Showing posts with label Flight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flight. Show all posts

Saturday, 28 July 2018


"The sacrifices are burnt on an altar. Why? 

Well, the smoke rises. 

Well, so what? 

Well, God’s up in the sky and if the smoke rises up there, he gets a whiff of it, he can tell what the quality of the sacrifice was. 

Job 5:7

And you can laugh about that and you can think about it as primitive, but it’s not primitive, it’s artistic and it’s beautiful and it’s accurate and here’s why. 

Because before the invention of the electrical light and maybe before the invention of fire, the closest a human could ever get to confrontation with the absolute unknown was to look up at the night sky. 

Because the night sky, especially when it’s sprinkled with stars, confronts you directly with the fact of the infinite. 

And to make the presupposition that God resides in the infinite, and you’re having a direct experience of the infinite at that moment, is not a primitive notion. 

It’s a very intelligent and creative hypothesis and so the notion that God occupies the sky, and the day sky being as equally impressive as the night sky, is not a primitive hypothesis. 

It’s a reflection of the nature of a certain kind of human experience. 

You burn something and you send the smoke up. 

God gets a crack at determining the quality of your offering, the quality of your sacrifice. 

Well, let’s be perfectly clear about this. 

If your sacrifices aren’t first rate, the nature of your relationship with the infinite is going to suffer dreadfully. 

And that’s exactly what the story of Cain and Abel reveals."

          The Stones "Sympathy for the Devil" kicks up as we wait...
          The doors split open and HARLING MAYS steps out. HARLING has
          a pony tail and a goatee and is probably wearing a Tommy
          Bahama button down shirt.
          We follow HARLING as he strides down the hall. With ear buds
          in, HARLING points a Sanyo pistol-shaped cam corder at the
          ATTENDING NURSE at the nurses' station, recording her...
                          HARLING MAYS
           I'm on the list baby girl. Check
           the list for Mr. Mays. Harling.
          The Stones continue to wail as Harling strolls on, adjusting
          the duffel bag he has slung over his shoulder.
          HARLING stands in the doorway looking in. He sees...
          The MORNING NURSE is helping WHIP to stand. HARLING points
          his camcorder at WHIP and the NURSE.
           HARLING MAYS (O.C.)
           If this is gonna turn into a sponge
           bath, I'll come back.
          HARLING immediately goes to WHIP and supports him.
           It's okay, Harling.
                          HARLING MAYS
           That's right honey, I'm on the
           list. Harling Mays. Some say they
           Harling knew me.
          HARLING boxes her out. She steps away.
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           Honey can you hustle us a couple of
           daiquiris and a cocktail weenie?
           On second thought just bring the
           booze. I brought my own weenie.
          No reaction as the NURSE collects the trash and towels.
          HARLING focuses his camcorder on the NURSE and leaves WHIP in
          an unsteady stance. HARLING films her and comments...
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           She's offended, and she should be. I'm a pig. And I hate me. That's  what we have in common Nurse Ratched...we both hate me.
          And she's gone. HARLING turns to WHIP.
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           Whip? What the fuck my man?
           They're sayin', "Sweet Jesus, what
           a fuckin' stud that pilot is."
           You're a hero, no shit. You will
           never pay for another drink in this
           life time. There is crazy news
           people all over, look at this shit--
          HARLING helps WHIP to the window...
          From WHIP's window we can see a slew of news vans with signal
          towers as well as reporters milling about -- a small zoo.
          HARLING and WHIP stare for a moment at the circus below.
          WHIP doesn't last long and slowly returns to the bed as
          HARLING continues to gawk.
                          HARLING MAYS
           Classic hero worship, you're a rock
           star man. You gotta see the video
           I've got -- I'm making a doc about
           you, well us, y'know?
          HARLING pulls an iPad out of his knapsack and flips it open.
          He lets a collection of videos run...
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           This is outside your condo...
          On HARLING's iPad we see footage of PRESS swarming outside
          WHIP's condo. We also see the crash scene footage.
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           Look that's me, and that`s Mark
  know that douchey
           talking haircut from local Atlanta
           channel 3? I said a few words.
           Just straight talk, y'know?
          WHIP's hands shake as he grabs the bed frame. HARLING takes
          notice and stashes the iPad...
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           You okay Captain Whitaker? Easy...
          HARLING helps him get settled. We see the beads of sweat on
          WHIP's lip and forehead.
           The meds they're giving me are
           fucking me up -- I'm all shaky and
           dried out. I can't sleep good.
          HARLING immediately picks up the small paper cup that holds
          WHIP's pain meds. He fishes out the two pills and stares at
          them. HARLING shakes his head.
                          HARLING MAYS
           Aprazolam? That's generic Xanax and
           this Hydrocodone is generic
           Vicodin. It's shit, prolly
          HARLING casually tosses the pills down his gullet and
          expertly swallows them without water. He grabs WHIP's
          medical chart and scours it as he prattles on...
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           We want the premium stuff. Blue
           label...not the fucking well shit.
           Where's the dihydromorphinone?
           Or just some fucking Palladone
           would suffice. What is this?
           Fucking amateur hour over here?
           Get that goddamned doctor in here.
           You just saved a 100 people from
           death, they should get your fuckin'
           meds right.
           (calls to the door)
           YO! ROOM SERVICE!
           Listen Harling, leave it alone.
                          (HARLING CHILLS)
           So you got my message and decided
           not to call me back? Did you bring
           me smokes?
                          HARLING MAYS
           I decided to come by instead. And
           yes I got your fucking message and
           yes I brought you smokes.
          HARLING hands WHIP a pack of smokes from his pocket. He also
          pulls out a carton of smokes from his backpack.
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           Here is a fresh carton, enjoy. You
           fucking earned it -- you smoke your
           nuts off, champion. If I were you
           I'd fire up right here in the God
           damn room. Fuck'em, you're
           immortal, you're a fucking God man.
          WHIP motions with his hands to "calm down."
                          HARLING MAYS
           Sorry Whip. It's just...this is
           big time, man. You're a hero in a
           time when we really need heroes.
           Shut the fuck up, Harling...Six
           people died.
                          HARLING MAYS
           96 people lived! When are you
           gonna take yes for an answer? Pick
           up the phone, man. Fuck.
          HARLING pulls something from his vest pocket and puts it in
          WHIP'S hand. WHIP looks at it and back at HARLING.
           HARLING MAYS (CONT'D)
           Here's a pint of Smirnoff and a few
           Red Bulls. You know what I'm
           sayin'? I know my customer.
          HARLING continues to pull items from the bag.
           Harling, take the vodka with you.
          HARLING freezes his frenzied energy with this odd command.
                          HARLING MAYS
           What?! Take the vodka? Dude, are
           you insane? I'm gonna just tuck it
           in the bottom of your-
           Take the fucking vodka!
          HARLING hears him this time and raises his hand and nods,
          putting the VODKA back in his own duffel. HARLING tosses a
          tee shirt, sweat pants and flip-flops on the bed, then...
                          HARLING MAYS
           Okay man. Check it out.
          HARLING holds up a silk Japanese Happi Coat, with elaborate
          stitching depicting colorful birds flying around Mt. Fuji.
           Look, I'm tired man.
                          HARLING MAYS
           I'm out. You rest up.
           You gotta come and get me,
          WHIP pulls his keys from the bag that CHARLIE gave him.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           Here are my keys. Go to the condo
           and bring me some nice clothes I
           can wear, my phone charger and grab
           the veal outta my fridge. It's
                          HARLING MAYS
           The veal?
           Yeah, the veal that's in my
                          HARLING MAYS
           Done and done. What time you need
           me here?
           Tomorrow. I'll call you.
                          HARLING MAYS
           Send the mayday and you're outta
           here in 7 minutes.
                          (A SMILE)
           I got you a few stroke mags too.
           I've been in hospitals. I know
           what you need. JUGS, HOT MILFS in
           heat. ASSMASTERS. You should just
           stroke it all day. You're a hero --
           know what I'm saying? If I was in
           here I'd be jerkin' it all day
           long. See, there's a smile.
          HARLING puts his hand on WHIP's forehead in an attempt to
          reassure him. A quiet moment before HARLING slips out.
          WHIP wakes up in a cold sweat. He is breathing heavy as he
          scans the room. LIGHTENING FLASHES from outside the window.
          Thunder RUMBLES.
          WHIP looks to the night stand where we see a pack of nicotine
          gum has been chewed through. WHIP uses his hands to get to
          the edge of the bed. He roots through the duffle bag that
          HARLING left and finds a pack of smokes and a Bic lighter
          still in its package.
          Determined to smoke, WHIP eyes a WHEEL CHAIR that has been
          placed next to his bed. Leaning against the wheelchair is a
          medical cane.
          Wearing his Happi Coat (or robe), WHIP limps in to the empty
          hallway with the use of his cane. He checks the quiet
          corridor as he begins his quest...
          INT. HOSPITAL -- FIRE DOOR -- 11:38 PM
          The door swings open, and no one appears to be on the other
          side. Now WHIP fights to push the heavy door open again to
          slip through. A hand grabs the door and holds it. WHIP
          walks into the sanctity of the stairwell.
          We find the owner of the helping hand was NICOLE who returns
          to a quiet spot along the wall of the stairwell as she
          demurely smokes a cigarette.
           Thank you.
          WHIP leans his cane against the wall and carefully pulls a
          pack of smokes from his pocket.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           I didn't think anyone would have
           the same devious thought about
           using the fire stairs to have a
          NICOLE smiles and looks down, awkward around men when she is
          not loaded. She drops her cigarette which we see was barely
          smoked as she maneuvers to leave.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           Don't go. I'll be quiet.
          He offers her a cigarette, she takes it.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           We don't have to talk. Be nice to just smoke with someone.

And they do. They sit in silence as the stairwell fills up with smoke. After a long beat... NICOLE Were you on the plane? WHIP studies her, she's beautiful in an exhausted way... WHIP Yeah, I was. Were you? Nicole shakes her head. NICOLE Where were you sitting? WHIP Up near the front. Again it falls silent as we let them smoke and think in the sanctity of the fire stairs. A VOICE breaks their silence. VOICE (O.S.) Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve; It shows our decay, We are but clay;...I love the smell of Nicotina in the morning. Smells like...victory. We hear a metallic rattle and WHIP and NICOLE look to the stairs. VOICE (CONT'D) Don't flee dear comrades! Really, wait for me, please. A GAUNT YOUNG MAN makes his way to their landing. He is dressed in a hospital gown and carrying an I.V. pole on which hangs a small bag of clear liquid. The man's hair has completely left him. His skin is gray. Eyes hollowed from his battle with cancer. GAUNT YOUNG MAN Can I bum a smoke? WHIP offers him a cigarette. He takes it and fires it up with a lighter he keeps stowed in the pocket of his gown. GAUNT YOUNG MAN (CONT'D) I should quit, my cancer might get cancer. (SILENCE) Joke. You guys in the plane crash? NICOLE He was. WHIP looks at the ground as the GAUNT YOUNG MAN studies him. GAUNT YOUNG MAN (it hits him) You're the fucking pilot. Nicole gives Whip a look. 55. GAUNT YOUNG MAN (CONT'D) I saw you on TV. Holy shit, man. Tough deal, but you walked away or it looks like you limped away. WHIP Yeah, I'm lucky. Goin' home tomorrow. GAUNT YOUNG MAN Home. Home for me is The Basement, they keep cancer treatment in the basement. I'm livin' here. WHIP You're living here? GAUNT YOUNG MAN No. I'm dying here. WHIP What kind of cancer?  
           Fibro-mixzoid sarcoma, soft tissue sarcoma. Very rare, God chose me.
          GAUNT YOUNG MAN laughs.
           God chose you? You believe in God?
           GAUNT YOUNG MAN
           Fuck yeah bitch. You're a stupid fucker if you don't believe in God.
          The GOD topic has silenced the stairwell...
           As soon as you realize that the
           random events in your life are
  will live a much better
           life. You spend your life
           believing that you have all the
           control over what happens.
           Bullshit. The plane you're flying
           goes down? Out of your control.
           God gives you cancer. I have no
           control over that. Did God give me
           cancer? You bet your ass God gave
           me cancer. You think if I begged
           for cancer God would have given it
           to me?
           No...because I assure you I have
           begged for God to take it away -
           and guess what? I have no control
           over that.
          GAUNT YOUNG MAN smokes the cig to the nub and rubs the
          remains against the smooth concrete wall.
           Can I get another smoke? What's
           wrong with you honey? You're
           beautiful, do you know that? Do I
           scare you? People either have to
           pretend they don't see me or
           they're drawn to me. It's funny
           because people see me as being
           close to the other side -- they
           feel like I have power or wisdom.
           They think I have the answers. Who
           knows? Maybe I do. Death gives
           you perspective. I lived my life
           so indecisive, in a haze. But now
           that I'm dying everything is so
           clear. It all makes sense somehow.
           I'm sorry but I can't get over how
           beautiful you are? Look at your
           arm, you an addict?
          NICOLE looks at him. She nods.
           What's your name?
           GAUNT YOUNG MAN
           What do you do in the world Nicole?
          She laughs, what a question.
           Not much. I was a photographer and
           then I was a masseuse and I wash
           hair at a salon sometimes.
           GAUNT YOUNG MAN
           Where is it? I'll come by, I'm
           easy, you can wash my head.
                          (SHE SMILES)
           Do you think you're gonna die?
          NICOLE laughs to keep from weeping.
           You're not. You're not gonna die.
          The men watch as NICOLE quietly cries, it's powerful.
           Don't you love her?
           I don't know her.
           GAUNT YOUNG MAN
           Bullshit, I do. Random act of God?
           Don't think so. Survive a plane
           crash to meet a gorgeous girl in a
           stairwell. Fuck you man.
           (he reflects, then...)
           I'm sure they're looking for me.
           My family just showed up from Utah.
           You know it's bad when they start
           flying in. Every morning is
           special now, I'm so grateful. It's
           a trip, wish I could bottle this
           feeling I have...about how
           beautiful every breath of life is..
          GAUNT YOUNG MAN starts laughing. WHIP joins him.
           Can I get a smoke for the road?
           Here's a pack.
           GAUNT YOUNG MAN
           Thank you, I'll pass them out in
           the cancer ward. Take care Nicole,
           you're gonna be okay.
          The GAUNT YOUNG MAN leaves, clanging away with his I.V. pole.
          NICOLE wipes away her tears, we see her hospital bracelet as
          well as her track marks.
           Chemo brain. Chemo makes you
           pretty foggy.
           They call it chemo brain, my mom
           used to slur her words and get all
           Your mom had cancer.
           Breast cancer, she was only 54.
          It's quiet.
           But why'd that guy ask you if you
           were gonna die?
           I dunno. I flat-lined twice in the
           ambulance. Heroin addicts who use
           needles tend to die. Especially
           women for some reason.
           Is that right?
           I have a pamphlet to prove it. A
           girl from AA just came to see me --
                          (IT'S QUIET)
           That guy was a trip. He made it
           feel like, I dunno...we were the
           last people left on the planet..
           (drops her smoke)
           ...and together we should save the
          NICOLE steps on her cigarette and puts the nub in her pocket.
          She begins to leave. WHIP stops her.
           Well, where should we live? If
           we're gonna save the world, where
           should we do that?
          NICOLE laughs.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           You don't want me.
          WHIP laughs.
                          NICOLE (CONT'D)
           You don't want me either.
          NICOLE's laugh tapers off as she senses his honesty.
                          WHIP (CONT'D)
           Where do you live?
           Why you wanna come visit? It's
           (silence between them)
           I live in Bankhead, it's south
           Atlanta, near the bus station.
           The luxurious bus station?
           I'll come visit you.
           You're sweet.
           I will. What's your address?
          She measures him.
           I live at the Georgian Gardens on
           Taylor street.
           Georgian Gardens?
           How long are you staying here?
           Trying to stay as long as I can but
           I don't have insurance to cover
           rehab. I'll prolly be out
           Oh. Okay. And you're a masseuse?
           What kind of masseuse?
           I've been every kind of masseuse
           there is.
          There is strong tension between them. An orderly busts
          through the down the stairs. This breaks their stare.
           Good luck Nicole.
           You too.
          WHIP leaves NICOLE where he found her.
          WHIP is wheeled out of a service exit by an ORDERLY who also
          holds the duffle bag of WHIP's stuff around his neck. Whip no
          longer wears the eye patch but has a butterfly bandage over
          his left eye brow.
          HARLING jumps out of his 2001 Cadillac STS and immediately
          takes over, grabbing the duffel bag.
           Thanks Mike.
          The ORDERLY tries to hand WHIP a medical file. HARLING
          snatches it.
                          HARLING MAYS
           Yeah, thanks Mike.
           (Harling tips him)
           Here's 20 American.
                          ORDERLY MIKE
           Thanks. Good luck, sir.
          HARLING hugs WHIP who hangs on tight. The ORDERLY spins the
          chair around and heads back inside.
          HARLING uses his key fob to remotely pop the trunk and stow
          Whip's duffel.
                          HARLING MAYS
           This is how they get the Stones out
           of Madison Square Garden, man. 4
           smoked black limos fly outta the
           VIP driveway and the fans jump on
           the limos...mayhem. Those limos?
           Empty. Meanwhile, Mick and the boys
           go out the service exit into
           delivery vans -- casual, rock star
           type shit.
           HARLING helps him into the front seat and they pull away.
           The Stones, "Gimme Shelter" starts to play...
           As they drive off, we see media mayhem collected in front of 53
           the hospital. Trucks with towers, cameramen, stringers and
           newscasters add to catering trucks and coffee stands as the
           vultures wait for the carrion of sound bytes and footage of
           INT. HARLING'S CADDY -- DAY
           Whip watches through the rear window -- the "Media Circus"
           disappears as the Caddy rounds a corner. The back seat is
           piled with Whip's clothes, most of them still on hangers.
           HARLING lights a cigarette and hands one to WHIP who takes
                          HARLING MAYS
           I couldn't find any suitcases so I
           just put your shit in grocery bags.
           HARLING pulls a cold Becks from a cooler on the floor of the
           back seat and uses a bottle opener that's been screwed to the
           dash of his car next to the radio to open the beer. He
           offers the beer to WHIP who waves it off. HARLING gladly
           keeps it for himself... "Gimme Shelter" continues to play...

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

Hollywood Accredits The Memes : "Flight" (2012)

"Now, this is podracing..!!"

The Art of Predictive Programming : It's all the pilot's fault.


But it's far more realistic and convincing in the movies, so people believe it.

During this aviation disaster, almost everything possible that can happen, and can go wrong with a plane whilst in flight can go wrong, and does go wrong, all at once and within the space of around 8 minutes.

This is likes opening your front door to find two Black Swans humping on your front porch. If you live in rural Mexico.


The plane, and the crew, absolutely everything goes wrong with, and the pilot captaining the plane does absolutely everything right and in good order to save the plane.

The passengers also perfectly remember and comply with all of the procedures detailed in the on-board safety lecture. 

Which would never happen.

"The NTSB works very closely with the pilots union"

I'm absolutely sure that's true.

But they played absolutely no role in investigating any aspect of 9/11, as they are legally required to do, according to Crash Protocols depicted in this film...

"So much for preliminaries. When we enter the world of the 9/11 myth, we find ourselves on the terrain of mass psychosis, mass hallucination, mass delusion. The twentieth century has shown how powerful these ideological figments can be. This book proceeds from the standpoint of Platonic idealism; a Marxist might say that with 9/11, we enter the world of radically false consciousness, where the superstructure has become completely detached from social and material reality in a way that Marx never contemplated in his writings. 

A suggestive study that addresses precisely this complex of problems is Joseph Gabel's 1975 False Consciousness: An Essay on Reification. Gabel sees reification (hypostatization) as the making of people, ideas, and time into things. His point of departure is the gross fact of mass belief in ideological chimeras, specifically Nazi and Stalinist ideology. The 9/11 myth is of a piece with these.

Gabel elaborates a lengthy definition of the political world view which is correlated with alienated and manipulated political life under the rule of schizophrenic/autistic ideologies which exhibit a low degree of fidelity to reality. Gabel called this the "police concept of history;" if he were writing today, he might well have called it the intelligence community or CIA theory of history. 

Gabel writes: "The police concept of history is the negation of the historical dialectic, in other words the negation of history .... History's driving force is not the ensemble of objective forces but good or evil individual action ... since the 'event' is no longer understood as the normal substratum of the course of History, but as miracle or catastrophe; it is no longer dependent on scientific explanation but on black or white magic. In the Manichean diptych of this view, the hero (leader) and the traitor represent two poles of the same principle of reificational negation of the autonomy of history. It is therefore a pseudo-history, a non-dialectical result either of success due to the genius of the leader or failure explicable through treason; an authentic 'syndrome of external action' permits the privileged system to evade eventual responsibility. The police concept of history represents the extreme form of political alienation; it is both a sociocentrism which dichotomizes the world into a privileged system [the US] and a non-privileged remainder [the Arab and Islamic world]  and a phenomenon of consciousness of a schizophrenic nature. Since the privileged system is considered as perfect, extra-temporal and extra-dialectical, the event -- particularly the unfavorable event -- can only be explained by means of external action; it is experienced as an unexpected, 'undeserved' catastrophe, which is no longer integrated into the normal course of events whose succession constitutes the threat of concrete, dialectical temporality. One can compare this ensemble with the two specific elements in the clinical picture of schizophrenia, the syndrome of external action and the deranged experience of the end of the world (Weltuntergangserlebnis, abbreviated as WUE by German authors), the clinical translation of the appearance of the dialectic in a reified world which can accept the event only as a catastrophe." (Gabel 115-116, with my interpolations)

Here we have the principal elements or memes of the 9/11 myth in a clinical description a quarter century before the fact. The event has nothing to do with real historical forces. The realities of world commodity flows and of the world financial system in particular go out the window. 

Bin Laden and al Qaeda provide a deus ex machina of absolute evil and black magic. 9/11 is the undeserved catastrophe or WUE, experienced as a nightmare out of the blue. In order for such notions to gain mass acceptance, the American ideology had to already have traveled a considerable distance down the road towards schizophrenia and autism, and such mass acceptance has in turn further accelerated that descent. For Gabel, schizophrenia is a loss of contact with reality and with history. 

His definition of schizophrenia depends heavily on the notion that, for the schizophrenic, development over time has become incomprehensible, while relations in space have become all-important. In space we can often choose to move, but time does not permit this. 

Therefore there is a close relationship between a radically anti-historical view of the world, as for example among the neocons and the Bush regime, and the syndromes of clinical schizophrenia, prominent among whose symptoms Gabel sees morbid rationalism, understood as a weak hold on reality: "In the light of recent work, schizophrenia appears as a loss of the sense of personal history, and psychotherapy therefore consists of a reconstruction of the totality of the person with a reintegration into history. From the viewpoint of the investigator the schizophrenic loss of the historico-dialectical perception of reality can be seen in the form of a preponderance of the spatial factor or as a loss of experienced time: as over-spatialization or as sub-temporalization." (Gabel 116) Gabel's work here dovetails with that of Frank, who points to Bush 43's notorious refusal to discuss the details of his youthful debauchery before the age of about 40. It is as if these episodes were repressed and no longer accessible to memory -- at least, in Bush's own propaganda patter. 

Frank is certainly on firm ground when he points to the fundamentalist belief structure of Bush and of so much of his base as representing a rejection of human history, personal history, and of natural history as well: "Just as fundamentalist creationist teachings deny history, the fundamentalist notion of conversion or rebirth encourages the believer to see himself as disconnected from history. George W. Bush's evasive, self-serving defense of his life before he was born again displays just this tendency. To the believer, the power of spiritual absolution not only erases the sins of the past, but divorces the current self from the historical sinner." (Frank 59- 60)

A vital part of the WUE brought about inside the perfect system by evil forces is that these evil forces are axiomatically seen as coming from outside of that perfect system. 

Evil is always external, never home grown, as it was for the racist southern sheriff who thought that all racial tensions were the work of outside agitators. "The result is that when the evidence of the historicity of existence forces itself on the misoneism [hatred of change] of reified consciousness, it appears as an unexpected catastrophe, inexplicable and often attributed therefore to external action .... 

For sociocentrism, the privileged system being perfect, any change (particularly any unfavorable change) is the work of external maleficent powers." (Gabel 288 and note) Gerhard Wisnewski has related this idea most directly to 9/11. As Wisnewski points out, "from outside" is the central slogan of the official version of 9/11. "The impression is produced that the perpetrators came 'from outside': from outside of the building, from outside of America, even from outside civilization. The official version of these events screams 'outside, outside, outside.'" (Wisnewski 143)

In a world axiomatically defined by terrorism, the Manichean outlook seems destined always to win out. Sanguinetti saw something similar in Italy at the beginning of the strategy of tension: 

"In view of terrorism presented as absolute evil, evil in itself and for itself: all the other evils fade in to the background and are even forgotten; since the fight against terrorism coincides with the common interest, it already is the general good, and the State, which magnanimously conducts it, is good in itself and for itself.

Without the wickedness of the devil, God's infinite bounty could not appear and be appreciated as is fitting." (Sanguinetti 3)

Gabel insists again and again on the key role played by the loss of the historical dimension, and it is clear that this problem was shared by twentieth-century America with Nazi Germany and with Soviet Russia. Anglo-American propaganda exhibits an overwhelming tendency to demonize enemy leaders: Noriega, Milosevic, Bin Laden, and Saddam Hussein are notable examples, but the tendency goes back to Kaiser Wilhelm at the very least. Today the explicit speech of propaganda is conducted on the overtly infantile plane: we hear of good guys and bad guys, of bad actors, and most of all of terrorists. Gabel writes: "For Gabel, this is another symptom of reification (hypostatization): "As a prisoner of a universe where space takes the place of duration, man in the reified world cannot understand history as the expression of creativity and spontaneity. Consequently the undeniable fact of change forces itself on this 'consciousness of immediacy' as a catastrophe, as a sudden change coming from the outside that excludes mediation. ...Seen in this perspective, history appears as a function of demiurgic action. An external force (God, the hero, a party) transcends the efficiency of its autonomous dialectic. Reified consciousness is essentially ahistorical: mens momentanea seu carens recordatione,' [a mind in the moment, or lacking memory] said Leibniz on this subject." (Gabel 151) 

Here is history reduced to a fairy tale, with the cocaine-abusing, alcoholic, mentally-impaired Bush as the hero of the good, and the rich, misfit, raving ideologue Bin Laden as the champion of evil. How can hundreds of millions of people believe in such a product?

Gabel discusses the stress on biological heredity and race as one of the leading anti-historical features of the Nazi outlook, and there is evidence that Hitler was also well aware of this. Gabel points out that Nazi ideology, with its glorification of race and biology, was marked by "morbid rationalism in its worst form." 

Gabel argues that "any unfavorable event for this racial pseudo-value is itself extra-historicized and 'understood' in terms of treason or conspiracy:the ideology of national socialism is logically inseparable from the theory of the 'stab in the back."' (Gabel 117) 

If fascism comes to the United States, it is now certain that its ideology will prominently feature the 9/11 events as a stab in the back to a benefactor by an ungrateful and treacherous outside world; fascist neocons are already spouting this point of view. 

Ironically, the German request for an armistice in 1918, which Hitler later condemned as a stab in the back by Social Democratic politicians, was actually the work of Field Marshal Ludendorff and other future backers of Hitler. As for 9/11, which Bush blames on the Arab and Moslem world, it too had some of its main backers inside the US military and intelligence services. 

Frank sees Bush's paranoid schizophrenic hostility to real historical processes reflected in some well-known aspects of his bureaucratic methods. One is his insistence on absolute, unquestioning loyalty on the part of his underlings: "Like the alcoholic father who is threatened by the independence of his family members, Bush demands absolute loyalty and conformity, trying to freeze his national family in time. ..." (Frank 46) For Frank, Bush has no use for history in any form; he remarks, "with a president who refuses to view history as anything but an enemy he cannot afford to acknowledge or engage, it's impossible not to wonder what painful lessons of history we may be doomed to repeat." (Frank 161)

One way of denying historical reality is to wipe out the past; another is to insist that the leading delusion of one's own time is destined to last forever. The Nazis did this in one way, Bush in another: "the historical time of national socialism was dominated ... by the chimerical hope of an empty eternity" -- there was the promise of a thousand year Reich, sometimes escalated to 20,000 years of Nazi world domination. (Gabel 134) For Bush and the neocons, this has become the nightmare vision of a war against terrorism which is literally endless.

Bush's fraudulent "war on terrorism" is of course a war of civilizations directed against the 1 billion Arab and Moslem people in the world; it is more hypocritical than Hitlerism because it assiduously denies its own real content.

In reality, the "war on terrorism" is a racist war against Arabs and Moslems today, with China and perhaps Russia as candidates for all-out attack at some later time. From time to time the real essence explodes to the surface, as in Bush's call for a crusade, or in General Boykin's comments on satanic Islam. Neocon radio talk show hosts like Michael Savage are more explicit every day, and it is they who service the belief structure of Bush's hard-core followers.

Gabel sees racism as another denial of reality and history: "The racist perception of human reality is schizophrenic in several ways," he observes. Gabel also detects a depersonalization of members of the targeted group, "which is reflected particularly in caricature, the strongest weapon of ethnocentrism." (Gabel 123)

In Bush's fear-mongering oratory, the denial of reality is so great that it often approaches the qualities of hallucination, and sometimes enters into that domain. "It will be admitted that there exists a certain analogy between hallucinatory consciousness which, in its demand for homogeneity, is forced to alienate in a hallucinatory form the tendencies that it no longer manages to organize in a concrete totality, and, on the other hand, reified political consciousness which, in its postulate of political homogeneity -- a postulate which the totalitarian state tries to put into practice -- attributes to the foreigner (in the widest sense of the term, implying also political heterodoxy) facts for which a simple dialectical consideration of reality would permit a rational explanation to be given." (Gabel 279-280) 

Frank connects this to the hatred of the lawful character of reality, which we see manifested in Bush -- who loves to live outside the law as an individual, from his drunk driving arrests through his National Guard shenanigans to his illegal election -- and in the neocons -- who hate the very concept of international law: "Wilfred R. Bion points out that the part of the personality that hates internal law -- the laws of reality, of time, of responsibility, of loss -- hates external reality as well. It attacks links made in the mind, undermining the capacity to think and organize that comes from facing reality and its limitations. Living outside the law of mature responsibility becomes both the midwife of omnipotent fantasy and the mortician of the capacity to think." (Frank 89)

Bush boasts about his own penchant for seeing the world in black and white, as a single Manichean opposition of good and evil, with no nuances or gray areas. As Frank notes, "there are no shades of gray in this fight for civilization .... Either you're with the United States of America, or you're against the United States of America." (Frank 13) 

Gabel saw the same phenomenon in the Nazis: "By virtue of the implicit Manichean postulate of ideological thought, the enemies of enemies so often enjoy an undeserved favorable prejudice; for the political Manichean one is either "with us or against us," as Bush constantly repeats. (Gabel 97 note)