Literature's Next Frontier


Flamingo

NON-FICTION:

Humans and Sadists

by huh? Quill-red

Humans and Sadists

 

A sadist needs to be around people who have flaws he can condemn. He wants to see what is wrong with people. He may get away with it for most of a lifetime because many people can’t identify sadism and because there are willing victims. A sadist can see himself as a helper, even a crusader. If he can diagnose people’s weaknesses well, or if he can theorize well in speech or writing he will “get people to see what he is talking about” and he may be respected for his insights. He may be fine saying that beneath the shameful corruptions he sees people are beautiful.

It’s true that people have flaws… but many of the “fallen” still channel the energy of their spirit regularly.

The sadist is uncomfortable around pure output: there is no ugliness he can point to… spontaneous play not only gives him nothing of the person to criticize, it gives him nothing of them to analyze and categorize. They aren’t saying “who they are” or “what they believe”. They’re not saying “this is what I’m good at, these are my strengths, these are my weaknesses, here is my dark side, this is what I like, this is what I dislike, here is my background, I’m this type of guy.” This is not ok: if someone won’t define themselves, and if what they are doing is too free then the sadist has a problem.

It’s ok if a person doesn’t reveal their sore spot: a sadist can still reinforce that person’s programming with lifeless “pleasant conversation”. But if the target is actively creating and won’t adjust to meet the sadist on his level then the sadist is afraid.

A sadist can give a marvelous description of a flaw. He can say how damaging the flaw is and how much better life would be without it… but this is only a hypothesis… in truth he is afraid of a person who is actually happy: a person living in the state beyond the fight against pain. The sadist’s coursework never goes past the death of weakness. It never spells out a purpose one can have except the fight against evil. If he dared to try imagining a life beyond the fight he’d come up with very little. He might throw the blame to the world and remind himself that one who becomes pure is still living a restricted life in a corrupt society but the fact is he can’t imagine living a good life without perpetual angst  –  and when he sees it being done he is uneasy. He wants that person to come down, feel some shame, get himself arrested perhaps, analyze or criticize or define himself somehow… anything but never stop moving. THOU SHALL SAY “THIS IS HOW I DO” BEFORE AND AFTER ALL THINE DOINGS.

And if a sadist meets a person who is without the fear he lives by he won’t feel joy; he will feel terror more intense than what he would feel if he were trapped on a sinking ship.

 

Healing happens sometimes when I win a battle, but really it happens when I am engrossed enough in what I am doing that I forget to be a sadist to myself: I stop reminding myself of my problems, my worries, my pictures of what I will do… and I exist and am conscious without remembering my past or fantasizing my future or wishing I was better than I am now. Likewise with friendship: let’s stop trying to diagnose each other’s hangups and start discovering what we lost when we all got hung up.

Health is very close. Making it default in the face of fear and programming is probably not easy. Maybe it requires nothing more than being free enough to forget often… but I doubt it. When I break through, the reality of the collective world is altered only somewhat. Doors open in my personal life but the world stage is still there. I can’t exist as if things that are real don’t affect me. A taboo cannot be a prescription for health. A taboo is a lie. Lying to another may or may not be evil: it depends on the circumstance and the motive. Lying to oneself is like drinking poison. Human action is too complex to ever grasp entirely, even when you fundamentally trust your methods of introspection and your memories… but decide to lie to yourself on a whim and you’re on the brink of infinite suffering. One second you’re fine… then: “Oh my God, I remember some of the first ones, but after that I might not have kept strict record. I was trying to feel better. Did I change something and forget that I changed it? Did I “fix” something and tell myself not to remember the fix… or the way it was before?!”

You can get to hell from any point in the universe in 3 seconds flat by lying to yourself.

 

I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY. TO BE HAPPY YOU MUST WALK A PATH OF YOUR OWN. IF YOUR VISION OF YOUR FUTURE MUST BE “NORMAL” BEFORE IT MUST BE INSPIRING, OR IF YOU ARE GIVING SOMEONE ELSE ANY AMOUNT OF AUTHORITY OVER YOUR PATH YOU ARE THROWING AWAY YOUR SOUL.

YOU CAN CHOOSE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG. YOU CANNOT CHOOSE WRONG BUT DECIDE YOU’LL RETAIN THE MIND, BODY AND SPIRIT OF A MAN WHO IS DEFINED BY HIS WILL.

A BOY DECIDED ONCE TO GIVE IN TO HIS FEAR OF THE FOOLISH JUDGEMENT OF OTHERS. HE MADE A WRONG CHOICE KNOWING IT WAS WRONG. HE TOLD A LIE TO HIMSELF THAT NO ONE ELSE COULD HAVE BELIEVED TO MAKE HIS ACTION APPEAR TO BE DIFFERENT THAN IT ACTUALLY WAS. NOT A SOUL COULDN’T SEE WHAT WAS REALLY THERE, AND HE DIDN’T ACTUALLY FOOL HIMSELF.

HE WISHED THROUGH THE WHOLE THING THAT HE COULD FACE THE DECISION UNMOLESTED BY FEAR. HE WISHED HE COULD FACE THE CHOICE WHERE THE OTHER BOYS COULDN’T SEE. HE WISHED POINTLESSLY FOR PLEASANTRIES OF CIRCUMSTANCE THAT WEREN’T THERE AND FAILED THE CHALLENGE KNOWING CONSCIOUSLY THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS ACTION.

The boy was me in 3rd grade. I can change nothing. I regret nothing. I am what I am. I am the man who made the wrong choice. I know the fear  –  and I know the lack of self-esteem, maybe the lack of awakeness, that let it become so monstrous.

The fear was very powerful. What I did when I obeyed it was bizarre in its strategic worthlessness. I lied to myself and anyone viewing… but no one watching would have been duped… if any of the scary boys were even paying attention. I knew the nature and significance of the choice and the consequences of each action. If I did right in spite of the fear I would suffer a very brief escalation between my choice and my action, then the fear would die off and be replaced by confidence and elation.

The boy who gave in gave away a piece of himself and institutionalized the fear.

Why did I do it?

  1. I’m a coward
  2. Sometime, before the choice, I was taught that it is better to be weak than to be strong. Why? Out of respect for the weak? Who will they look up to?
  3. Despite all my awareness, some inner weakness allowed me to try to get away with giving in yet not suffering the consequences

Maybe I was weak in a way where I wagered that the consequences of my lie couldn’t be as real as my body. Like I didn’t know that life is not a game. Like “no way“ the event was totally real in its invisible significance. Moments are your playtoys, not your master.

How would I have got like this?

Because my parents never disciplined me?

No. Because I was only ever disciplined by my parents and school teachers: never by nature.

I was not a teacher’s pet: I was in trouble all the time at school and I was typically disobedient at home too.

But when I was “breaking rules” I wasn’t acting evil… usually. Usually I was just doing what I wanted to do despite an adult’s orders to do otherwise. One reason is that I wanted to. Another reason, which is something I still believe, and which I believe already in my earliest memories, is that when a person of authority tells you what to do they typically do not have a good reason for their order. Sometimes they do… it’s not as rare as a four leaf clover… but the standard is that they don’t. They may have a sensible line, such as, “you have to come in now because recess is over and all the other children are coming in and class will resume and the teacher can’t waste the whole class’s time reteaching something you missed.” Logical… well explained… but it’s merely a detail within a framework where adults are telling you what to do…

So question that framework: “why do I have to go to school?”

“The education is valuable to you, and since you do not know what all you need to learn you are unequipped to order your own education. Also, the teacher is there to answer questions. Also you have to: by law.”

Excepting that last thing, that is a rational explanation that actually gives me a reason to attend school. And then… no successful persuasion that a course I am forced to take is beneficial to me will leave me ok with the force thing. Force is real. Force keeps people in prisons; it keeps children in schools and in their homes regardless of their will. (Until the same government that prevented them from leaving home on their own will forces them to leave with or without their consent.)

So I’m in a life where authority figures are usually telling me what to do. Sometimes they are telling me what is best for me… but that’s uncommon… and when you learn to dissect an order upon hearing it you see that behind a sensible sounding reason there is just another unjustified order… and where there’s an order you can almost assume without checking that there is, behind that order, the threat that you will be physically forced if you try to refuse. And since you cannot actually force someone to do anything much beyond have their body in a certain place… since you have to use intimidation to make someone do almost anything… those who disobey are punished.

Punishment comes in various forms. The method to break a rebel which is institutionalized in our society is confine and deprive. Some Native American Tribes practiced torture and mutilation of their enemies and sometimes extended this practice to whites: not just to grown soldiers captured in the heat of battle, but also to innocent white children they captured from settlements. Torture was not always a prelude to death. Sometimes it went on, and on, and on, for years. Whites were rightly appalled. But in the opinions recorded, in the records left by the last generations of these people as they were, you find the same loathing, the same moral contempt, the scorn and near disbelief at the savage, inhuman practice that whites had of taking those deemed wrong by society and putting them in a cage for long periods of time with nothing to do.

And I was trying to tell how maybe my life had created a boy who couldn’t quite buy the unbending ruthlessness of inevitable consequence. Of course the guilt is mine regardless. So 99% of the time someone is telling me to do something there is a threat of physical coercion to back up the order. Which means that if you rebel they’ll threaten you with consequences (things they will do to you if you don’t obey, not cause-and-effect) and if you hold out beyond all threats some parents still practice the old ways but in my life punishment meant losing “privileges” (which were anything I did that I enjoyed) or sitting in “time-out” (which meant I sat in a certain chair facing the wall and didn’t say or do anything). Like a retarded dog that can’t stop trying to chomp the cookie, I’d asked, “Can I get up now?” compulsively even though my parents assured me it only got me more time. Then one time-out I decided to use my brain – I sat silent… and those fuckers left me sitting there for half a day. They were bustling around doing this and that in the same room as me nearly the whole time. I call it. I moisten my lips, “Can I get up now?” And mom was like “Oh. Whoa. Yes you may get up now; Jesus Christ it’s been hours.”

Nature is different. “Nature to be commanded must be obeyed.” Authority also “must be obeyed” but there is no bright side, there is no reward to obeying authority. Sometimes your orders are good and sometimes they are tolerable and sometimes they are torture. And authority insists you obey regardless.

A 22⁰ night in the wilderness with improper gear and an exhausted body is dangerous, and you can take whatever action you can come up with to increase your warmth and survive the night. Whatever you can think of: nature will never reach out and give your wrist a menacing little slap and say “nope… not that way… you believe that that action will help you save yourself… and it is ok that you believe that…but you may not try it.” “Why?” “Because I say so and I’m the boss.” Nature is the boss, but nature doesn’t grant you favor or malice. It’s a necessity for a man to test himself in all sorts of ways, and dealing with the world as it is, which means dealing with people as they are, is not off my list. But I like nature better: the only fear that is valid there is the fear of injurious damage to your body. It’s rational, it isn’t mental illness and it doesn’t come to mind until there is a reason for it too.

Like… if the pack of coyotes you heard far away seems to be coming closer.

Like… a sharp pain on your ankle and you see a certain snake slithering away and you realize you will be more paralyzed than functional within 1½ minutes.

Or what if that snake bit and just after you became sure that that pack of coyotes is interested in you? That would be really bad! You’d almost think there was a conspiracy going on among the animals. But not the way you’d know there was a conspiracy when you crossed an authority figure in society. Then you’d know that nomatter what you were not up against any one man or any group of men but against millions who – despite endless infighting – are resolute in their vow to hold power, and to punish those who dare stand up to their authority: they are less perturbed if their reasons for the specific orders they give are challenged, or if their fairness in uniform enforcement is doubted – but challenge their right to control you and you will be hurt, caged, deprived of money and property which you didn’t steal and which they are taking for themselves without even pretending there is an injured party, aka a victim of your wrongdoing.

And it would still be wrong, but so much less evil, if, whenever you are given an order, you could ask “why” and receive an answer. But that is not something you can expect: try to train all the righteousness out of your voice: you can’t: the question itself is too righteous. You are asking the question assuming that the control-freaks are focused on their agenda: creating Framework A for the school children and modifying Framework B for the business owner. The specific plans are how they waste their hours and the hours of their victims whom they legislate to death. But the motive is control, and more control, and the truth is that most controllers do not have good reasons for the orders they give. The main reason is that they like the power. The more they diminish you the more power they seem to have, so giving a reason doesn’t feel right. They are sadists who want to be as high above you as they can be. And so… “You don’t need to know the reason; what you need to do is what I tell you to do.”

I’m not perfectly in control of my emotions… but I am light-years away from “admitting” that all my anger, my hate, and the growing self-identification that I am at war… I am not going to “admit” that I’m really just mentally ill and dealing with some issues.

There is evil that can be done to you, even if you live without fear of the foolish judgments of others, and I don’t mean by a lone rouge criminal but by the judicial system and the police and the mental health system (a branch of the prison system) and by any worthless snoop who reports your nonviolent activities to the proper authorities.

You do not have to do anything violent to be declared insane. Ben “found himself” and then found himself locked up for it… not because he was violent or accused of violence but because he refused to properly answer questions from police, then judges, then psychiatric evaluators: “What is your name?” “What year do you think this is?” “What year were you born?” He goofed off, he acted himself into the role of “insane”, and the focused concern of the evaluators was flat out bizarre to him because he’d chosen to live without the poison and he transcended so well that he couldn’t quite remember how the sadists functioned. It was awfully silly to him that seemingly fit and properly formed men would wake up at 5am, shave, dress, caffeinate, and, after practicing such discipline, would find their way to a barren room where they sat sober, grave, and attentive to his every word, when he was never a threat to them and didn’t even ever appear to be.

Ben was mistaken… and this is why I don’t just drop my identity as a warrior against evil and be happy to the point where I incessantly forget knowledge of the world I’ve lived in. Ben abandoned the fear of other’s foolish judgment totally, and he didn’t want to corrupt his new holiness with what seemed like old evil, but he forgot that the fear of shame and the fear of physical harm are not the same thing, and he IS a threat to a political structure that is based on authority and the psychic structure beneath it that is based on fear. He felt free; he was truly happy for four days there. And now some guy with a piece of paper is telling him that he will be up for reevaluation in 6 months and that that time must be spent in bla bla State mental institution.

Very sad; very real.

I’ve often heard the question “Is it moral to use violence in self-defense?”

Less often have I heard the parallel question “Is it moral to lie in self-defense?”

My answer: the good people in this world need to know that it is only the evil within themselves that they must refute. It is not then that you are supposed to “be yourself” in front of the nearest Nazi.

It’s no hypothetical question. You are going to need to lie in many of the same situations in which you needed to lie before. You never had to lie to yourself; but when you lied to others wasn’t real self-protection sometimes involved?

In order to justify lying, do you need to know – when dealing with a certain person in a certain situation – that there is a risk of physical damage to your body and not just an emotional push towards shame? No. It’s always better to understand the situation, but no. The person who “only” wants to cripple you psychically is evil as shit for it and your new mission as a healthy being is to deal with such people in the way that is best for you.

You are not supposed to listen to sadists’ attempts and you are not supposed to ‘hide nothing’ from them. A person doing so is either still drawn towards the abusive energy connections of Sadists or he is trying to prove to himself that God loves him now and He will save him even when he throws himself at the mercy of danger he is finally equipped to avoid. This is not a good idea. God didn’t give you a brain so that you could not use it.

Now clear your mind of Sadist stuff… mostly. You need to let go… as much as possible.

Or ignore this sourpuss: run down the street with your shirt off declaring world peace, knowing without a doubt that every person who hears you is your guardian and feels what you feel.

They are sharing your joy: in the deep uncorrupted regions of their souls they truly are… but on the surface the sadists are calling the cops. When you heal your mind you open up parts of existence that were not yours to enter before, but you don’t completely transcend evil society in this life.

So, how to handle sadists? Now that you are not adding confusion and complexity to an already complex world, sadists are simply an element of nature. When you’re not in default membership in the net of fear sadists are people of harmful intention and it’s not a big metaphysical confusion anymore.

You will want to relate to people around you as if they are not evil parasites, and this is not impossible sometimes. But you should keep your protection, out of love for yourself, every time. Never throw it away for a whisper of a chance of love and understanding. Someone who looks inches away from a breakthrough IS inches away from it. So were you… for how many years? I do not feel inspiring warning away like this but ‘a feeling of loss’ is nothing compared to a jail sentence or a taste of involuntary mental-health treatment.

 

So… my mother was very protective of me in my childhood. I probably never experienced a survival challenge. The only “you shoulds” I ever heard came from authority figures, and I had diagnosed them and condemned them, and I knew the only reason “I should” do something that I was disinclined to do was to avoid their punishment. Then I was 9 and I was influenced very strongly by the invisible pressure to conform, and Fear patrolled the line between appeasement and selfhood.

The choice I failed was the first significant moral choice I ever made. Moral choices are right or wrong by human nature and are comprehensible and solid in a way that choices one makes when dealing with authority figures never are. Again, it was all my choice and it’s all my fault, but I don’t understand why I wasn’t up to doing right, and it’s possible that a little life experience with the fact of my mortality would have helped: not “breath in your fears Bruce” nightmare-busting war-games or anything so marvelous…  but maybe a day of my life spent alone in the woods with nobody knowing where I was, so, if some sound frightened me, I’d realize that if it was a threat I would have to face it by myself.

 

And what is it that sadists do not want you to do? Face things yourself. Because if you can face things yourself you don’t need other people for survival you want them for pleasure. Humans want to be wanted but not needed; sadists want to be needed but not wanted.

When humans rule you get freedom. Why? Because you can handle it.

When sadists rule you get mandates. Why? Because you need them. You’re not worthy.

 

Today in America

You need to send your children to certain schools to learn certain things. You’re incompetent to decide what they need to learn or how to teach them. P.S. Your kids are likewise incompetent to choose the direction of their education until they are 18.

You need certain treatment/medicine for your illnesses. Only what we allow: you might hurt your dumb self otherwise. We are competent to do the research and make the judgments; you are not. P.S. You need health insurance. You may not want to pay for it but if you got badly sick or injured you would lose more money on medical bills. You’re not competent to wager on the odds as you see them.

You may not do drugs for pleasure. You may do certain drugs (with special permission) if and only if you need them for alleviation of a malaise.

You must build your dwelling according to our building codes. If we let you just build what you wanted shit might not work or the house might fall down.

 

The individual is being protected from reality. Of course he might hurt his dumb self without the safety nets, but what horrifies me is the emaciated, scarless, disconnected products of the mentality that worships safety over wisdom. One who has obeyed instructions – instructions which he did not discover or choose – instead of learning by success and error is not a human but merely a masochist. A human is conditioned to live on earth; a masochist can only operate within the sadist’s framework.

Humans don’t tell other humans how to live. I’m at odds with the morals of the voting public for, above all else, the sentencing or fining of people who have, by any proper evaluation, committed no crime. A “crime” requires an injured party.

Who is the injured party when you educate your children how you see fit? Your children might be.

Who is the injured party when you choose an unpermitted medical treatment? You might be.

Who is the injured party when you get high? You or others might be.

Who is the injured party when you build your own house? You, your family, and/or any guests might be.

Who is the injured party when Ben sings Yankee Doodle when asked what year he was born? The people he may do harm to in the future? So, no one yet, but there’s a victim hypothetically possibly? Sadists do not fear physical harm to their bodies; they fear independent humans who refuse the fear-shame energy connection. It took 9/11 to get America to swallow “preventative war” against Iraq but all it takes to declare preventative war against Ben is the fear that he won’t stop goofing off, and won’t feel stupid or sinful doing what is only harmless play.

Ben could have done better for himself without coming down from cloud 9. He ought to have put on his ‘normal fellow’ mask instead of his clown mask. It’s only a mask.

My friend John also fell head-over-heals-in-love with what he was doing and fought the monster head-on when he should have camouflaged today and lived free tomorrow.

John bought 40 acres of land in a very rural area. He camped out, living out of a big tent with a shanty carport next to it. His plan was to live out of this setup while working on the real structure. But the state or county code inspectors somehow got wind that some antisocial renegade was living on his own property and doing things without asking first.

 

In the first half of America’s history, a building-code inspector showing up at the site of the construction of a rural, private dwelling would be unheard of. And the greeting he received would not be from a meek, obedient victim; it wouldn’t even be from a man who had any interest in compromise. Semblance of such virtue is still found in the more “backwards” counties of this nation. Back in the day, a bureaucrat who showed up on private property would be greeted the moment he was seen and asked his business. If there was a party who had to work his way past some fear at this point it was the better dressed one.

Imagine if the inspector told the homesteader that a new law had been passed and that all new residences in the state had to meet a certain checklist of criteria and that residences under construction are to be exempted unless it is the observation of the visiting inspector that “progress on the dwelling had not at the time of initial inspection progressed to an extent or in a way that modification to conform to new standards would place undue hardship on the prospective residents”. And the inspector tells the man that it is his estimation that the work done so far is such that modification would not be much of a burden at all…

The builder will have seen that this man has bathed recently and that he has a thin gold chain dangling from his front pocket where a gold pocket watch presumably resides… and he will realize that this man is on a government salary.

There are many possible futures here, but I like the one where the inspector gets shot without a further word.

 

The property boundary is not a perimeter within which an owner can do absolutely anything: if he acts within and his action harms someone else then there is an injured party. But who is the injured party if a rule is broken but no human is injured?! Look at the heading on the case of a building code violation: The State of California vs. Guy Who Builds His Own Way. It’s a sham. Sadist control-freaks want Guy’s money and don’t want him to succeed unless he’s indebted to their directive control.

 

John, who is on his own 40 acres of land which he bought 2 weeks ago, is working on excavating and grading to prepare the land for the foundation of a small house. He bought the land fair and square with the majority of his savings plus that much again in borrowed money. The loan is through an associate, not a bank; the interest is steep, but the monthly payments are low. He had $2000 savings left when the land became his.

Excavating with a shovel and a hoe would have worked if the soil stayed soft, but when it became rocky 6” down he realized it wasn’t going to happen here with hand tools… he’d have to rent a miniature bulldozer, skid-steer loader… whatever was right… he’d never done these things before… he’d ask questions at the hardware store. He’d probably get a funny look there: “I’m going to dig for a foundation for my new house. What tool should I use?”… ya… probably he’d say “a shed next to my house”

Then he realizes that the tiny heavy equipment he’d be looking at renting would not handle what was probably damn near solid rock another 6” down.

The next day at 1:00pm John is driving a minidozer moving dirt around in a different location. The plans he had for the 1st spot are out, and the new plans for a new spot which he drew out last night are in. He staked out the spot, and then he was off to town to rent a machine he knew nothing about except that it’s used for grading. The spot he picked is somewhat of a flat, low spot; it’s not like it’s a crevice he’s going to build in, but as he uses his toy he sees that in a heavy rain there will be a lot of water coming down that slope, and it will largely end up here and if it rains hard and the ground gets saturated this spot could be a puddle. He decides that he’s doing a task and he will worry about the next one next. Then he forces himself to stop, turn off the machine, sit still and think through a solution to the drainage problem so as to be sure he doesn’t need to modify the shape or location of the foundation. He is sure right away. But he focuses, relaxes, mentally reviews the solution… and is still sure. He starts the minidozer and resumes…

Now it is obvious that John is severely mentally ill. The California State Building Code Inspectors are going to pay John a visit and stop this madness. There is more than a little something wrong with a man who just “goes out and builds a house” – as if the building professions are trying to keep him down. He has no experience in construction of any kind. His “house” is going to have no electricity. What’s he going to use for lighting at night?

“He says ‘a cliplight’ which is this thing you use to read a book. You clip it on and the neck swivels so you can point the light at the page. He said ‘that was for starters’”

“Except that he has no house yet.”

“Right. And I wanted to talk to him some more and he said he didn’t want to talk to me, got kind of emotional, walked off and sat by himself; and then he walked back. Karen was there taking photos. He comes up to me and says, “Could I talk to you in private for a minute?” And I look at Karen and she just shrugs and I say “ok” and we walk off a few paces and I say “Stop. What do you want to talk to me about?” And I hadn’t actually looked at his eyes until right then and he looked… just… off.”

“Ready to wring your neck?”

“At least. He never really looks at me. He says, “I’ll give you $700 if you let this go”

“Whoa”

“I said, ‘you just committed a felony, and whether or not I want to report you I have to because I get to lose my job if I don’t.’”

“Yep.”

“So I call up the sheriff and I tell him what happened and he shows up and arrests him.”

“How’d you end up there in the first place?”

“CHP chopper called it in. He didn’t know if it was a problem or not but he thought maybe the guy was prospecting on someone else’s property. So we cruise up there and we finally find dude and I scream at him until he hears me, and he looks up like “oh… people” and I make a motion for him to turn off the machine. And I ask him, “Are you the owner of this property?” He says, “Yes.” I ask, “Do you have a building permit?” He takes about 3 seconds… “No.” “Do you have a perc and mantle?” “No.” “Do you have anything?” He says “I have a title.”

“ha ha ha ha”

“I say ‘ok, there’s a problem here’. And as I’m going over it with him I look at the landscape where he was digging and basically all the water that comes down this whole hillside ends up right there, so rain and snowmelt would have done him in there anyway.”

John got a one year prison sentence. His land went to his creditor, who sold it. He lost all his possessions to weather and looters. As he slept, the hardware store prepared paperwork for a $20,000 suit against him for their lost machine. He had no meaningful conversation with anyone for a year. He was raped only once and he contracted HIV. He never had sex again, except once with a whore when he was near blackout drunk.

Anyone who thinks John deserves it because he ignored the rules and tried to bribe a government agent deserves death.

Notice how John and Ben committed the same crime? They fell in love with what they were doing. That is what healing is… and the injured party is every miserable sadist who needed company.

 

“Blame the other” thinking gets us to: “John and Ben were victims of sadists. Sadists are bad and we should hate them.” Nobody alive has never been abused, and nobody who’s been abused fails to seethe over their grievances… but what separates the men from the boys (and the humans from the sadists) is how fast and how honestly one gets off analyzing others’ injustices and onto diagnosing self’s vulnerability… and then onto modifying self to be less vulnerable… and then off war-thought and back to living the good life, only with better protective-mechanisms in place for the next round. It’s all just evolution.

John and Ben were also victims of themselves. Naivety was a major weakness for both of them: spiritually/socially they were virgins: the cloud 9 exaltation they possess when they’re introduced herein is in contrast to lives they lived like shadows. Then they broke through momentarily, and they acted like they were invincible, when in fact they were merely healthy. In a terribly significant way they were still sadists themselves. Ben needed other people to see that he wasn’t afraid of them; he was showing off how he couldn’t be made to bow. He needed attention. John knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that offering that man $700 was a poor tactic if he wanted to keep his land and his freedom. What made him try the bribe? $700 was ALL he had. He was passionate about his project like he’d never been about anything, and he felt that by offering everything he would display that passion to the other man who would sympathize. The desire for recognition is very close to the desire for brotherhood… and John wanted to be seen as he was just as badly as he wanted to build his house. John and Ben needed love and respect. They sought it from those least likely to give it because they didn’t truly love and respect themselves. They drew their antagonists into their private realities. They were playing the sadists’ game the whole time; they were addicted to the conflict. They knew no other existence. They refused to wear their masks precisely when they would have gained by wearing them.

People become sadists when they dwell in victimhood. People become humans when they see themselves. Humans blame themselves. “Don’t get mad; get even.” Getting even doesn’t mean doing harm equivalent to the harm that was done to you. It means getting back what was taken from you: serenity, confidence, joy, wealth, power.

“Power” to a sadist means “power over other people.”

To a human it means “power over oneself; and the power to keep others from having power over oneself”

 

I’ve been a sadist in this life. I’m not an outside observer. I lived it to know it. I’ve been a human too. I talk more here about what sadists do than about what humans do, and that hints that I’m still too involved, but I lived it to know it to write it down, so of course I had to be close to it. People don’t need an explanation of how to be human. Humans find it. Also, this is an essay intended for distribution, so narcs could read it. Besides my friends who share my adventures, other people don’t need to know what I do.

 

By Wesley Leonard   ©2014

 


Posted on: December 19 2014

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POETRY:

A Ride

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 17 2014

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POETRY:

Reunited

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 17 2014

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POETRY:

Friend

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 17 2014

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POETRY:

Hallway

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 17 2014

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NON-FICTION:

Burning Lady

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 17 2014

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POETRY:

The Shovel

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

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Posted on: December 16 2014

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POETRY:

Was I Born....

by Anthony Perkins Quill-red

Was I born to be sad and lonely?

Was it ordained by those above?

To be unhappy forever unceasing,

with a life that’s void of love.

 

You can count your friends by dozens.

You can sing your joyous refrain.

Embrace your life of pleasure,

which is not like my life of pain.

 

Go count your life of fortunes.

Go now without delay.

For heaven has smiled upon you,

If you’re not like me today.

 

Don’t take your life for granted.

Don’t ever make that mistake.

My life with all its sorrow,

Still is not one I can take.

 

Was I born to be sad and lonely?

Was it ordained by those above?

To be unhappy forever unceasing,

with a life that’s void of love.

 

 


Posted on: December 16 2014

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FICTION:

The Night a Mountain Fell.

by judylady2000 Quill-red

 


It’s a warm summer night near the Madison River. The canyon you’re in was a bright green, the indigenous trees swaying softly in the slight breeze. The Madison River was a bright blue, with the occasional Rainbow Trout jumping out and catching a fly in its mouth. You’re currently sleeping in an undersized tent in Rock Creek Campground with thirty or so other campers. It was August 17, 1959. It was nearing September faster than some had anticipated, and being that Montana tended to be a hot spot for vacationers, they didn’t want to be here when the snow started to fall, because when the snow starts to fall, it doesn’t seem to stop until April or May. So, all of the vacationers wanted to get in one more camping trip, fishing trip, or hunting trip before it got too cold or started to snow. (Well, everyone except the locals. They were use to the snow.)

After enjoying a warm meal of trout you caught a few hours earlier, you decided it was time to turn in for the night. Around you, you hear the other campers laughing and conversing. You silently wish that you had brought a friend along. Although you enjoy being out in nature by yourself, it was nice to have a friend with you sometimes. After a few seconds of hearing everyone, you decided that it really was time to go to bed. You go to your campsite and crawl in, falling asleep almost instantly.

Around 11:37 P.M. sudden loud noises wake you up from your deep sleep. Groggily, you look around, trying to gain your bearings. It takes you a second to remember that you’re in a tent camping. In your defense, though, it was hard to figure out where you were due to the darkness… oh, and the constant movement of the ground, which in turn made your tent more mobile than it was supposed to be. Suddenly, it hits you. You’re in an earthquake! Having never been in one, you attempt to stand and get out but the tent (and ground) is thrashing so wildly you can’t.

You don’t know this yet, but the earthquake will trigger a landslide. You don’t know this yet, but the landslide will dam the Madison river. You don’t know this yet, but the landslide kills twenty-eight people. You don’t know this yet, but you’ll be one of the twenty-eight.

Suddenly, the ground stops shaking. Slowly, you stand up, stumbling a bit because your legs feel like jelly. After you think you’re safe, you hear a growl-like sound coming from… well, everywhere. Thunder? You instantly think, but shake your head. You had checked the weather before you left, and it had said that it was only supposed to be warm, not getting over eighty degrees. Abruptly, the ground starts to rumble again and you instantly think: the quake isn’t over?!

Thinking fast, you jump out of the tent before the ground traps you in it again. Looking around, you see that some of the beautiful forestry had been uprooted. It was messy! The river looked like it could possibly heave out a tsunami. Being that it was nearly pitch black out, you couldn’t have noticed the enormous scarps around the campground. You look around, thinking that being under a tree would be the safest. (Remember, you’ve never been in an earthquake, so you don’t really know what to do.) You run towards one, a Ponderosa pine, (the state tree, you randomly remember) but see something out of the corner of your eye. Without thinking, you turn towards it and freeze. All you see is a wall of black before it enfulges you, killing you almost instantly. The dark enters your nose, ears, and any other openings in your body before it snaps your neck from the weight of it. A second before the sickening crack of your neck, you find out that the dark isn’t just dark. It was earth.

The earthquake itself was up to a magnitude of 7.5 on the Richter Scale. After the earthquake hit, there were aftershocks up to a magnitude of 6.5. The landslide you’re currently buried under was the most devastating result of the earthquake. The landslide was also half of a mountain. Due to the landslide, it dammed the river and made what is now known today as Quake Lake. Quake lake is one hundred and ninety feet deep and six miles long. The earthquake hit at 11:37 P.M.; you died at 11:39 P.M.

This is dedicated to all who died or had loved ones die due to the devastating earthquake that hit on August 17, 1959 at 11:37 P.M. near the Madison River in Montana.


Resources

No specific author. UUSS. N/A. N/A. University of Utah Seismograph Stations. 11 November 2014. <http://www.seis.utah.edu/lqthreat/nehrp_htm/1959hebg/c1959he1.sthml>


No specific author. Wikipedia. 11 September 2014. N/A. Wikipedia 11 November 2014. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quake_Lake>

 

 

 

 

***We had to write a worst-case scenario for English class. It didn't have to be based on something true, but since I'm from that part of Montana, I decided it'd be a good pick for myself. Please read and tell me your thoughts and ideas on what could make this better. I'm far from aperfect writer. Thank you all for your feedback!

 


Posted on: December 07 2014

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FICTION:

Dead Man's Land Chapter 1

by Danielle Jackson Quill-red

 

      "C'mon, Em! You gotta swing faster than that!" Eric mocked as I swung the machete towards the wooden target's head. I huffed. "Don't see you doing any of this!" I yelled, pushing the strand of honey gold hair out of my eyes as I pulled the blade out of the wooden circle. He laughed. "I don't need the practice." He says, crossing his arms." All right, let's take a break." He says as I put my weapon back into its sheath that was attached to my belt. I walk up the steps and onto the porch. I sat down in the old lawn chair and stared out into the sun. It was so calm and peaceful. "Times like this make you forget?" Eric asks. I shake my head. "I can never forget." I say softly, my light green eyes now looking at my shoes.

      Eric put a hand on my shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?" he asks. I brush away his hand and stand. "No. Can I be excused to my room?" I ask. He nods. "You may." He replies as I head into the house and climb the stairway to my room. I go into my room and shut the door. I take out a photograph out of the drawer. "Hey, mom. Hey, dad." I say to the picture. I looked at the calendar. "Two more weeks until the fifteenth anniversary of The Fall." I say. The Fall is what everyone is calling the night when the dead rose, and when my parents were tore apart by those monsters. Eric found me soon after, huddled under an abandoned truck. He took me in, taught me how to defend myself, and became sort of a father figure to me.

       I sigh and fold the picture up before placing it into my shirt pocket. I jog down the stairs and saw Eric in the kitchen, preparing supper. "What caused The Fall?" I ask, approaching the table. He sighs. "Emily, every year you ask me this and I give you the same answer. I don't know." He says, his dark blue eyes looking at me with what looked like pity. I slam my palms down on the wood. "Shouldn't someone on this forsaken world know?! I mean, it almost took out all of humanity!" I yell. Eric shushed me. "Look, I get it. You want answers, I do too. Truth is, we may never know. "He says, running a hand through his black hair that had started to turn grey. "But-"I began. "Until then, the only thing we can do is survive. Alright?" he asks. I nod in defeat. "Good. Now, how about you do me a favor?" He says as he gets a pen and a piece of paper. "You're always having me do favors." I say, laughing. He chuckles.

      "Because you're good at them!" he says as we both share a laugh. He began to write down a list. "I need you to go down to Carol's market and get some groceries." He says as I groan. "Oh, stop complaining! You used to love going there!" he smiles as he hands me the page. I laugh. "Only because she used to give me extra candy and let me ride the mechanical horse!" I say. "Then it'll be just like old times." He says as I head for the door. I smile as I open the door and head down the street.

      We live in a little settlement called Wellspring. There are a lot of empty houses, some stores, and even a school that I attend. Luckily, it's summer. So, I don't have to worry about homework or projects. You could forget about what happened but there's that one thing that always makes you remember. The gate. It's a huge, tall fence that looks like it could reach the clouds. They have guards at the top patrolling at all times. As if the barb wire wasn't enough. I looked out into the deserted land..

     "Emily!" a voice called out. I turned my head to the sound and smiled widely. "Lizzie!" I say happily as we hug each other. Lizzie and her parents arrived here just as Eric brought me back here. We instantly bonded. "What's your mom going to think about you running off?" I joke as she playfully punched me in the shoulder. "They don't care. They're just going over to Mike's repair shop. Dad's gun broke again." She says, putting her red hair up into a messy ponytail. "You wanna walk with me to Carol's? Eric told me to pick up some things for him." I say. She shrugs. "Why not? I got nothing better to do anyway." She says, following me.

      We reached the store and pulled the screen door open. We entered and I pulled out the shopping list. "Why, if it isn't Emily Brooks!" an old woman says. I laugh. "Hey, Carol." I say. She saw the paper and shook her head. "Is Eric making you his errand girl?" she says as Lizzie giggles. I roll my eyes. "No, Carol. He's just busy with everything, you know?" I say as I pick up a basket and start gathering what I need. "I guess so. "She says as I finish getting supplies and walk up to the cash register. She rings me up and I see the old horse near the window. Carol noticed my stare and laughed. "You used to love that thing when you were young! "she says, laughing. I laugh along with her. "Yeah, and you spoiled me." I say. She shrugs as she hands me my bag. I pull out my wallet and pay for the things.

     "You girls have a good day now, you hear?" she says. We laugh. "Yes, ma'am." Lizzie says as we exit and start heading back to my house, bags in one of my hands. I look back out behind the fence. "You ever wanted to see what's all out there?" I ask. "In Dead Man's Land?! No way!" she exclaims. "Why, do you?" She asks, her hazel eyes studying me. I remain quiet. "You do, don't you! Emily, do you know what's out there!" she says, grabbing my shoulders and slightly shaking me. "Yeah, bandits and the Fallen." I say calmly. I then chuckled. Lizzie looked at me, confused. "Wait, why are you laughing?" she asks.

     "We call them the Fallen when they're doing the exact opposite." I state. Lizzie pondered on my words. She then gave a slight laugh. "Yeah, ironic, isn't it." She says. "Won't be too long until we're eighteen." Lizzie says softly. I nod. "So, what are you and Eric going to do on the anniversary of The Fall?" Lizzie asked carefully. I sigh as I take the photo out. "Light a candle for mom and dad, moment of silence, all of that kind of stuff." I say sadly. She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." She apologizes. I look at her. "It's fine. I'm used to it." I say. "Can I see?" she asks, pointing at the picture. "Sure. Just be careful with it, alright?" I ask. She nods. "Of course!" she says as I hand it over.

     "Wow, you have a little of both of your parents." Lizzie says as she examines the old photo. "Yeah, my mom's hair and dad's eyes." I say as she hands it back to me. I carefully fold it and place it safely into my pocket. Suddenly, the loudspeaker came to life. "Attention, curfew will begin in one hour. All residents must be in their houses. Citizens who aren't will be dealt with appropriately. "Mayor Williams voice said. Lizzie sighed. "Seventeen years and I still can't get used to this." She says. I shake my head. "I'm not sure if I want to." I say as we approach my door. "Well, I better head home before my parents start hunting me." She says as she begins to jog away. I chuckle as I entered the house, shut the door, and locked the doorknob.

 


Posted on: November 30 2014

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