Sunday, November 25, 2018


Williams, E.O.

Professor Nina Floro 

ENG 110 BB 

Essay #2 

27 September 2018

                                            First Draft: 24 Oct 2018
Harboring a reasonable fear of the police is an important safety rule for African-Americans. Whereas law enforcement may represent hope, or safety to many communities within the U.S., the police and public office are two wings of American bureaucracy which have given black Americans obstacles rather than egalitarian courtesies. Institutional racism in this country serves to deter, retard, and marginalize African-American citizens in conjunction with an effort to associate black culture with criminal activity. The economic viability of African-American men and women was undeniable upon emancipation, for the skills and trades forced upon them in bondage distinguished them from crackers, ex-convicts, and debilitated civil war veterans. Resentment soon followed, and widespread racial bias soared beyond Jim Crow’s legal reach. A wall stands erect in the psychosocial economy of this country, preventing African-Americans from affirming the value of themselves, making contributions to their home country, and living their days unimpeded by the municipal works structured to serve propublica.  Joe Turner’s Come and Gone conveys the journey of foreigners navigating the psychological and societal barrier, in two acts, courtesy of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania-born author August Wilson.
This wall rejects anyone without proper clearance.  The gatekeepers serve the state as elected officials, peace officers, and educators.  Gatekeepers travel in the form of a land owner, and business operator, with status to deny access to not only housing, but a dignified life. Entire neighborhoods, and fields of employment offered black citizens nothing but repellent. Scores of white, often Christian men, acting as the moral arbiters. However, they were toeing the line to keep it white, rather than keep it right. “The threat of arrest and forced labor had become a fixture of black life in many rural areas of Alabama” states Douglas A. Blackmon, referring to the leasing of convicts from state prisons to companies such as U.S. Steel, Pratt Consolidated, and Schloss-Schloss-Sheffield Steel & Iron (Blackmon). An increase in arrests to perpetuate such vulgarity is likely fiber for the widely cast nepotic net that tangled Wilson’s Herald Loomis in the Turner brothers contributions to slavery (by another name). “Loomis: Had a whole mess of men he catches. Just go out hunting  regular like you go out hunting possum . . . . He’d go out hunting and bring back forty men at a time. And keep them seven years” (Wilson 72). Incarcerated by a corrupt system, ensnared by a white man with public office and law enforcement at his disposal, and held for 7 years, Herald Loomis, when released from prison, is still locked-up. Bound to the road, navigating a land he was born to, and ducking hostile neighbors and peace officers who commit crimes with impugn: Herald, (a man who walks the path of the righteous) is surely foreign on such soil.  
Emotionally and chronologically stunted, Loomis declares to Seth and Bynum (exclusively) “Joe Turner catched me in nineteen hundred and one . . . . I was walking down this road in this little town outside of Memphis . . . . I stopped to preach to these fellows to see if maybe I could turn some of them from their sinning when Joe Turner, brother of the governor of the great sovereign state of Tennessee, swooped down on us and grabbed everybody there” (Wilson 72).  Far from fictional Tennessee, deep down Alabama way, the very same year in which Wilson’s play is set, brothers William M. and Robert B. Teal swap Barbour county law enforcement’s top positions (Blackmon).  When William Teal, as sheriff, reached term limits in 1911, brother Robert became sheriff while William teal moves to the position of chief deputy (Blackmon).  Preaching against gambling, Loomis is snatched off the street abruptly, apparently without provocation.  “Based off jail records the brother kept, the Teals typically arrested fewer than 20 people a month. Then suddenly, every few months, dozens of minor offenders were rounded up over a few days, charged with vagrancy, alcohol violations or other minor offenses. Nearly all were sentenced to hard labor and shipped to a mine within 10 days” (Blackmon 333). The walk of life has Herald Loomis a Deacon, a husband, a guardian, and a prisoner; as a result, he is unable to locate or contact his wife upon release.  The fracturing of his family protracts his path from completion of sentence, to complete man, with the search for his other half, Martha Pentecost. 
Seth Holly, proprietor of the boarding at which the play is set, details the names of several white gents who will not stake him. Seth is looking to advance his achievements, firm up his name in the business community, and pursue happiness, it would seem.  The relationship between Rutherford Selig and Seth is all business. A procurement, production, and retailing operation.  Seth, an independent contractor, and Selig, a mobile retail syndicate. When the audience meets Selig, he exchanges words with Bynum that suggest much more than Selig’s flippant attitude toward Bynum’s ethereal tendencies.  “The only shiny man I saw was the Nigras working on the road gang with the sweat glistening on them” (Wilson 8). As the play climaxes, Selig, who proclaims his slave trafficking lineage in resume format earlier in the play, physically walks martha through the door and places her within a breath of Herald (Wilson 88).  This image, Bertha, Seth, Mattie, and Bynum in the kitchen receiving Martha from a “sure enough first-class People Finder!” incorporates plot and symbol equally (88). Afoot in search of Martha, Herald carries their daughter Zonia close to him on the paths they travel.  Zonia, the flesh and blood of her parents union, serves as a reflection of her father’s memory of his wife.  Much like a locket around a neck, fitted with a forget-me-not photo within, Zonia is Herald’s touchstone to both the past, and future. 
Herald Loomis’ future, which he states can not begin until he knows where the world starts (Wilson 90).  When Herald and Martha alas see one another, their reunion is brief and fiery.remain uncoupled.  Loomis, bouncing from location to location for more than three years, can not maneuver in any direction other than that which he believes takes him to Martha.  Yet, when he reaches her, his world opens before him in a form he could not have predicted.  Similar to Saul/Paul on the road to Damascus, Herald, upon seeing his world before him, is transformed. Upon laying his eyes upon his prime meridian, his starting place, Herald denounces Jesus Christ as a slave driver and stands in receipt of a sermon-and it is this sermon which inspires the self-administered blood ritual. The Lord Jesus Christ was Herald’s touchstone for many years, and his faith has been smashed to bits through his travail with Joe Turner. Nonetheless, the baptismal salvation expressed when he slashes himself bloody at once unbinds Loomis and provides him with a new starting point.  A new world awaits, where Herald Loomis is not alien, foreign, or hostile.
Works Cited 
Blackmon, Douglas A. Slavery By Another Name. Anchor, 2009.
Wilson, August. Joe Turner’s Come and Gone. Plume, 1988.

Monday, October 1, 2018

Augmenta Lunae

I state boldly:
arguments condoning censorship often support inter and intra-institutional solidarity, or come from the weary hearts of the shepherds tending to the malleable minds and sensibilities of their Pavlovian flock.

Friday, August 24, 2018


psychological warfare has no boundaries, and no rules of engagement.  

You are a piece of terrain to be held for the high command to occupy.  Deploy the reconnoissance patrols: 


Thursday, August 23, 2018

Prifma ignis

Critical thinking fosters emergence of actionable information

Actionable information requires responsible strategizing

Strategy is what dials a flaming heart back to a simmering stew

Wield their language (doublespeak) and report the rest of the
world’s facts against their own words in print before their own eyes

Fragment your arguments: a prismatic refraction of your heart’s desire for action
(and restructuring that is long past due),
your thoughts and associations to your sources,
the veracity of the rest of the world’s reporting on their actions,
and the veiled hazards of the playing conditions

Tool up for the dirtiest of tricks
. . .watch your 6. . .

the legal team saddles up to retaliate-violate the trust
come people prismatic shine and light the devils up, leaving dust

Prismatic and fragmented, cement your stance with what’s evident
Impalpable and paper printed the ride is their fucking highway
to death financed decadence

Un-just! . . . Invented! . . . Bureaucratic . . . Cemented!

Gladio, Attica, Ajax-hysteria
Iran 1953 Guatemala the next year
I snorted so much suffering on both ends of benders
Continental consequences unknown cuz protected vendors
Of potions powders and struggle don’t disclose the numbers
I stumbled on drugs which made me a blood money funder
Global tumult and all nightmares I ever wondered when younger.

Commence Operation

     The past two years, i spent smoking cannabis non-stop in order to celebrate my return to California.  Not every day was wasted, though I surely was. . . 

My biggest influences, which contribute to the stew I stir in my mind to spit hot fire and flame some f*cks, were revisited in video and print.  

I watched videos with Chomsky, IMS reporting, Bill Hicks, and Mike Ruppert and read articles galore on the computer for the last two years at rates of density you could not fathom.  

Currently selected is this book, from my queue.

Operation Gladio
The Unholy Alliance between THE VATICAN, THE CIA, and THE MAFIA

ISBN-13: 9781616149741
Publisher: Prometheus Books
Publication date: 02/03/2015
Pages: 381

I would hope to provide a book report, in the next 6 months.

Watch your 6
-the paperboy

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Thank you, Professor

June 11, 2018
Professor Chomsky
Valeria Chomsky 

Greetings Professor Chomsky, 
This letter serves to detail the intellectual and spiritual concerns I recognized as a child, and how your works have led me to affect others.

I was born in Philadelphia in 1979.  My mother worked at Wawa and my father was a painter for the Upper Darby school district.  In June of 1982, there was a procession of wooden vessels which sailed into Penn’s Landing.  A parade for the 300th birthday of that great city.  It is one of my earliest memories.  I recall eating left-over fried chicken, with a styrofoam cup of lemonade.  I sat there awestruck for the first time in memory.  I was 3 years old, and spent my days with my maternal grandmother listening to Camelot and Oklahoma! The Tall Ships display transported me through time and across the earth.  I felt one with the rest of it.  The river that brought the ships to Philly also met the sea, which took more lives than we will ever know!  The people who traveled to see the display were not all from Pennsylvania-i could see New Jersey from where I sat!  To witness a ship in port, dormant, while told that ships were the height of engineering and a transformative element of empire & commerce was a glimpse of what humans could do in this world.  School could not start soon enough!  That is not to say I applied myself in school.

My dad applied himself in school, and he looked to me like he knew things about this world.

  He stood on a ladder, had a mustache, and played the board games Panzer Leader and Squad Leader.  He and his gaming friends, the Genesis/Rush/Dungeons & Dragons guys who were too young to fight in Vietnam but talked of how jacked up the 70s were for this country.  Soon, my queue was flush with inquires regarding WWII, the stock market, Iran-Contra, and the trail of broken treaties.

The first questions I asked my father was:
1) Are we catholic or public? 
My elementary school was adjacent to a catholic school.  My mom laughed endlessly and I did not know why.

2) Why do we not use Credit Cards?
Answer: The banks lend you money that you pay back in full, with additional cost called ‘interest’.  If you are not careful, you will sucked into a cycle of making the minimum payment while the meter is still running.  

An excellent answer, which is applicable today.  Other answers were murky and some did not satisfy.  Sitting beside my younger brother in the other room, i would audit their conversations.  Arafat and the PLO.  El Salvador.  Gorbachev.  Khomeini.  

My interest in the rest of the world kept my head off the desk in classes like social studies, geography, and history.  Nonetheless, I was a poor student.  Some teachers humored me, some helped in any way they could.  My folks expected less and less of me as the years went on.  I would rather argue the curriculum than respect their efforts.  All these years later i tell their stories as often as I can.  

Mr. Stefl taught my  8th grade science class the contextual weight of the word ‘bravado’ by telling me I was full of it.  Mr. Seth Gardener, our 8th grade music teacher told the class that the previous music teacher, Mr. Dave Nelson was beaten as child when his father found music from black musicians in their home.  That horrific image provided the class with an idea of how uptight certain Americans were in receipt of the Beatles. 

Those instances are unique, brief moments no one else may even recall.  Imagine my delight when I had an entire school year with a graceful, knowledgable and inspiring classroom presence.

Mrs. Connolly of Haverford Middle School would address every single concern I raised an arm for.  We had maps, globes, pencils, and navigated the world as the United States created it.  In a sixth grade class, i recall being taught the following:

The Shah & Ayatollah, OPEC, Munich Olympics, Russia vs. Mujahideen, Russia keeps everyone miserable because of a German guy’s book, and the practical delineation of shiite and sunni.  When the holocaust was covered, she encouraged children to share what they knew from their families, where applicable.  Through that year, my empathy for others gained a few degrees of perspective.  

When the wall came down and my father began to talk about Checkpoint Charlie, I began to associate my classmates’ stories with the scene on television.  I wanted to stand on that wall and declare myself allegiant to something.  I’ll stand up when I can, where I can.  Not every social change is catalyzed by conflict.  There are moments when a little human outreach is worth any risk.  What else is there to learn about how we defeated all evil and brought peace to the world?

“Where are the native Americans?” (this answer was my first true heartbreak) 
“What happened at the end of WWII?” (we became allies, was all my dad said)
“Why do we give weapons to other countries?” (we help smaller countries become free and armed like the US when the commies come marauding)

Over and over I pestered my dad for answers.  He could not hide from me. There was no Google.  I knew they were not telling us everything in school.  The “look it up, Dear” television commercial for Encyclopedia Britannica had yet to captivate the nation.

Overrun with direct fire from a frenetic kid who must be kept proximal for supervisory purposes, the old man had a tough time enjoying the fall of communism.  
Communism. That word.  Professor, I will tell you this: those masters of mankind took a word which means ‘shared’ and persuaded the butcher, the baker, and the laid off steel worker to associate it with civil forfeiture and endless suffering.
Capitalism was the next subject I would interact with.   Growing up with the Bell Telephone system, it was major news to hear the government order AT&T to break up their holdings.  My father was hired by a company that arose from Bell Atlantic and was amalgamated by Verizon.  Capitalism.  Today, AT&T was approved to purchase Time-Warner.  Capitalism? 

Pops took a union position, and he began an affiliation with IBEW Local 98.  His job was to install new comm lines in buildings from Allentown to Philly.  When inclined, he showed me the world of fiberoptic and high speed communication.  The top of William Penn’s hat was no longer the limit. Philadelphia was a place the whole world knew about and I was eager to reciprocate.

Chugging on through the years like the train in that Ayn Rand opus was my desire to know the difference between the stock market and the lottery.  Wall Street must have Fort Knox deliver money regularly, I believed was the answer to “where does the exponential money come from?”  My dad and his buds could offer this: Shares, shareholders, board of directors, share value, controlling interest.  Nice job fellas, but where is all the extra money which must be on hand for the payout if people line up to cash out??? 

No answer.  

By middle school, i had decided that the stock market and the monetary value assigned to the shares did not exist.  I could not fathom it, but it appeared to me that all of Wall Street was a casino where gambling with someone else’s money was your job.

I was insatiable for rebellion but also context.  I watched the Challenger explode on television and heard stories about Frank Rizzo, the first Cro magnon man to win office.  In high school, the lyrical content from bands such as Public Enemy and Rage Against The Machine familiarized me with Huey Newton, Fred Hampton, Leonard Peltier, Bob Robideau, and Aparthied.  The lack of concern from my fellow citizens troubled me.  Bill Clinton troubled the adults.  
I soon found and inhaled marijuana, wrote poetry to long haired maidens of virtue, and announced distrust of any institution.  I read a book on JFK’s murder, and still could not figure out why people hate communism. Wanting to know if there was a man behind the curtain at the end of every golden road, in the bowels of every glowing city, I began to read more books.

The smart kids I hung around with introduced me to Howard Zinn’s work.  I rebelled and hardly went to class.  I lack foresight, and did not reciprocate the efforts of my teachers or the school.  Upon graduating, I realized I had planned only as far ahead as the end of summer, and working for wages did not appeal to me

I joined the Marines at age 18 in order to immerse myself in this machine.  I wanted organization, training, and travel.  I got all of that. A great perspective builder- two trips around the world with people from all over it. After six years away from Philadelphia, the smart kids were available for a beer one night in early 2004.

I have friends who do not read at all.  Love them just the same.  Discussing everything important to us that night, the four of us wandered into election territory.  When asked which candidates I had looked at, I stated that I would likely not be voting in Presidential elections anymore.  The boys pounced on me and tied me to a swift boat, stabilizing me to receive a message of faith.  Looking at me with all the seriousness and pain from the previous election, they said “do whatever you feel, do as little research as you want, but please vote, they expect people not to show up.  And we want to vote this fucker out”.  I was honored to have received their message.  I offered a response.  
“How can I trust any information at all? How can anyone have said anything of truth or import and not taken a bullet to the head?”  

My friend Ethan explained the impending tragedy of NAFTA to me  in 1994.  Ten years later, he was confident in stating “a guy from MIT has been critiquing presidents and illustrating the economic subterfuge perpetrated across this planet.  Noam Chomsky.  He is from Philly, and he won’t give Israel a break.  Look him up”.

A stand up comic named Bill Hicks said the same thing back then.  He offered his audiences a chance to laugh at something he delivered like a joke yet was calibrated to strike their humanity.  I find Hicks’ performances to be like Infinite Jest: a colorful indictment of the deciders and decisions of this republic and worthy of every gosh darned footnote.  
But I was fresh out of the Marine Corps.  I had not been in combat, yet was present in Afghanistan and came home 100%.  I was not a jar headed conservative, but I rejected John Kerry and the whole darn thing.  I already watched the Supreme Court and State of Florida lock horns with Al Gore to expedite the concession.  I want little to do with the process. I went back to reading novels for laughs, and read Thict Naht Hahn to remind myself that I fell in love with this world once..  Staying as far away as I could from TV news, I began to withdraw from current events due to my understanding of current events.

At times I stayed tuned in to the circus, yet was not ready for the US to be ‘in the wrong’ after we had just been so mercilessly attacked on 9/11 and were out doing the free world a favor.  

Abu Ghraib, Fallujah Ramadi, Richard Reed, Haliburton, WMD, Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse, America’s Next Top Talented Idol, Dixie Chicks, and cage fighting.  What war?  Perhaps some warm bread while you watch the circus?
Bear-Stearns (who cares)
Lehman Brothers (change channel)
Fannie Mac (this is boring!)

And then, I had no place to live.  

I was living with a friend who lost his home and chose to short-sell in 2008, I was close to the flame but unharmed.  I didn’t own property, own shares, have a 401K, nor did vote in 2004, but I felt I had contributed to the market’s macrocycle.  Recovery from the 1929 crash did not begin for the workers of the nation until we developed a war economy.  
Was war going to ‘save’ the economy again?

I kept thinking about the gold which was removed from ground zero and the victims remains taken to a landfill.  I thought about Haliburton and the privatization of combat service support,  a contractor paid $80,000 for six months doing GIs laundry.  How was every person I knew getting a mortgage? There seemed to a be a lot of money going around.
I could not stop thinking about these 20-30 year cycles where our allies and enemies swap roles.  Sadaam Hussein and Iran traded places in their triumvirate with America.  Yasser Arafat used to be Public Enemy #1, and was now a crucial cog to the resolution.  They told me Ted Kennedy was a monster but served his community well.  Lastly, Prescott Bush stashed loot for Fritz Thyssen through Chase bank.  For the first time, I felt the immense reach of the ‘military industrial complex’.  I felt sub-atomic whilst standing in it’s wake.  I was a piece of dust.  Cheyney was a vacuum.  Yasser Arafat was a wanted man, and parlayed that into a peace prize.  We just dismantled and degraded an entire country as a chess move.

Blinking in my mind was a neon sign, inviting me to think critically:
“Does anyone feel they’ve been had?”

I began 2008 with a new job in a new town and ended it by voting for hope and change.  When the soulless commie took office, I  waited for him to drop the regulatory hammer and sickle on Wall Street.  No way this pup of a senator was going to throw mercy on the banks, for the times they are a changin’.  I voted for a guy who is going to rectify some sh*t, like Ross Perot pledged to.  Thinking “I’ll cut him some slack if he rescues a few banks, but if he leaves GITMO open, we know we’ve been had. . .Hooray, it was his first order of business!” I cheered.
I knew nothing.

I did not even know that yet.  After that, I zero’d my entire brain out.  I ditched all associations and went back in time. Arriving at unconscious incompetence, the ground floor of the motor learning period, meant you now know that you don’t know what you don’t know.  

I felt exposed, and that my surroundings were not to be trusted.  Bailouts arrived and the bankers gave themselves bonuses.  This was all a very bad way to realize the climate of the chess match I was in.  We have private combatants overseas and welfare for rich losers at home.  The bicameral congress and system of checks & balances sound like glorious elements of American constitution when you are a child, these days it looked like a web. The empire never ended, Professor.  

Meet the new boss, same as the serf lord.
The Iran nuclear deal
     So many shootings, so many incidents. . .
           American’s response to Benghazi
Eric Holder’s obsession with guns
Anwar Al-Walaki 
Defense budget growing. . .
      Sandy Hook!

The 2016 election: Revenge of the tax paying whites?  

A horrific tale no-one who voted for Secretary Clinton can forget. Democrats were not as strong together in November as they were prior to Debbie Wasserman Schultz’s tectonic exit from the DNC.  All divided and ready to self-identify, the hopeful changers have no leadership, no direction, and all the problems which appeared to belong to the republicans in 2016.  The republicans, often allegiant to the candidate who keeps their tax policy the simplest, have not lifted a finger to beat the democrats.  

Republicans struggle to draft effective legislation, do not pretend to care about anything except fetuses and select war casualties, and we see them surviving nearly any scandal.
Democrats are pliable and sensitive, wearing party -issued blinders and working to codify their tolerant attitudes and distribute the download to all citizens, post haste.  Even when both major parties were offering the least palatable future, America managed to break the Bush/Attorney/Bush/Attorney pattern only to elect the head clown at the circus.

New tent, same circus? 

As I write this, Trump has returned to the US from Singapore. 

Is this a new circus?

Donald Trump was a bad-guy on TV wrestling.  Donald Trump has factually created jobs through his hospitality business.  Donald Trump is a stooge for a military coup and this country is now being run by a Junta.  I have lost sight of the standard operators in this administration.  I can not commit the chain of command to memory in this case.  It appears as though they are turning the soil over on as much Obama-admin stuff as they can.  The isolation of the US from our traditional allies is not the “reduced activity overseas” that I have been hoping for.  The men who are deconstructing our allegiances and “reducing government” do so as maneuvers to fatten the bottom line.  The grand distraction continues to burn like Centralia PA, whilst one side of the aisle gets everything they want.  I am depressed and almost immobilized by despair.  I saw greed and fear and xenophobia propel a TV clown to the White House like a golden ticket.  

I understand that there are many people who, when Obama was elected, were disappointed in the American people.  Those folks would ask “How can you vote for a guy who is a socialist?”  “How can you vote for a guy with no experience?”  “How can you vote for a democrat, you are a veteran?”
For many, many years I’ve loved humanity and spoke against our institutions.  Asking people, gently, to not make racial or rape jokes around me.  Sometimes, people wanted to know ‘why?’, sometimes, people altered their behavior.  Without holding signs or assembling in the streets, I have provided people with perspective.  Without being a preacher or a terrorist, I’ve helped people understand the definition and trappings of ethnocentrism.  Mrs. Connolly taught us that word in 6th grade.  She told us it is defined by judging people from other countries and their customs by your own standards.  

I call it limited perspective.  

Thank you, professor, for using your critical thought process and constructing a career as an activist and author. 
Thank you for stating repeatedly that much of what you detail for us, your audience are not government secrets, further stating that such information, though suppressed, is not locked away in the Pentagon. 

Thank you for encouraging us to refine our search protocol and to seek information that is not sponsored content, or paid news.

Thank you for reminding the youth they have energy, opportunity, and responsibility all at the same time, even if they do not know it.  You inspire them without sounding like chicken little.  Thank you for not abandoning that post.
Thank you for being my biggest influence’s biggest influence.  Bill Hicks was the first person to speak your name to my ears.  Like Hicks, I am a rock n’ roll rebel with inflammatory outbursts that can degrade and negate the substance of my message.   

“Why are WE ALL not so angry at this?”  I would say.  “How can I illustrate their comfort levels here at home being directly correspondent to economic subjugation and prolonged suffering overseas?”  It appeared that no one cared what happened overseas.  

So, I will start at home.

Thank you for being the port in the storm.  I have not forgotten that this country must still work toward the stated ideals, so they apply to all who are here, and who want to come here.

Thank you for reminding us that irrespective of party, faith, color, sex, national origin or military status, our leaders can and will lie, using a language they craft to herd and pacify us.
Thank you for your availability.  Thank you for teaching undergrads again.  Thank you on behalf of all the people I may have informed.

Thank you for answering the call.  You felt it early, it seems.  Franco bulldozing through Spain got a young Philadelphian putting a pen to paper.  Auspicious beginning to an immortal career.

Thank you for walking the line.
Most sincerely,

Will Hicks

Thursday, August 16, 2018


carta de via
the treaty of the street

The treaty of the street is preserved 

through keeping it right rather than keeping it white

handshake deals conjoin open palms

broken treaties ball the fists of the cheated

misled in the duty to procure for tribe

 the cost of deceit rewards the steward wisdom

when they seek not vengeance 

but another open palm

through the tao

efficiency in adapting to your host
adapting to negotiations which require your ability to procure a need for the tribe
yielding to the tao the very moment you feel domain over it

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

On heroin

-on medicine as domain and Heroin as limit of advance in the steward’s navigation of the host

Statement on the domain man exercises over resources* and wisdom**

Refinement of a resource to meet the acute or chronic corporeal need of a guest is a trade route, of sorts, where the host’s might and the guest’s wisdom preserve*** the health of their exchange when the guest is nourishing itself interdependent to the host’s fertilization.

For those who exalt, in the highest, the name of the lord, this is where I ask your help in referring to this as God’s providence or provenance?

 a “triumvirate of steward, host, and domain”?

Heroin is a terrifying vice yet also proof that earth provides raw materials for nearly all medicinal  application: in this case the relief of corporeal suffering.  Also, the facilitation of accelerated suffering through addiction. 

yields which require manual renewal (agriculture, domain) 

efficiency in adapting to your host, conserving your waste and your constitution 


fulfillment of the fragile state of interdependence 


My brother from many previous lives is employed as a recovery counseling worker, can not comment publickly, but here is what went down with my friend "Ricardo".

I can’t comment on your blog post? On heroin? Wtf are you saying?

i am saying that the Earth and humanity are a closed system: the planet provides us the raw material to provide pain relief in the presence of real corporeal suffering.  Proof that humans have a host which can assuage much of the pain a body experiences through natural illness.  Also, the ability to refine poppies into heroin is mastery over agriculture, and thew ultimate fine line between stewardship of fellow citizen, and self destruction.  That’s why I ask the Christians: is this providence, or provenance?  I titled it On Heroin because they are my thoughts on heroin.  Not whilst “on” heroin!
Chomsky has a few books titled “On ______”
So I co-opted (stole) that.