from the middle out: the glove discarding its fingers
Ian M
Posts: 123
18/05/05 – Professional relationship as a fetter. Prescribing friendship but drawing it back from the brink. You are not free to love or hate the people that you work with. Spirit of professionalism demands you to kneel before it and reject your false idols.
You have only one option from which to choose, one answer to every question, one response to every trial. You may not find it every time, but doesn’t mean it wasn’t there and waiting. It’s your job to seek out the one correct response and thus remove yourself from the equation.
If you don’t succeed, someone else will.
I wish I could feel more anger toward our leaders
But where it’s most important, they would be out of their jobs post-haste
If from somewhere they could find the will to change their backward schemes.
Those assaults upon the commonality
That draw the line to show us where our real enemies lie
(Strange to find how the bogeymen on, and to, both sides
Have a lot more in common with each other
Than with those they would frighten into submission):
These were the only reasons they were placed in office
To begin with.
One of the saddest things I’ve read was in the New Statesman this week. Difficult to explain specifically what it was about it that left me so gaspingly deflated. Just a poignant example of the upside-down, back-to-front, inside-out world in which we live; where criminal laws are passed and pitilessly enforced on the weak and defenceless.
It was an article by Clive Stafford Smith on ‘Megan’s Law’ whereby in the U.S. (and shortly it seems, to tabloid glee over here in the U.K.) the names and addresses of paedophiles are published in the public domain. If they have their way, I imagine this is what the powers that be have in mind for all of us, but anyhow here’s the bit that caught me:
‘Crimes against nature
I used the site to pull up ‘predators’ living near my old office in New Orleans. A slew of names came up. The first person on the list, whom I will simply call Scarlet, is a young black woman. Listed as a sex offender, she is obliged both to register and to notify her neighbours whenever she changes address.
She has a large red tick next to her name, indicating that she is “in violation of registration requirements”.
Far from being a sexual predator, Scarlet is in fact a crack-addicted prostitute who pleaded guilty to “solicitation of a crime against nature” – typically, offering oral sex to an undercover cop. Further research reveals the reason for her violation of the registration requirement: she was murdered three years ago.’
Imagine those pronouncements as her epitaph in a world that didn’t give a fuck about her on any other level: “crime against nature”, and “in violation of registration requirements” and you might understand the immense grief that is bloatedly deserving of acknowledgement but still goes begging for it.
As ever, the issue will be framed in combative language, because war is all these people know how to wage. Understanding and treatment of the root causes may be patronised or flattered but will quickly fall by the way.
And once more, you have to question the motive. Whether it is generally understood among them or not, the issue of paedophilia is being used by those in power to destroy what’s left of the nuclear family by debasing the child-adult relationship. Part of the larger trend away from integrated community and towards the terminal insecurity of hyper-individualism.
The Fosters at the orphanage croon a lulling tone
Tending, attending the drowsing fears of the night in their many charges
Caught in transfixiation by the hypnotic glare of the old-folk law
But they are in league with the Bogeyman!
Can’t you tell, my long-estranged children?
“Look not, little one, any place the dark may penetrate,
For it is there,” they say “in you he makes his lair”
Listen to the message I now relate:
‘To son and daughter of troubling brow:
Have little concern for the malevolent spirits of the night
For they have their own to attend to
Rather, whirl down into slumber’s heavy flutter to this sound
Entreaty: mark well the demons that lurk in the aura of your momentary keepers and the quilted charms they weave
Until such a time, as from the daylit hour, we may come back to you.’
A thin man walks in a fat man’s trousers
Stoops to hide his erection from some passing children
(He had been sleeping on the train)
Stumbles first in his mind and then on the paving
Thinking of how he’s forgotten to enjoy just Being somewhere
Stares through every face of fear or enquiry in the same manner
A metallic jingle as he reaches for his keys
Taking the back passage to his house
… only the home is not his.
You have only one option from which to choose, one answer to every question, one response to every trial. You may not find it every time, but doesn’t mean it wasn’t there and waiting. It’s your job to seek out the one correct response and thus remove yourself from the equation.
If you don’t succeed, someone else will.
I wish I could feel more anger toward our leaders
But where it’s most important, they would be out of their jobs post-haste
If from somewhere they could find the will to change their backward schemes.
Those assaults upon the commonality
That draw the line to show us where our real enemies lie
(Strange to find how the bogeymen on, and to, both sides
Have a lot more in common with each other
Than with those they would frighten into submission):
These were the only reasons they were placed in office
To begin with.
One of the saddest things I’ve read was in the New Statesman this week. Difficult to explain specifically what it was about it that left me so gaspingly deflated. Just a poignant example of the upside-down, back-to-front, inside-out world in which we live; where criminal laws are passed and pitilessly enforced on the weak and defenceless.
It was an article by Clive Stafford Smith on ‘Megan’s Law’ whereby in the U.S. (and shortly it seems, to tabloid glee over here in the U.K.) the names and addresses of paedophiles are published in the public domain. If they have their way, I imagine this is what the powers that be have in mind for all of us, but anyhow here’s the bit that caught me:
‘Crimes against nature
I used the site to pull up ‘predators’ living near my old office in New Orleans. A slew of names came up. The first person on the list, whom I will simply call Scarlet, is a young black woman. Listed as a sex offender, she is obliged both to register and to notify her neighbours whenever she changes address.
She has a large red tick next to her name, indicating that she is “in violation of registration requirements”.
Far from being a sexual predator, Scarlet is in fact a crack-addicted prostitute who pleaded guilty to “solicitation of a crime against nature” – typically, offering oral sex to an undercover cop. Further research reveals the reason for her violation of the registration requirement: she was murdered three years ago.’
Imagine those pronouncements as her epitaph in a world that didn’t give a fuck about her on any other level: “crime against nature”, and “in violation of registration requirements” and you might understand the immense grief that is bloatedly deserving of acknowledgement but still goes begging for it.
As ever, the issue will be framed in combative language, because war is all these people know how to wage. Understanding and treatment of the root causes may be patronised or flattered but will quickly fall by the way.
And once more, you have to question the motive. Whether it is generally understood among them or not, the issue of paedophilia is being used by those in power to destroy what’s left of the nuclear family by debasing the child-adult relationship. Part of the larger trend away from integrated community and towards the terminal insecurity of hyper-individualism.
The Fosters at the orphanage croon a lulling tone
Tending, attending the drowsing fears of the night in their many charges
Caught in transfixiation by the hypnotic glare of the old-folk law
But they are in league with the Bogeyman!
Can’t you tell, my long-estranged children?
“Look not, little one, any place the dark may penetrate,
For it is there,” they say “in you he makes his lair”
Listen to the message I now relate:
‘To son and daughter of troubling brow:
Have little concern for the malevolent spirits of the night
For they have their own to attend to
Rather, whirl down into slumber’s heavy flutter to this sound
Entreaty: mark well the demons that lurk in the aura of your momentary keepers and the quilted charms they weave
Until such a time, as from the daylit hour, we may come back to you.’
A thin man walks in a fat man’s trousers
Stoops to hide his erection from some passing children
(He had been sleeping on the train)
Stumbles first in his mind and then on the paving
Thinking of how he’s forgotten to enjoy just Being somewhere
Stares through every face of fear or enquiry in the same manner
A metallic jingle as he reaches for his keys
Taking the back passage to his house
… only the home is not his.
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