Category Archives: Changing th world

The Mask of Anarchy – reblog from George Monbiot

My Comment:  While this piece is aimed more at the issue of Brexit and attendant serious drama, it shouldn’t be dismissed by any of us. The same “disaster capitalists” intent on turning Britain into a Third World country are just as hard at work undermining all social advancements made within our “democracies” wherever they may be still found. This is no longer a question of profit but of absolute madness.  My question is, are we going to continue to support the sickness or are we going to stop them?

The Mask of Anarchy

Posted: 11 Feb 2019 04:21 AM PST

Why disaster capitalists are praying for a no deal Brexit.

By George Monbiot, published in the Guardian 8th February 2019

Part of me wants to smash it all up. I want to see the British bubble burst: the imperial nostalgia, the groundless belief in the inherent greatness of this nation, the casual dishonesty of those who govern us, the xenophobia, the intolerance, the denial, the complacency. I want those who have caused the coming disaster to own it, so that no one ever believes them again. No Deal Brexit? Bring it on.

Such dark thoughts do not last long. Then I remember it will be the poor who get hurt, first and worst. The rich leavers demanding the hardest of possible Brexits, with their offshore accounts, homes abroad and lavish pensions, will be all right. I remember the eerie silence of the City of London. While the bosses of companies producing goods and tangible services write anxious letters to the papers, the financial sector stays largely schtum. Shorting sterling is just the first of its possible gains.

The Asian financial crisis of 1997-98, caused by the IMF’s insistence that countries removed their capital controls, began with an attack by foreign speculators on Thailand’s baht. As currencies tanked and nations raised their interest rates, indebted companies went down like flies. Foreign corporations, particularly from the US, swept in and bought the most lucrative assets for a fraction of their value. Though the causes are different, it’s not hard to see something similar happening here. If it does, the City will clean up.

But this is not the end of it. What a no-deal Brexit might offer is the regulatory vacuum the Brextremists fantasise about. The public protections people have fought so hard for, that we obtained only through British membership of the EU – preventing water companies from pouring raw sewage into our rivers, power stations from spraying acid rain across the land, chemical companies from contaminating our food – are suddenly at risk.

In theory there are safeguards. The environment department has been frantically trying to fill the regulatory chasm. It has published more statutory instruments than any other ministry, and has drafted an Environment Bill, with plans for a watchdog to hold the government to account. But a series of massive questions remain, and none of them have easy answers.

The Environment Bill will not be put before parliament until after the Queen’s speech (probably in May). It won’t be passed until autumn, at the earliest. The green watchdog (the Office for Environmental Protection) will not materialise until 2021. During that time, there will be no body equivalent to the European Court of Justice to ensure that the government upholds the law. Instead, there will be a “holding arrangement”, with an undefined “mechanism” to receive reports of environmental lawbreaking, that the watchdog might be inclined to investigate when it eventually materialises.

Replacing just one of the EU’s environmental functions – registering new chemicals – requires, before March 29, a new IT system, new specialist evaluators, new monitoring and enforcement across several agencies and new government offices, filled with competent staff, to oversee the system, in the four nations of the UK. All this must happen while the government attends to scores of transformations on a similar scale. If the shops run out of food, hospitals can’t get medicine and the Good Friday Agreement falls apart, how much attention will it pay to breaches of environmental law?

Already, we are witnessing comprehensive regulatory collapse in the agencies, such as Natural England, charged with defending the living world, due to funding cuts. If they can’t do their job before we crash out, what chance do they have when the workload explodes, just as government budgets are likely to slump? The government’s nomination of Tony Juniper as Natural England’s new chair is a hopeful sign, though the general astonishment that an environmental regulator will be chaired by an environmental champion show just how bad things have become (since 2009, it has been run by people whose interests and attitudes were starkly at odds with their public duties). But the underlying problem Natural England faces will also hobble the green watchdog. Unlike the European Court of Justice, the Office for Environmental Protection will be funded and controlled by the government it seeks to hold to account.

Last week, the Guardian reported panic within government about the likely pileup of waste the UK currently exports to the EU, in the event of no deal. The combination of a rubbish crisis, administrative chaos and mass distraction could be horrible: expect widespread flytipping and pollution. So much for the extremists’ euphemism for no deal: “clean Brexit”.

The government’s commitment to upholding environmental standards relies to a remarkable extent on one man: the environment secretary, Michael Gove, who has so far doggedly resisted the demands of his fellow Leavers. Had any one of his grisly predecessors been in post – Owen Paterson, Liz Truss, Andrea Leadsom – we wouldn’t have even the theoretical protections Gove has commissioned. Boris Johnson has suggested that leaving the EU will allow us to dismantle green standards for electrical goods and environmental impact assessments. Iain Duncan Smith has pressed for the removal of the carbon floor price after Brexit, that has more or less stopped coal burning in the UK.

With Liam Fox in charge of trade policy, and the US demanding the destruction of food and environmental standards as the price of the trade deal he desperately seeks, nothing is safe. A joint trade review by the British and Indian governments contemplates reducing standards on pesticide residues in food and hormone-disrupting chemicals in toys. This must be heartening for Jacob Rees-Mogg (known in some circles as Re-smog), who has proposed that we might accept “emission standards from India”, one of the most polluted nations on earth. “We could say, if it’s good enough in India, it’s good enough for here.”

There is no guarantee that Michael Gove, the unlikely champion of public protection, will stay in his post after Brexit. If we crash out of Europe, the dark money that helped to buy Brexit will strive to use this opportunity to tear down our regulations: this, after all, was the point of the exercise. The tantalising prospect for the world’s pollutocrats is that the United Kingdom might become a giant export processing zone, exempt from the laws that govern other rich nations. It’s a huge potential prize, that could begin to reconfigure the global relationship between capital and governments. They will fight as hard and dirty to achieve it as they did to win the vote.

A combination of economic rupture, sudden shifts in ownership, an urgent desire to strike new trade deals and a possible regulatory abyss presents a golden opportunity for disaster capitalism. Our first task is to see it coming. Our second is to stop it.

http://www.monbiot.com

Dialogue with a Teacher

[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]

“I would be a catalyst for change, a change agent.”
“Why?” She asked, her back to me. She seemed to be staring at something beyond the horizon only she could see.
“Why?” I replied, “It’s this world, Teacher; it breaks my heart.”
“So you would change it then?”
“Yes.”
“You understand how change happens, do you not?”
“I think so… but there are so many ways…”
“No! Not if you desire good change. Yes, many ways to bring about change that nurtures unhappiness, misery and endless grief. But the good change, how do you make that come about?”
“I do not know… I simply do not know how.”
“Very well. I am going to reveal some ancient wisdom to you, then you will understand though it may change your mind about being a change agent. Have you ever fallen in love with someone? Ever been so in love that nothing else mattered?”
“Yes I have been, long, long ago.”
“Can you recall your feelings of that time?”
“Somewhat, yes. Pure madness!”
“Madness yes, but all good change comes from that sort of madness. Life proceeds from that madness. Children are born because of it. Now for the great secret but first you get one guess: where does this madness originate? What is its genesis?”
“Trick question, Teacher? I honestly do not know.”
“Such a seed can only be found in one place in the entire universe: in your heart. You must mine for it, extract it, grind and polish it, love it above everything else, desire it more than anything else then give it out freely and completely to the world you wish to see change come about in.
“Know this, that once you give it away you must die. You know the truth of it, “unless a seed falls to the ground and dies it will not produce fruit.” You were taught this when only a child and you remember that lesson. Of all the lesser teachings you received from your tribal parents and teachers, you kept this one and one other.
“Now remember this also, my Avatar, there are many ways to die. Dying is easy but there is only one way to live: with compassion through complete detachment. You understand?”
“Yes Teacher, I do understand.”
“Does it make you want to change your mind?”
I was very slow in answering her, not because I was unsure about my choices but because the moment was so charged with “sacred” energy. I suppose she would have said my reply was predictable.
“On the contrary, Teacher, this is an affirmation. As to that second lesson you alluded to, I remember it well also…”small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.”
“Be sure to remain on it.”

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #18

[begin blog post #18]

After washing and eating I’m returned to my cage.  Having won a special fight I am not expected to continue training the rest of that day.  Later when the others return, as was promised, a young trainee is put in my cage.  She sits next to me and nudges against me, looking to please any way she can or knows how.  She runs her arms and hands over my skin to feel me.

I caress her slowly, running my long fingers through her short cropped, straight black hair, noticing her uncharacteristic lanky, skinny body covered in pure white skin, the long slim arms and long skinny legs and her large feet that seem almost ungainly on her.  She has a small patch of pubic hair and her breasts are just beginning to bud.  So young, I think, and so innocent.  At least in looks.

I croon softly over her, letting her know that I approve of her and she need have no fear.  She turns up to me and I’m staring into virtual pools of black luminescence: over-sized black eyes, reminiscent of those nocturnal arboreal creatures of Old Earth and Margaret Keane’s ‘big eyed waifs’ from Old Earth C-20; eyes that seem to penetrate into and beyond my most secret thoughts.

I’ve made an instant conquest, but so has she.  This child is mine to do with as I please.  If I’d ask her to kill herself for me, she’d do it without a moment’s hesitation.  Such is the way.  But then, if giving up my life would save hers, I’d have no hesitation either.  I see myself now plunging into an abyss of feeling I’d thought could never again touch me.  So much, once more, for reliance on training “in absentia.”

I cradle her and bring her lips to my hardened nipples.  She suckles slowly, tenderly and I realize, happily.  As easily as that I become the mother the baby never had.  And just like that, I now have another purpose in a type of relationship I’d believed I could never again engage in.  Blame the empty years here, my tired condition but mostly her uncanny ability to seduce.  There is witchcraft in her, I can easily sense.  The good kind.  The kind I practised once… somewhere…

Out of the most terrible of ordeals; the greatest of trials, comes beauty and love if one knows how to move through the energies.  Ah well, maybe this is where I start making a difference.  If I am careful to give to this child, without taking anything from her but what she freely offers me in return.  If I can bury my dark fear of losing her to the arena or to some mistake she may make and be “punished” for.  If I can allow myself to be broken, not only in body, but in heart, for love of her and all of us here. 

Totally broken.  Yes.  I know this lesson in my mind.  Now I must impress it into my brain and upon my body.

Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies it will not produce fruit.”  Source is an Old Earth sacred book quoting a claimed avatar they called Jesus the Christ. How long ago was that? Thousands of years but the question is not relevant.  I am able to remember: that’s what matters now.  Remembering.  Remembrances.

I remember some of my lessons.  How I loved to say them to myself and make my feeble attempts at giving them living substance in my own life – “lives?”  But in this purgatory of lost souls, can I demonstrate the cosmic truth behind these pithy sayings?  Can I live them and teach them?  How do I reconcile my life’s performance today with that?

I look upon my child-woman without disturbing her.  Who will outlive whom?  I can’t help but torture myself with wondering.  I must stop thinking and just enjoy her.  My child and perhaps in time, lover; perhaps even friend: the most dangerous relationship of all.  Every life, however bleak, can have its moments of true tenderness.  Some time ago I would have rejected that notion.  Now it makes perfect sense.  I feel an urge within that I must baptize this child and give her a suitable name.  This one must enter her own version of Valhalla with her own name and must be given the recognition deserved.  ‘Help me, Tiegli!’ I silently beseech my old friend for it was her who impressed upon me the invaluable lesson of empowerment through the simple act of giving someone a name. 

I prepare myself to plunge into a much-needed deep sleep, despite the fact my heart overflows with love, my loins are filled with desire and my body is racked with a thousand lances of pain from the excessive movements I put my body through today.  A perfect balance for this would-be avatar, would you say?  My little one has fallen asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around my torso and her moist lips, slightly parted, brushing my nipple, leaving a tiny trail of drool to find its way, like a cool mountain stream, down my cleavage.  An image, a feeling, that changes one forever.

In the weeks that follow I find myself involved in few fights.  I think I am being avoided by bookies and gamblers because of a growing reputation for deadliness through apparent recklessness and ruthlessness.  Indeed I have decided that due to my size it is usually safe enough to take chances and go for the kill right from the beginning of the encounter.  I get less cuts, bruises and broken bones that way and return to the compound much less tired.  But the risks are real, not the least of which is being considered persona non grata and receive the Court order to be summarily executed as an undesirable, a bad performer.

I am not the crowd pleaser any longer.  If I am the gladiator being billed, the stands are but half filled.  They certainly object to seeing a woman kill a man outright.  They want play, sport, blood, but mostly they get off on the inflicting of pain.  They like to see long fights where opponents are fairly well matched and do the most damage to one-another before one is killed.  Entertainment.  Sport as a way to assuage their miserable lusts which their system will not permit them to satisfy in other more natural ways.

I just do my “job” as per its description.  But complaints are continually lodged with the handlers and trainers that the “Beast” is not being cooperative; that ‘it’ does not understand the subtleties of encounters with honour.  In other words, ‘it’ is not giving ‘its’ male opponents a chance to demonstrate their honourable ways of torturing a woman to death by killing her outright in public or destroying her body through violent encounter after encounter. 

Yes I am expressing spite and bitterness along with everything else, looking within to see all the things I’ve become a complete failure at achieving.  I may be winning battles in the arena but Malefactus is winning the war against my mind, perhaps against my heart.

Take detachment, for example.  I have become utterly and hopelessly “in love” with my child-lover, though I cannot quite locate my deepest feelings as being those for a child, or those for a lover.  I don’t think I’m capable of separating the two but I have steeled myself not to make love to her.  I have vowed to let her initiate that aspect of our relationship.  She, on the other hand, basks in my presence, cries silently when I prepare to leave for the arena and lights up like a shooting star when I return. 

Never have I experienced such gentle touch nor encountered such dedication and abandoned selflessness in a human being.  She steals pieces of cloth while working the kitchens and serving tables which she stuffs in her vagina to get past the guards then hides in the straw bedding.  She later uses those to bind my cuts.  She takes extracts from certain fruits and vegetables which she uses in my wounds or gives me to swallow.  She’s an accomplished and fearless thief and healer.

She licks and sucks the blood from my cuts, then bandages them in the night, using braided strands of split straw if she has no cloth.  She is fully aware and conscious of the fact that if she is discovered she will be flogged to death – or tortured in even worse ways.  It twists my heart to find her doing such things but however I caution her and ask her to desist, it is of no avail.  She has her own mind, as stubborn as I.  And she is tireless.

[end blog post #18]

 

EVERYTHING IS ON ITS WAY TO SOMEWHERE

[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]

“Everything is on its way to somewhere” (Movie ‘Phenomenon’)
“Things change and they don’t change back” (Nemesis Games, James Corey)

On the other hand and interestingly, when it comes to the people of Earth, there are never new starts – every start packs something of the old within itself and it all turns to shit again. The older one gets, the closer one comes to that “place” of final change, the more the above reminders become true and undeniably accurate.

None of us knows much about ‘Life’ in general. We call one physical passage on this world a ‘life’ from which we gain a few experiences which serve no purpose whatsoever because it’s followed by either permanent lights out or the unknowable endlessly speculated and pontificated upon eternal.

When we’re dying, do we know for a fact who we are? Are we something that’s finally run out of fuel to simply fall by the wayside or something propelling itself into the unknown star fields as a star ship pushed by  its “warp” drive?

At death’s door, what ‘thing’ part of us is on its way to somewhere? Who or what determines if there is a somewhere to go to, and if so, how is that somewhere chosen? Or is it arbitrary? Is it a direction or a place, like a huge bubbling recycling vat from which pieces are taken as building blocks for new words, new universes, new extensions and additions to existing constructs and new experiments?

A shift in thought:

Decades ago I grew tired of being told how to live my life, whether the instructions came from God, bosses, political or religious leaders, corporations, bankers or a sex partner. I got tired of being told what I should or should not believe; how I should worship; what I should or should not eat or drink or buy or wear; what sort of people I should associate with or not and what constituted my family; my “home” and my “people.” “Enough!” I heard myself scream in my mind one say and everything turned on its head.

While so many of these controlling people around me were busy building and rebuilding walls to try to make themselves feel safer and happier I found myself tearing mine down. I was pretty sure that freedom was unattainable on earth but at least I wanted openness. I wanted to be able to see the horizon in my mind. I didn’t want to be staring at blood-stained walls of arrogance, bigotry, racism and misogyny.  I was through trying to fit in.

How can you be going anywhere when surrounded by walls of exceptionalism; of exclusive belief; of oppression and extortion; of self-protection? Walls made of greed, fear, hate and paranoia? The caterpillar doesn’t go into a cocoon for self-preservation but in the hope of breaking forth as a butterfly. Do man-made walls ever turn anyone into a butterfly?

Across the international border a few miles from this town is a nation that is closing in on itself, helplessly it seems as, if it was entering into a cocoon. But this is not a life-changing cocoon, it’s a strangling prison. It wants a wall on its southern border because it fears its neighbours but if that wall is built, it won’t stop there. The wall will continue to grow, partly in a physical way but mostly in the imprisoned hearts. Unseen and untouched the neighbours behind the wall will grow horns and forked tails, morphing into demons and monsters. The wall won’t be enough to guarantee safety. In all likelihood the monsters and their children will have to be nuked. But that will only amplify the threat.

That’s where we come face to face with all our new starts and realize how true it is that there have never been any such on this world, or at least for as long as this patriarchal civilization has existed. Walled in, repetitive, entropic, too weak, too ignorant, too closed-minded to make that jump into the new.

What somewhere would you want to be heading for, people of Earth? What sort of change that doesn’t change back would you like to see happening?

How would you propose entering into a new start that packed nothing at all of the old so you would not condemn yourselves to repeating it?  Could you even imagine such an event?

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #15

begin blog post #15]

“You were dropped here, then?”

Again he emphasizes the word “dropped” to indicate it means more than what he is saying.  I don’t understand what he really means by it but I infer he means landed by someone not of Malefactus, for some purpose of their own, someone who then vanished without trace in some flying contraption or shuttle craft equipped to detect and foil all of the planet’s detection systems.

“No sir, I do not believe the word dropped is the correct way to put it.”  I still dare not tell him what I really remember about myself: that I was able to reincarnate full grown out there in the desert having travelled here from some place even I can barely describe at this time.  So I try to create a plausible story that he could buy, at least for the moment.

“I must have been cast away then, but I cannot remember from where I am, or what or who brought me here.  I awoke on a sand dune, as the reports indicate.  True, and walked a long way until I smelled the wood smoke from the rebel women’s camp.  I went down into it.  I found I could speak their language enough to communicate easily.  They gave me drink and food and saved my life.

“Two days later the slave hunters found us and the women killed five of them before they were overrun.  All the children were slaughtered and most of the women – there were twenty one of them.

“I knelt upon the sand during the fighting and killing, not knowing what was happening or why women and men were killing each other there – or why men would kill defenceless children.  Six women survived, two badly wounded who were killed and left on the open desert.  Only four and myself made it back here.  That is all I remember.  You know the rest, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I read the damn report.  You take me for a fool, gora?  You’re lying.  How many others were dropped with you, on this planet or nearby worlds?  What do they hope to accomplish here?  What are you here for?”

I look at him and shrug, turning my head just as he lifts his hand and hits me totally unexpectedly and brutally on the side of my face.  As a trained fighter I should have been able to detect some shift of body or some give-away in facial expression.  I should have been able to sense something.  But I saw or sensed nothing unusual coming from him, either before or after he hit me.  It’s as if he’d already planned to terminate our “interview” in that fashion or he wasn’t even aware of what he had just done.

I make no move at all, taking the blow within as if fully deserved.  Blood pours from my lips, cut on impact on my own teeth.  He stands up suddenly and pressing the com unit on his wrist to open the outer door he orders in a peremptory tone that broaches no hesitation on my part: “Go! – Get out!”

I walk out, near to collapse from the blow to the head, the previous beatings in the fight and an empty stomach.  I stand groggily a few steps outside his door freezing and shaking in pouring rain, every rain drop giving the impression of an ice needle going into my skin.  I have to hold my hand over my mouth to keep my teeth from chattering.  Water and blood mix and run freely down my arms, thighs and legs to the wet stones.  I wait, as I must, for no woman is allowed to go anywhere without being escorted.

Handlers arrive, presumably summoned by the doctor, and they escort me to the eating place, to the long rough-hewn tables with smooth-worn benches along the kitchen walls.  Several women are there, as naked as I in the freezing rain, eating from bowls filling with rain water as if this was the most normal thing in the world.  Well, for them, it probably is because they cannot imagine the possibility of alternate choices.  I wish I couldn’t either; maybe what I am going through at this moment would be easier to bear of I did not know of alternative lifestyles.

The food is served by the youngest trainees.  Old women, not fighters, work in the kitchens.  My portion arrives and I find myself ravenous.  I eat carefully, trying to avoid my broken lips, wincing with the pain.  One tooth is loose and I feel terrible.

I force my mind away from my immediate problems to create a “safe zone” in my thinking.

So it was that damned chakr drug that so upset my stomach.  Idiots, they could have killed me with that stuff, or I could have passed out entirely after the fight began – I’m intolerant to most drugs.  Must work on that too.  I can accept the inflicted pain – can I learn to overcome the effects of their poisons and drugs?  On Old Earth billions of humans survived the toxic effects of air, water and soil pollution for over two hundred years.  I remember living a life I considered healthy during the worst of their environmental crises.  So it’s not impossible to adapt to poisonous conditions even given little lead time.  Humanoid bodies are short-lived but quite resilient in their own way.

I wolf down all they give me and seeing I’m still hungry, they double my portion at a nod from the handlers.  They certainly seem pleased.  My “doctor” may be upset at me now – and may well have me killed – but somebody’s happy from my day’s success, I think.  Somebody made good on my “work” of the day I bet.

And at that moment I feel nothing but absolute disgust for these men.  Ugly, stinking, heartless creatures, all of them.  The women refer to these types as “dungut.”  And their world has shaped itself to their ways.  Why would I have thought, long ago in some never-never world they or their counterparts on Old Earth were worth redeeming?

So, great.  Add “hate” to my list of personal failings to date.  That particular vice was not supposed to be part of my repertoire.  I’m still plummeting toward my personal nadir.

[end blog post #15]

The Antierra Manifesto – blog post #11

[start blog post #11]

“This be warning”  one of them intones, “You know rule: No wailing. No disturbance permitted.  All of you we flog too, happy to do.  But owners, they say too much cost, so you lucky today.  Proceed with training and maintenance of weapons.  Any talk; any whisper, you flogged same as that gorok.  He spits in the direction of the dead girl.

The message is delivered without inflection or passion.  It would appear these men do not feel the least amount of the pain, fear or any other feelings they cause others to experience.  No empathy.  To them we are less than animals, although I believe the expression here is quite meaningless.  There are no domesticated animals that I am aware of in this society.  The food we eat contains no meat.  But again, I’ve been wrong so many times about so many things in the few days I’ve been here!  Days?  No, not days.  I’ve been here an eternity that will never end.  I’ve fallen in hell and there is no doorway out of it.

Three handlers walk among us as we exercise or work, pick a half dozen of the youngest trainees and escort them through one of the stone doors.  One by one they shortly return.  One of them had been a virgin by the blood that runs between her legs.  She is ordered to wash and continue with training and work.  For the handlers, the flogging death they observed had given them a powerful sexual desire they needed to sate and that is also what we are for.

The day wears on, oppressive, endless, silent.  When the sun passes beyond the battlements, painting the eastern sky a lurid reddish brown fired through thin stratus type clouds, a reminder of drying blood, we are fed and returned to our cages.  The body of the flogged child, for she had been no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, now covered with some sort of black fly I hadn’t seen before, is removed from the post by two gladiators.  She is stiff and cold.  They carry her to the same door used to remove the body of her friend and is dumped in a similar conveyance.

And out of the blue my mind is asking, “What do they do with our bodies?”  I know that the dead men are taken to a hill outside the city and buried with much pomp and ceremony, but what about the bodies of the gladiators?  Or women in general?  In the field they leave them to wild beasts.  Do they take ours from here and from the arena to be eaten out there?  Or do they perform some kind of hellish rituals upon them?  

A cold chill goes through me and I try to change the subject in my mind.  Is there something else, something beautiful, I can think about?  Well, why not engage myself on my reason for coming here, instead of bemoaning a fate I deliberately chose or engaging in bouts of self-pity and self-doubt? 

Come on, woman.  Where is all that courage and bravery you were so quick to talk about once, far from here?  Where is your compassion now that you are living in hell?  Don’t both victims and oppressors need to find their freedom?  Think.  Why is this world, a place that could be so beautiful, such a horror?  What feeds the misogynist males and their killing instinct?  Why can they not sexually engage a female except by doing her violence?  Why is the beating of a woman such an erotic event for all of them?  Or is it all of them?  Could there be exceptions among the male population, and if so, how can I find them?

When the doctor had sex with me he did not use force or violence on me.  Well, yes, some force because he knew I could not refuse, but no overt violence.  In fact his handling of my wound was uncharacteristically gentle.  Who is he?  He is taller than other men I’ve seen, and his face is broader, flatter.  Could it be that he’s from another place?  That he’s not a true Tassardi?  Push this a bit further, could he be an alien like me?  If so, why is he in this place?  What is he to this place?  Why did he whisper to me “we want him dead” of my first engagement in the arena?  Who are these “we”?  And his friend in the white uniform.  I sensed a mantle of authority over him.  Authority from whom, where?  When he looked at me, it wasn’t out of lust; in fact I’d swear he was not sexually interested in me at all.  Who or what, is he?  What are they planning and how do I fit into that plan if at all?

Many questions.  Good questions engender good answers and keep my feverish mind occupied.  I will find out.  I will know.  I’m glad that tonight I’m alone in my cage.  My thoughts are so loud I’d be afraid to think them if another was lying with me and after Tiegli I’m not ready to “make love” to accommodate another.  I have no passion, no feelings.  My heart is numbed from so much violence and loss in so short a time.  I listen to the rustling of moving bodies in the fresh straw.  I hear muted sobbing. 

Later, a scream, quickly stifled, then silence – the silence of death.  A large bird or some nocturnal creature ululates a macabre call outside, the sound coming in from one of the square openings high in the smooth stone walls to echo as the voice of the dead throughout the compound.  Water drips outside.  It must be raining.  Yes, let it rain, hard and long.  Wash all the blood out of the courtyard.  Wash all the blood from this world until no world is left.

Rain – the tears of the goddess, she whom I must re-awaken in the hearts of these women.  And I too begin to cry and my own tears become an endless river of sorrow.  Tiegli’s hoarse whisper comes to my mind: “We be strong; we be courageous; not tough like stone; not fearless.  We be only women, not robots or evil beasts.  We have heart… feeling.” 

In that on-going nightmare I am finding my own power, not the power I dragged in with me as from my other self, the Avatari Al’Tara, but a power I have created from the mix of love and terror I have experienced here.  From the blood soaked stones and sand of the arena.  From the many fights I have already entered and “won” if one can call that winning; survived is a more accurate term.

I dream again, but it’s a no-dream.  A “locator” to help me find my mind’s feet on T’Sing Tarleyn, my chosen and adoptive world.  Yes, after all, what I dream of is loving, caring and giving.  I am; I am here; I am real.  And because I exist here, in this time and this place, everything will change.  I know this.  I am all the women I have been in every life as far back through time as I can remember.  Each with some memory of power gained from some great personal loss and deep sorrow and each willing to give her share of it to Antierra.  Together we will discover the true pulse of T’Sing Tarleyn and change its name to T’Sing Tallala (pronounced sing tayala); the land of freedom and hope.  All I have to do is survive the years ahead and not give in to fear but in particular, to hate.  Anger is permissible to me I think, as long as it isn’t based on fear and isn’t allowed to develop into hate.  I need to express anger as a psychological release mechanism.  If I do not I will break or become a complete hypocrite.

[end blog post #11]

The Prophet Spoke Again

[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]

The Prophet spoke once more in the latter days, long after any had been and these be the things she said into the minds of those that would listen.

I am not bringing any good tidings, she said to them, therefore it is entirely up to you whether you listen, or fail to listen, for the message will be given even if only the stones of this world, the pavement of its streets or the girders of its highrises hear it.

You will have noticed that your world has changed once again, and in that change it has turned against you. You speak amongst yourselves of climate change; you debate whether it is the works of your own hands, of the world itself or perhaps a combination of both. You do not know and while you are confused, refusing to face the music you yourselves ordered to be written upon skies, seas and lands, you cannot dance. You but plod, and you weary yourselves with petty thoughts of greedy corporate executives and bankers, corrupt politicians and the endless charade of religion. Thinking yourselves wise, you have indeed made yourselves fools; the duck thinking to survive the winter in a child’s wading pool.

You seek answers where there are none! You deliberately ignore your history to fall ever and anon in the same trap your ancestors fell in and died in. You continue to believe that if you replace this puppet with that one; this god with another; this system with a more “environment friendly” one, you can carry on with just such light brush strokes on the old canvas; that you can carry on with no self-sacrifice, no purifying of heart, no transforming of mind, therefore no essential change.

But know this, if you cannot see it for yourselves: your canvas is rotten, even to the frame that holds it together.

That is the sum total of my tidings, to do with as you see fit. I did not come here to make the change for you, I came but to give warning. If you care about each other and particularly if you care about your own children, you will listen. If you do not, I may as well once again take the name of Cassandra and die in the fall of your great and impregnable city.

Is there any hope? I don’t “do” hope, but I am addressing people who believe in such things. So, look about you, anywhere, and see if there is anything truly new rising from your world; from within your many systems: anything you would bet your life and the life of your children upon? Anything that cannot be bought and sold in the global marketplace or corrupted beyond recognition in your high places of government, banking and worship?

Every prophet is mad, I as much as any other who has ever dared incarnate on this world and in my madness I dare imagine that some of you will ponder this and cry out, ‘Yes, we can see how it is coming apart,’ and add, ‘what should we then do?’

As I said, I am not here to give you answers, that was not part of my job description.

Let me remind you that everyone like myself who has come before and given you strict guidance and rules of conduct has been an abject failure because the teaching was imposed, it did not arise from within yourselves, thus it was powerless to change you. Go ahead, read your prophets, the full time, the part time, the ones you defamed, tortured and killed. You could do worse than re-reading “The Prophet” by Khalil Gibran. Read other way showers and rule givers and go as far as pondering the voices of those who called themselves saviours and see what you find these many years later.

I will give you hints though, even if it violates my strict self-imposed mandate. Simple hints. First, your civilization as you experience it and as you’ve known it throughout your very short history, is finished. Its days have been measures and found wanting.

Its very nature is inimical to the concept we call life. It has exceeded its limits to growth. It feeds entirely on bloodshed and destruction and many there are who profit from this and many more who rejoice in the results. That is its greatest sin from which it can neither be healed, or ever rise again.

Second hint: if you would do something that has a chance of bearing fruit, though it likely will be but for yourself as an individual, choose the path of the compassionate being. “How” is entirely up to you.

Quote: “A dominant myth is inclusive, in the sense that people feel lost without it. They can’t attribute any sort of human activity to anything else but the myth. They can’t see their way past it. They feel stymied without it.” (Jon Rappoport) and my added comment: “And what is civilization but a dominant myth?”