Posts Tagged ‘insanity’

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Trump. Samson Option. PsyOps Bullshit.

I’m in a coffee shop down the street from the Red Cross shelter where I slept for 5 weeks after the Great Rooming House Fire of 2011. One year later I got cancer of the brain. I mean cancer of the anus.

Further down the street is UPenn Dental. Because of the university, the area isn’t completely ghetto. It’s like Ecorse on the outskirts of Detroit but without the leftover hillbillies from the Industrial Age. Instead of snarly White Trash as a buffer, there are college brats from around the world.

My new dentist-in-training is Bangladeshi. My last three dental students were Korean. Before them, I had a Syrian with the ease of old patrician money. A cash prince! I must say, spitting digits like a social scientist, that through the course of anal cancer (a glitch at the seat of my intelligence) I had 7 doctors attend to squamous-cell-carcinoma and SOS surgery for a sliver of chemo-port stuck in my left heart-atrium. I later had 2 oral surgeons remove, with pliers, a mouthful of chemo-sautéd teeth. In all, I had 1 Caucasian Gentile Doctor.

Okay, I excluded a Brazilian doctor who was 95% White judging by her skin tone and NASA mentality at work. That’s because she filled the New World Order’s slot as a double-minority. First, as a so-called Hispanic. Second, as a female in the patriarchy or rape-culture or White Male dominated whatnot. I also had a token caucasian shrink after my run of disasters. Dr Terri Ann Varady. She got my file from the preceding alien psychiatrist who noted the particulars of my post-traumatic stress disorder: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. When therapy was over, Dr Varady politely affirmed every sick enormity but the last. “Even a broken clock,” I’d said to rebut hateful psychosis, “is right twice a day. Philly. Detroit. Miami. I’ve always been very sociable, here and there, at the Whiteman’s Alamo”.

Dr Varady sensed a fair response to the surroundings. On the race front, if nothing else, she agreed that I was well-adjusted to reality. That’s the backstory to last night’s move: I hit the Samson Option button on the keyboard. I hit the Whiteboy’s Samson Option button and joined Trump Team in Philly. I’m sick, sick, sick of being a loser in a lost country. Enough with the compound-interest pitch and Judeo-Christian charge! The rah-rah Holocaustianity! The cucklogical pep-talks! The whiney goals! I moved to hang my jock-strap with the leading alpha-narcissist and locker-room braggart. The winning bully-boy. The Golden Prick.

I wonder what Dr Varady, an agreeable Hungarian whose dad was a police sergeant and sausage maker in Trenton, would think. Who knows? As for myself, talking psychology in Freud’s terms, I’d say that the Super-Ego of America is a neurotic if not schizophrenic cluster-fuck. The Average Joe with the soul of a boy scout and a very good follower, is led to hate all shades of Radical Islam. Simultaneously, he’s led to love all immigrants without discrimination. No wonder he’s a sorry sort. No wonder in a moment of mental clarity, maybe miraculous mental clarity, I hit the Samson Option key and joined the Trump Campaign. Not an effectively bowed Joe, I stand to bomb the Temple and its money-changers. My own Old Testament and New Testament synthesis under duress. My own Judeo-Christian reconciliation in a pile of dung.

With a stroke of a keyboard, I launched a 20 megaton turd on the enemy’s HQS. My strategic aim: fight crap with crap. My personal aim as sonorous racist or racialist or Trumpeteer in Philly? Destroy the Deep State’s best competing bullshit. In other words, destroy the the Deep State’s best weaponized and twisted mytho-poetic line on the average Joe’s psyche. Unfortunately, the NWO brain trust knows their targetsteel-toilet better than Joe Whiteman knows himself. Rhetorically stroking his virility like a sly whore while mewing, “It’s Joe Whiteman’s j-o-b..… It’s his present life’s w-o-r-k and Christian afterlife’s w-o-r-k….It’s his physical/moral/spiritual jobberish to retool, rework and redeem damaged goods from Humanitarian Wars.” Such ticklish deviltry, according to a self-reformed French Lefty named Lucien Cerise, is colonial psy-ops turned upon the home population. (It’s always good, in the proximity of college girls, to name-drop a French intellectual.) Born to fear God, Joe Whiteman is aimed to obey whatever Higher Intelligence triangulates blood-bathes between Muslim sects. For oil. For Israel. For the future of the NWO and genetically engineered chimeras, trans-human creations, miscegenated blends of robots/humanoids/reptiles. The next stage of population replacement, by the way, after the terminally cross-led Whiteman is gone.

That’s the gist of it. Quite understated to show proper academic detachment in a high IQ and highly mimetic environment. Now I’m sipping French Roast coffee and typing an Urban Studies thesis: It’s a mercenary remove, a studied Clintonian calculus on the go, that separates the Ivy League brat at Penn from the poor Negro at Temple and the poor homesick hillbilly at Wayne State in Detroit. My best work. My entrée into the intelligentsia. As for the future of Hillary’s Micro-Managed Demos, why don’t the Mexican landscapers get it? They’ll be the first to be bred-out as remote control drones with Swiss optics and, for retro-mammalian warmth, transistors that channel schmaltzified Ranchero tunes. Too bad the fuzzy-wuzzy minorities hate the Whiteman more than the morally narcissistic and inanely trusty Whiteman loves, loves, loves himself. A blue-print for disaster. Thus, Samson Option.

And the White Woman? She’s been psy-opted to the nth degree. Bombed and fed with select bullshit. Perfumed and poisoned to her taste. She has, as a baseline, the same working vanity as the Whiteman but the wildcard is her bosom/heart/womb matrix. amanda-silberling-art-by-isabel-kim-in-collaboration-with-syra-ortiz-blanes-and-amanda-silberling-copyEasily lubed and mated to the NY/Tel Aviv/London axis. A pyscho-metricians gimme with, yes, a collegial network of slush-funds throughout the Deep State. Earlier today, I took a lazy stroll through University City to Penn’s Campus. Who hurries to the dentist? There were Voter Registration ladies on almost every corner. God bless ‘em but where were the cookies? Inside the campus proper, near a statue of Ben Franklin with a pink scarf, the militant harpies were at work. Marshaled by the White Woman’s Burden to civilize the world. You had to see it, to believe it. This generation’s useful idiots for the New World Order, international bankers and party-favor bureaucracy. The Social Justice Shillettas, over-stressed nerdlings, pushed Hillary’s contribution to the domestic psy-ops blitz. Worker’s of the World Unite? It’s passé. Women of the World Unite? Now that has real nation wrecking and home wrecking momentum. Capitalists, as the kiddies at Wharton know, must capitalize on it. 

Samson Option. Have you noticed that the pundits are scared that Trump won’t pre-concede a pre-programmed loss? “I’ll keep you in suspense” he says with a finger on a higher-echelon and more pricey doomsday button. Playing hard. Playing for keeps. Here’s a secret: If the criminal Negroes in Philly think you’re crazy, they leave you alone. I’m just saying. Finally, to confess a chronic blur as if you were my private shrink, I don’t know if I’m truly crazy or if craziness is just my journeyman Whiteboy’s loopy schtick. Necessary borders have been corrupted. Now, I look at myself as I look at Hamlet in distress over co-opted Denmark. A hostile yet smarmy takeover that the normal Dane didn’t mind as long as he got his wenches and mead. The point: I can’t tell if I’m truly nuts or just acting nuts for dramatic effect.

Still, in Hamlet’s words, When the wind is Southerly, I know a hawk from a hacksaw. Dr Varady affirmed that. She affirmed every previously diagnosed sickosis but the last: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. On the race issue, she noted, I’m well adjusted to reality.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing. It was republished at  Truth Is Justice. 

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And now for a word on my creative process.  As published in the Head and the Hand.

Tracks w:Black Frame

 Art.  Fever.  Heart. 

It’s  the difference between night and day.  I spend my last waking hours reading exquisite writers.  Céline if I’m in the mood for raw and racing prose.  Pablo Neruda if I’m in the mood for aged and oceanic poetry.  Camille Paglia if I’m in the mood to split the difference. She’s a deep thinker whose sentences read  like acid-guitar licks.

In the morning, I kick-start my brain with junk.  I read spam.  I read celebrity gossip while ogling pictures of starlets in see-through gowns and micro-bikinis.  I read crime reports designed to put me into a state of apolexy:  white collar scams, crimes of passion and murders by bored kids.  Then, when my mind is catapulted into the chaos, I  fight to regain the lost chord.  It’s a fight to reconnect with the vibe that I carried, like a lullaby, through my sleep.  Nothing else makes me feel at risk of losing the  writer’s vocation in the jaws of media over-kill.

Coffee.  Nicotine gum.  These are my concessions, like steroids, to the need to compete at speed with the Big Boys. Of course, they exacerbate the over-stimulated, over-accelerated,  over-the-top rush that I get while coursing through the inter-net.  But having worked as a helmsman in the Carribean and priding myself as a cosmic navigator, I do a little yogic breathing to keep me right on course.  All of which reminds me of a passage in Michael Herr’s “Dispatches” in which an US Army LURP took a mix of pills to make himself “right” before long-distance patrols in hostile territory.   Amphetamines to give him down-range vision and lethal tension.  Sedatives to give him lateral vision  and a soft float through the thickets.  My co-option of the method could  be an author’s conceit.  I don’t care.   It’s my bullshit and I’m sworn to it. 

That’s my method.   In the darkness of night, I read authors who suit my character but arc above me in talent, stature and mojo.  They take me  into dreamland. In the light of day, I read chrome plated, tinsel covered, rat-tat-tat glitz that foils my imagination.  Tweeked to the point of insanity, I fight to find my center.  An inkwell in the eye of the hurricane. Or, the heart of my fevered art.

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