The Ruling Class Fears Trump

Another of those annoying articles that demands to be read, but with an open mind. We’re not out of the woods yet, my deal little Hansel and Gretel, in fact we are deeper in than we’ve ever been, and both, the Wolf and the Big Bad Witch have eaten most of your bread crumbs so there is no finding the old path back home again. Are you up to forging a new one?

Wolfessblog -- Guillotine mediocrity in all its forms!

On July 4th, American Exceptionalism, and Ruling Class fear of Trump
Danny Haiphong, BAR contributor
11 Jul 2018

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The ascendancy of Donald Trump to the commanding heights of US imperialism has been a chaotic experience for the ruling class. Trump’s lives in the trash-heap of the ruling class and has been deemed “unfit” to command the machinery of the state. His thievery is wholly unexceptional. He is an old-fashioned liar and cheat. But he is petty in the eyes of the ruling class, a small man who is impossible to brand to the masses. He is a fool, but not foolish enough to simply go along with the imperialist program. One day he is cutting taxes for the rich and keeping migrant families apart and the next he is signaling détente with Russia and Korea. Trump is a headache to the ruling class even if he is no savior for…

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The Unconscious Layered Society

[thoughts from   ~burning woman~    by Sha’Tara]

You look at man’s “society” and what do you see? One society? One group? One race of people more or less acting in unison, seeing as they are all “trapped” on one little world from which the only escape is death – the firmly held belief this is a final separation from its society, its uniform oneness?

No! That’s not how it is. Man’s earth is made up of a two-ply society: the visible and the unconscious. The one that matters, and the one that makes the one that matters possible.

I realize not everyone is as familiar with the Dune books by Frank Herbert as I am, but some at least have seen the movies. Well, forget the movies, they never get to the gist of his philosophy. If you’ve read through the material several times (the complete works are six volumes averaging four hundred pages each) you begin to extract some of what Herbert was demonstrating. Ignoring the recurring teaching about religion, government and economics that form the gist of the material, I’ll just give a very brief look at the ecology of the planet Arrakis or Dune as it is popularly known.

Dune is a completely dry planet. Never a drop of rain, no open water – just desert. And yet, open salt pans indicate that in some distant past, Dune had been a “normal” world with open seas and rivers. But in the year 10,191 which opens the saga, Dune is utter desert and its one source of wealth is the spice. The spice, produced by the giant sandworm Shai-Hulud, is a drug to man. Spice addiction produces many interesting side effects, among which is the ability to see through space and time. Another is the marked prolongation of life. Enough on that.

The interesting aspect of Dune is its ecology. Why no water? Where did it go? The people who lived on Dune, the Fremen, had discovered that a haploid creature they called a sandtrout had the ability to link itself to itself and block the flow of any moisture it encountered. This rarely seen underground creature formed a symbiotic relationship with sand and sand worm. It was responsible for blocking the flow of water from rising to the surface of the planet: the water was trapped below this living mantle several hundred meters below the sand. The reason for this was simple: the sand trout was a pre-worm form which the giant worms evolved from – and note: water was a deadly poison to the mighty sandworm which could not exist on any “natural” world – even in great deserts as are known on earth – without the constant protection of the sand trout. So the worm roamed the sands of Arrakis as lord and master of his domain while totally dependent upon the countless numbers of the lowly sandtrout for his survival.

Two layers of basically the same lifeform, but what a difference in expression!

Now think of earth, of Earthians, as a society and you see exactly that same “ecology” at work. For the elitist (Worm) society to exist, a vast network of mindless drones, workers, slaves (sandtrout) society must exist below the visible layer. Sand worm and sand trout – made of the same substance but relegated to two entirely different layers of life, the massive underground layer mindlessly blocking any kind of force or power that could “poison” the tiny visible minority that rules the planet.

On Dune, the layering is natural: the unicell organism, the sandtrout knows its purpose and can do nothing but what it is designed to do: block water from flowing through to the surface of the planet. In return, the sandtrout owes its life to the sand-worm because periodically, the great worm discharges itself from massive amounts of internal “ashes” which is the spice. If that spice isn’t collected, it ferments and there is a “spice blow” from which the sandtrout is created. On Dune, that has become a regular and natural cycle.

Are there “spice blows” on earth? Of course. Sub-societies go through cycles of change, through revolutions, wars, plagues, invasions and so on. During these events, the ruling “Worms” revitalize the “sandtrouts” and goad them to willingness to sacrifice themselves by the millions so the ruling “Worms” can pretend to create a “new” order.

It’s as natural a cycle as the sandtrout-worm cycle depicted by Frank Herbert.

Apart from the obvious wars and conquest entered into by the ruling “Worms” of earth, how do they keep the sandtrout working for them? Well, they lie. They make a lot of noise; they advertise and they entertain. They maintain a sort of pie-in-the-sky “law and order” system of force and have prisons and military institutions designed to create fear and a false sense of security at the same time. They use religion, science, technology, health care, economics and education to create false hope for the “trout.” It can be made to believe it needs saving, a condition that guarantees a sweet life after death. It can be made to believe it can have a long and healthy life. It can even be made to hope that it too can become a mighty ruling Worm. The “Worm” society stick is sometimes long, sometimes short; the carrot can be small, big, or tied in a bunch and sometimes the stick is a whip, but the result is always predictably the same: the trout will protect the Worm because it is brainwashed to do so and it “believes” without the least need of any shred of evidence, that in doing so it makes life possible for itself.

And perhaps that is all the trout can ever hope to achieve. Certainly under the current societal “ecology” that remains a truism.

“This world is basically a cesspool of misogyny, male entitlement, and deeply demented gender constructs accepted as casual fact by outrageously large swaths of the human population. (All our Wrong Todays – Elan Mastai)

It’s a Wonderful World (isn’t it?)

“I see trees of green – Red roses too – I see em bloom – For me and for you
And I think to myself…. What a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue – Clouds of white – Bright blessed days – Dark sacred nights
And I think to myself….. What a wonderful world.

The colors of a rainbow – So pretty – In the sky – Are also on the faces – Of people – Going by – I see friends shaking hands – Sayin – How do you do – They’re really sayin – I love you.

I hear babies cry – I watch them grow – They’ll learn much more – Than I’ll never know
And I think to myself – What a wonderful world…”

… and I think to myself… what have you been snorting, or sniffing?

I just finished my day’s work, and scanning through a hundred emails, you know, looking for  whatever might stir my imagination. Well, imagine my surprise to find messages about Donald Trump, anthropological climate change, Canada sending “training” troops to Iraq; Venezuela on the verge of being invaded by the US for daring to choose a national path rather than one dictated by Washington… then stuff on Brexit and more trade wars. All in all, it’s a Wonderful World, isn’t it?

“There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in” – yeah, heard that one a time or two. And if that’s the case, we’re about to see a lot of light coming through in the coming years.

I’m relaxing with a glass of white wine and some munchies, watching the movie, “Last Love”. The complaint about that movie was, it’s too dragged out; too slow, but I don’t find it so. Does everything have to happen in a panic? Do we always have to be speeding down that road to arrive nowhere? What’s the rush?

I’m thinking, not that it’s such a wonderful world, but that we, as a species, collectively and subconsciously, are facing a mass extinction event and perhaps, also subconsciously, because of one, huge, unavoidable and massive collective sense of guilt, just want to get it over with. Maybe we don’t want to see our grand children, and great grand children, die in horrible circumstances, in conditions that never need to have come about had we chosen not to listen to demagogues of bullshit; had we chosen not to feed our Earthian hubris, greed, sense of entitlement, opportunism, bigotry, and the standard stance I’d label as rank stupidity. So, instead of doing something really “real” to change the direction this society is tumbling in, let’s just take that fast lane to nowhere so as not to have time to think about real and serious alternatives.

It should come as no surprise if I wrote here that having a nice house, a hot tub, a barbecue, is really more important to most people than the future of their progeny. “Après moi, le déluge!” To hell with the future, eat drink and be merry for tomorrow, we die.

I’ve been observing the people who talk a good game about climate change and other possibly catastrophic developments for the planet, and guess what? Sure people talk a good game but how many seriously change their lifestyle, their expectations, to show how legitimate their concerns are? How many change the way they think about a corrupt and dying system? What I see is people desperate to hang on to the bit of pretend stability this bloody system is giving them.

How would one honestly answer those charges? An important question because ultimately, you realize, it won’t be the Trumps of this world who will make the real difference when it comes crashing down, it will be the, let’s see what could one call them, that silent uncaring majority of sheeple, of unwashed masses, of deplorables, the 99% who insist on blaming “the rich” and “the elites” for the sad state of the planet while going on emulating them in every possible little ugly way.

Let me reiterate this: if blame is to be attached to one group of people for the sad state of this world, let it be put on the shoulders of those who deserve it: all, except the leaders, elites, rich, bosses, rulers or whatever. They don’t matter; they don’t make the final decisions; they aren’t the ones condemning your grand children to poverty, famine and early death from wars and a collapsing ecosystem. They don’t fight the wars, remember? You do! They don’t even make shit and they don’t consume it, you do. They make laws and don’t live by them, you do. Pathetic, isn’t it? 99% of a population of intelligent sentience lets itself be destroyed by an ignorant, subhuman one percentile clique. Indeed, how pathetic is that?

“About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she murmured, dreamily, half asleep, how we perished, each alone. — Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse.”

 

O Beauty, thou art Relentless

[a sensuous meditation from ~burning woman~ ]

I drop my hands slowly to my bare thighs and gently pass them over my skin. I realize, mind fully engaged, that both, my hands’ skin and my thighs’ skin is my skin. The pleasure that arises from the touch is my pleasure, not someone else’s hand-me-down. Mine. I pleasure myself thus, as my hands, of my own free will, continue to feel me, down to my knees, then around the back, over my round buttocks, up and around my slim waist, up more, to my armpits, hairless and lightly tanned. I continue to explore this marvel of my body, moving to my throat, down, extending my fingertips lightly between my breasts, then outwardly, cupping, then gently rubbing my nipples to make them stand out, throb, hunger for a baby’s lips, adding to the effect of this beauty that is all mine.

I am not done exploring. My hands, of their own volition, move down, caressing, caressing, so gently, my fingers eagerly exploring between my legs which, as I stand on wet grass, spread out. I feel my heat there, my desire for that ‘more’ that drives ‘normal’ people to seek out another to complete the cycle.

But for me, the transgender, the androgynous, there is no need of another: I complete myself and with a loud moan of utter satisfaction, let myself fall to my knees in the grass, bending back to stare into an intense blue sky, my auburn, waist-length hair spread out under the back of my head, a living pillow of lavender scent. Up there stars without number play hide and seek and as they have all my life, invite me out to them to let them taste me.

An image of a nature creature appears in my mind, rolling over towards my knees spread in subconscious invitation. It murmurs, ‘Earth girl… earth girl… O Beauty, thou art, relentless.’ I lock the feeling in a smile so it can never be taken from me.

 

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All rights reserved. counterpunch@counterpunch.org

After the “victory” of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, and the “settlement” of the civil war in El Salvador, and due to other pressing situations, our support group here in Chilliwack, B.C., Canada, called “The Central America Friendship Committee” was disbanded with a huge sigh of relief. Little did we know that the whole “settlement” thing was, as usual, a two-faced negotiation on the part of Washington and the CIA. Unless they are clearly beaten, as in Vietnam, it doesn’t end, it escalates. Nothing was “settled” and things are not only continuing, but getting worse. As you read the following, if you read the following, note the names of the American presidents who presided over the massacres, tortures and killings of children in Central America. Then in the “killing fields” of refugee seekers in the deserts north of the Mexican border. Then take a few moments to ponder why “Nut’n’Yahoo’s” Zionists can slaughter Palestinian children with such impunity. Washington has always been, remains, and will continue to be the face of racism and genocide worldwide until it is destroyed, or it collapses from its own internal corruption. Those who still believe there is a fix are sadly deluded or they haven’t taken a serious look at the latest presidential face stamped on the latest genocides.

Sha’Tara, July 10, 2018
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July 10, 2018

The Discovery of Central American Suffering

by Nick Alexandrov

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U.S. pundits and politicians just discovered, it seems, that Washington’s decisions harm Central American families. For the New York Times, “separating families…is something new and malicious,” reflecting Trump’s “heartlessness” and violating “fundamental American values.” “This, apparently, is how you turn off the idea of America,” Alex Wagner (The Atlantic) added. The Los Angeles Times thinks “the administration’s cold-hearted approach to enforcement has crossed the line into abject inhumanity,” departing– so we’re to believe– from past practice.

These are half-accurate charges: Trump’s policy is malicious, heartless, cold-hearted. But it isn’t new. Both in Central America and along its Mexican border, Washington has helped rip apart families for decades, forcing children to endure a world without their parents, mothers to cope with their children’s sickening ends. Abject inhumanity, in other words, is a U.S. foreign policy hallmark.

Guatemala, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Honduras– review their histories. You’ll be crushed by evidence revealing which values shape Washington’s conduct, which norms govern its behavior in a region where it enjoys immense influence. And you’ll begin to understand why many had to flee these countries. Start with Guatemala. Ríos Montt, the dictator the U.S. funded, armed, and encouraged, oversaw the Mayan genocide there. In one episode, on April 3, 1982, the Guatemalan army overran the village of Chel, slaughtering its residents and orphaning Pedro Pacheco Bop, whose great-grandfather, parents, and five siblings (aged two to 14) were all murdered, their blood draining into the Chel River where the troops hurled the dead. Tomas Chávez Brito was two years old when the army fell upon his village, Sajsibán, seven months later, torching his home with his mother, sisters, and other family members inside. In the mountains, where Tomas hid for the following year eating plants to survive, one can only imagine how the idea of orphanhood, his new reality, settled in his mind. Margarita Rivera Ceto de Guzmán’s family separation was quicker. Soldiers knifed her in the stomach, killing her unborn child.

Egla Martínez Salazar, addressing this genocide, explains that assaults on Maya households conveyed “the message that Mayas did not live in ‘real’ families, but rather in ‘living arrangements’ that constituted breeding spaces for ‘international communist indoctrination.’” Erasing these spaces required “the mass murder of children,” plus “the forced transfer of surviving Maya children to military and paramilitary families,” tactics Salvadoran forces also adopted in the 1980s. Apart from killing most of the 75,000 slain there from 1980-1992– the stretch when Carter, Reagan, and Bush I funneled $6 billion into the country– “soldiers [also] abducted children in what an international court says was a ‘systematic pattern of forced disappearances.’”

Similar violence-patterns afflicted Nicaragua and Honduras. The Contras flaunted their family-destroying talents in the former, as when some 1,000 of them, on April 3, 1984, assaulted the village of Waslala. A father there, desperate to save his wife and children, sheltered with them in a ditch. The Contras found him, hauled him out. He was “tortured by having his fingertips and then his right hand cut off, and then killed with bayonets,” and then decapitated, Reed Brody recounts. As a final gesture to their mission’s purity, the Contras, into the dead man’s back, cut intersecting gashes– the shape of the cross. Brody tells another story: in “El Achote a band of contras dragged an agrarian reform worker from his home, and in front of his wife, 11 month old son, and three year old son, cut him into pieces with their bayonets. The man’s wife was then shot, but she lived to watch them behead her 11 month old baby.”

It was Battalion 316 that targeted Honduran families. The Baltimore Sun reported that the unit, “trained and supported by the Central Intelligence Agency,” “kidnapped, tortured and killed” hundreds in the 1980s. One example: Nelson Mackay Chavarría “was 37 years old and the father of five” when the Battalion found him. When searchers later discovered his corpse, “his hands and feet were tied with rope” and “black liquid spilled from his mouth”– criolina, “rubbed on cattle to kill ticks and mites.”

In more recent decades, the U.S. government has forged the Mexican border into a family-wrecking zone. President Clinton’s Operation Gatekeeper, for instance, “only made it harder for people to cross the border at relatively safe places and forced them to cross in more dangerous places, such as the Arizona desert,” writes Carolina Bank Muñoz. She stresses that “the policy broke up families, as few families were willing to take such risks by crossing a dangerous border together.” Maggie Morgan and Deborah Anker, citing ACLU work, note that “the risk of dying while crossing in Arizona was 17 times greater in 2009 than only a decade earlier”– and that “the mortality rate almost doubled” from 2009-2012, on Obama’s watch, “with children constituting roughly 10 per cent of fatalities each year.” Todd Miller estimates these “Southwest ‘killing fields’” have taken some 21,000 lives since the early 1990s.

There’s no question Trump’s migrant policies warrant outrage. But his are only the latest from Washington rattling– if not terminating– Central American lives. If we delude ourselves, if we choose to believe his actions depart from some moral norm, we risk satisfaction with superficial policy shifts. A deeper overhaul is needed to ensure Central American suffering ceases.

More articles by:Nick Alexandrov

Nick Alexandrov lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  He can be reached at: nicholas.alexandrov@gmail.com

When you Die then you Live

[a poem by   ~burning woman~  ]

When you die
(I said to him)
matters not how many are around you
in your hospice bed
or none
as you perish in the storm
you die alone.

Then why
(I said to him)
when you live
can you not be equally alone
however surrounded by insistent motion
or in the stillness
of a moonlit snowscape?

But how can I love you
(he said to me)
when you wish to be alone
when you go away
leaving no note
when you stand so still
under the moon in our yard
and neither touch nor word
you acknowledge?

When you leave
(he said to me)
with no word of farewell
(as in that old song)
I die inside
but when you turn your eyes
to look into mine
I come alive again
Why
(he said to me)
do you do this?

Don’t you know?
(I said to him)
Don’t you see it’s because
I want us both to know
what matters
and whom it is we truly love?
Love is a trade-off
where there is no pining
where there is no loss
there is no desire awakened
there is no gain

Would you know life
(I said to him
the last time I left us)
learn how to be alone
with your eyes wide open
with your mind on everything
except us.

 

 

 

 

A Meditation on Faith: Bearing Witness

Another reblog from Frank J. Peter’s series: Meditation on Faith. The message is clear and unequivocal, but I’m reblogging also as a counter to those who take exception to these kinds of reminders. We need reminding because, honestly folks, as rank and filers, we are not nice people and we seriously need to rethink the way we are proceeding in life… in general. I have a lot to say about man’s inhumanity to man, but I know that the best “witnessing” I do is when I join hands with people I have little in common with to (at this time) help rebuild houses destroyed in natural disasters. If I didn’t involve myself thus, I would not be able to say a damn thing. We do, we change ourselves, THEN we can put up our hand and ask for permission to speak.

Frank J. Peter

Asking “What sermon do I want to give?” is so much easier than asking “What example do I want to set?”

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