreme White version manifestation of confidence in its obliviousness to social surroundings and consequences.
For some reason, I guess that I was testing my ideas out, I ran the question, “what good is confidence? by him. Without a second’s consideration, he smugly dismissed the question, saying, “confidence is very important.” I extrapolated on the problems of black over confidence, and proposed that we, as half Italians (he was half Irish) are an under-represented minority in America, who, if able to have more influence, could perhaps benefit society through our assimilation of some African qualities which seem to flow into a void otherwise, un-ecologically buffered by our kind.
He answered, “first of all, don’t flatter yourself” (by comparing myself to blacks).
I responded, well, everyone seems to want White women and I am the kind of guy who creates them. He said, “well they are spreading their legs for blacks.”
Oh, it’s ok then? What if I don’t want black women in exchange, think that they are ugly.
He partly agreed with me here, saying that he thought that most black women are ugly. But he offered what he thought were exceptions, with an example of Tyra Banks.
I told him honestly that I did not think she is beautiful, the skin tone by itself being bad enough, but you add to that the insect like sinewy symmetry, compound it with the black personality and she is no… nowhere near the subtlety of the kind of women that I like and that I create. I cited the half Polish/half Italian girl who ran the café at the Spring Lake train station: awesome subtle beauty. My housemate, Kyle, (half German half Irish American guy), with eyes to see agreed – awesome. But what does White zombie Scrivani say? “very mediocre.”
I told him that if he thought that she was “very mediocre” and “Trya Banks is good looking” I don’t know what to say to you. We have nothing in common.
And I, “the godfather”, “shot him” (parted ways with him for good), left him at the Belmar beach, where we had been strolling, and returned to my winter sublet.
Of course, this was all before I knew more about this White zombie Scrivani, manifestation of impervious confidence that he was; quite enough by then to be done with.
His father was experiencing a problem in looking after him, having to call him inside one day when the White zombie was apparently oblivious to the fact that he was walking around the neighborhood completely naked. Some lack of inhibition there.
But his father was left no doubt about having to put him on Social Disability when he walked in on him standing on a ladder in the kitchen, holding a lightbulb in both his hands and screaming (of course being high on crystal meth enhanced his confidence in that endeavor).
Fancying himself a soft rock acoustic guitar player, I did not in fact notice that he had in fact burned the extremities of his fingers off with a that until one day I took note of his hands while he serenaded me, my Puerto Rican and crazy right wing housemate Kyle. Which was another manifestation of his oblivious confidence. You might sit and have a beer, a smoke and a talk with tough guys like this, but you don’t serenade them with soft rock songs to where all they can do is sit there as enraptured girls might.
In fact, I asked him why he insisted on playing “Take it Easy” at the open mic gigs where he performed in local bars? Do they really? I asked. It must easily be the most overplayed song in history, and I think rather that people are sick to death of it. But confidence is impervious to social approbation, is it not.
Perhaps the imperviousness of the White zombie Scrivani was in good part genetic, as his grandfather was an American boxer who got narrowly edged out from a bronze medal at Hitler’s 1936 Olympics. But whatever the cause, I was a learning that this kind of confidence could not be relied upon in White interests as he expected me to be reasoned to anti-racism as we made our way past the mocking mulatto beasts and cyborgs on way for him to buy French crullers from the pretty young coal burners at 7-11 (while I would buy the hyper-caffeinated, and unfortunately discontinued, “Jolt Soda” and a hot burrito).
But I digress. Coming back to the songs that were brought up in the trance…
Of course there were a litany of
31. Beatles songs that I love, too many to list.
32. Crosby Stills, Nash & Young, same, e.g., “Almost Cut My Hair.” “Ohio” – I changed the lyric from “tin soldiers and Nixon coming, we’re finally on our own.” to “tin soldiers and niggers coming, we’re finally on our own.” …Neil Young by himself, e.g., the albums Harvest, After The Gold Rush, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere and the single cuts Expecting to Fly and Cortez the Killer.
33. Stevie Winwood, with Spencer Davis, with Blind Faith and with Traffic; same, too many to list. But bearing remark in the example of “I’m a Man” and “Gimme Some Lovin’ which he did when he was only 17, he successfully eagle claws the black singing and groove style, which many White guys try to do but fail. That’s in addition to his psychedelic music which, in being drug inspired, is not only fantastically creative, but gives us a break from every fucking song having to be about the female panacea and broken hearts.
I certainly would have given the group in trance my talk about the hippie movement being an unarticulated expression of White male being, a requirement of intrinsic valuation granted White male being at the base, and preliminary to the hierarchy of motives, nevertheless, denied explicitly in the Vietnam draft; and its difficulty to articulate compounded by its uncouth organic motive being incommensurate with conflicting agendas of black civil rights and power (seeking middle and upper part of the hierarchy:” looga the what boy, he’s got no integritae, he’s got no soweoweaowloohoohoohowl) and second wave feminism, the high grumbles of which, were at the top of the hierarchy; conceitedly oblivious to the fact that the men that de Beauvoir (“French! The Jewish incest victim and I gave a defiant look to/with Jenna) complained about being on top of the hierarchy had gotten there through more rigorous expectations and often unfair sacrifices (like the draft into an unnecessary war like Vietnam). Moreover, compounding the difficulty of articulation was not only the stigmatic diversion from traditional masculine direction, but also the same foot tapping expectations of traditional women despite the fact that weaponized modernity had wreaked havoc with the order and means by which White men might ascend to these traditional requirements. Finally, there was the Jewish media, which has presented the sixties as being all about civil rights for blacks (a Jewish legalistic weaponization of rights), free love (another Jewish affectation, viz of Marcuse), which had nothing really to do with White male Being (Dasein – non-Cartesian there being and MidtDasein – Being ensconced with one’s people). A relatively passive organic synthesis of this kind, flushed with drugs, was not apparently a motive lending to the critical analytic eloquence to facilitate an effective political activist movement on behalf of White people, though the right of the White male to exist, remains its unrecognized, essential call to this day..
While drugs were a part of getting into contact with organic being, and I still think mushrooms can be fine, still think that if the supply is not over abundant, that limited use of drugs besides speed and opiates can be ok.
However one needs to be learning and developing pathways in the forebrain that will allow one to deal with say, weed, as it can be more strong and psychologically harrowing than common parlance acknowledges. Weed was a problem for me in high school in that it was kind of the fad with my friends and I did not have the strong pathways in my forebrain; it made me neurotic when under the influence and it was a hindrance to developing social skills; talking to girls was impossible. I stopped smoking it when I went to college and only resumed intermittently afterward; can take it or leave it; would literally go years in between times that I would smoke. I don’t understand people who like it all that much.
Cocaine can be very dangerous. As I’ve said, my first hypothesis when someone kills themself is that they were coming down off of cocaine. I talked to a heroine addict who said that coming down off of cocaine is worse. Your brain stops producing its natural endorphins when you take cocaine because it assimilates them, reads the signal that you have enough. However, the cocaine wears off much more quickly and when the cocaine crystal wears off, your brain is left without its more slowly regenerating balance of endorphins, that would otherwise give you a more accurate reading between pleasure and pain. I don’t know how much my never having had a problem with it is due to my not being rich, not having much access, but it is also true that I was able to intellectualize the fact that I did not like wasting money in order to become depressed, seriously depressed. And I probably did it less than 25 times in my life and not in decades; the last time is a funny story to tell.
A typical story, I have had heavenly and utterly hellish experiences with L.S.D. As with cocaine probably used it less than 25 times and as with the common experience, the bad trip was bad enough to get me to stop using it. Though I have used it one more time again after 35 years. A word of advice to those who’d like to experiment with it – and I really don’t regret it – buy it from someone familiar with the batch, so that you can be more sure that you won’t have a bad trip.
I have tended to be of this position, that where problematic, drugs are generally more an effect than a cause (more often the case, I still think).
I used to sport the wry hypothesis that women were just jealous of a way that men had to have pleasure and fun without the control of their sex. I still think there is a pattern to that, but there are enough women wasted on drugs to emphasize that while it may be something of a pattern, it certainly does not apply across the board of women.
I had, even by time of the trance, moderated my position on drugs to be more cautious. Believing that people ought to be careful when messing with ancient evolution; our chemistry is keenly evolved over thousands of years to give us a good reading of reality between pleasure and pain; one should be careful in messing with that evolution.
Another way of looking at it is that while shrooms are fun, etc. life is weird enough, and can be pleasurable enough if you find your freedom through satisfaction of basic needs.
Then again, you don’t want to be like Ted Nugent. That’s an example of what Not doing any drugs and alcohol can do to you.
Moreover, some of the worst people that I’ve known in life, sociopaths, did not drink or do drugs. This allowed them to not trouble their shallowness and lack of empathy. It made their ability to fuck people over more keen.
34. Jefferson Airplane. Again, too many songs to list, but White Rabbit and We Can Be Together to name a few.
But when the Vietnam war and draft was over, any background sympathy for White men evaporated overnight and feminism went into overdrive in hatred for White men. With that was an ominous slow buildup of potential alliance between White women and niggers. You didn’t see it in public among the women that you’d see around; maybe once in a blue moon, a woman so homely that you didn’t even care. But the ominous logic of intent and action was always foreboding; and the dam finally started to burst mid to late 80s, around the time of Madonna’s Like a Prayer video.
35. Rod Stewart, speaking of White guys contemptible in their failed desperation to sound and groove black, even a broken White clock is on the mark twice a day, as he was with the broken hearted, The First Cut Is The Deepest; and maybe his superficial personality was well suited to provide a good tune for the disco promo, as it proceeded so obliviously over any residual sympathy for the requisite organicism of the hippie motive for White male being.
There was some sympathy out there in the example of
36. Joe Jackson, “Is She Really Going Out With Him?
and
37. Garbage, Stupid Girl
But it was too little too late.
One could project one’s outlook onto
38. Elvis Costello, Miracle Man
Or draw back upon evergreen tunes executed by White guys with aplomb, in the hope that it would suffice, such as
39. The Righteous Brothers, Unchained Melody – which shatters the notion that a White cover can’t be better than a colored original. And no, my rendition wasn’t as good as Paul Chambers.
Speaking of covers that were at least as good, maybe it was too big an ask to ask this generation of woman who had basically what they wanted when they wanted to relate to relate to the alienation of alternative rock, no matter how creative.
I could concede to the brilliance of black musicianship, as in
43. Les McCann & Eddie Harris, Compared To What?
Brilliant lyrics too: Church on Sunday sleep and nod, trying to duck the wrath of god. Preachers filling us with fright, they’re all trying to teach us what they think is right. They really got to be some kind of nut! I can’t use it. Trying to make it a real compared to What? The President he’s got his war, folks don’t know just what its for, nobody gives us a rhyme or reason, half a one doubt, they call it treason …boredom rednecks rolling logs, tired old ladies, kissing dogs; I hate the human love of that stinking mut! I can’t use it! Trying to make it a real compared to What?
44. The Four Tops. I certainly have respect for the inborn musical heart and soul that comes through in several of their songs.
45. John Coletrane and group, My Favorite Things.
And there are many guilty pleasures among black tunes.
46. Ohio Players, Love Roller Coaster
47. Isley Brothers, Fight The Power; Who’s That Lady?
48. Brothers Johnson – I’ll Be Good To You
49. Sly & The Family Stone, several songs. I had fun singing them too: Fun; Life; I Want To Take You Higher; Hot Fun In The Summer Time; Family Affair; and Stand! which has good lyrics too.
50. Jimi Hendrix, who was my youthful favorite. Too many good songs to list. In some ways, can’t be beat. But in the end, given a choice, I’d rather have my European way of life and woman.
And while I had sympathy and respect for a song like
51. William Devaughn, Diamond In The Back
Me and my brothers had plights and dreams of our own.
52. The Zombies, She’s Not There
53. Atlanta Rhythm Section, So Into You ; Spooky
54. Ides of March, Vehicle (poor Jenna was subject to all these passionate overtures from me)
55. The Guess Who, These Eyes: Not a favorite song of mine but Bill the incestor seemed to request it in regard to his nigger loving ex wife.
And while I respected much black music, much of it was absolute torture, from the hyper repetitious, dystopian war sounds of rap music back to the days of black disco, telling me that I just have to keep dancing, it provided the sound track of an utterly alien culture, plane t of the apes, which is where I found myself when I got bussed to go to school with blacks. which I wanted no part of; no part of music that uses the word, “boogie.”
56. Boogie Nights
57. The Trammps, Disco Inferno: Burn nigger burn!
58. The Miracles, I’m Just A Love Machine (and I won’t work for nobody but you!)
Of course the blacks were not ones doing the torturing. Can you imagine having to be on a playground with hard core blacks and having to hear Paul McCartney sing “someone’s knocking at the door, somebody’s ringin the bell?” It made me wish that Paul really had been dead.
59. Paul McCartney And Wings, Let ‘Em In
And While The Bee were a professional group that produced some songs that I did not want to admit that I liked, they also produced some alienating torture. Such as
60. Bee Gees, Jive Talkin (torture) … while I could not admit to liking, Stayin’ Alive. Night Fever; Nights on Broadway
61. Monster Magnet – Power Trip, was a song that came to me suggesting that, I relax, “the gods” were going to fix me up from this mess alright.
The German 5, enrolled and partaking in Smith College of lesbianism, was a bit tickled at my discovery (“siscovery?”) that two songs that I sang, as if passionate overtures from men to women, were actually unbridled woman to woman enthusiasm.
62. Melissa Etheridge, I’m The Only One;
and 63. Sophie B. Hawkins, Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover.(I still love this song)
I admit that it was kind of fun to experience the Puerto Rican bus driver of the homeless shelter bus singing along to Sophie B., exhilarated by the song as I am; and all the colords on the bus were as well.
As I would delight the black girls at this homeless shelter that I would find myself at in two year’s time; both for my antagonism to black guys pursuing White women and for my ability to sing just like Al Green, in 64. Let’s Stay Together
(Although a black woman on the homeless shelter bus mistakenly thought the artist was Marvin Gay, “damn, dat White boy be singin’ just like Marvin!”)
“Contributing” a few good songs were
65. Credence Clearwater Revival
66. Red Hot Chili Peppers
67. The Cranberries
Led Zeppelin has several, while The Who, The Doors and The Rolling Stones all have too many songs to list
68. Led Zeppelin
69. The Who
70. The Doors
71. The Rolling Stones
I’ll add groups, songs and relevance to the trance as I might recall in time. One peculiar not to add from the start: In the trance, I had mocked “god” Bill, in a British accent, saying that I’d like to hear something “really Gothic.” I guess because I saw the Goths as snobbish to my under represented Continental European sensibilities. Some months later, on a car radio, I would hear some Australian lady repeating two or three times, that she’d like to hear “something really Gothic.”
72. Dramarama: Emerald City; “I’m living on chocolate ice cream; I went for the rental; those costumes were so continental.”
An interesting thing for me about these two songs is that they were both songs which almost uniquely represented songs that I’d heard long ago and yearned to hear again, but could not remember enough about them to retrieve Emerald City in days before the internet. A musician acquaintance of zombie Scrivani recognized Anything, Anything from the lyrics that I knew. “Living on chocolate ice cream” were enough lyrics to find Emerald City once the internet kicked in. Both songs were from the same group and the same album. It did not occur to me.
73. Eric Clapton: With Cream: e.g., Dance The Night Away; Outside My Window (Is A Tree); Badge; with Blind Faith, as in in Sea of Joy; and solo, as in Promises – I got a problem, can you relate? I got a woman calling love hate.
74. George Harrison: Several songs; e.g., Beware of Darkness, Run of The Mill, Give Me Love
75. Emerson, Lake and Palmer, From The Beginning
You see it’s all clear. You were meant to be here. From the beginning.
Crowded House, “Don’t Dream It’s Over” (They come to build a wall between us; don’t let them, you know that they won’t win) was another song that made an appearance in the trance, and appearance in a spooky, reggae version that I would hear at Hotel Hades, Pila, Poland (courtesy international media corporations), when I would go there but that’s more a story for the next post.
76. Crowded House – Don’t Dream It’s Over: While I sang it in trance as if “they” wouldn’t keep the likes of Jenna and I apart; the liberals would have a rather sinister dispostion to my Wonderwall.
Spooky, that I would be subject to an ominous reggae version by the corporate media, but the egregious liberal response to the protective wall metaphor is predictable.
Big Mulatto Bro’s audacity and ominous implication to breech my species saving Wonderwall:
“The greatest danger of all is to allow new walls to divide us from one another. The walls between old allies on either side of the Atlantic cannot stand. The walls between the countries with the most and those with the least cannot stand. The walls between races and tribes, natives and immigrants, Christians and Muslims and Jews, cannot stand. These now are the walls we must tear down!”
And one song that would have particular resonance to me during the trance was 77. Duran Duran’s, Ordinary World … ordinary man in an ordinary world, etc., which I would be hearing again on the airplane as it lifted me from Newark, New Jersey to Europe.
I have to check back through the post and see if I mentioned this incident or not, but lest I forget, it moved me and I want to be sure to mention it rather than give all attention to the more traitorous sorts.
The situation was in the midst of the fracas of downtown Amherst, at a time when I was loudly stirring up trouble, i.e., antagonizing blacks and interracial couples in the downtown Amherst area. Of course I was not confined to the streets but would go into various bars and grab a slice at the pizzeria to soak up some suds. Standing at the counter at the pizzeria, I remember a woman standing beside me and tightly, with affection squeezing her daughter to her breast, constraining her gaze to look at me, clearly trying to condition her daughter to associate comfort, affection, pleasure, protection and other good things of admiration with men who look like me.
I don’t know if the woman sensed to do this for her daughter based on only one altercation of mine that she’d witnessed, but i imagine that she saw more than one instance of my activism amidst the multicultural fracas of downtown Amherst. Moments of appreciation for my (rather desperate) activism were truly moving.
Crowded House, “Don’t Dream It’s Over” (They come to build a wall between us; don’t let them, you know that they won’t win) was another song that made an appearance in the trance, and appearance in a spooky, reggae version that I would hear at Hotel Hades, Pila, Poland (courtesy international media corporations), when I would go there… but that is more a story for the next post. … another note on this post, however. I have re-written the paragraph on my position regarding drug use after the video Medicated Goo and Dear Mr. Fantasy. I had just thrown up a sketch there when I was tired and I would not want to give people the impression that I have not thought about it more carefully. It’s still sketchy, but it is not meant to be a full expose, just a comment.
I will probably simply add whatever other tunes that found their way into the trance in the comment section here.
However, the reader may take note that in bringing the “bibliography” of songs that occurred in the trance to a complete enough sate, i.e., adding commentary, there are some remarks and stories that one might be interested to take note of.
Other songs that occurred,
Todd Rundgren, Can We Still Be Friends:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jI_oBXzLNmw
Dave Mason, We Just Disagree: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Ke1w_V3Fpk
Blue Oyster Cult: Don’t Fear the “reamer” (to cheer up our pretty, but depressed German American lady) – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy4HA3vUv2c
To whom it may concern, I have added a critical section beginning at Precursors To A Pivotal Episode and ending with the passport photo of my grandfather. The post as a whole is now rounded out to a complete gestalt; i.e., it is finished and I am finally ready to move on to the next post. I will only be adding to the “bibliography” of songs from the trance as they come to my memory. Obviously, I will make corrections where need be.