Why is a person racist? "Because he's evil." Evil isn't a reason. What are the reasons a person is racist? Why are these values maintained? How were they initiated, and what sustains or strengthens them? 
     Why does a person love? Why desire? What is passion, and what sparks and feeds and sustains it? And what are the qualifying tones and rhythms of affection and despising? 
     The where is a useless idea; the notion of a line between love and hate. There is no topological line; how do these sensations vibrate and contextualize? Attraction breeds affection, repulsion, despising; attraction and repulsion together engenders hatred. A desirable disdain, a negative love.
     Where in the body? Well, maybe there is a place or are places. Nice special tensions.
     A desirable rival is a special tone. A sexual disdain is a treasured flavor. Social games are fun in a world to play in. Racism is an attraction to health from a sick perspective. The attraction that promotes self-defensive self-righteousness and heroic self-righteousness and self-righteousness in general and a group-belonging righteousness.
     Those are the positive aspects of racism. The personal aspects. The positive-social results enforce a coherent and cultural sustaining order, security, productivity, both a sense of stability and stability; a cleanness of sensibility, for racism is as much about cultural coherence as it is about physiological-aesthetic qualifications.
     It's a game dynamic. A keeping in check. A set of rules that make the world that is the game a world at all. To recognize the game is to spoil the structure. To soften and to crack and to erase the foundation. To realize oneself as a buried manufacturer of the board and not even a pawn let alone any other playable piece has been the burden and is the plaint of slaves and the marginalized in modern civilization. The dynamic has only strengthened, only now there are no marginalized, only those in shadow; those being pushed aside and those not even being touched are as mainstream as those being ridiculed, villainized and deconstructed in their high places.
     The positive prideful aspects of despising are threatened by the aggressive revolting force of the so-called minority. Negative racism is fear and aggression. Still that animosity with sickness pervades. Animosity is a form of self-love, a pluralistic love, a love of multiplicity inherent in the stingiest of misers, the rigidest of curmudgeons. It's the flare that makes one pounce, the glee in hearing tell of failure and destruction. Animosity is a nostalgia running through a person's life, the attached other, the twin we swallow again and again; as nostalgia is a sweet laceration, animosity is a revolting revolt, it compliments itself. A healthy animosity is spiritual warfare; negative animosity is bad press.
     Violence isn't sick, only human context which is human nature makes it. Sickness is the failure to reconcile the nature with the context; beastlust with humaneness. The moral toll of morality. 
     Media has been bipolar (amongst the multipolartude) in culture for a century. The status quo and the rebel revolt. The conservation of the beloved and the powermongering of the powerful; the rebel without a cause, the revolutionary humanist and the damaged person seeking answers and possibly redemption. This is the code and the diagnosis. The Mainstream and the counterculture. The businessman and the intellectual. The whitecollar and the beat. The bluecollar and the punk. The white European and the African slave. The comfortable American and the discomforted American. For we are in America now. The Democratic Empire that is no Empire rumbles. The people on the ground roar. 
     We are all Americans. And there are so many of us.
     What there aren't are oppressed communities. There is no black community or gay community. Each person and sometimes their immediate family and sometimes their town community have a stake in each other's immediate success, but there is no town or region of gay people or black people or any other race or sexual orientation or gender people living in commune. Where there are communes, they are particularly inclusive or they wouldn't be 'communal'. American society is a system of individual potential and individual progress that in praxis develops a collective unity. 
     Democracy and liberty are exclusive and inclusive as the wind blows, as each person participates. The government is a tool, and one tool among each person's pool of ingenuity. 
     What oppresses more than anything is the individual. The government of the organism is more than a tool, it is the area and the governance. The land and the ordinances. The habitat and the inhabitants are the same. A dispute over land is a disorder and more, it's an organism quaking and swallowing and engulfing. The selve among the rumbling leaps into higher dimensions, society, and plays the organism game there. One planet touches another, spreading the earthquake. What surfaces isn't public discourse, it's fear and trembling, and much loathing.
     An oppressed "community" is only oppressed as a group, leave the group and leave oppression. The bitterness of the group is the contagious thing, and the group is oppressing itself.
     While to leave the body forevermore is death, to leave the group is walking out of a door and getting in a car. 
     It's the bitter experience framing the narrative that holds constituents in its nestling talons. The prophetic grace of the Christian church did so much for black people as a group, its genesis can't be escaped, exodus to apocalypse and the revelation is the genesis and need for exodus all over again. Christianity is called slave morality for a reason.
     What we need are more black Odysseuses. More willing and daring enough to leave their Calypsos with all her noble voodoo intact. Better, embrace American trappings and make your own myth, discard political dungeons of affect and thinking, and if you have to have a genesis, cast out the liberal angels that say you can't go back, ignore the idea of back, and move forward, making ghettoes into edens, living lives not of protestors but questers.
     This language itself is regressive plunder.
     The disgruntled against the "oppressed" are another syncopathic den of thieves in the game. Why is a person racist? These people aren't racist, they're joiners and followers waiting to be handed the opportunity. The opportunity to be the entrepreneur of their dreams. There are dreams, nothing is denying the dreams, and the dreams grow, they become more real than the real. The opportunity is all that's lacking. And between the possibility and opportunity, there must be something. Yet there is nothing. There's nothing between potential and actuality; it must be some game the so-called oppressed are playing. A copyright on suffering and deprivation. Nobody takes the disgruntled's dream seriously, people are too busy bowing to the pseudodeprived. Don't you think so? they ask each other. They all seem to be thinking and feeling the same thing. Might as well start a group about it.
     A counterculture that's strong is counter to a strong mainstream. A mainstream counterculture, a psychedelic fascism as it's been described, has nowhere to go but everywhere. The program is still running, no one is manning it. No oppressor is seated. Everyone is running for their lives. The counterculture is the blob. It's no longer merely a mob. It's a mob that runs the country, the blob has assimilated the country. 
     The counterculture has leaped into a higher dimension set, and all we see is a blob, not devouring, but assimilating the land around us. Literally assimilating all we sense around us. 
     It's not one race or another, not even the human race. It's something that appears to us hanging down from nowhere, assimilating us into nowhere, pulling and pushing us nowhere, trapping and crowding us nowhere, walls closing in nowhere. 
     These winners want the world, but they don't want it. They want to restart it nowhere, nowhen. And they don't want that. To win is to betray. Success is a guilty luxury. Winners return to now, and live in lovely heres and nows. They are like the suppressed/ignored artist who comes to terms with the milieu and ceases the plaint once he's managed to come up with something good. 
     There's so much more going on than racism. The truly racists are bigoted winetasters. Their preferences are theirs and they're either getting drunk on them or they're pussyfooting around a small mound of land spitting all their bluster back into glasses. What they are so offensive about is only a mirage. A thing to get behind no better or worse than any other. A leap of faith no more or less radical or absurd. The threat is their defensiveness; and what they're seeing is the blob closing in, the encroaching mass of nothing, and they refuse to be assimilated. 
     There's a certain destiny in the planetary biography we call history, and the Nazis always lose. They only win in science fiction. No wonder the matrix is coded by liberals and aspergerses. . . . And bombs are too liberating for fascists.
     The world is a finite monster, nobody's shoving the stake in too deep. The problems are in us and all around us. Absorb the blame you place on yourself, and quest for the solutions to the unsustainability of the world you have to play in. Run on selfblame, a vital Romantic hero. Only mope when you're tired and go to bed, then wake again and go on walking, getting things done. Multiplying enemies to blame is suffocating for you and all who listen to you, your family and loved ones most of all. Absorb your blame and embrace your rivals. That dance the anarchists talk of is with the rivals.
     Generalizing is the game, but not the plan. And not the action. Contexts and concepts are an abstract blob of their own. The rules and skill involved around enacting an operation that is ensphered in the concepts and contexts themselves. A closed arena. The opponent is in another arena.
     People who are wary of other races are so because of what clashes with their culture. Their music, their architecture, other artforms, religions, their language, their dialect, their atmosphere. That is what culture war is. On the other hand, the playful joust between cultures strengthens each culture; not a multicultural society, but Multiculture. A world of liquid boundaries: boundaries that are there, but there as in dreams. If those dream boundaries weren't there, The Arabian Nights would be trite to me. Abbott and Costello in Egypt would be as boring as your parents in the livingroom talking to their friends on the phone. Take away those boundaries and you have mush, a moral, socially reconciled mush, but mush.
     A white person of the 21st century is no more to blame for African slavery in the U. S. than a slave's descendent is for being here. Bigots shouldn't be taken seriously. Those who discriminate, who matter, discriminate against everyone. The inarticulate grunt of the bluecollar man is: I'd be more willing to help if you stopped demanding that I stop helping myself. If there were no other races, a racist person would hate someone. Race is simply an available distinction.
     The suffering preference and the criminal preference are distinctions as well. Resentment and snobbery play hobbyhorse in them. Not to suffer like me is to be somehow less real, less serious. The poor or only provisionally wealthy are lousy with exclusive discomfort. No one is more snobbish than a mediocre human in dire straits. God hates the ones he cherishes.
     I might as well be a criminal, thinks the innercity youth. I have to be. My mama tells me the world's against us and there's no way out of here, and if I don't filch my share of the loot the boys'll laugh at me. An experienced criminal is a great snob. I admire him myself. But it seems more appropriate if he does it out of fun, rather than harping on the tired rhetoric of a prejudiced society, which doesn't care any more for its winners than for losers.
     Resenting minorities for complaining is the same complaining the minorities are doing. Each are instruments in the same orchestra presenting us with the same lifeless music. It aint my fault, It aint my fault, moans the mumbling white boy in his redundant righteousness. It's not your fault, but you don't have to be an asshole about it. Nobody cares if it's not your fault. Most people know and respect and repeat every day that it's the minorities that get a little bit of a smaller piece of the Big Deal that goes around, but for all the big fuss and hard work, nothing seems to be getting any better. It's almost as though we're stuck in a default identity.
     The first Americans left England because of this prickishness; what makes us think they didn't bring it with them? The Indians are neither Indians or Americans, so we can just as well leave them out; the Africans obviously were living an existence of peace and individual equality among their tribes which was violently interrupted by this alien race of savages from the colder regions. Language had no item for Slavery before that.
     Racism and the plaint against racism are the same thing. Further, to be aware of racism is racist. 
      You've got a lot of cocky white mothafuckers walking around out there, and you run that by a bunch of sanctimonious black people up on their high horse and what do you expect?  
     Maybe racism is one head of a many-headed beast, amongst them the need for food and sex. Maybe the world doesn't insist on solutions and reconciliations. An organism mates, and then might as well die after it facilitates its offspring. Our progressive modern society is pissing in the wind. It's a magical humanism we're involved in, wrapped pulsing in an aura of made-belief, but real, real reality. Reality made. The crucial irony is that there's no irony, no evil; there's nothing but a feigned expectation that life on Earth will always turn out for the better. 
     The grand bitterness swirls out of a belief that we are owed something, but no matter how much we've suffered or how consecutively moral we've behaved and felt in our whirling strivings, there's no Light that rewards; you could as well find yourself placed before an omniscient Judgment that punishes you for falling for the humane ruse.
     I think you should be grateful you're not caught up in the grand rigmarole and pay no attention to the obvious powers gloating in their relativism. The powerful will die soon, what does it matter to them if they take us along into darkness? 
     Darkness, the primordial race-baiter; Trolloping Miss Nyx walking the streets for the pure circumstantial rush of feeling judging eyes of enraged Sunshiners caressing her skin. 
     I adhere to that magical humanism. I heroically seek that Hydra to battle, and organically burn to see it regrow the nasty head each time. With the loss of racism, we'd lose something dear to the sharp, aching bruise, the pulsating blister we know as our heart. Without the sickening feeling of difference and shame of noticing difference, how would the chimeric abominations that are our brains process looming kaleidoscopes of snakes and spiders and the occasional negative stereotype that happens to be true?
     Each area of your body is racist against other areas. At some later evolution each cell may scream out for equal rights. It's always been that way. Your body is the planet. The body decays through race war. Through ecological decay. We're equal in our doomedness. Racism and death are here to stay, don't waste time and energy being shocked and angry about it. Love your enemy. Your survival depends on it.   
Very rich in complex common sense. Would be taken out of context piece by piece in the academic floating world and labeled racist since the totality is too weighty and divergent to examine without sinking.

See Shelby Steele on white guilt, the complex game it's "racist" not to play.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
I prefer all my writing to be taken out of context. I spend most of my time there.
The enemies aren't people and groups, the enemies are aspects of me, aspects of you, of other people, that distract us from that strange thing called humane spirit. People, everyone, are ignorant, and easily swayed by hateful rhetoric; war is faught for war's sake, and people who are inclined that way in any given moment are searching for reasons to go to war. Christ isn't Jesus' last name. It's the ideal body divested of those distractions, coupled with the forgiveness of so-called sin. Sin being those distractions. The only religious thing about it is religion in the sense of (re)connecting with that ideal state, that strange magical humane insistence.
A long winded road to nowhere. 
It’s clearly not a poem of any sort, so why did you post it in the “Miscellaneous” section?

In other words, if you’re speaking nonsense, keep it brief
It is in fact a thread of my Personal mythos-systematics-poetics. And is immune to any day to day bias. Further, I'm a card-carrying, sign-waving obscurantist. And if you don't like it, you can join the protests. I, for one, have God on my side. Nonsense isn't a problem for the spirit.
This isn't even a poem, unless this is a prose poem? Was that your intention Rowens?
My intention is detailing my feats and humiliations, loves and desires, gripes and antipathies in my Experiential mythos and Mad Max philosophy. I'm a folkloric journalist, whether in poem or essay or fiction or anecdote or walking down the street or road: it's one tension to me.
(06-22-2020, 08:18 PM)rowens Wrote:  My intention is detailing my feats and humiliations, loves and desires, gripes and antipathies in my Experiential mythos and Mad Max philosophy. I'm a folkloric journalist, whether in poem or essay or fiction or anecdote or walking down the street or road: it's one tension to me.
Interesting, but you should write something less prose and more poetry with line breaks.
My essays are apologies for my poetry.
(06-23-2020, 08:32 AM)rowens Wrote:  My essays are apologies for my poetry.
Ok well keep writing then.
Monday. The second full day of summer, in the northern hemisphere, I wrote an essay called U. S. Politics.

It's an essay. An attempt.

A run in with myself.

If you don't want to read it, think about that now. I'm going to post it Friday.

I've already written it. Laura, and Amber, if you're truly masters of the temple like you say.

So what I say Friday has nothing to do with what I say Friday. Because I said it now. Actually, earlier.
'Actually.' Your favorite word, Sydney. Amber. Willow, formally, Tiffany.

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