Ghostwriting my memoirs

It’s cold. The wind is a rusty blade sawing into my flesh, cutting down to the bone. I’m wearing socks, underwear, boots, two shirts, a sweatshirt and a coat and it’s as if I’m naked. As if I’m not wearing skin, as if I’m exposed raw meat, my whole body a wound and the wind is made of salt. It doesn’t snow anymore but winter will punish you. It will smother the earth with  darkness and stab your heart with shards of ice.

Sleep is uncertain, aloof. It holds and caresses me half the time and then it tosses me back into the desert of consciousness before I’m ready. At 2 in the morning, sometimes earlier. My circadian rhythm is in an odd meter, an experimental bar not meant for a man. Sometimes I wake up at midnight, already 4 hours deep into my sleep. Why am I awake? What impish neuron fired the waking signal? Which grumbling organ upset my anxious soul?

Some nights I sleep nine hours. Others I sleep 4. I’m two different people depending on how much I sleep. When I get 8 hours of sleep I enjoy being alive and I like other people. Food tastes good and I look forward to going places. Lifting weights is fun and I welcome challenges.

When I don’t sleep the day is torture. I carry a stone tablet around my neck. Everything is mud and I’m sinking. My vision becomes tinted, my brain spoils and rots. I smell the stale air in my head. I hate my dull thoughts but I’m too tired to outrun or quiet them. They’re a droning, undead commentary on a plodding, aimless episode of my life.

People taunt me. A smile is a cruel insult. Why are people happy when they’re stalked by suffering? Because even when they’re awake, they’re unconscious, like all the other animals, like mechanical dolls, like everything but me. Consciousness is isolation. I think, therefore I’m alone.

Other people keep us from disintegrating. Without them I can feel myself losing molecules.

Everyday is work. It’s waking up in a cold, dark cave and listening to the rain drip from the ceiling while everyone else is dreaming. I wake up miles away from another soul. I work and then come home and my cat is waiting. It helps to pet her but she’ll never understand me. She needs me for food and warmth but I need human recognition.

All the neurotic fears about my health, my body and my diet. Counting calories, balancing macronutrients, worrying about losing muscle mass and strength. Researching supplements and worrying about declining testosterone levels. My habits revolve around my comfort but my relationships are weak; I’ve done nothing to preserve them. Close friends are a glimmer of a faded past. They’re holograms. It hurts to think of them and how distant they are now.

My tendency is to drift along until I’m stranded at sea.  Staying in touch doesn’t get easier by default. There’s no structure holding people in place. Your whole life they throw people in your way until one day no one’s around. You took those easy connections for granted when they felt natural and automatic. At least if you weren’t a nerd or a mutant. Then I don’t know what to tell you, it’s always been hard.

Loneliness will kill me faster than a bad diet. Solitude makes the longest life not worth living. All the fish oil in the world won’t fix broken bonds. And if I write everyday, if I workout and read and have a sculpted body, what good will it do me if I’m lacking love, if I’m a part of nothing?

I sometimes wonder, in moments that stretch themselves out to eternity, if the choices I’ve made and the person I’ve become fit together into a consistent picture, if they tell a coherent story. And then I wonder if following my impulses at every turn was worth it. I write in fragments because I can’t recollect who I’ve been.

Need to edit but there’s no time. Nothing is what it could be, so I’ll let this stand as incomplete, as permanently unfinished.

Looking for cake in all the wrong places

In 2012, a gay Colorado couple wanted a gay wedding cake for their gay wedding. This was 5 years ago, deep in the abysmal depths of a dark age of ignorance and religious repression. Unbelievers were flayed and flogged, heretics were roasted in rotisseries and homosexual couples couldn’t use state power to force ministers to desecrate their faiths. At least in Colorado and other benighted states.

Charlie Craig and David Mullins, an indomitable pair of poofs, couldn’t get married in Colorado, but Massachusetts, a state on the leaking dicktip of progress, was happy to wed them. So the duo planned to get married in Massachusetts and then return to Colorado to celebrate.

Since those dismal days, gay marriage has become legal everywhere in the US. A gay couple can now sashay into the bible beating heart of rural Alabama and get married with the full backing of the federal government. If a rebellious yokel in Arkansas refuses to officiate a gay wedding, then he’ll be greeted at his door by tanks and troops who have a few things to teach him about tolerance.

But going back to the medieval period of 2012, Craig and Mullins went to Masterpiece bakery in Lakewood, Colorado, owned by practicing Christian Jack Phillips. They asked for a cake to celebrate a wedding they couldn’t have in their own state and Phillips turned them down. Unbelievable though it may sound, he cited his faith as the reason for why he couldn’t serve them.

Because the bible is full of gay hating verses, some Christian bakers believe gay marriage is wrong. Though most of us are content to live and let gays marry, a few scattered bigots need the strong arm of the state to persuade them otherwise. Jack Phillips couldn’t stop Craig and Mullins from getting married, but he could unconscionably object to selling a wedding cake.

The gay brave underdogs got married and bought a cake elsewhere, but they weren’t done with Phillips; they had a score to settle. Equality isn’t just the opportunity to do what everyone else does, it’s the power to punish and humiliate anyone who disagrees with you. Those who talk of level playing fields dream of burying the privileged.

The couple sued Phillips and brought the weight of the state down on the tiny private bakery, and the ensuing case was settled in their favor. It was framed as a battle between anti -discrimination laws and religious freedom. In America, the freedom to hold religious beliefs ends at the scowling face of a petty homosexual. You are free to believe whatever you want as long you don’t make minorities feel bad by living up to your faith.

You may worship your backwards, gay bashing god in private, in secret, under the cover of night. But your beliefs will not excuse your private business from bending over and serving everyone, regardless of lifestyle, race, nationality or communicable disease. If a semi sentient life form can hobble or crawl through the door of your establishment, then you must enter into a transactional relationship with it.

When a monolithic corporation with a stranglehold on the market fired an employee for sincerely explaining why most women don’t want tech jobs, leftists cynically defended corporate power. After all, Google is a private company and they can do whatever they want, they can hire and fire at their discretion, they have the right to suppress the truth. But when a bakery in a city with countless other bakeries stands up for its principles against the farce of gay marriage, then we need government regulation, the state must steamroll over private opponents of publicly recognized perversion.

Colorado commanded the Christian bakery to sell cakes for gay weddings. Not only did the state force Phillips to use his art to support a twisted facsimile of a strictly defined, revered institution, it also ordered him to change his company policy and provide his employees with Huxlian style indoctrination into the proper methods of accommodating homosexual patrons.

Dim, shuffling bureaucrats handing out gay tolerance report cards is a second-rate version of the everyday menace Hannah Arendt called the banality of evil. Our current system gives unseen administrators the power to impose reeducation programs on dissident heterosexuals and penalize individuals who resist the demands of aggrandized minorities.

Philips had to file quarterly reports on how he was going about making himself, his employees and his cakes as gay friendly as possible. The state stopped just short of locking Phillips in stocks and sodomizing him on the town square.

It’s worth remembering that Philips didn’t outright deny the gay couple service. He didn’t watch them skip into his store and snarl at them to get out. He offered to sell them any other baked good but he couldn’t help them with their wedding cake. There’s no account of Philips belittling or threatening the couple. He politely and respectfully declined to perform a single service that would undermine a tenet of his religion.

Making a wedding cake is an expressive act, closer to the performance of an artist than the provisioning of a basic resource. A wedding cake is a symbolic object, it means more than a sugar bomb at the end of a buffet. Philips didn’t withhold scones or muffins from Craig and Mullins because he thought they deserved to go hungry.

There are plenty of inclusive bakeries in Lakewood, Colorado, and gay marriage is legal in all fifty states. Craig and Mullins say the case isn’t about a cake, and they’re right; it’s about the gay obsession with domination and submission, it’s an example of the gaydomasochistic desire to degrade, torment and mortify. Craig and Mullins want to have their cake and shame a Christian too, as well as suck up the attention of a sympathetic press and the support of corrupt civil rights groups and portions of the public.

(See Pleasureman’s lucid take on gay motives here

What is left for a gay couple to do after getting married? They can’t have children. Rather than spending the rest of their lives wistfully recalling their gloryhole days, they look forward to avenging trivial insults. They have no legacy beyond their legal assaults and no sense of proportion in their response to rejection. No offense is minor enough to forget.

Gays are inwardly broken; they’re products of abuse and neglect. They vent their self hatred on the healthy and stifle their own inner confusion and discontent with shallow enthusiasm, hedonism, disinhibition and pageantry. The slightest disagreement with how they live sends them down a dark path of suicidal loathing and hysterical accusations. People are compelled to exaggerate their approval of gay dysfunction and pretend they aren’t disgusted by homo sex habits.

Philips fought back against Colorado and now the Supreme court is reviewing the case. The struggle between anti-discrimination laws and religious freedom has reached the highest court in the land and come to national attention. In defense of a theatrical, attention seeking victim class, leftists are once again warping the meaning of religion, attacking traditional attitudes and redefining words to suit their deranged agenda.

Religious freedom is just a flimsy cover for an endless index of horrific offenses and sins against the modern cult of progressive, overheated emotional reason: racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, islamophobia, hatred, bigotry, philiaphobia and phobophilia.

Gay rights activists and concerned members of the public are confronting the sordid possible consequences of a ruling in support of Philips. Will shops be able to hang up signs that say they won’t serve gays? What’s the next step for empowered hatred? Separate water fountains for blacks? Such fevered imaginings sound like classic slippery slope arguments.

Liberals are quick to mock conservatives for worrying about the next institutional degradation that will follow from gay marriage. No one will want to marry their dog, that’s just a slippery slope fallacy. But when a baker denies a gay couple their cake, our skeptical fallacy busters slip right into fearmongering, hand wringing rhetoric. Where will the discrimination end?

The possibility of a hateful sign doesn’t seem relevant to the case, but while we’re indulging in fantasies, I have a few interesting hypotheticals of my own. What if a muslim baker withholds his cakes from gays? Whose side do we take when the gays put pressure on the muslim businesses?  Which phobia is worse, islamophobia or homophobia?

Who is the bigger bigot, a gay hating muslim or a muslim hating gay? Can a gay baker refuse to sell a cake to a westboro baptist? What if a bright, blonde Nazi couple goose steps into a jewish bakery and asks for a 7 layer swastika cake? I suspect that in each of those scenarios, liberals and leftists would suddenly start loving freedom and tell the gays, baptists and Nazis to leave the poor bakers alone and find another place to get their pastries.

One way or another, expensive, interminable lawsuits will be necessary to sort through the confusion. Identity politics thrives on an expansive, cumbersome legal apparatus and reinforces the grudges of a fractured, litigious population. People without historical or cultural common ground will resort to hijacking impersonal mechanisms of power to control the behavior and beliefs  of their neighbors.

Discrimination is another word like diversity, only instead of everyone mindlessly praising it, everyone robotically condemns it. Diversity is unnatural and destructive but we should want more of it; discrimination is natural and normal but we should eradicate it. Discrimination is a foundational mental process and we’re constantly doing it unconsciously, but it’s also terrible and wrong. We won’t have a just society until no one notices anything about anyone or has any preference for or against certain types of people.

Soon you will be allowed to distance yourself from someone only after you spend years peeling back the layers of skin color, religion, gender, nationality, economic class, political party, sexual orientation and group affiliation and plunge into the quivering innards of their real, individual identity.

There are people who won’t be satisfied until every last organic attachment and evolved bias is torn up and replaced with a synthetic evaluation program that determines worth on the basis of merit. Don’t worry about what merit means either, that’s for our technocratic transumanists to define and enforce.

The narcissistic dullards of our tattered patchwork society turn local disagreements into national controversies. Private conflicts become public spectacles and legal quagmires. Everyone distrusts and disparages power until they can use it to soothe their resentments. Our autistic insistence on rights belies our lack of reason and decency. A chaotic mass society holds itself together with rules, regulations, rights and procedures. The ties that bind us are paper thin.

Haven in a brainless world

I live in a city, but not a sanctuary city. My state’s general assembly passed a law in 2011 that forbids any town or city from preventing immigration officers from deporting illegal immigrants. I live in the Midwest, also known as the breadbasket of bigotry, a place you sneer at and spit on as you fly thousands of feet above it on your way to a coastal oasis of culture and learning. No one chooses to live in this repressive wasteland except for racists and renegade Mexicans.

Our white, Christian majority perversely wanted to protect itself, so it hatefully passed a law against harboring criminal aliens in its own home.  Here in American’s Hateland, there’s no sanctuary for squatting mestizos. At least where the law is concerned.

The trouble with the law is that its power lies in its enforcement. Otherwise it’s no more than a few blotches of ink, the shaky scribbling of impotent dribblers. There are laws determining who can live in this country and how they can become citizens, but mere words on a page won’t stop pedro from packing his entire extended family in a studio apartment if he knows the people around him are happy to watch their town turn into a barrio.

I live in a state sitting 1700 miles from Mexico, full of white Christians with  representatives who pass laws against sheltering trespassers. Here we punish businesses for hiring illegals and force cities to comply with immigration officials. But we still have 64,000 cast offs from mexico and around 93,000 illegal aliens total.

My state is so white, hateful and exclusive that it has only attracted about one hundred thousand uneducated, unskilled dirt people from the world’s sweltering mudruts. Even when we try to be inhospitable we’re still an inviting, comfortable place to ply a taco trade. For many of our misfortunately born mexicans, life in a foreign country surrounded by people who don’t want you here and don’t speak your language is still better than weekly bouts of caustic diarrhea under the broiling Yucatan sun.

There are now 14 states with declining illegal immigration. I’d venture a guess that they’re all states at least trying to enforce existing immigration laws. Where the threat of deportation is greater, there will be fewer illegals. Not that it will stop all of them, just as laws against murder only reduce the frequency of intentional eviscerations. And then there are states like California and cities like San Francisco, which can’t stretch its butthole wide enough to accommodate every aids patient, junky, hobo and migrant clamoring for an unlubed entry.

San Francisco is a reeking petri dish of all the worst elements of modern society. It’s a steaming bathhouse of pampered elitists, tech goons, corporate glad-handers, derelicts, homos and hoodwinkers. A feculent potpourri of transhumanist strivers, sham ceo’s, cultists and grime caked itinerants. San Francisco is a keg of backwash, a throbbing hive of vice and pretension. The cost of living is so high you either have to be satanically wealthy or shiftless to live there.

Its streets are overflowing with hepatitic needles and comatose vagrants. There are puddles of piss and rolling stench clouds from free range bowel movements. The city is a 47 mile mosiac of mutli million dollar homes, tent cities and shanty towns. It’s an ongoing affront to decency and balance, a monument to globalist arrogance and minority dysfunction, a model for the endgame of transnational corporate rule.

But why can’t these tech geniuses solve our social problems? They’ve changed the world with their ideas. Because they’ve mostly made the world worse. They’re not a solution to anything, they’re part of the problem. They should be flung into the ocean along with the errant urinators and rectal thermometers so normal humans can repopulate the area.

San Francisco is a sanctuary city, but for whom exactly is it a sanctuary? Certainly not Kathryn Steinle, a young white woman shot in the back by an illegal two years ago. Jose Zarate had already been deported five times, but he found sweet sanctuary in San Francisco, a city so compassionate it would rather cradle filthy alien criminals than protect actual american citizens.

This is justice in the current year: leniency and excuses for the discolored scum of the earth and death to whitey. Equality is defending foreign murderers and shrugging at the preventable deaths of pretty white women. This ugly unfolding of events began with the flouting of federal law. First, a San Francisco sheriff refused to give up Zarate for deportation. Because, remember, this is a sanctuary city.

Then Zarate, with nothing better to do, like learn the language of the foreign country he continually violated, found a gun that was stolen from a car by another miscreant. Because he’s a slow witted, careless pest, Zarate sat on a chair and played with the stolen weapon for twenty minutes. His defense claimed he didn’t know it was a gun. He likely mistook it for a gardening tool.

Finally, he accidentally fired the gun and when he saw that he’d hit someone, he ran away, leaving an innocent women to die in the arms of her father. Such solidarity is just one of the many benefits of multiculturalism. You can be sure that when a bullet pierces your brain on a boardwalk, our swelling, alien tongued criminal ranks will rush to help you rather than avert their eyes and silently celebrate.

A jury made up of multiple immigrants convicted Zarate on lesser gun charges and now he’s due for another deportation. It takes the senseless death of our own citizen to pry an illegal alien from San Francisco’s cold, gay hands. Now a sanctuary city mourns the loss of its most tenacious, illiterate landscaper. Though if past behavior predicts the future, it’s a sure bet Zarate will soon be back for another uninvited guest appearance in America. Maybe the seventh time will be the charm.

Naturally, leftists care more about the reaction to the murder than the murder itself. Every time a goat fucking outcast drives a truck into a crowd or slashes his way through a thicket of pedestrians, progressives lunge into action and denounce the hatred of their fellow Americans.

Anyone who coddles violent fugitives and condemns the healthy and natural reaction to hostile intrusion and internal subversion should also be deported. They should live in the slums, tunnels and junkyards of their favorite foreign countries and leave civilization to people with the intelligence and heart to maintain it.

Here’s a middle American message for the deviants, quislings and posers knee deep in hobo excrement on our nation’s coasts: keep flying over us, we don’t want you or your beloved criminals here. May you experience the joys of diversity like a piece of shrapnel in your spine.

Some days are like that

Another week has passed. I’ve been sleeping over 8 hours a night. It’s  a subtle change. I’m not exploding with energy, but I’m less irritable. There’s not as much mist in my head.

Still there’s an aimlessness, an indifference. I’m complacent and cold. My clarity doesn’t drive me to do anything different. Sleepless or rested, my life is the same. I still wake up at 4 in the morning and construct a café, then serve and serve and serve until I go home at one in the afternoon. And then my day is done.

Nothing holds my attention. Or rather I should say my attention holds nothing. I scroll through an endless stream of words until the day turns inside out and I can sleep again.

The December sun isn’t filtered by the atmosphere. There’s no density in the air and the light is irradiating, like the frozen flash of an atom bomb. It’s been beautiful the last few days. But I don’t feel beauty anymore. I think and feel in two dimensions. Yesterday I took a picture of the sunset because I knew I wouldn’t remember it. I never take pictures.

When I went home last weekend I looked at photos of my dad when he was my age. He looked almost identical to how I look now. He was young and is now old. I’m young and will soon be old. We don’t become; life leaves us behind. Having children gives you a chance to see yourself as young again in a living form rather than an image.

We’re not individuals. We’re copies, repetitions in a series. Links in a great chain. And yet everything today is pushing us to break this chain. We’re never free enough; there’s always a root to hack away, another bond to sever. Liberation is free floating isolation in space among the asteroids. 

The calm clarity of my current mood is choking me. I can’t say what I want to say about time, identity, aging and death because they’re obscure subjects. And if I’m not certain that what I’m saying is clear then I can’t say it. Political polemic is more fun because insulting people comes easily.

The myth of direct experience, the illusion of immediacy. I wanted to merge with the faded beauty of the evening sky but my thoughts were in the way. I’m always between myself and what I want to be. My present is a playback of what I missed, overlaid with commentary. I can see the splicing of scenes, the fraying of the reel. To live is to edit, to see is to censor.

Even impressions are retroactive, composed of minute longings for what has passed. We appear in the lag of streaming sunlight. We’re flickering memories of ourselves, genetic reprints or photons on celluloid.

Before I was tired because I couldn’t sleep. But there’s a fatigue deeper than the deepest sleep. We live too long; we’re not made for life or death. I’m homesick for somewhere I’ve never been.