Ministering Hatred.

Psychiatry. The refuge of the prurient.
When people wish to do great harm in the name of helping the helpless, they turn to psychiatrists.
When hatred needs to be smuggled into a victim's life under any circumstances, and trust doesn't exist, the hater turns to psychiatry.
For a modest sum in money and influence, anybody can buy the sort of medicine it takes to lock up a victim who is already suffering and confront them with a damned reality which makes their previous travails shrink in comparison. All it takes is the right kind of lies.

Of course, to go on enduring their own disgusting personalities after overpowering all resistance to their metaphysical murderousness, they must pretend that their feelings amount to benevolence, that they acted for the victim's own good.

They shore up this delusion with a fraudulent belief in the outcome; when the victim goes on suffering, the hater will pretend to the world that good has come of the medicine, that psychiatry, with its brain-deadening potions and confinement, has changed things for the better.
While some temporary relief may be found by the victim in the soothing ride from junked consciousness to inactivity, trouble is only being deferred.

As for the psychiatrists, most of them treat the state of victimhood as a label; the victim is effectively branded 'mad' by acquiescence to the fictions of the haters, the 'no smoke without fire' reasoning being used to slander and condemn in the face of any fact.
There are decent psychiatrists, but they are crushed by the union of hater and conformist which grips the profession in a vice of obedience which is as coercive as being locked up.

As far as I'm concerned, they can all go to hell. Especially the loving haters who treat psychiatry as the emergency service which protects them from looking at their own revolting minds.

International Sclerosis

Yet again the defeated policies of Charles Dickens' parlour are being dredged up from whatever ship they wrecked last time, and presented with all the fake freshness of a gonorrhea-ridden whore with a stolen bottle of Chanel Number 5 on a Friday night.
What makes this absurdity surprising, but only moderately surprising, is the fact that it appeared in the National Post of Canada.

Yes. They actually ran an editorial calling for a 'wealth tax to end poverty'. And an aircraft carrier. And a secret plot to bomb Iran.
Of course all taxes create poverty. Just look at your pay cheque and tell me you don't feel poorer. Of course this is a 'wealth tax', which means it's okay fellas, they're only going to rip off the mysterons mysterious rich people that everybody knows and hates, but nobody has met.

The aircraft carrier is supposed to make this nation of newly-minted superheroes feel 'strong' after showing their tender side by mugging Albertans rich people to incentivise them into helping the 'poor'.
Actually, the most amusing part of this is the National Post's claim that using force 'incentivises' giving, whereas it actually doesn't leave the choice to give in existence; further grotesqueness follows in the assertion that such an action renders voters reverse vampires charitable.

Only a feeling of shame must have prevented the life-form responsible from signing his name.

90 Degrees Of Freedom.

Ninety degrees, the Right Angle; this is the angle subtended by something which is orthogonal.
The Orthogonal is the minimum contact with a plane of existence, literally a point of contact where that point is the smallest possible common item.

Looking at the television today, something I don't do very much because there is little reason to, I turned off the BBC News channel when it started showing a little girl in a two thousand-year-old type of headscarf reading a prayer book.

I have no desire to watch the twelfth century on twenty-first century digital TV.
I moved to Sky News, and immediately ran into the stock, balding, goateed piece of foulness which is the usual face of 'football' or some other irrelevance.

Immediately I turned the damn box off. And that is how it is most nights. My television, a marvel of the electronic age, stands unused and unusable because the content streaming through the ether is orthogonal to all normalcy and humanity.

You see, there are two planes, my life and the presumption of the culture, and the two are orthogonal.

And so the government mandates our money to television, and newspapers campaign for our tax money, all because they have to force us to pay for the tangible boredom with which they assault us every minute that we are careless enough to play the game.

But we're not playing any more.

Whose Turn Is It To Feed The Idiots?

If anybody doubts the decline of civilisation, take a look at television, in particular the advertisements.
Look at what they're trying to sell and ask yourself if you still feel that their targets include you. Or will you just yawn and change channels, fretfully, in an attempt to escape the thrashings of drowning minds which gleam dully in their futile efforts to con the world out of just a few dollars more, to pay for that new interior or that new Audi tank.

With a lack of care and a manufactured passion they try to sell films which have special effects chiselled and etched better than any Leonardo cartoon, but no story and nothing of interest to recommend them except banality piled on banality; or the kids toys, still Lego, still Meccano, but preformed like the easily warped, easily bored, stunted imaginations of children who drool vacantly and receptively instead of going into the world to do things of interest.

Piled among these cancerous products are the adverts for 'services'.
Banks that pretend you will end up with more money if you spend more; lawyers who demand your trust in return for turning occasional misfortunes into some other person's extortion. But hey, you get to keep all the 'compensation', right?

More lawyers, this time telling you that if you tell a few lies, the prudent insurance you took out with the loan can be repaid to you by the bank, because you didn't lose your job, your life or your health, and now you see that the service you bought wasn't needed in the event and you demand a refund.

And the banks all the while soliciting your custom like a street-corner tart on a Saturday night, with choruses, smiles and servility by way of apologising for their receipt of tax money taken from you because they were 'too big to fail'.

Look at all these, then look at the chronic paucity of actual content on their dozens of digital TV channels.
And tell yourself that civilisation isn't screwed.

I Was Not Asked.

Because they already know what the answer would be.
What is Western Civilisation?
A fraud. It isn't civilised at all. We are all regarded as Democracy-Fodder in a world in which we are encouraged to vote, sometimes even coerced into voting, as long as we never vote ourselves out.

Nobody ever asks us the one question which matters. They ask us who we want to rule.
They never ask us whether we want to be ruled at all.
And that is why all the brain-twisting theorisation about 'democracy', 'Universal Suffrage' and 'Representation' is just a smoke screen, a wall of stuff and nonsense to stand between us and the sudden realisation that we don't need a Political Class at all, ever.

Interested parties may associate voluntarily to produce a civilisation; as the benefits become clear, people may join freely and by their own choice.
They do not have the right to force others to join. Those who join may then pay for Policing; they may pay for representative legal management.
Only if, freely and voluntarily, other people attack this civilisation, do they have the right to gather force and use it, and only then to bring the attackers to justice or until such time as they can give no more.
They do not have the right to force others still to join their wars or pay for them.

Today we have a collection of monoliths governed by questionable rationality, seizing and disposing of our assets and thereby our persons, in pursuit of hypocritical pretensions which are actually killing Human Beings now.
Their enemies know that the pot is calling the kettle black.

They know that we will either have to vote ourselves out or become the mirror image of them.
And this means that our rulers have long-abandoned any principled approach to their wars, and will simply keep draining us for long enough to run away without appearing to run away, lose without appearing to lose, and achieve nothing while appearing to bring slavery to yet another country.

Their most fervent hope, that the new slaves will choose their brand of slavery over the opposition's, is futile.

Leonard Peikoff: Not A Randroid.

I'm sorry to say it took until yesterday for me to listen to a Leonard Peikoff podcast; and I listened to a couple.
I found the man to be a civil, steady and assured speaker, not always sparkling perhaps, but then, how many of us can claim that we are always sparkling or even care?

I was pleased to discover that I am yet an Objectivist in spite of the fact that I have differences and disagreements with Ayn Rand in several areas.

Dr. Peikoff was emphatic that one must be an independent thinker, not a blind follower, and told the amusing anecdote of the chap who thought dying his hair orange might make him more like John Galt.

More impressive than what he said was the way he said it, the way he behaved. At no time was he prescriptive in his approach to other people's behaviour; rather, he was descriptive.

He sounded as though he wanted to chat, not convert.

So.

Not a Randroid by any means, although I am constantly irritated by the inherited linguistic aesthetics of some of his and his companions' output.
With a whole language to choose from, it should be possible for somebody to use a word like, oh, 'assemble', instead of the word 'integrate', which sounds like a frown at it's own confusion, and has always struck me as a sign of Ayn Rand's own comparative dryness when writing non-fiction.(Her artistic prose on the other hand can be quite, quite wonderful).

Randroids on the other hand, divorced from the normality of consciousness, will berate, abuse, scorn, violate, bully and preach, thinking all the while that they have the Word of Rand to back them up, some quote from her works, or some quote that was interrogated from her during her life by way of 'clarification', so that they may feel like conquerors.

They try to freeze-dry the fading feelings given them by her works of art as the means of repressing their own genuine feelings of horror at what they are doing, believing all the while they are not a mob because they are few in number.

There came a day in my life when I said, to quote Edmond Rostand, "I stand alone as Satan against the armies of Heaven", and at this stage to read one of her works is to actually enjoy it, not 'feel it' or 'experience revelations'.

When a savage worships a Cyclotron, he is still a savage. It doesn't civilise him. There is no mystic process, no sudden wisdom. There is only the essential disinterest in oracles that leads to intelligence.

Lift Up A Stone?

Not likely. I kick a few over while I'm walking, but all too frequently, you see something, as you do in properly hot countries, resembling a Scorpion.

Of course, in my case it's usually a racialist or a Nazi or a Randroid.

Of these, the Randroids are the worst.

In seeing that I quite like Ayn Rand's work, they seek to exploit a common value.

They are self-serving of course, and what selves; they range from those who seek to acquire a mass of followers for themselves to those who seek to acquire - and retain - a mass of followers for Ayn Rand.

Not being a follower myself, I find this a source of disappointment.

Of course, the one true test of this is to question any of the output from Mount Randlympus, and (by agreeing with Rand) apply your own critical thoughts to this work in loyalty to yourself.

Then the deluge of subjective, self-contradictory bull shit really descends, as you deprive essentially fragile people of the crutch they use instead of their minds.

Sympathy? Perhaps. Disagreement? Certainly.
Friendship?


To what end?