Friday 29 June 2018

The Tyler Puts The Roof On




Before The Law, there stands a guard. 

A man comes from the country, begging admittance to the law. But the guard cannot admit him. May he hope to enter at a later time? That is possible, said the guard. The man tries to peer through the entrance. He'd been taught that the law was to be accessible to every man. "Do not attempt to enter without my permission", says the guard. "I am very powerful. Yet I am the least of all the guards. From hall to hall, door after door, each guard is more powerful than the last. By the guard's permission, the man sits by the side of the door, and there he waits." 

For years, he waits. Everything he has, he gives away in the hope of bribing The Guard, who never fails to say to him 

"I take what you give me only so that you will not feel that you left something undone." 

Keeping his watch during the long years, the man has come to know even the fleas on The Guard's fur collar. 

Growing childish in old age, he begs the fleas to persuade the guard to change his mind and allow him to enter. 


His sight has dimmed, but in the darkness he perceives a radiance streaming immortally from The Door of The Law. 

And now, before he dies, all he's experienced condenses into one question, a question he's never asked. He beckons the guard. 

Says the guard, 
"You are insatiable! What is it now?" 

Says the man, "Every man strives to attain the law. How is it then that in all these years, no one else has ever come here, seeking admittance?" 

His hearing has failed, so the guard yells into his ear. "Nobody else but you could ever have obtained admittance. No one else could enter this door! This door was intended only for you! And now, I'm going to close it." 

This tale is told during the story called "The Trial". 

It's been said that the logic of this story is the logic of a dream... a nightmare. 





Thursday 28 June 2018

Fame




You all know Joey Zasa. 

He is, I admit, an important man. 
His picture is on the cover of the New York Times magazine. He gets the Esquire magazine award, for the best-dressed gangster! 

The newspapers praise him, because, he hires Blacks into his family, which shows he has a good heart. 

He, is famous. 

Who knows? 
Maybe one day, he will make all of you, popular. 

ZASA 
It's true. I make more of a, bella figura, that is my nature. But I also want to make a move into, legitimate enterprises. I'd like to get a little pin from the Pope. Sure, I take the Blacks and the Spanish into my family, because, that's America. 

MICHAEL 
And you guarantee, they don't deal drugs in those neighborhoods. 

ZASA 
I don't guarantee that. 
I guarantee I'll kill anybody who does. 


"I realised that I was becoming a celebrity, which was nothing that I ever expected. given that 'Comic-book Writer' was about the most obscure profession in The World when I actually entered the job.

The thing about Fame is that Fame in it's current sense had not really existed before the 20th Century - back in previous eras, even if you were very, very well-known, that would perhaps be amongst a thousand people, if you were The Pope, or something.


In the 20th Century, however, with these massive surges in communication, suddenly a different form of Fame was possible -

And I tend to think that what fame has done is to replace the sea as the element of choice of adventure for Young People. 

If you were a dashing young man in the 19th century you would probably have wanted to run away to Sea, just as in the 20th century you might decide that you want to run away and form a pop band. 

The difference is, that in the 19th century, before running away to sea, you would have had at least some understanding of the element that you were dealing with and would have perhaps, say, learned to swim ... 

The thing is that there is no manual for how to cope with fame. 

So you'll get some, otherwise likeable young person, who has done one good comic book, one good film, one good record, suddenly told that they are a genius, and, who believes it and who runs out laughing and splashing into the billows of celebrity, and whose heroin-sodden corpse is washed up a few weeks later in the shallows of the tabloids.

I never signed up to be a Celebrity, and I very quickly realised that it wasn't something that I was at all comfortable with.

- Alan Moore

Guts Is Enough






If You Hide Your Ignorance, 
No-One Will Hit You

and 

You Will NEVER LEARN.


Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Joker, do you believe in the Virgin Mary?

Private Joker: 
Sir, no, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Well, well, Private Joker, 
I don't believe I heard you correctly!

Private Joker: 
Sir, the private said "no, sir," sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Why you little maggot, you make me want to vomit!

[slaps Joker]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
You Goddamn communist heathen, you had best sound off that you love the Virgin Mary, or I'm gonna stomp your guts out! 
Now you DO love the Virgin Mary, don't ya?

Private Joker: 
Sir, NEGATIVE, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman:
Private Joker, 
are you trying to offend me?

Private Joker: 
Sir, NEGATIVE, sir! 
Sir, the private belives any answer he gives will be wrong 
and the Senior Drill Instructor will only beat him harder if he reverses himself, SIR!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Who's your squad leader, scumbag?

Private Joker: 
Sir, the squad leader is Private Snowball, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Snowball!

Private Snowball: 
Sir, Private Snowball reporting as ordered, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Snowball, you're fired. 
Private Joker's promoted to squad leader.

Private Snowball: 
Sir, aye-aye, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Disappear, scumbag!

Private Snowball: 
Sir, aye-aye, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Pyle!

Private Gomer Pyle: 
Private Pyle reporting as ordered, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Pyle, Private Joker is your new squad leader, and you will bunk with him! 
He'll teach you everything, he'll teach you how to pee!

Private Gomer Pyle: 
Sir, yes, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Private Joker is silly and ignorant, 
but he's got guts, 
and guts is enough.



"I am My Mother's Son."




On that same plantation, there was the field Negro. The field Negro -- those were the masses. There were always more Negroes in the field than there was Negroes in the house. The Negro in the field caught hell. He ate leftovers. In the house they ate high up on the hog. The Negro in the field didn't get nothing but what was left of the insides of the hog. They call 'em "chitt'lings" nowadays. In those days they called them what they were: guts. That's what you were -- a gut-eater. And some of you all still gut-eaters.

You Will Give Your Rifle a Girl's Name


Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Tonight, you pukes will sleep with your rifles. 
You will give your rifle a girl's name because this is the only pussy you people are going to get. 
Your days of finger-banging ol' Mary-Jane Rottencrotch through her pretty pink panties are over! 
You're married to this piece. 
This weapon of iron and wood. 
And you will be faithful. 
Port, hut!

[Recruits grabs their rifles]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Prepare to mount!

[Recruits step back towards their bunks]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Mount!

[Recruits quickly hop onto their bunks]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Port, hut!

[Recruits grabs their rifles and holds them up]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Pray!

Recruits: 
[chanting] 
This is My Rifle. 
There are many others like it, but this one is mine. 
My rifle is My Best Friend. 
It is My Life. 
I must master it as I must master My Life. 

Without me, My Rifle is useless.

Without my rifle, I am useless.

I must fire my rifle True. 

I must shoot straighter than My Enemy, who is trying to kill me.

I must shoot him before he shoots me. 

I will. 

Before God I swear this creed: my rifle and myself are defenders of My Country, we are the Masters of our Enemy, we are the Saviors of My Life. 

So be it, until there is no Enemy, but Peace. 
Amen.

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
Order, hut!

[Recruits puts the guns at their sides]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
At ease! 
Good night, ladies.

Recruits: 
Good night, sir!

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: 
[to the Watchman] 
Hit it, sweetheart.


The Family, Firm.




Sin Came to Your Door Like This Sexually-Aroused Cat-Predator Thing,and You Invited it In


" Buddy, you can walk right out that back gate there, and 
I won't say anything to anybody. 

I'm supposed to be there now
but, listen, I'm -- 

[ but you're not - you abandoned your post to eat a sandwich... ]

I'm just trying to get by
just like you. 

Please. 

[Pipe landing] 

Jesus : 
Daryl. 

[Grunting] 

[Breathing heavily] 

Jesus :
Daryl. 

[Pipe clatters] 

Daryl Dixon :
It ain't just about gettin' by, here. 

It's about getting it all.

Sin came to your door like this sexually aroused cat-predator thing -

And you invited it in. 

And then you let it have its Wicked Way with you. 


 It’s like you entered into a creative—he uses a sexual metaphor. 


You entered into a creative exchange with it, and gave birth to something as a consequence. 


 What you gave birth to, that’s your life. 

And you knew it. 

You’re self-conscious, after all. 

You knew you were doing this. 


You conspired with this thing to produce the situation that you’re in.

Do Nothing (So Long as It's The Right Sort of Nothing)


Tom : 
Never mind the clipboard, 
short the cables.

(The Doctor gives Romana the manacles.)

Tom : 
Drain the main power line. 
Earth it to The Ladder.

ROMANA
I know. I've done it.

(Rorvik lets The Doctor go and heads 
for the ladder to undo the damage.)

Tom : 
Biroc? What are 
you doing here?

BIROC
Nothing.

Tom : 
It's all right for you.

BIROC
And for You, Too
Do Nothing.

Tom : 
Do Nothing?

ROMANA
Of course, Doctor. 
Don't you see?

Tom
Yes, that's right
Do Nothing.

....if it's the right 
sort of Nothing.

(They join hands with Biroc and fade away. 
Rorvik has removed the manacles 
from the cable.)

RORVIK: 
Run, Doctor. Scurry off 
back to your blue box. 
You're like all the rest. 
Lizards when there's 
a man's work to be done. 
I'm sick of your kind. 
Faint-hearted, do-nothing
lily-livered deadweights
This is The End for all of you! 

I'm finally getting 
something done

Bwahahahaha!
You know, I'm thinking, Spencer. 

I'm thinking how Rick threatened to kill me, 
how he clearly hates my guts. 

But he is out there, right now
gathering shit for me to make sure 
I don't hurt any of the fine people 
that live here. 

He is swallowing His Hate and 
getting shit done

That takes guts.

-- Negan.


There are Three Physical Gateways



There are Three Physical Gateways
and The Three are One.

"Probability computes at zero point zero zero zero five seven, Mistress."

K-9 :
All systems functioning. 
Recommend priority transferred to 
the three humanoid life forms 
approaching The TARDIS. 

ADRIC: 
What? He's having delusions

(Rorvik, Packard and Lane walk through The Void. 
The Portable Mass Detector is a chest-sized box strapped to Lane. 
The beeping speeds up. 

Meanwhile, Romana enters from The Interior 
with an armful of boxes.

ROMANA
These stores really are The Limit. 
Nothing's catalogued. 
Half the shelves are empty. 
This was all I could find. 
Adric? Adric. 

(Adric is looking at the scanner, 
so Romana does too and sees 
the three men approaching.

ROMANA
But that's impossible. 
The Coordinates are at Zero. 

K9: 
Probability computes at 0.00057, Mistress. 
Please apply 0.67 error correction to this estimate. 
Error in error correction estimate 
estimated at 0.3705 --

ROMANA
We should do something. 
He'll go like this forever. 

(Romana pulls a wire in his back.

K9: 
Correction. All present and correct. 
King's Regulations (Army) 
Report of the orderly sergeant 
to the officer of the day
Default is martial...

(K9 runs out of power and stops.

ROMANA
It's all going to be all right, K9.

 


Outlers


" Youth, with its enthusiasms, which rebels against any accepted norm must because it must--and we sympathize--it may wear flowers in its hair, bells on toes.

But when The Common Good is threatened, when the function of Society is endangered, such revolts must cease. 

They are non-productive and must be abolished. "



Vouchsafe

Man:
Stop right there. Whoa!

Daryl Dixon :
You gonna make us?


Jesus, what the hell is this?
 
Jesus :
Open The Gates, Cal.
Freddie's hurt.
Look, sorry about these guys.
They get antsy standing up there all day doing nothing.


They give up the weapons.


Then we'll open the gates.



Daryl Dixon :

Why don't you come down here and get 'em?


Gentlemen, look, we vouch for these people, all right?

They saved us out there.

Jesus:
Lower the spears.


Look, I'm not taking any chances.
Tell your guy Gregory to come out here.



No. Don't you see what just happened?
I'm letting you keep your guns.
Look, we ran out of ammo months ago.
 
I like you people. I trust you. Trust us.

Open the gates, Cal.

Prison





The object of prisons originally, both among the Hebrews and the Romans, was merely the safe-keeping of a criminal, real or pretended, until his trial. 

Which is remarkable, because you would expect the dominant thinking behind those two cultures to be completely at odds and different, as it always was about just about everything else.


They ONLY had a notional concept of Protective Custody, which is the same basic thinking that underlies the concept of  American Slave Jails.

We're not saying that you've done anything wrong, other than by escaping, of course (because naturally, for a slave, nothing could ever possibly justify or excuse that) - I mean, you probably have, or else why would you be a slave to begin with - but we are just going to keep you here, under guard, until we figure out what to do with you.

You're not a criminal - we're not saying that (yet). You're just being held here and "detained", as a temporary provisional arrangement, purely just for the time being, 'til all the facts are in, our investigation into you is complete and we are in a better position to know how to proceed from here.

So you cannot leave.

The ecclesiastical idea of imprisonment, however, is that confinement be made use of both as a punishment and as affording an opportunity for reformation and reflection.


The Naughty Step.

You just sit there Young Man, all by yourself, and you just think about what you've done.




" For the future, no regular, legitimately professed, may be expelled from his order unless he be truly incorrigible. A person is not to be judged truly incorrigible unless not only all those things are found verified which are required by the common law (notwithstanding the constitutions of any religious order even confirmed and approved by the Holy See), but also, until the delinquent has been tried by fasting and patience for one year in confinement. 

Therefore, let every order have private prisons, at least one in every province. "


This is incredible - your imprisonment was your Trial.

And notice also, this was a fixed-term : they couldn't kick you out unless and until you had been through this, undergone a full year of being under enforced Special Measures without expressing any remorse, or showing any signs offering any indication of contrition.

And if, at the end of it, you remained defiant, they simply just let you go.

They had to.

They were not allowed  to just keep you indefinitely, in the hopes that you would eventually just fall into line and conform, given enough encouragement and sufficient persuasion (which is how they would have regarded it).


They had to let you go, and never bother you ever again - they were not allowed to.

Provided that person (monk or nun) had made a true profession of faith and devotion when taking their vows and entering into the obligations of the order to which they were originally seeking to be admitted to at the time, they were not allowed  to give up on you, and indulge your delinquency by tolerating it, for as long as you persisted in perusing and expressing it.

Unless you could be shown to be absolutely incorrigible, in which case, you are beyond helping, unless you repent.

Repenting of your trespasses would mean that you are redeemable, and therefore saved, whereas to deny reponsibility for your trespassses, even the trespasses themselves, means that you're on your own.

Ultimately. Basically. And in more ways than one.


But other than by confining you to your solitude and restricting your diet and caloric intake (which is an obvious effort to facilitate gnosis to occur), they couldn't touch you or harm you, or injure you in any way. Physical or otherwise.

They could not consciously inflict suffering upon you, because that would be quite obviously sinful and wrong - any (additional) suffering you think you are experiencing due to your imprisonment, as consequence of being kept confined and hungry for anywhere up to a whole year is as an inevitable and entirely predictable (and foreseeable) result of your delinquency in behaviour and conduct, perpetuated  indefinitely on an ongoing basis by the fact of your incorrigibility.

The Inquisitor :
In a human, this attitude might be considered STUBBORN.

Kryten-2X4B-523P :
But I am not human - and neither are you.
And it is not our place to judge them.

I wonder why you do.

The Inquisitor :
Enough!


So you are incorrigable - to some extent. 

It isn't clear how much, but it is assumed that we can work that out of you and unburden your soul by exorcising you of the daemon of your own incorrigibility, given sufficent coaxing, persuading and encouraging to get you to do the right thing.

That is, unless you are indeed shown to be Truly Incorrigible, in which case there is little else that can be done for you - you are to be damned, that is, unless or until you decide by yourself  to change your ways, ask for help, the help that you need to redeem yourself, and seek forgiveness for your past deeds and sins and trespasses - which is to say :

They try to make me go to Rehab, but I say "No, no, no.". 

Significantly, if you watch interviews with Amy about the origin of the idea for that song, and this lyric in particular, the way in which it came about was that at a time when a plurality of her friends and interested peers were saying to her :

"You do have a problem - I think you really do need to urgently get some Help.
You should seriously look into checking into some form of clinical Rehab facility to get you into recovery, or else you could die."
when she repeated these warnings, it was her father - an unscrupulous and irresponsible feeder, if ever there was one - who said to her :

" You Don't Need to Go Into Rehab...! No, no, no!
You're my Little Girl!

My Princess!
 You don't have a drug problem! 
You're perfectly alright...!
Rehab's for Crackheads and Losers and Weak People, and you're nothing like that - 
Because You're My Little Girl!

They think they know everything, these Wishy-Washy, Namby-Pamby, Nervous-Nellie Bleeding Heart types -
What do They know....? 
I mean, who do They think they are...?"

More or less - I'm paraphrasing : except for the initial statement of rejection and incredulity - he definitely  said that to her, specifically, and in precisely those terms :

"You Don't Need to Go Rehab - That's just  Ridiculous. 

Don't take any notice of that and don't pay attention if anyone should try to insist on telling you otherwise. " 


So, anyway.

With Rehab - which is to say, Initial Stage-1 drying-out, Cold Turkey & Detox Rehab - it's voluntary, and they give you 30 Days, initially, which is generally sufficient enough time to break any physical dependencies, break the routine habits, patterns and cycles of habitual behaviour that pertain to Using (of any sort) and at least try  to make a start at getting to the underlying psychic causes that are the reason causing the substance use and abuse to occur, to provide a solid platform and basis for ongoing recovery and group work.

That's if you stay.

For instance, Kurt Cobain climbed over The Wall to escape and absconded from his initial, intended 30-Day Rehab because he missed his wife and son - and then a week later somehow came to a very bad end amidst very troubling circumstances that to this day remain less-than-clear to an alarming degree, to put it mildly.

But we do know that he visited his junkie best friend in Seattle and borrowed from him his 12-gauge shotgun, stating that he was in fear for his life and expressing extreme anxiety over personal security in his home and the safety of his baby girl.

And that there is no evidence to suggest that he made any effort or attempt to purchase, beg, borrow or steal any Heroin (or any other drug, for that matter) from his junkie best friend who kept lots of guns around the house whilst he was there to collect the shotgun from him, at least not so far as I am aware of - the ultra-pure, pharmaceutical-grade Heroin he was found in close proximity to, along with the 12-Gauge, at the crime scene when his body was discovered about a week later, did not come from Dylan. 

In other words, there is no reason to believe that the Rehab did not take in his case, and there is some question as to how chronically addicted her previously had  been prior to the birth of his daughter and first child, and to what extent he needed to begin a formal course of Rehab in order to fully effect his entry into recovery at that point, anyway - it is known, for instance, that he only checked into 30 Day residential rehab at the insistence of his wife, who had made all the arrangements and seen to ensuring that he was entered into a programme and facility of her choosing, which he seemingly ended up very quickly rebelling against and absconding.

And given that Rehab is voluntary  in every instance (unless you are somehow sectioned or committed, in which case you shouldn't be there, as you have far more pressing mental health issues, and cannot give knowledgeable, informed consent to receive treatment), it's worth further noting as being not-insignificant that he actually literally had to escape by climbing the back fence, jumping over a wall and slipping past the private security personnel guarding the perimeter - Colditz-style.

If people really want to leave - at least in theory - they cannot actually stop you or prevent you from doing so (although they may be honour-bound to at least attempt to persuade you to stay) - to make it plain, most people walk out the front door.