Compassion Minus Consent

I’m something of a stickler for words, but what can I say, when you teach foreign languages for two decades a fetish for ‘le mot juste’ just comes with the territory.

Furthermore, when you love being a student as much as I do, it’s expensive to disagree with your teachers.  On the other hand, it’s far more expensive to not disagree when I think a disagreement is in order.

Which brings me back to a recent post where I disagree with my current favorite teacher, James True.  I don’t think I was persuasive enough in my argument, because he tried to shame me with group-think in front of the whole class (by class I mean his YouTube audience).  It didn’t work though, because my love of words is far stronger than my capacity for shame, or group-think.

I lie awake at night thinking about such things.  In the wee hours, that is usually between 2 and 3 am, I often get inspiration in the form of annoying insomnia.  It’s a fairly small price to pay for what occasionally turns out to be a spectacular insight.

So, I’m trying again, Professor True, to convince you to shift your expression ‘Compassion is not consent’ because I think it’s not accurate.  Embedded in the word compassion is consent.  Its etymology is ancient, unlike more modern words like empathy.  But, I already mentioned that in my first failed attempt to persuade.

And, I don’t want to just negate the expression, because I think I understand what is meant and the sentiment behind it.  Instead, I’d like to offer what I think is a more precise phrase in order to refine it.

Consider instead, if you please: “Compassion minus consent.”

Here’s why.

Understanding is based in intellect.  Empathy/sympathy is emotionally-centered.  But compassion comes from the core. I think so far the good professor would agree, because he talks often about the importance of being seated in one’s pelvis, though he uses more colorful expressions for that fact.

I believe these subtle differences in expression have considerable impact and can be used by nefarious powers against the greatest intentions and wills of man.  A couple of examples:

“We are all One” or “We are all in this together” is a kind of bastardization of an absolute truth: Everything is connected.  We live in a holistic system.  I believe this means that in the mind of man is buried the ancestral wisdom of all ages.  I believe this is true because I’ve experienced it personally.  Someday I’ll have the skill to express it.  But I don’t yet.

I believe this is also what NDE (near death experience) is about.  There is an ‘extended consciousness’ realm and I do believe some folks are able to move between these realms (sometimes against their will or comprehension).  We used to call it shamanism and try to cultivate it, now we call it schizophrenia and try to control it.  Professor True has several excellent posts on this topic.

Another example: “All we need is love” or the myriad variations that have bombarded us for several generations through art, film, books, music.  I’ve already said my piece on this a couple of times, so I won’t rehash it again.

I’m all for love and compassion.  I just think to saturate the culture with it or suggest it’s the magic bullet to end our social woes is actually undermining it.  True love and compassion should be earned and dished out sparingly.  Empathy, sympathy, understanding should be extended as far and wide as humanly possible.  Kindness, care and concern should be liberally applied, perhaps even where it’s not deserved.

And compassion, minus consent, is something awesome I could aspire to—I know it won’t be easy—but it seems to me a worthy goal of an enlightened social order.

In any case, these men are totally crushing in this best Apocalypse ever, and are so much more entertaining than this post.  Do something both fun and healthy for yourself on Father’s Day and check them out!

The Wandering Jew & the Lucky Bamboo

The Wandering Jew & The Lucky Bamboo: A Fictional Conspiracy Theory

Do you understand the plants are made just like that? Compare them to the ones that were like, painstakingly crafted?

If you knew there was a difference, would you wonder who crafted it, and how, or even why?

Did you know the sandwhich, the olive, the vodka, were all crafted? Of course you did.

But did you know also was the potato, the tulip, the rose, even the honeybee?

That I hate going to the dentist is no mystery. But in some States, particularly in the South, it seems, sedation is an option. Now I hate going to the dentist slightly less than before, as in all my way too long functional memory. On the gas, there is some enlightenment, as you’ll see.

Twice now I’ve been to the dentist since the Plandemic, because I have dental issues since childhood, not to mention dental trauma, from the choking fluoride treatment molds that tormented me every six months for a decade. That I found these treatments horrific is considered a mental weakness on my part. That my mom paid for them from her hard-earned wages, and trusted them, breaks my heart to this day.

Now they’ve required me to sign a checklist that I have no symptoms of the Covid during these last two visits where only the gas, and lovely company of kind women, guard my fragile acquiescence .

At these days they’ve also insisted on taking my temperature via a digital thermometer directed precisely at my 3rd eye.

That is, the pineal gland. Little do they know, I’m sure, the conspiracy theories that surround that teeny-tiny gland. Right behind the directed laser pointed right there, to which they are given a number, as if that is the only signal that instrument is designed to relate. And as if they would know any other reason why this instrument is now being more normalized than the obscene body scanners at the airport.

I hate dentists, so much so that my latest dentist is my heroine. She gets what honest dentist-hate is like. She commends my stoicism in the chair, bless her heart. I honor her sacrificial hours and delicate sensitivity which I recognize as akin to artistry. She really is someone worthy of far more than her title. I like her, and I’m not being even remotely sarcastic. I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be a woman like that.

“Feelings are considered to be internal human structure and architecture.  But what you imagine and create are far more important—and the creative process radically and naturally changes feelings in a positive way, as a side effect.” Jon Rappaport

On the gas, I reflect, and tears flow, beyond my knowing, how. They are so kind, they see, they don’t define. Are you ok? Yes, I am, right here, right now, I am ok. And I see how flimsy that is this sedated happy feeling in the here and now.

Are you? Are y’all? Is that enough? Is that ok? Do you load yourself with duty and then pray you’ll sleep and have enough still to spend another day?

Would you have enough pity, prana, love, care, energy, to say . . .

Would you really like to know what it was like for me, in the pit, today?

I did not get the impression s/he did. Bypassing is our only call of fame. From the pedestal the pit cannot be understood. There is no degree of compassion that might pacify the pit.

Because you see, in the pit, your compassion is where I most love to shit.

That you preach how I should feel makes it that much more worse
But you praise and anoint yourselves with kudos and more books

It is an annoying block to enlightenment for those who perpetually misunderstand. And are misunderstood.

“If I do not describe the details of our work it is because we were busied with things which lie beyond speech and which therefore elude the spell that words exert. But everyone will remember how his mind has labored in regions which he cannot portray, whether it were in dreams or in deep thought. It seemed as if he were groping for the right road in labyrinths or sought to unravel the figures among the patterns of an optical illusion. And often he awoke wonderfully strengthened. This is where our best work takes place, and so it seemed to us, too, that in our struggle speech was still inadequate, and that we must penetrate into the depths of the dream if we were to withstand the threat against us.”

The cynicism that regards all hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority.” Occulture: The Unseen Forces That Drive Culture Forward by Carl Abrahamsson

Compassion IS Consent

Websters Dictionary, 1905

Definition, Compassion: To suffer

A suffering with another; painful sympathy; a sensation of sorrow excited by the distress or misfortunes of another, pity, commiseration. A mixed passion, compounded of love and sorrow; pain or regret, or is excited by it. Extreme distress of an enemy even changes enmity into at least temporary affection.

Sounds like Stockholm Syndrome to me.  Our virtues are being played against us.

If you’re still believing what you see on TV, you’re addicted to the McDonald’s of the mind.  If so, may I suggest some proper nourishment, in the form of my current favorite philosopher, James True.

I’ve already recommended him on this blog quite a few times.  Now I’m going to attempt to do something he’s asked his subscribers for, which I really respect him for asking to do: “prune my lips.”  Excellent expression and sentiment.

One of Jame’s big schticks is the idea that “compassion is not consent” —he repeats it often and it’s being adopted by others.  It’s gaining traction, and I don’t think that’s a good thing.   

I think it’s like throwing your precious pearls of prana at swine much of the time.  I’m sure there’s a few exceptions, but compassion fatigue is a real thing.

I also think receiving compassion is the favorite sugar donut of tyrants, abusers, criminals and malcontents of all flavors.

Just look at the etymology of the word—to suffer together.  If you are choosing to ‘suffer with’ anyone, you’re giving consent.

When I witness the suffering of another and extend compassion to that individual, or even group, it’s a visceral experience.  I feel it in my gut, it twists in my stomach and moves up my spine and into my heart space, and if I extend it even further it goes right up my chest and lodges as a lump in my throat.  If I extend it even further still, my eyes well up, my lips begin to quiver, and when the tears begin to fall for them, I know we are suffering together.  I hope they are touched by this, that it makes them feel less alone in their suffering, that somehow energetically I’ve lessened their burden just a bit.  It’s expensive, it takes a lot of calories.

John Stoessinger, in his compassionate bestseller, Henry Kissinger: The Anguish of Power (1976), demonstrates his consent of this man’s actions in every chapter.  He makes excuses for him, shows how very ‘human’ he is,  and calls this ‘speaking truth to power.’  He wrote the book because, he says: “I suspect that many of those who later attacked him without mercy might have done so out of their own frustration, bitterness, and disappointment.  What has been sadly lacking, however, is a sense of reality and balance.”

As James and Owen Benjamin agree, the pedestal and the pit both suck, as does Stoessinger: “I have attempted to portray the human being and the statesman behind the myths of accolade and condemnation.”

I wonder, what if Stoessinger would have thrown his pearls of compassion at the millions, perhaps billions, who continue to suffer because of Kissinger’s lifetime of global influence?  I wonder if Kissinger needed his compassion or valued it all that much.  I wonder, by demonstrating how ‘human’ he is, how much compassion for the man moved through his readers like a contagion, building up compassion for the man decade after decade, so that all his misdeeds piled up like good manure in the barn, to be spread over the garden to grow and grow, so that he moves effortlessly between pedestal and pit, achieving his every tyrannical dream in this alchemical process of perpetual re-consenting.

Try this aperture on for size please, gentlemen.  Imagine you are Kissinger, receiving the public’s compassion, what does it feel like for you?  Does it look like dissent to you, or consent?  Would you have the sense your work was approved of, or disapproved of?

Furthermore, would that change much, considering he has an agenda for your life, whether or not you show him compassion?  Why would you extend your compassion to someone who has not demonstrated to you he is suffering?  Do you assume he suffers?  Might it be a common case of : We don’t see others how they really are, we see them how we are? 

Do you think Jesus would’ve washed Kissinger’s feet before or after he stomped all over the world?

Crowd the Bubble

Handy Hubby claims he’s becoming a social distancing bully.

I think he’s becoming a perfect disciple of civil disobedience and further honing his already natural aptitudes in that essential discipline. He complied with Costco’s face mask dumbass police-y, but at least he makes it expensive for the collective in so doing.

The corporations will only respond to strong collective action, strong collective action can only be flamed by the torch of the strong individual.

So, of his own accord, he chose to crowd the bubble. He wore the mask, because we have a fetish for bulk shopping, and I hate shopping. He took another one for the team.

He just made a few of his own rules along the way.  Like, once a shopper’s indecision caused him a moment’s annoyance, he broached the six-foot distancing zone, causing enough discomfort for the shopper to stop hemming and hawing and make a choice already, so he could move in for his kill.

I’ve already mentioned in many posts he’s nearly an expert marksman. He shops the same way he shoots, which was the same way he seduced me—move in quietly, have a concise agenda, work fast, take no prisoners.

As further recrimination, he repeatedly pulled down his mask.  Why would he pull such a stunt?  Oh, just because he couldn’t breath.  Well, I guess breathing is considered the entire reason for social distancing these days, so mark that another winner!

For my part, I slowly, oh so slowly, basked in the empty aisles of my favorite antique store, touching everything of even remote interest.  I filed longingly through several old books and bought a few, with cash.  Then I put another few items on credit card, and watched as the clerk, who knows me now, because she knows I love it there, use hand sanitizer.  I said, “You know, I know you’re following police-y, but that stuff is not good for you.”  She confided, I know, I’m just trying to be cautious and accommodating.  I said, with a wink, refill the bottle with lavender-scented water and aloe vera gel , no one will suspect a thing.

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Recently, one of Hubby’s passengers was tested positive for the cornholio, now he’s lying in the hammock drinking beer for breakfast. This is what quarantine looks like here at Chez Shell, aka Kensho Homestead.

Thanks Corporatocracy! Greatest Apocalypse Ever!

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I will end here and now blessed with a river of knowing in this song, passed along through the hands of one receptive woman, and in deep bows to those who are waving along the banks as I flow, have inspired me, challenged me, caused me the pain and chaos that sparks my flame, as an individual, passing, in wisdom.

And occasionally, with great and aching discernment, even very selective gratitude.

Be The Gates

You really want to help humanity?
You think you know how?
Wanna save the world, do ya?

Save men’s souls?

Be the Gates

That’s right

Just like Bill-fucking-Gates
The man you love to hate
Be Him.

Enter his soil-soul
And sing his story

Make him an Honorable Man.
Tell him, Thank you, sir,
May WE have another.

Please, sir, force your will upon us
And convince us, it’s for our own Good.

We love you Lord technology.
You remind us every day
We can’t even handle the raccoons

 

Blind Empathy

I’ve had a recurring nightmare for a decade or so.  This is not unusual for me, I’ve had them all my life, the contents and themes just shift.

I only have an elementary knowledge of dreams and their symbolism and I avoid over-researching in this domain, because I believe these things to be highly subjective.  But still, I try anyway to record them and discern their meaning through dynamics happening in my life and all around me.  I know someday I’ll have a broader lens and previously unseen layers of the dreams will be revealed at the right time as long as I don’t fall for the illusion and convenience of ‘forgetting’.

This most recent recurring stream recently ended and I’m so glad for that.  I believe energetically the message the dream meant to convey was purged, after a traumatic few months last spring, which thanks to any kind readers who’ve hung around that long and are paying attention, because I don’t have to repeat the entire storm scenario.

This recurring nightmare was different, but very similar versions of losing everything and being lost—being alone in a big, foreign, sometimes bustling, sometimes abandoned city, unable to contact anyone because I was without money, had lost my wallet, phone, even my shoes and sometimes clothes.  I’m always barefoot in these dreams, on the pavement of a foreign city, completely without support or resources.

Then just over a week ago the dream shifted, dramatically, for the better.  It started off just the same, no wallet, no shoes, no phone, no contacts, in another crowd, of this time all women.  I’ll skip the boring details.  It was some kind of meeting group in a mall, I set my bag down for minute, then walked outside.  Once outside I realized I’d forgotten my bag, knew just where, went right back in, but the bag was gone.  I immediately yelled at the women there to give me back my bag, that I know someone took it, and I was very angry.

All of sudden, a woman threw my bag back at me.  And then a dozen women began throwing at me all the wallets I’d ever ‘lost’ (in the dreams).  I was stunned, but happily so, and was marveling at all the different shapes and colors of them from over the years.  My anger that they might have been stolen, and my shame that I’d lost them, dissipated instantly.  I smiled, dropped them all and walked back out the door.

Today I read two excellent article by Michael Tsarion, and listened to an interview on it.  It struck me that these passages are related somehow to what I hope is the permanent passage of this nightmare for me, and also where I think the culture in general is currently circling the drain.

I wish I had the insight now to connect the dots for any curious readers, but I’m afraid I don’t.  I think it’s one of those cases of knowing what you’re doing without knowing what you’re doing.

All text below from either of two recent MT articles: Souls in Darkness and/or

Children of Thanatos

“Basically, human consciousness and behavior are directed by the search for pleasure and the avoidance of pain. The Marcusans decided to co-opt this basal tendency and use it as a tool for building the utopian society they wish to see replace Western civilization.

The Marcusan plan was to establish a society based on the Pleasure Principle. They believed they were following the course of history, and that their dream was quite rational.

Success was assured as long as one systematically removed obstacles causing distress, want and injustice. Hence the welfare dependent “Nanny States” that now proliferate throughout Europe and America. Hence the endless supply of bread and circuses and “good times” had by all.

Nine times out of ten, there’s not much wrong with the psychopath’s sexual life. Why should there be? It’s just a physical act. Because no feeling is involved, and because there’s no genuine care for the other person, what’s the problem? The psychopath has no hang-ups in this regard, no need to sweat bullets like a neurotic or seek out head-shrinkers to help him develop confidence with the opposite sex. Sex is mere recreation for the psychopath.

Indeed, male psychopaths often have no problem getting dates. Many women actually find themselves attracted to them, adoring the fact that they can finally be with a “man” uninhibited by loathsome morals, ideals, sensitivity, hang-ups or qualms. They just get on with it, and don’t care about boring social graces. In extreme form this condition is known as Hybristophilia.

Since the psychopath is unencumbered by emotion, he can easily focus his brain and learn things quickly. If he already has a high IQ, his success is certain. This is why we find a great many psychopaths in high places. They covet the power offered them by religious and political appointments. Our present hierarchical systems make it easy for psychopathic types to excel. Indeed, our world is infested with them. Without upgrading our psychological knowledge, we have no way of ridding ourselves of their loathsome presence.

Sadly, no expert on pathological types dares utter a word of this in public. There’s no longer any mention of the effect on society of psychopaths in high places, and no comment about how whole nations can be psychopathic.”

R U OK?

R U OK?

This question was emblazoned on a bright yellow t-shirt with a smiley face, gifted from Hubby’s place of employment several years ago.  It’s been the butt of jokes ever since.

Folks can’t even talk to their own loved ones about how they’re really feeling, but the wise guys in Human Resources imagine a worker will feel motivated to show and tell thanks to a cheesy slogan on a free t-shirt.  That’s a special brand of marketing brilliance right there.

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I suppose there’s more than a few veterans who feel this way, too—they need to communicate how they’re feeling as a form of psychic hygiene—yet when they do there’s a half a dozen ‘highly-trained’ shrinks taking notes and filling the next DSM with their dysfunctional honesty and using their confessions to prescribe a list of solutions based entirely on poppycock.

Happy.  Sad.  Angry.  Bored.  Afraid.  Please to check appropriate box.  That’s become, please to choose appropriate emoji.

But, How are you really feeling?  These times are being prescribed as the days that try men’s souls—so I am asking out of sincere caring—how are you really feeling?  I suspect you don’t even have sufficient words to describe it, since feelings came long before words, which is why man had to invent art.  And then reduce it to emojis.

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Did you ever consider that love and fear are both feelings of petrification?  They are emotions of freezing in time and space.  They serve to protect the species through seduction.  In love we long for time to stand still, yet it races.  In our memory or recollection it takes hours to sift through minutes.  As in fear time seems to stand still, an agonizing splitting into nanoseconds.

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Can’t tell the forest for the trees?

Where were you when JFK was shot?  Who told you about 9/11?  What were you doing when the hurricane hit?  Why didn’t you evacuate/shelter in place/donate/volunteer/follow orders/surrender your weapon/buy ammo/plant a garden . . .??

How are you really feeling?  Does it fit in the box?

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Mama Chop says don’t be shy!

Fear, like love, are the static aspects of feelings that are meant to cause actions—those of survival—run for your life, or care for another’s.

Does fear, or love, inspire you to action?  Why, or, why not?

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Handsome lads on dogwood petals

Please feel free to reply at length in space below.  True empathic response to follow.

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Channel your fear, says Buttercup!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tyranny or Freewill

I know they mean well, but the podcasters and bloggers and various other ‘social influencers’ who at the moment are espousing some variant of “make the best of it” really just don’t get it.  Don’t think of it as quarantine.  Click past the media hype and overcome the social distancing, they say, through ‘personal growth’ work.

Such utter nonsense. Use this as an opportunity to take up a new hobby, they repeat, learn something new, organize your closets, take an online class, and loads of other banal advice that demonstrate unequivocally how disconnected they really are from the core of the issue.  Throw someone into solitary confinement and then insist he’ll be a better person for it.  Adversity builds character, right?  Occasionally it does, but more often, it does not.

Stop thinking, and start feeling, I’d advise them, if they were listening to me.  It’s a very different beast to choose isolation than to have it forced upon you.  It feels different, because it is like the exact polar opposite.

We were avid travelers, Hubby and I, before and after we met.  Being forced to evacuate, twice, was absolutely nothing like the feeling of choosing one’s own time and place of adventure.  That I was somehow expected to smash these bipolar feelings together was actually really offensive.  I got that advice constantly, too.  Think of it as an opportunity, I heard from everyone who claimed they cared.  Go volunteer.  Be the bigger person.  You’re not really homeless.  Show them what you’re made of.  Seriously?  And you label this empathy?  Give me a break, pronto, please!   The perfect opportunity presenting itself to me then was, and still is, to drop those self-righteous idiots like hot potatoes.

It’s very different believing something intellectually, taking steps toward verifying that belief in order to quantify it as knowing, and the spin cycle that’s required for the Positivity Virus to see every insane challenge as an opportunity.  Don’t panic.  Get resilient.  Don’t fret over your lost job.  Don’t contemplate the doom of mandatory vaccinations or the gloom of martial law.  No pain no gain.  Think of it as a character-builder.  Rise to the Occassion.  Raise your vibration.  Find the silver lining.  Dig deep. Help others.  Why?  Because we say so.  Because that’s what it means to be a good person.  So, the slave class abides.

If you ask, but, how do you know this?  I did ‘the work’ they reply.  The Work.  The Great Work. That means, They know.  They got to choose it, or at least, not to choose it.  Now they insist everyone become as enlighten and evolved and woke, by saving your friends and community from your fatal invisible germs. Good for you, good for them, good for all.

When the so-called free-thinkers start to cooperate with the government mandates, and insist you do to, it might be the right time to unsub.

Personal growth work, by force.  The beatings will continue until moral improves.  Personal growth work, through shaming tactics.  Become a better team player through home quarantine.  We couldn’t get you to evolve yourself to fit our agenda in the easy way, so really, it was your choice.  We’ve been trying to breed and mold the ideal global hive for a century, we’re nearly there, there’s just a few million more pesky free-thinkers we need to convert, that is, convince.  Everything we do is for your own good.

I told that to my bees today when I went to inspect their colonies.  I said, “Hi my bees! I’m from the government and I’m here to help!”

They were not convinced.  One colony actually crafted themselves a very unconventional upside-down foyer, apparently because they called mutiny on my restricted access portal.  The brazen nerve of them!  I told them they would get robbed mercilessly with this approach.  They did not abide!  And they were robbed mercilessly, just as I’d predicted.

Now those frightful rebels have created a super strong colony by virtue of fighting off all those thieves.  They’re like ninja warrior bees!

How dare they successfully trump my sub-par, ignorant efforts at micro-management!

A quick look at their valiant efforts, please excuse my poor video skills!

 

 

 

The Toxic Feminine: Perception Management

A brief lesson on analyzing toxic female behavior using two real-life personal anecdotes.

Part One:  The Beautiful Budding Gymnast

When I was about ten years old I liked gymnastics, but I wasn’t good at it.  I was briefly amazed by a neighbor girl who was really good at it.  She was a bit older, but one time she let me come over to her house to practice.  Not only was she really good at gymnastics, she was also exceptionally beautiful—quite tall for her age, with shining, straight, long black hair and perfect alabaster skin.  She reminded me of a real-life princess and I felt almost troll-like standing next to her.

Her mom was there, an attractive divorcé  who remarried shortly after that day, the two of them moved and I never saw her again.  That was no big deal though, because I wasn’t friends with the girl, I just admired her beauty and talent.

What has stuck with me my entire life about that day was something her mother said, because I would discover this again and again throughout my life in my dealings with certain toxic people, especially women:  Their stated perception about reality trumps reality itself. 

Nowadays they call it ‘pathological narcissism’ or any other number of psychological terms, and Gaslighting has become the clever term for their favorite tool of perception control.

The girl wanted her mom to ‘judge a competition’ between her and I on our gymnastic skills.  Of course, we all knew who would win that competition.  Apparently though, the mother had decided, unbeknownst to us, to give me a few bonus points in advance. Perhaps due to my younger age, or my more novice standing, or just because she wanted to teach her daughter (or me) a lesson?

I watched the girl’s clearly superior cartwheel with simple, honest envy.  How I’d love to cartwheel that perfectly, I thought!  She would probably go to the Olympics I suspected, with a cartwheel like that.

I was sure if I practiced enough I could be that good, but back then I had trouble keeping my legs stiff in the air and landing in a straight line.  Her mother, however, claimed my cartwheel was definitely better, to the jaw-dropping astonishment of us both.

How she lies!  I was baffled. The girl objected, naturally.  I objected, confused as all hell.  The mother insisted.  And for decades I’ve analyzed this lie, turned it over in my head, compared it to what I’ve heard and observed with others, and to what I see happening in the society at large.

I do believe by now I’ve got a pretty good handle on this particular brand of heavy duty gaslighting.  What makes it so harmful is that it’s so insidious, so easily masked, with layers of plausible deniability—it’s a real life example of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  The evil step-mother type is easy to discern, so not nearly as confusing, therefore not nearly as dangerous.

At first I thought, like is natural to do, to give the mother the benefit of the doubt.  But no, it’s not really about encouraging humility in the achiever, because we both knew she was lying, and she knew that we knew.  False humility is manipulative and to force her daughter to pretend to be ‘less than’ she actually was would be a mean trick, seems to me.

It was also not about assuaging the real loser’s feelings, though she would surely insist her intentions were both of these efforts toward virtue.  But, if she had really been concerned about my feelings in that situation, she should’ve pointed out my flaws directly and asked her daughter if she’d be so kind as to spend some time to help me with them, because that’s what I really wanted. I already knew plenty of places by that tender age where I could go to get lied to.

So really, it was about assigning herself the loftiest role in the room, that of the High Priestess, aka, Perception Manager.  And in doing so, she takes it on herself to gaslight everyone else in the vicinity.  It’s not virtuous, it’s self-serving.  It’s not about creating harmony, it’s about stifling dissent.  It’s not about fostering relatedness, it’s about establishing hierarchical control. Though she would admit nothing of the sort, I’m sure.

Not only will she readily lie to others, she will then lie to herself about what her lies mean.  These are not ‘little white lies’ to avoid being unnecessarily hurtful.

Conflict avoidance is also not a virtue, it’s a tactic.

These are the relentless Political Correctness promoters.  Anything not coated in marzipan, according to the Toxic Feminine, is considered hate speech and outside the purview of polite discourse, (unless they do it, which is always ‘out of fear’ they say, but actually it’s just avoiding minor discomfort and loss of total control of the given situation).  Bring up voting at the dinner table and you’ll get a heel to the shin.  Try to discuss your cousin’s drug abuse and you’ll get an eye roll.  Mention your pending divorce and she’ll change the subject, most likely to her own pending divorce. 

An excellent mind-f**k movie of this popular leitmotif, from the French, because they do it best: La Moustache

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She’ll even police your language and behavior at the bar after three martinis from a distance, this is the level of professionalism we’re dealing with here, like she learned directly from the Fabian Society experts themselves!

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We see the negative impact of this brand of perception control to the microscopic level everywhere we look today.  Everyone gets to choose any reality based on their personal preferences—boys can be girls, girls can be boys; whites can call themselves blacks ‘on the inside’; beauty at every size, even morbidly obese; sunny weather claimed even when the sky is murky with filth; adults behaving like children and children posing as adults; abuse labeled as quirky fun; poisons labeled as food; violence sold as entertainment; indoctrination called education, and on and on.  Give the devil a finger, as the adage goes.

Where are the ADULTS?

She’ll happily blame every social ill on “The Patriarchy,” right after she cashes her welfare check and swings by WIC for more free baby formula.  And it’s getting worse exponentially now.  

To be an unwed mother with three babies from three fathers is not even considered an undesirable familial or social situation anymore.  I wish I were exaggerating!

This wolf-in-sheep’s clothing toxic deception harms every level of social life, from the relations between the genders, to the family unit, to the political sphere.

If the gaslighting gets pushed any heavier in this country the demand for wool is going to skyrocket!

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Or maybe, all is not yet lost in space.  Some critical thinking is being applied in some small circles.

Here’s a hopeful and educational interview with Justin Deschamp and Adam Riva on Dauntless Dialogue:  Social Engineering of the Male-Female Dynamic, that’s well worth some deep consideration.  What’s been created, expressly, is a culture of acceptable gaslighting—socially-engineered through propaganda for reasons of control—promoting a culture of confusion, distraction, and distorted value systems that force individual, inter-relational, social and political imbalance.  So the oligarchical controllers are then appeased to, eternally, by their hapless subjects to create order out of their physical, intellectual and emotional chaos.

That’s the lesson of the beautiful budding gymnast.

 

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(Coming soon Part 2)

How Suicide Triumphs

It might be a ghastly case of misplaced empathy.

Try this at home:  Bring up the topic of suicide and note how folks react.

On the radio yesterday, one of the south’s ubiquitous Christian family stations, were some astonishing statistics about the outrageous suicide rate currently in America.  The host’s conclusion, not surprisingly, was that these poor, long-suffering individuals had not found Jesus.

I beg to differ.  In fact, the suicide that hit too close for comfort this past spring, was committed by a woman who had just found Jesus, had just been ‘born-again’ baptized, and was attending a local church.

Sympathy was oozing from every direction for this apparently fragile, misguided woman, who left behind three teenage boys.

The responses I get when repeating this story always include, first and foremost, something along the lines of: “Oh, how terrible, that poor woman!”  The boys are lamented also, but along the lines of how awful it will be for them to be without their mother.

And I’m thinking, “Seriously?”

The woman who spread far more pain and chaos around her than joy and caring is the one who gets the caring attention, even in death.

Why is violent sociopathy rewarded with sympathy in our culture?  Suicide is extremely violent.  Violence is violence, whether or not it is self-inflicted.  It is also extremely manipulative, as one is freed from one’s own pain by unloading it on everyone else.

This was a grown woman, who had abandoned her children, was addicted to untold number of drugs for at least a decade, and who was unresponsive and ungrateful to the help lavished on her from countless well-meaning hosts and wanna-be saviors for years.

What about all those who were forced to witness her self-violence?  What about all those who were subjected to her lies, her manipulations, her emotional and physical abuse?

What about her boys, and her parents who are forced to raise them, while she partied her life away?

Has anyone ever considered that maybe they would feel relieved to be rid of her, once and for all—that is, if relief were a permissible social option for them?  Instead they are required to feel sorry for her, forever.

What about “God helps those who help themselves?”

What about the obvious fact that the suicide rate continues to rise, as the churches continue to fill, as the preachers continue to preach, as the psychiatric profession proliferates, as the pharmaceutical sales flourish, and as the entertainment industrial complex offers ever-more fun for everyone?

Might it be remotely possible, perhaps, that all the misplaced empathy and coddling to sociopathy, and the elevation of weakness, cowardice and powerlessness to a station of social superiority, might play into this problem at all?

Of course, if I point out this difference of perspective, I’m the heartless bitch with no sympathy, for the violent dead woman.

Well, I confess.  Let’s just write it off as yet another case of compassion fatigue.