Sins of Hopelessness and Misanthropy

Jesus in heaven,
during the last few weeks I have failed you once again.

I have let my sadness,
my own pain,
misery,
loneliness,
cloud my perspective and pervert my judgment.

I failed many of those I have claimed to love,
I have chosen “escapism and nihilism” out of disgust for my fellow man.

I have hidden myself from them for fear of showing them who I was,
who I am.

What was it my mom and sister said?
Days before they died, 2 years apart?
“Dan, don’t be ashamed of who you are.”
I’ve been trying to understand the meaning of that ever since.

But then I look in the mirror and I see the truth.
I am ashamed.
I am ashamed because the flaws I see in others are my own.

I am ashamed because I have been unwilling to greet the world,
without drink,
without mask,
without force-fields at maximum.

I am ashamed because I have despised the human race.

For Our war-mongering,
our scape-goating,
our unwillingness to accept responsiblity for our situation.
Our desire to find someone,
anyone,
to blame for our many problems,
trials.

The truth, dear Lord:
We got ourselves into this horrid mess,
we must get ourselves out of it.

But the nihilism calls so strongly,
and I know that voice is not yours.

The voice of abandon,
surrender,
negation.

The voice that causes us to look away,
to pretend we didn’t see that homeless person.

The voice that tells us to accept “power as power”.
The voice that tells us that “we are meant to be ruled”.

I know that is the voice of Lucifer,
the Devil,
the ultimate misanthrope.

A monstrous voice,
having just one desire,
and a single,
methodical,
diabolical purpose:

To turn man and woman against each other.
To turn children against parents and parents against children.
To sow terror and angst and defeatism.
To build a world kingdom based on tyranny and fear.
To obliterate human dignity and freedom.
To do all of this,
until there are no people left alive.
Pure misanthropy – pure evil.

I have let myself,
if only temporarily,
become a misanthrope,
again,
as well,
and in that sense I have once again turned my back on you,
dear Lord.

But grace is always there,
and it is never too late to turn my face towards you.

Here is what I will do:

I will wake up tomorrow,
I will go to work,
I will exercise,
I will communicate,
I will try to remember those things that are joyful and good,
I will try to trust,
and have faith,
and believe in my fellow man,
and I will keep trying,
repeatedly,
and then try again.

I don’t know how much time I have left to get this right,
to keep trying,
none of us do.

But,
with God’s grace,
and some patience,
I still have time.

God,
watch over the people of this world,
look out for my friends and family whom I love,
provide comfort for the poor,
provide hope for the hopeless,
be an inspiration to those with power,
so they do what is right.

God,
don’t give up on me,
don’t give up on us.

Not that you would,
you keep giving us further opportunities.

Humans suck sometimes,
I know this,
but sometimes they are courageous,
sometimes they are good,
sometimes they are amazing as well.

AMEN

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QUARTRAINIUM 59: Bile and bubble, toil and trouble, double-mix burning from the EBOLA crapola.

[This prophecy arrived via an infectious disease. Initially it re-wrote the mind-space of Clownadamus (Dr. Freckles), at some weird RNA-MRNA level, but then continued to ravage the awareness of all people - and even ended up in Ferguson (MO). Madness spreads, and nothing can be done to assuage the lords of chaos. Clownadamus will now divine what ancient truths result from hemorrhagic furies and burning "Quick Trip" gas-malls.]

KELMER awaits 3 dukes from KOSKOV – a fat one, a skinny one, and one carrying an AK-74. The dutch KING is prepared to give Ivan a call, he will end the masquerade – while other Moorish folk burn the village of Tyre.

Nocturnal vandals march, the music strains the band of WOMAX – children harvest rotten apples for really crappy apple pie.

The news is bad, this is good. The world is crumbling, the birds are mumbling – but stocks aren’t tumbling. KoC has been supplanted by the “Queen of Pain” and her reign will be 3 CHUGATS and 44 RIMBLIN. When the queen falls, the dollar falls, and the dear lord calls us all home. TUPIT will make his move towards Zipangu, in-spite of cancerous tumors and cat’s with 5 eyes.

Magic numbers: { 8, 3070, 712, 66/34, 19 }

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Definition: Cunglerism

  1. The attitude of sarcastic chicanery that results from a drinking binge the night before. Mostly involves being a petty jerk (see Rachel Maddow).
  2. The belief that one’s own problems are way worse than anybody else’s – “don’t tell me their not man, I’m just saying”. A “Cungler” is immersed in self-pity and (more often than not) self-denigration. Cungler’s can be funny – but only because they are so pathetic.
  3. A generalized drunken belief in Keynesian theory – see Paul Krugman.
  4. A precursor to POWERMANIUM-FOCUS.
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Alone

I’m not really alone.

I have a job, and I think people like me (for the most part) at my job.

I have family, not too far away, right here in Indianapolis – and I have family, further away, I can visit.

I don’t have a ton of friends in Indianapolis (since I just moved here a few months ago), but I am slowly making a few and attempting to maintain the others – despite distance in time, space, and perspective.

So, no, I am not really alone …

Not like the homeless man I see, when taking the off-ramp on my way to work, near the intersection with 82nd Street and Keystone Avenue (North Indianapolis). He is alone. Maybe he has some friends, but they are likely in the same place as him – shunned by family or afraid of the normal world. He, like the woman I sometimes see off of New York Avenue, stands each day with a sign that reads:

“Help me, I need money for food.”

Maybe he is just going to use the money to get drunk, to forget his problems for a while.

Maybe the money is really just for wine, beer, whatever alcohol he can buy for the lowest price.

Perhaps he or she or the nameless many do buy a lunch, once in a while, with the money we might or might not give – the alms we so generously provide. Everyone has to eat, and alcoholics and homeless people (both or different) still must eat something, eventually. But it is likely the meal of someone who is never asked – “are you sure that is good for you?”. They just buy what they can, when they can, and stumble a bit further down the road.

But loneliness, in one form or another, is part and parcel of their plight. And as weird as it is, from my standpoint in “normal America”, I see much that I have in common with these vagabonds of despair – these flashing lights of reality piercing the veil of denial, “America, land of opportunity”.

Yes – I am not really alone, not even close to being as alone as I would be if I were a homeless wanderer. But I feel alone most days, mainly because one of the following is true:

  1. I am insane.
  2. I am not insane.

I see the world differently than most of the people I know these days and the differences are increasing daily. Arguably, one of the reasons why my ex-wife asked for the divorce is quite literally the truth of what she told me during that first week of our separation a year ago, “we were happy once, I don’t know you, you are different”. But that was not the whole truth.

One of the first arguments we (I and my ex) had was over “how much of the world” she enjoyed talking about. It was late 2000, just before the “hanging-chad” election, and I was talking about the world, as I saw it. I never claimed to know the whole truth, I just thought a girl-friend (which she was at the time) could listen, courageously, and disagree with grace and understanding – as I attempt to do. But instead she snapped at me, asked me to change the topic, and I learned that there were “forbidden topics” and I was smart not to bring them up. So I swallowed my perspective.

Another time, that same year, I confided in her that I thought the election “schemes” were so corrupt that choosing “not to vote” was simply a valid choice – especially if you despised the 2 candidates involved. I despised Gore, I despised Bush – either would have sucked, possibly for different reasons, but in hindsight I don’t see how things would have been much different with Gore.

This angered her, so I never really talked about that “topic” much again – not until the years of 2009-2013, the last years of our relationship, when my stomach had become full and I could swallow no more of our nations’s imperial, statist, bull-shit.

She was not special – others in my life, pretty much my whole family (with only 1 exception), have preferred I not speak much. And, if I do talk, they prefer me to be “funny Dan”, “happy Dan”, the “Dan who can make us feel OK about stuff”. Yes, it is true that under the influence of whiskey/wine, there is more room with some of my siblings for “frank talk”, but it really does suck to know that family can only be real with you if drunk.

Friends have mostly been no different. To keep them, I self-edit more than they realize (and probably less than they would desire).

Colleagues, friends, neighbors, strangers – as long as they are members of that vanishing “middle class”, they would all like me to be quiet and pretend like them.

Pretend the food is not getting worse and more expensive.

Pretend that your “home” can be your “retirement”, and in more than just the morbid sense of a dog crawling underneath the house to die.

Pretend that America has not become a 2-bit tyranny, with the illusion of “choice” thrown over it – this or that, him or her, GOP or Democrat.

Pretend that “Peak Oil” is a crack-pot theory, as we boil tar in Canada, “break big rocks into smaller ones”, and drill holes in the Gulf of Mexico at 7 miles down.

As long as I pretend, I have friends to drink with.

As long as I pretend, I have colleagues and co-workers happy with me.

As long as I pretend, I have churches of worship to choose from.

As long as I lie to myself, my God, and my countrymen, I can partake in the last supper of America’s middle class.

But, as I learned from an early age, it is difficult for me to pretend.

So, I can be in a crowd.

I can be at work.

I can be tweeting and talking and having a beer.

But I am alone.

The only difference between myself, and the homeless guy I see each day on my way to work is this …

I am still 1-3 pay-checks away.

Not that far really …

And then, maybe, I won’t have to pretend.

Who knows – as things keep going the way they are going, we might not be too lonely either, eventually.

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The “ARC” of the “American Dream”

The transcendent arc of the American dream, by years …

  1. 1765: Food, Shelter, Liberty
  2. 1865: Food, Shelter, Liberty (assuming you are white and a man)
  3. 1965: Food, Shelter, Liberty, House, Car, 1.5 children, College Education (and not being hung for being black, or gay ,or a woman)
  4. 1985: Food, Shelter, House, Car, 1 child, maybe some college
  5. 2005: Food (GMO), Shelter (30 year mortgage), Car (used), 1 dog, dropped out of Evergreen State College
  6. 2009: Food (worse yet), Shelter (apartment), bike, rat
  7. 2013: Crappy Food, Crappy Shelter, Having a job
  8. 2015: Food, Shelter
  9. 2016: Not being hunted by mobs
  10. 2017: First in line at soup kitchen
  11. 2018: First in line at suicide machine
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Anger …

Jesus, I have failed.

When I decided to move out to Indianapolis, one of my long-term goals was to let go of my anger, sadness, regret, and to learn to move onward.

At first,
when things so quickly went my way,
I felt burdens lifted and I even allowed myself to pretend,
dear Lord.

To pretend that my life could be normal.

That any of our lives could be normal.

And when that normalcy,
that tranquility,
was shocked by the realities of my life,
my rage rose to the surface,
and my patience ran dry.

It wasn’t just this last weekend,
the first moment was just days after starting my new job.

The next door neighbor,
a kind of bully,
neglected his kids,
allowed them to play basketball in the street,
a busy street,
and this placed his children and his neighbors at risk.

But worse,
his kids egged my new car.

I say “new car”,
because that was the first promise to myself broken.

I had decided to live without too much stuff,
to live light,
to live flexibly,
and to be prepared for what was to come.

That new car,
and the home loan,
were a rejection of my promise:

“Remember Dan, shit is about to get real – don’t get encumbered with too much crap.”

By raising my own expectations,
about this neighborhood,
a place I wanted to move into,
I raised my own ire.

This neighbor is a douche,
dear Lord,
and I let him know that I didn’t appreciate what his kids had done.

(they haven’t been playing much basketball in the street since)

Then there was the house …

That middle class fragment …

That pretense …

That declaration to myself,
and to others,
that I TOO could be a “home owner”.

What a lie.

It began slowly,
with the bankers,
not too much,
not too deep,
and then eventually they found a request that was too much.

Too much for me.

They asked for my divorce papers – too much.

They wanted me to explain WHY my sister’s death broke my heart,
why I needed to take time off after she died so rapidly,
so painfully,
so sadly,
of late stage meta-static cancer.

They wanted me to explain why,
dear Lord,
software engineers,
in Seattle,
worked contracts,
and made less than they had just a few years earlier.

They wanted me to explain,
for those evil men,
like Bill Gates,
who lie about the “engineer shortage”,
so they can depress wages,
salaries,
benefits.

I will not answer for them,
they will be answering before you,
sooner than they realize.

And my anger does not dissipate,
and I ask your forgiveness for this.

I realize,
Jesus,
it is your place to judge.

I have a lot of work to do.

AMEN

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“Home Ownership”: One American’s Nightmare

I’ve been dreaming about home ownership recently. With the new job, moving back to Indianapolis, it seemed like my life was becoming “normal” – whatever the hell normal means in 2014. I figured, “shit, the VA loan is a benefit for service and it’s not like I’ve used any other benefit or have any to use”. I frankly didn’t think much of it, and now I know why.

Those who follow me on TWITTER, or my blog, know I have serious reservations about the Federal Reserve easy money policy. It stinks. It punishes savers. It is a tax upon the world. By printing money and debasing our currency, we have become like the Romans and in that sense just as despised, as despicable.

So here I am, in Indianapolis, and allowing myself to pretend that the 3.25% interest rate, for 15 years, on 108,000 dollars, was the tiny piece of middle class life I would allow myself. I would be like everyone I know and join that new religious cult – “home ownership”.

It is an interesting cult, populated by believers in infinite growth without repercussions, believers in perpetual value accrual to one’s “home equity”. Believers in the idea that if the Federal Reserve prints money to allow the purchase of a home – it has no consequence, no one is hurt by this.

But that is a lie …

Consequence: older Americans, on fixed incomes, find it harder to live because of this evil policy.

Consequence: the poor of the planet, who already struggle to feed their families, find it near impossible to do so when we print money.

Consequence: never-ending wars and rumours of war to keep the planet in line, to keep them following along with the petro-dollar-industrial-war-complex.

There are many consequences to ZIRP (Zero-percent Interest Rate Policy) and quantitative easing, and all the other schemes the Federal Reserve has used to re-inflate asset bubbles post-2008. And, sure, Janet Yellen says “we are tapering” – but don’t let “bubbles” (I call her bubbles) fool you. They are using proxies in Europe (Euro-clear in Belgium) to pick up the slack, and they are using interest rate swaps to soften the blow. But these schemes will eventually run out, and old “Bubbles” will have to go in front of congress and discuss QE once again.

Back to the main story – my VA Loan mortgage.

It pancaked this last weekend, went kablooey.

One lie, after another lie, after another lie, made me lose it.

I decided to no longer pursue the mortgage and go back to, what I would call “Plan (A)” – rent, save money (by buying physical silver), store some extra water and food, buy more guns, and brace for impact.

Several times in the process of “getting the pre-approved” mortgage, the bank came back and asked “for a just a little more information” and also said “this is the last time we will need to do this”. They told me “this is the last time” like 4 or 5 times, in so many weeks.

The “first underwriter” would ask for something, and say “this is it Dan, we don’t need anything else”. Then another email, more questions, more intimate details of my life – until they reached a point they were asking for stuff I could not provide.

Finally, last Wednesday, I told them, “you can have the last pay stub, and the proof of home owners insurance, and we close by the 21st (of July) or the deal is off”. They all agreed – they being the employees of the bank.

Friday afternoon they demanded more information – and this time the information they wanted dealt with some of the most painful events of my life.

They demanded my divorce decree and associated documents – a divorce from a woman, whom if I were honest, I probably still love today. A divorce I didn’t want.

They demanded me to explain why my sister Nancy’s death, from aggressive meta-static cancer, impacted me in the way it did. Why did I take time off? Why did it make me so sad?

They demanded to understand WHY many software engineers in Seattle work short term contracts – given Bill Gate’s (Microsoft), Google’s, Apple’s and Amazon’s abuse of H1B1 visa programs makes it impossible to find any work BUT contract work, contracts that have a beginning and an end.

They wanted to know other things as well – all of which were none of their fucking business.

So, yesterday, I let them know that I believed the “pre-approved” loan was a lie, and that I should have stuck with my initial decision and steered clear of buying a home right now – given that total economic collapse is now months (if not weeks) away.

I let them know with many expletives, f-bombs, and other uses of the common tongue.

I was sad, because they had torn open wounds that were only just beginning to heal in the last few weeks – and their answer was “this isn’t personal Dan”.

Fuck yes it’s FUCKING PERSONAL!

This entire experience of trying to buy a home has been humiliating, degrading, and not at all an “American Dream” – more like an “American Nightmare”. They wanted me to re-ignite anger and pain I had hoped was subsiding, and they wanted me to know that it was just “business”.

Painful, personal, intimate – and none of the banking industry’s god-damn business.

And to the bankers who claim “we are just following orders”, and to the “cult members” who contend “the world is evil and that’s just the way it’s always been” – I am sorry.

I am sorry you are so morally bankrupt that you can no longer tell the difference between right and wrong.

I’m sorry you believe your free money has no impact on the world.

Because a storm is coming, and none of you are ready, prepared.

I’m probably not ready either.

But at least I know it is coming.

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