americanifesto: hatred

After having made it through most of the Christian bible’s Old Testament, perusing now Isaiah, I see what many people with whom I’ve spoken say about the beauty and kindness contained within said book’s pages. There are fantastic passages that seem to tell the reader to be merciful and good. I also see, however, how someone reading this ancient text could soon become radicalized and filled with righteous hatred.

Psalms 137:8-9 (Good News Bible, Today’s English Version) for example says: “Babylon, you will be destroyed. Happy is the man who pays you back for what you have done to us - who takes your babies and smashes them against a rock.” The Old Testament abounds with such language, with pleasure gained from the suffering of innocent victims, with pleas to Yahweh that the reader might rejoice when the children’s children’s children of this foe or that enemy are punished for his misdeeds. Taken out of context, of course, such words would horrify any modern, rational, sane-minded individual.

Why, though, are such hateful and despicable passages still in the text? Why have they not been excised? Why does the Christian bible still contain parts that call for finding joy in the suffering of others, kids and other innocents alike? Anybody who recites the Nicene creed must believe in the Old Testament, including that: “Intelligent people talk sense, but stupid people need to be punished” (Proverbs 10:13). Punished by whom, though, and when? By an armed teenager, today, or by a bloodthirst god thousands of years ago? Keeping such destructive and terrifying language in one’s holy book encourages weak-minded and easily excitable individuals, who seek guidance from Bronze-age belief systems such as the Christian bible, to harm others. The bible has been changed before, for purposes political and power-related. Why not change it again and take out all the hate-mongering and schadenfreude? While it’s not a perfect system, anyone looking for a different and more peaceful path might turn, for example, to Buddhism, a code that contains within itself far fewer calls to abject violence against persons who cannot defend themselves.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

18 August 2017

a familiar troll

A troll haunts my feed, always lurking, always waiting. From behind a blind he pounces on pieces I post to my page, then lashes out at me with withering hatred designed to harm. He is family, you see, and has given himself leave to flense and dig and root and tear, shredding at my social postings publicly.

There are anger and frustration behind his words, volumes of simmering rage that have cleared finally the cresting dams of reason, and of rhyme. Upset he seems at the state of things in this here land of plenty, blinded by a steady blast of racist white-pride bloggers. Perhaps something inside him is wounded at the thought that privileges are ending.

To respond to injury with injury goes against the ancient teachings, but failing to respond in defense of myself leaves mine own heartstrings wounded. Obscurity, then, is my only redoubt, to which I now rush gladly.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

07 August 2017

on one who

One who hasn’t studied the ill effects of war will gladly resort to it.
One who is ignorant of the lessons of history is bound to repeat past errors.
One who is obsessed with his own ego will serve they who stroke it best.
One who bathes in a torrent of lies will ignore droplets of truth.
One who prefers hatred to compassion represents but a misguided few.
One who stands indebted to shady foreign lenders is in their constant thrall.

As one who knows no scruples, he approves the killing of innocent foreign children to gain fleeting domestic support. False flag attacks are useful to men such as him. Should American soils once again burn, patriots-turned-nationalists will stand by as our few remaining freedoms are stamped finally out.

The ones who came before him at least tried to pretend they weren’t tyrants.

This one revels in it.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

28 January 2015

through quarters cramped

I've been to some death-camps and seen some mass graves into which were hurled chucked tossed innocent slaves; I've stood in the oven rooms smelling their reek and wandered through quarters cramped barren and bleak. The stories and tales of Survivors I've heard; did soak lap and sponge up each soft quiet word; did stand before mountains of shoes and shorn locks; did witness the stolen gold teeth and arm-clocks. I've been to Jerusalem's own Yad Vashem, examined the causes from which hatred stems, examined the lessons that our past imparts and struggled to understand cold callous hearts. This world we now live in is once again filled with racist small-minded and misguided swill – we see it in Europe and in the U. States where there are hot heated and brutal debates. These are though concerning the Islamic creed and ask if for tolerance there is still need and ask if the people who've made it their own should be whipped and murdered or just left alone. I know not the answers, my mind is too small, my intellect lacking in due wherewithal, I will though say one thing then leave well alone: Let he who's not sinned pick and cast the first stone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

02 October 2013

on sponging anger

During my yoga teacher training, I discovered that I have powerful skills of empathy. When persons choose to direct their feelings and emotions at me, in my current condition I receive that power mostly intact and largely unfiltered. If others direct love at me I am learning to let it buoy my heart; if they thank me I am trying to wallow in gratitude for as long as I am able to; but if it is anger or disgust or discontentment that they feel toward me my heart grows cold, rage builds in my chest, and I become deeply irate. At some point in my life I learned that sponging anger in this way makes me feel powerful, that it is proper to answer like with like, hatred with hatred. My fellow Americans exhibit this type of behavior frequently, and over the years I have been wont to retreat into it much as my compatriots do. As however I study the ancient truths and leave behind the clouded and the confused path for that of the warrior I am beginning to understand that anger and hatred frighten Spirit and that our connection to the Divine is severed if instead of compassion and grace we cultivate in our hearts loathing, coldness, and fear. My path is for me alone to walk and I am not saying that other people are acting incorrectly, only that they seem to have abandoned action for reaction, consciousness for unconsciousness, beauty for ugliness, and that it shall take a lot of effort on the part of each individual, individually, for our the soul of our nation to become bright, once more. The greatest journeys of the world start with just one person stepping forward, and so I lift my foot. Mahalo.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

17 June 2013

on powerful habits

In the past, I was weak, and let people harness and usurp my fledgling powers. After FYFTT, however, I appreciate my gifts and have gained awareness of my challenges; I can now tell when I am slipping into self-mutilating behaviors and toxic interactions; now, I stop myself, breathe, and remove myself as quickly as possible from the sticky situation. Holding a pouch of salt helps me stay calm, as I can dump anyt negativity into it and cleanse my aura of stickiness – be it anger, jealousy, contempt, or hatred. Oh how much better this is to the old days when I would simmer and steep within the strong emotional states picked up from others, reaching for drugs to numb myself out but in the process making myself more susceptible to reinfection with the debilitating emotions I seem to pick up so easily. I am watchful of my old ways, mindful to not slip back into old habits, and trusting of my intution (which some would call Spirit) enough that I move when I feel it is time to move, shield when I feel it is time to shield, and breathe when no other option seems right. Praise be unto the ancestors, for it is their coding that I bring to bear. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

16 July 2012

on holding grudges

Since moving to this small, blue-collar town and making friends with such few open-minded people as here live, I have had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of someone who holds grudges. I say Making The Acquaintance Of instead of Befriend because, just yesterday, this individual chose to respond to my pointing out, in jest, a typo he had made on a popular social-networking-site by compounding this slight jab on top of all of the other confrontations we have had in the last six months and letting the cauldron of hatred that seems to burn within his chest boil over.

It all started about six months ago, when he and I and a few others would go out for friendly disc-golf matches and he began to curse out any other person who made a good throw while also being verbally self-abusive every time he threw poorly, which accounted perhaps for 85% of his attempts. After a couple of afternoons of getting told to go fuck myself and that I was a bastard and a fucking asshole for having thrown a circular piece of plastic through the air in such a was as to have it land close to an upright, basket-equipped metal pole, I told this man – let us call him Wilson – that his negativity was poisoning the group's fun, leading to an overall dampening of of the collective mood, and would he not please keep his anger and resentment to himself and not keep cursing at everybody all the time? Wilson, who claims to be a follower of the One Love mentality espoused by such musicians as Bob Marley, instantly went on the defensive, causing everyone so much grief for the next few days that the others in our disc-golfing group and I decided it best not to invite him to our friendly matches anymore, given his proclivity to whine, moan, and belly-ache every time someone did well or he did not.

The second major confrontation between this worthless whorphan and Mr. Wilson came about two months ago, when, after he had been telling a story to me and a number of other people during a weekend bout of drinking, I cautioned him to wear sunblock if he should happen to be out in the sun for the amount of time he had claimed to be in his story. Being from Western Africa and having relatively dark skin, Wilson became once again defensive, immediately and with great passion calling into doubt my knowledge of What It Means To Be Black (whatever that means), even asking me if I, in my life, had ever been black, or if I had ever seen the masses of his fellow Africans all out perambulating in the sun lacking hats or long-sleeved shirts, in far more words telling me that I did not know what the fuck it was I was talking about. Never backing down from my position, I pointed out to Wilson that, since he is a human being and since all human skin can suffer skin cancer if exposed too long to solar radiation, he would do well to protect his skin from the sun so as to lead a long and healthy life, whereupon he began to curse me and to call me many bad names, puffing up his chest and treating me with much disdain for a number of weeks after that.

Having pondered my actions and deciding it best for me to keep my dumb fucking mouth shut, I have done just that, staying quiet and not seeking fault with the man, letting him espouse whatever strange and nonsensical views he, a grown adult, should wish to espouse. Sensing that Wilson seemed to be doing the same – generally ignoring me and not spending too much time in my presence – and seeing that we had sat together amiably during a get-together on the 4th of July, I figured that, just as I had done, he had laid aside any past grievances and gotten over any latent animosity toward this corn-fed white boy. In response, however, to a jab, a pointing out of a word he had misspelled on-line, that word being “the,” he launched into a litany of hatred against me, saying to an intermediary that I would get what I deserved for being so know-it-all and smarmy toward him, and that this my latest latest slight was simply too much, one of too many twigs thrown atop the teetering stack of hate-sticks he seems to have been carrying around with him since that one fateful day of disc-golfing.

While I do not fear the man physically, I have come to fear the human ego in general, and to keep a sharp eye out for a bruised ego, which is prone to extraordinary violence, to stabbing persons in the back and letting the air out of their bicycle tires. In the wake of Wilson un-friending of me on Facebook over the weekend, I could perhaps try to arrange a sit-down with him, a having-it-out session during which he might be able to call me all the names he wants to and, perhaps by letting go of his hatred and allowing it to flow from himself mightily, to dislodge some of the sand that has become trapped in his vagina; I might as well do nothing, however, since I cannot in any way control how Wilson reacts to my words or presence. He is a big boy, and he has the power to decide for himself when to be angry and when to be contented, when to fill his being with hatred, and when to let One Love infect every ounce of his soul. Three cheers for keeping quiet! Mahalo.

場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit