Mood: Bored
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Okay. Any posts after this one that I will have to make (in a long time) will be to The Kampalan. And that is not a personal blog, so they won't be in the first person, generally. And they will be very, very rare (almost never, as in).
And I have already put something up there. Now, where is The 27th Comrade going? He doesn't know either.
You know, I want to take a break from life as it is, now. Slip into the slums, drain my bank balance, and come out desperate again. Desperation is good to give me a drive. While away, I am going to be mainly programming stuff. Projects that have been on the back-burner for long.
Also, I hope to be able to steal myself away to The Reunion Island, but that's a bit difficult, because it requires enough money (among other things). And, besides, I am going to be getting a kitten, soon. If I can't take it with me, I have to stay. :o( But hope is not entirely lost.
For years, the island has had my imagination panting after it like a snubbed lover.
I don't know when I am going to really put my current job on hold, to make a bit of time for myself, but it can't be too far off into the future.
Okay. Bye. :^*
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Friday, 7 September 2007
Redemption Dance
Mood: In-Memoriam
[Toot!] Index: 0.05
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
This is a post about when we were kids, two of my bros and I. You know that time when we woke up every morning to be driven to school by Ma. And my youngest bro, Bethwell, was really just a baby. We made a great set, Bethwell, my twin bro, and I.
(For those of you who didn't know: I have a twin brother, who is nothing like me. He didn't drop out, he cuts his hair, and would use his real name if he blogged.)
Anyway, so we there was four of us. Including a dog, named Klipi. Fine mutt. From the day he was a wet, shivering puppy trotting towards us, we were comrades. And as he grew up, he accompanied us on the adventures to the lake, to the forest, to wherever Entebbe kids spend their days. He fought when we fought, was wounded when we were, ran when we ran, swam when we dipped, starved when we did, slept when we did, was ready to trot when we were, and in danger when (and because) we were. That silent friendship we had is as tight as they come.
And then he vanished. Just vanished. One rainy morning, we wake up and whistle for him, to give him his food, and there is no dog. We left the food there, knowing he'd be back after we had been driven to school. When we came back, we found the food soaked and untouched.
The next Saturday, we went `to look for Klipi'. We marched along, asking about with detailed description, my baby bro mimicking the barking and wagging for better effect. Fruitless day. Then, on Sunday, Isaac, a neighbour, told us he had seen a dead dog along the road. That was all we needed to make my baby bro cry. Bitterly. It was a sad time as Isaac led us to where the dog had been knocked. What we found was rotting dog meat wrapped in tattered leather. We couldn't quite tell if this had been Klipi at any time. The fur seemed longer than Klipi's. But Bethwell was in tears, figuring out how we were going to drag it home `to show him to Mummy'. Crazy idea, kid. You don't drag a stinky carcass around.
So we walked back home. I wasn't sure it was Klipi. Bethwell was convinced, though.
After a few weeks, we got over the loss, and Bethwell had stopped putting food for the dog after he saw the road-kill. Things were usual again. Our adventures were now of three.
One day, we are being driven to school by Ma. It is raining. And my baby bro shouts `Mummy! Klipi!' It wasn't Klipi. Just another wet, wounded, limping dog too stinky to be liked by anyone ... wait! That is Klipi!
Now you know why the story of the Prodigal Son really talks to me. We were shooting across the road before Ma had digested it. And Klipi wassprinting flying towards us. Wag, woof, lick, bark, dance, and all them things very happy dogs do. We got him into the car and told Ma there was only one direction we were headed to: home.
We got there, washed Klipi, made Ma call up the vet for an appointment (and all the while she's saying `You have X minutes ... we are already late for school.'), made warm dog food, started playing catch, pulled out our old adventure plans ...
And Ma was getting impatient. Bethwell's kindergarten was a bit far from home, so she was getting hysterical. `Hurry up, get your uniforms back on! This is not the first or last time he's getting lost and found. It's no big deal—dogs are lost and found every day!' And Bethwell saw that she needed some re-education.
'No, Mummy, no!' he explained, in that slow lisp of a five-year-old, words thick with importance he had not yet discovered words for, his fat cheeks shaping the sounds delicately. `Klipi was not lost. He was dead, and now he is back!'
Ma, looking at her chubby baby educating her about the importance of the reunion, this funeral of death, couldn't stop the tears. 'Okay, boys. No school today.'
(This is one of the last posts, comrades. Not forever, but I am going to be vanishing for some time, in about a week or two. I'll be telling you stuff when I be back. If I'm generally missing in action for a while, that's why. (o:)
[Toot!] Index: 0.05
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
This is a post about when we were kids, two of my bros and I. You know that time when we woke up every morning to be driven to school by Ma. And my youngest bro, Bethwell, was really just a baby. We made a great set, Bethwell, my twin bro, and I.
(For those of you who didn't know: I have a twin brother, who is nothing like me. He didn't drop out, he cuts his hair, and would use his real name if he blogged.)
Anyway, so we there was four of us. Including a dog, named Klipi. Fine mutt. From the day he was a wet, shivering puppy trotting towards us, we were comrades. And as he grew up, he accompanied us on the adventures to the lake, to the forest, to wherever Entebbe kids spend their days. He fought when we fought, was wounded when we were, ran when we ran, swam when we dipped, starved when we did, slept when we did, was ready to trot when we were, and in danger when (and because) we were. That silent friendship we had is as tight as they come.
And then he vanished. Just vanished. One rainy morning, we wake up and whistle for him, to give him his food, and there is no dog. We left the food there, knowing he'd be back after we had been driven to school. When we came back, we found the food soaked and untouched.
The next Saturday, we went `to look for Klipi'. We marched along, asking about with detailed description, my baby bro mimicking the barking and wagging for better effect. Fruitless day. Then, on Sunday, Isaac, a neighbour, told us he had seen a dead dog along the road. That was all we needed to make my baby bro cry. Bitterly. It was a sad time as Isaac led us to where the dog had been knocked. What we found was rotting dog meat wrapped in tattered leather. We couldn't quite tell if this had been Klipi at any time. The fur seemed longer than Klipi's. But Bethwell was in tears, figuring out how we were going to drag it home `to show him to Mummy'. Crazy idea, kid. You don't drag a stinky carcass around.
So we walked back home. I wasn't sure it was Klipi. Bethwell was convinced, though.
After a few weeks, we got over the loss, and Bethwell had stopped putting food for the dog after he saw the road-kill. Things were usual again. Our adventures were now of three.
One day, we are being driven to school by Ma. It is raining. And my baby bro shouts `Mummy! Klipi!' It wasn't Klipi. Just another wet, wounded, limping dog too stinky to be liked by anyone ... wait! That is Klipi!
Now you know why the story of the Prodigal Son really talks to me. We were shooting across the road before Ma had digested it. And Klipi was
We got there, washed Klipi, made Ma call up the vet for an appointment (and all the while she's saying `You have X minutes ... we are already late for school.'), made warm dog food, started playing catch, pulled out our old adventure plans ...
And Ma was getting impatient. Bethwell's kindergarten was a bit far from home, so she was getting hysterical. `Hurry up, get your uniforms back on! This is not the first or last time he's getting lost and found. It's no big deal—dogs are lost and found every day!' And Bethwell saw that she needed some re-education.
'No, Mummy, no!' he explained, in that slow lisp of a five-year-old, words thick with importance he had not yet discovered words for, his fat cheeks shaping the sounds delicately. `Klipi was not lost. He was dead, and now he is back!'
Ma, looking at her chubby baby educating her about the importance of the reunion, this funeral of death, couldn't stop the tears. 'Okay, boys. No school today.'
(This is one of the last posts, comrades. Not forever, but I am going to be vanishing for some time, in about a week or two. I'll be telling you stuff when I be back. If I'm generally missing in action for a while, that's why. (o:)
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Forget History. Please.
Mood: Pissed, Revolutionary
[Toot!] Index: 5.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
We know a lot about Africa's history. That is very bad. I repeat: the fact that we know a lot about Africa's history is very bad, very saddening.
See this post from Iwaya: `He Made Me Want to Defend Amin'.
Go back and click it and read it, before going to the next paragraph. You may also read my comment there.
I said, go back and read Iwaya's post!
Now, for those of you who didn't read it, it is basically some guy hurling racial stereotypes around, grouping all Africans and their leaders under one description, with Idi Amin as the shining example of how pathetic this group is.
The guy who wrote it is called Anthony Daniels, and his by-line on that article says: `Anthony Daniels is the author of Monrovia Mon Amour and has written extensively about Africa for many years'.
He has written `extensively about Africa for many years'. This is what we know, when we read about Africa—that we are pathetic losers. That is why it is sad that we know a lot of African history.
It gets worse.
When the Mau-Mau rebellion was raging in Kenya, do you know what was recorded about it? Samantha left a comment (one of the last) in this old post of mine summarising what was being written about the Mau-Mau rebellion. Basically, it was said, in European papers, that the Africans were idiots who weren't good for much more than being slaves, and that they had rebelled and started murdering as many Whites as they could. Ask for the numbers of those who know any Whites killed during the Mau-Mau rebellion, and you'll be shocked how few were. But the papers in Europe painted a different picture, so those in London supported a war where captured prisoners were castrated, while kept in Nazi-style concentration camps, women raped, hot eggs tossed into anuses, pregnant women forced to abort, to sit on red-hot steel ...
This is Britain fighting the war in this style. Makes bin Laden a holy warrior, I tell you. And what was the war for? To keep land that had been grabbed by Whites, and maintain the mini-apartheid that was going on in Kenya (still goes on, to some extent). That is what we were butchered for, in our thousands and millions.
But when we read African history, we read what Europeans—like Anthony Daniels, above—wrote. That is why it is bad that we know so much African history.
We even dare support the West against the Communists, because we know so much of this African history. I already told you, we have been brain-washed and made slaves in mind to the Whites of the West. It is why we are all dying for a chance to lick their boots (to adopt their definitions, culture, ideals, their brand of democracy*, et cetera), even when they deem us sub-human. We are like dogs towards their masters. Because we know our history very well. All we know we have been delicately and carefully educated into believing. It started in the days of colonisation (long story) to make us readier to be servants on our own land. It never stopped.
In closing, the point is. We know African history. But that is the problem. It is why we continue to stand at attention, awaiting the next order from Washington DC on how we should spend the money we have collected from our part of the American Empire, like true subservient imperial agents. True puppets. They tell us (quoting Fujitsu, from her comment in the previous post): `These problems are your priorities and this is how we (the West) are gonna fix them.' Are we independent? Think again, silly one. We are enslaved. Show me anything to the contrary.
We've been brainwashed into mental slavery by history. History. His Story. It is not ourstory. It is not Our Story. It is His Story.
Besides, people, how will you survive when America is gone? Won't you die, like parasitic worms do, when the host dies? And what's worse, parasites never grow arms, legs or brains, because it doesn't take much to be a parasite. But the death of the host is the death of the parasite. And look what enemies America is picking on. What shall we do when the West is gone? Shall we also die? Comrades, blogren, Say `NO!' to (mental) enslavement!
* Democracy? Do democrats exterminate native peoples? Keep people in Guantanamo bay? Keep African debt to make us slaves? Explains why I hate Western democracy, then. :o) What's gay rights, when there are no equal rights for all people, poor or rich? You don't have the right to eat food (because you're descended from slaves), but you have the right to fuck a donkey. Don't you just love the genius of Western democracy?
PS: Country Boi recorded the Gaetano interview, and put it up. Cool kid. Superstar. I dropped a loud-mouthed comment there. :o)
[Toot!] Index: 5.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
We know a lot about Africa's history. That is very bad. I repeat: the fact that we know a lot about Africa's history is very bad, very saddening.
See this post from Iwaya: `He Made Me Want to Defend Amin'.
Go back and click it and read it, before going to the next paragraph. You may also read my comment there.
I said, go back and read Iwaya's post!
Now, for those of you who didn't read it, it is basically some guy hurling racial stereotypes around, grouping all Africans and their leaders under one description, with Idi Amin as the shining example of how pathetic this group is.
The guy who wrote it is called Anthony Daniels, and his by-line on that article says: `Anthony Daniels is the author of Monrovia Mon Amour and has written extensively about Africa for many years'.
He has written `extensively about Africa for many years'. This is what we know, when we read about Africa—that we are pathetic losers. That is why it is sad that we know a lot of African history.
It gets worse.
When the Mau-Mau rebellion was raging in Kenya, do you know what was recorded about it? Samantha left a comment (one of the last) in this old post of mine summarising what was being written about the Mau-Mau rebellion. Basically, it was said, in European papers, that the Africans were idiots who weren't good for much more than being slaves, and that they had rebelled and started murdering as many Whites as they could. Ask for the numbers of those who know any Whites killed during the Mau-Mau rebellion, and you'll be shocked how few were. But the papers in Europe painted a different picture, so those in London supported a war where captured prisoners were castrated, while kept in Nazi-style concentration camps, women raped, hot eggs tossed into anuses, pregnant women forced to abort, to sit on red-hot steel ...
This is Britain fighting the war in this style. Makes bin Laden a holy warrior, I tell you. And what was the war for? To keep land that had been grabbed by Whites, and maintain the mini-apartheid that was going on in Kenya (still goes on, to some extent). That is what we were butchered for, in our thousands and millions.
But when we read African history, we read what Europeans—like Anthony Daniels, above—wrote. That is why it is bad that we know so much African history.
We even dare support the West against the Communists, because we know so much of this African history. I already told you, we have been brain-washed and made slaves in mind to the Whites of the West. It is why we are all dying for a chance to lick their boots (to adopt their definitions, culture, ideals, their brand of democracy*, et cetera), even when they deem us sub-human. We are like dogs towards their masters. Because we know our history very well. All we know we have been delicately and carefully educated into believing. It started in the days of colonisation (long story) to make us readier to be servants on our own land. It never stopped.
In closing, the point is. We know African history. But that is the problem. It is why we continue to stand at attention, awaiting the next order from Washington DC on how we should spend the money we have collected from our part of the American Empire, like true subservient imperial agents. True puppets. They tell us (quoting Fujitsu, from her comment in the previous post): `These problems are your priorities and this is how we (the West) are gonna fix them.' Are we independent? Think again, silly one. We are enslaved. Show me anything to the contrary.
We've been brainwashed into mental slavery by history. History. His Story. It is not ourstory. It is not Our Story. It is His Story.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery,
None but ourselves can free our minds.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
'Cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
—Bob Marley (Redemption Song)
Besides, people, how will you survive when America is gone? Won't you die, like parasitic worms do, when the host dies? And what's worse, parasites never grow arms, legs or brains, because it doesn't take much to be a parasite. But the death of the host is the death of the parasite. And look what enemies America is picking on. What shall we do when the West is gone? Shall we also die? Comrades, blogren, Say `NO!' to (mental) enslavement!
* Democracy? Do democrats exterminate native peoples? Keep people in Guantanamo bay? Keep African debt to make us slaves? Explains why I hate Western democracy, then. :o) What's gay rights, when there are no equal rights for all people, poor or rich? You don't have the right to eat food (because you're descended from slaves), but you have the right to fuck a donkey. Don't you just love the genius of Western democracy?
PS: Country Boi recorded the Gaetano interview, and put it up. Cool kid. Superstar. I dropped a loud-mouthed comment there. :o)
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