TaoJoannes.com

Counterfeit

2011-11-28T00:45:00.001-05:00

I'll pretend to love you
so you'll keep making me sandwiches
and I'll try to figure out how to keep you happy
without losing my mind

but the days wear on
and my patience wears thin
behind this false smile
my teeth are clenched
and grinding

when you talk
I look over your shoulder
out the window
at anything else
but you

our love is counterfeit
at least mine is
built on a lie
hidden under false hope
and whitewashed
with a fading coat of lust

Stonemason's Lament

2011-11-20T14:09:00.005-05:00

You. You were right about everything.
A warm blooded ghost casting shadows on my eye.
I. I knew it from the start.
Suspending reason to chase my love of sorrow.

I'm the one who reads a book twice
and expects words to change in the meantime,
while in between time, print is dead,
each syllable a mortared stone
art's illusion suggesting life
when the only possible change
is destruction.

So when you look back
(I don't expect you to look back)
You'll see me running crooked circles
around these crumbling monuments
forever bearing witness to ephemeral truths
locked in cold, dead stone
or as close as human feeling can approach.

Mother Nature and Father Time

2011-11-16T00:00:00.001-05:00

Mother Nature and Father Time

Mother Nature never changed a diaper.
Father Time don't understand the moonwalk.
She just lets her children figure things out for themselves,
While he's marching on and on across their corpses.

And all the children sing and dance forever.
And all the children march and carry praise.
And all the children smear their gold dust into tired, blinded eyes.
All the children cry and kick at bedtime.

Mother Nature doesn't care about her babies.
She only ever cares that there are more.
She spreads her legs and welcomes any suitor.
Mother Nature is an eager, lusty whore.

And all the children clutch her apron strings.
And all the children shout and scream “she's pure”.
And all the children crave to suck her supple breast.
All the children do is break her heart.

Father Time doesn't care about his sons.
He only cares that they will keep on spinning.
He will not listen to them whine and talk about their feelings,
Father Time wants the trains to run more promptly.

And all the children try to make him proud.
And all the children want to catch his eye.
And all the children try to play when he gets home from work.
All the children scan the darkness for his face.

Mother Nature and Father Time went to market
And all the children stayed right here at home.
Mother Nature and Father Time went to the Milky Way
And all the children got was a lousy T-shirt.

The Gun

2011-11-06T17:17:00.000-05:00

My words do my dirty work
droppin simile like napalm
and metaphorical carpet bombs
destroying empty streets
paved with bricks of doubt
enshrouding complacent city states of mind

and as I contemplate this piece I cease existing
in the conscious world
as words take over
moving through me

bringing you a message of divine inspiration
and sweet sadistic desperation
simultaneously

I become the gun
focusing an explosion in one direction

I sharpen syllables like shuriken
split my lip with a pencil
and spit this infection through your brain
while I grab the wind like a samurai sword

the last lost wandering ronin on a mission from God
to slay haters and masturbators
with more to prove than offer
and weave resurrection science
over hollow corpses
to bring them back and ask what they learned

droppin shit from so far over your head
you think it's chocolate rain
and turn baby bird mouths to the sky
to take a hit to your tongue
and trip with me until I'm done
dumb, undone and spun

and I'm gasping for breath
grasping for meaning
drunk on the word
and lost in plain sight

I reach into my darkest corner
rip the lid off a box of secrets
and dare you to look at my truth
I love and I bleed, I lie and I lead
I eat fear like an orphan gobbles chocolate
I FUCK like a demon possesed
and I fight like a dozen howling wolves
to live a life worth the price of admission

starving, snarling, stinking, and alone
naked and shaking
there is no room for death in me
there is no room for shame in me
one heart and one soul burning
with the passion of a thousand suns
I am the gun
and I do not fear the fire.

Pound Puppy

2011-11-03T08:59:00.002-04:00

On her second day
at a three day kill shelter
she found me
with her bright eyes full of dark rain
and a hyperactive tail that drew my eye

I was looking for a cat
because puppies are dumb
chew everything
and piss all over the carpet

But she was cute enough to tame
and learned to come without a leash
we laid together afternoons
and dug up the neighbor's garden

On the way out one morning
I forgot to latch the door
and she ran

To the old man down the street
singing a recycled, borrowed lullaby
through tired teeth

So now I keep a plate of kibble
on the doorstep

Whistle strange melodies for her
and double-check my locks

Hoping she'll run back for a walk around the block

Or five

Requisitiuem

2011-11-02T23:23:00.002-04:00

I.
The wise wives say when separating
One should never watch the other disappear,
For every second that you linger
Delays return another year.

II.
Stolen glances past the shoulder
Catch eyefuls of salt
That stain shirt sleeves
And collars
Crusted thick and white

Where strained expectations
Meet and polish sharp again
Their edges against

Words too hard
Words too soft
Words not spoken
Words that can not

Will not
Write speak forget forgive
Themselves

III.
I cast a cold shadow
Over my eyes
And spit ice
Under my throat.
I gouge you from my flesh
And sow corn in the furrows
To harvest for the welcome feast.

I save my salt
To preserve our meat.

IV.
hands clasped, off-cast
skin of the mantis
outlasts
courtship and blood
amen

Thoughts on beauty

2011-10-31T22:40:00.004-04:00

Back in Germany, I was telling my friend AWOL about this girl back in the states I was in love with. My high school sweetheart, half-italian, half-jewish, huge breasts, long, thick brown hair, sweet brown eyes and a smile that could just melt you. I was heading back to the states, we were both newly divorced, she was graduating med school, we had been in the gifted classes together back in the day.

And AWOL, who was a couple years older, out of the service already, and living on the economy over there said

"So she's smart."

yep.

"Beautiful"

yep.

"Big ol titties"

you know it, bro.

"Has a nice personality"

the best.

"And she's gonna be a doctor, so she's gonna have money."

I guess so, but I'll be doing alright myself.

"Is she loyal?"

uh, I dunno, I guess.

"Cuz if she ain't loyal, she ain't worth a shit."

And then a few months later, she broke my heart and crushed the pieces into powder.

I still don't think I've recovered from that, and it's been eleven years.

I keep finding her in other women, projecting her like the bat signal on a smog-filled sky, and giving too much of myself, too soon. Living on hope instead of honesty.

Still insane, repeating the same thing, expecting different results. Maybe some day it will work.

White Tiger

2011-10-30T10:28:00.000-04:00

I don't pretend I can hold the wind
make a horse drink
or talk sense into a woman
or any human

but sometimes I pretend
to be a lot tougher than I really am

the question is
how thirsty
have you become

and how much blue ocean
you can hold in your belly
at once

my love comes in waves
that break on the sand and scatter
tiny castles, overtop the levees
washing away truth
your fingers write inside your eyelids

my love shines warm on your face
undemanding, unrelenting
and merciless
it will burn you to a cinder

so it's probably best to hide
behind the sunscreen and umbrella
you're better off
not dipping toes in my foamy surf

unless you want to get real
and stop running
from your reflection
in twin blue pools

beautiful child
showing brave
for the ash-white tiger
come to eat your fear and pain,

I swallow darkness,
cleanse mud,
and burn lies off impure gold,
Little girl, are you afraid of light?

How To Be A Great Writer

2011-10-04T14:22:00.000-04:00

I guess this counts as a cover poem, like I posted the Ginsberg a while back, this offering of Bukowski's is my absolute favorite poem.

What's best isn't what he says, but what he doesn't say, I wonder if you can hear it?

how to be a great writer

you've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don't worry about age
and / or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
learning to win is hard--
any slob can be a good loser.
and don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don't overexcercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world worth more than $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong--
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient--
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continuous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you don't think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you're not ready.
drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.

I am become whore, purveyor of words

2011-10-03T11:50:00.003-04:00

It's no great secret that I am poor.

It's just damn hard to find a job that pays anything close to a decent wage with the black marks I have on my background.

So I've come up with a novel idea to help raise funds, pay my bills, and get a little further up off the ground than I currently find myself.

For the LOW LOW price of $5 US, I will write a poem for you.

The obvious go-to is a love poem for your boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, husband, etc, but feel free to think outside the box, fathers, daughters, sons, mothers, sisters, grandparents, BFFs, your dog, yourself, whatever you want immortalized in the unique verse that ONLY taojoannes can offer, I can get you for $5.

I specialize in romantic poetry, but I'm not currently in love, so let your love be my muse, and we both gain in the process.

Here's an example of a poem that wound up getting me engaged to a wonderful woman that I just couldn't keep Saturday Night Sniffles

It's good for any occasion, anniversary, birthday, Christmas, Valentines, weddings, engagements, funerals, divorce, graduation, expulsion, surgery, WHATEVER excuse you need to express to someone how you feel about them, or someone else.

But why do I need to pay a poet? I can just write it myself.

Poets need to eat, too, and your special someone deserves nothing less than the BEST expression of your truest feelings. You might understand your feelings, you might not, you might know how to evoke those feelings using the beauty of language and imagery to communicate, through language, on a level deeper than words alone can penetrate, you might not.

What poets do is take our feelings like love and pain and find those images and sounds that resonate with those feelings most strongly in the human consciousness, then we arrange them artfully for maximum effect.

You might not even like poetry, but I bet your girlfriend does, and while she would surely appreciate your amateur attempt at putting pen to paper, she would appreciate EVEN MORE the fact that you cared enough to hire the very best.

NOBODY writes poetry like Tao Joannes writes poetry, and I can make it as pathos-dripping, erotic, shocking, funny, or plain as you like. It's all about helping YOU express what you want to say in the way YOU want it said.

So how does it work?

Couldn't be simpler. You send a paypal payment, we connect via email or chat or google+ hangout or skype or telephone, you provide details about the subject, the theme, the type of poem, style of poem, how you feel about the subject, and, as best as you can, WHY you feel the way you do.

I then take that information, chew on it for a while, let it percolate, and then translate it into an EPIC poem, which I format in LibreOffice with or without additional graphics, and save as a PDF document which I make available to you. You can then print it and/or frame it, or just email it to your target.

What I recommend is to read it to your subject, because nothing makes it more personal than that moment, coming from your own lips. For bonus points, you can even memorize it, to show that EXTRA bit of effort and caring.

For a few extra dollars (another $5) I will print it out, sign it, and ship it to you.

But what if I don't have a special someone?

No problem, if you don't have anyone in mind and don't want me to write one about you, yourself, but still want one of my one-of-a-kind verses, you can send $5 for a signed print of any of my poems, many of which are on display on this blog.

Some examples:
LOVE
Kiss
LOVE and LOSS
Missing You
LOSS
numb
DECAYING RELATIONSHIPS
I Want To Say I Love You
REMEMBRANCE / IN HONOR OF
My Name Is Not

ID vs Evolution

2011-10-01T20:24:00.003-04:00

Evolution does not disprove the idea of an intelligent designer of the universe, and an intelligent designer doesn't rule out evolution.

There's a concept in computing known as "genetic algorithms" which arises from the recognition that, no matter how smart we think we are, there are certain systems that are simply too complicated for us to think our way through them to a solution, such as a neural network, which is a sort of simulation of a brain.

So what a genetic algorithm does, in the case of neural nets, is quickly find a solution to a complex problem.

You start with criteria for an optimum solution, so you know what you're working towards.

Then you come up with a way to test for that solution, by subjecting the neural nets to a challenge, or series of challenges. The closer the neural net comes to approaching the ideal solution, the higher the score you assign to it.

Then you generate the neural nets. In the first iteration, completely at random.

After subjecting the collection of nets to the test, the highest scoring nets are kept, the rest are culled.

The survivors are then "bred" or combined to produce child networks, and a certain percentage of the total collection are again randomly generated, or influence by randomness.

Repeat until you get something that works.

Now if there is an intelligent creator behind all of this, maybe it recognized that there were things beyond its capacity to hold in its mind, and so it set up the starting conditions for this experiment to approach some sort of final goal, a solution to a problem it couldn't solve, and it came up with this reality as a way of running that experiment.

Maybe that final goal is the production of consciousness which can completely comprehend and commune with that creator.

Science can't prove the existence of an intelligent creator, neither can it conclusively disprove it. All it can really do is disprove proposed characteristics of what that creator may or may not be.

Until such time as a means of conclusively proving or disproving all possible manifestations of such a guiding or creating intelligence, the possibility MUST remain open, according to the rigor of scientific discipline.

So the existence of "God" is an untested, untestable hypothesis, or if we're feeling generous, a theory.

There may be something to the idea of fractals or a fractal-like construct being involved. At the lowest possible level of reality, we've discovered four basic forces, the weak and strong nuclear reaction, electromagnetism, and gravity.

As coincidence would have it, we've also discovered four basic building blocks in human DNA, which we call adenine (abbreviated A), cytosine (C),guanine (G) and thymine (T).

And then it gets weird, because most mystical traditions that have arisen include the idea of four elements, directions, winds, rivers, as allegories for the fundamental substance of existence. And in most cases, those are further grouped into a simple duality, with two of the four in each of the two groups.

The most obvious and well-known example of this is the tai-chi tu, or "ying yang" symbol, which elegantly describes the four fundamental forces, and informs the I-ching, which describes the 64 possible unique combinations of those four forces (when you consider that two of the forces are interpreted as transitional or "moving" from one state to another).

Not that it's much better than any other similar system, but it's certainly the most systematically disciplined.

Now, whether this is a result of some sort of divine intelligence communicating with its creation, or simply a natural result or function dependent upon the way the human mind works, who knows? It, as of yet, can neither be proven nor dis-proven in any but the most superficial ways.

So this myth remains "Plausible" and I can't tell you whether or not an intelligent designer exists.

numb

2011-09-02T14:23:00.001-04:00

I'm so hungry it hurts
but I can't bring myself to eat
The pressure of tears makes my eyes bulge and the world spin
but I can't let myself cry

You told me I never let my emotions show
because I keep my cards too close to my chest
I told you I'd been hurt enough for twenty lifetimes
and that it's usually my own damn fault.

For feeling too much, too soon
and giving portions of a long shattered heart
to thieving magpies like change to the homeless
so forgive me if the tiny fragment I've got left
is as black as I like my coffee,
and cold as that coffee gets
when I let it sit out overnight, alone,
and I can't trust anyone, least of all myself.

I want what you want,
but I'm done accepting conterfeit checks
and rather than pretend I've got the feeling,
I'll fake the numbness.

Without risk, there is no gain,
without loss, there is no pain,
but the only thing I have left to give
is everything that I have left,
and I have to hedge my bets
to keep from losing it.

But I guess I put enough on the table
to feel it when you took it home with you,
and I guess that's the pain
that reminds me I've got something left to lose.

Fuck you very much for inspiration,
at least pain moves my fingers 'cross the keyboard,
It's easier to tell a secret to a stranger
than to give ammunition to someone who can use it.

Saturday Night Sniffles

2011-03-28T11:59:00.000-04:00

from Twisted Princesses

Saturday Night Sniffles

Saturday Night I sought the fever
but all I found were the sniffles.

It wasn't your fault.
You were wonderful,
beautiful, magical,
vivacious, dynamic,
delicious, delectable,
and divine.

I was delirious,
whacked out on cold medicine and your smile.

I was looking forward to Saturday,
and you,
and poetry.

Your poetry
my poetry
the poetry we could make.

But first we heard the professionals.
As we listened.
I understood why they're as paid
as my dues aren't.

I listened
To the poets and the language of your body.

Without touching you I imagined how you felt.
Your breasts straining under thin cotton
stretching your longsleeved
green and white ywca tshirt
The firm curve of your jeans.
Red white and blue panties peeking out.

I felt each time you trembled and didn't know it,
I felt the abandon when you laughed out loud
at the words.

I watched the windowshades of your soul roll
up and open so fast
the spring rod kept spinning for a minute.

I wanted to write a poem that could do that.
I want you to blush when you hear it.

Dinner was fine,
3-2 beer and sloppy hamburgers.
You were still glowing,
growing brighter when I
suggested your place for poetry,
with a quick stop at the liquor mart on the way.

You called me a functioning alcoholic
and asked my last name.

I told you and I blamed it
on my Irish and Cherokee heritage.

Then it was Van Gogh's ear and Rachmoninoff,
until you said, "Enough Ginsberg!"
and we laughed and agreed
he just went too far, sometimes.

Then you read to me of breasts,
and the beloved, and death.

I couldn't take my eyes off you.

I listened to your lips
and the language of your body.

The words dripped from your tongue
like sweat from the small of your arched back
should have been dripping on the mattress.

Your nipples pressed against thin cotton,
through your pink "I have issues" tanktop.
I asked you where I could
get a shirt written in braille.

What I wanted to say was
nothing at all.

I wanted to touch you,
whisper poetry in your ear,
inhale the scent of your hair.

But I had the sniffles,
I couldn't speak my soul through a kleenex.

So we played cribbage
when we were too drunk to sightread.

Laughing and talking through my snotty nose
till we couldn't keep our eyes open.

I went through a whole box of tissues
and a six pack of red stripe.

I'm looking forward to next time,
And you,
And poetry.
Your poetry.
My poetry.

The poetry we can make,
When I throw my words through your window
And the shades snap up.
And you can see your soul
Reflected in my eyes.

I'll feel you tremble without you knowing it.
I'll feel the abandon when you cry out loud...
At my touch.
Sometime after I'm over
the Saturday night sniffles.

New Toy, New Reading, Old Poem

2011-03-24T22:42:00.001-04:00

Starting next Wednesday, March 30th, I'll be hosting an open mic down at the Brick and Mortar in Cocoa Village.

So I went over budget and got me a handy-dandy little digital recorder box thing. It's only a little bigger than my cell-phone and delivers album quality stereo digital recording.

The idea is that I'll record the open mic performances, get permission from the artists to broadcast their work, and do a monthly podcast featuring the best of the bunch.

To test out the gear and the podcast service, I did a quick version of "I Wanna Dance Like Gene Kelley" which you can listen to, here.

To subscribe to the podcast, and get fresh content as soon as it's delivered, use this link.

News and such

2011-03-07T12:29:00.000-05:00

Man, I have been busy as Smurfette on payday lately, so have fallen off the blogging for a bit, but will be coming back as life settles in.

Tonight, March 7th, 2011, I will be performing some poetry at the 321 Local, I don't know exactly what time, but I've got a ten-minute set settled and am going to be sandwiched in between some rock bands or some such.

Sounds like a good time. Here's the info.

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=188607727840822

In other news, brick and mortar has asked me to start an open mic series at their storefront down in Cocoa Village.

I'll be there every 4th Friday, starting March 25th. The intent is to build community and get a slam team together and ready to compete in the 2012 National Poetry Slam.

And, I've set up a podcast. The first episode is a audio collage featuring George Bush and Darth Vader. Go Check it out.

Oh, and go check out my books, too. You need some new literature in your life.

So I gotta hop on the ten speed and ride to work, see you at the 321 local tonight!

diggin holes

2011-02-16T11:47:00.002-05:00

When it comes to dangerous women
i'm like the croc hunter with a drug-fueled death wish
lookin for a beauty
i'll stick my thumb in her bum
and flash my baby blues
at her snarling maw
reach in and snag a heartstring
to tie around my neck
before I throw her off the bridge
like a cinder block

I pick the winners
in a roomfull of stable women I will find the one
that had her first abortion at 12 years old
in the TV room of her trailer
administered by her father's left foot
wrapped in a leather engineer's boot
because he wanted her to stay an only child

so now she smokes and snorts and drinks
to outrun the memories until she passes out
and she gets raped so much
it seems like a hobby

and I say I wanna bring a tender touch
but baby, I'm the toxic pretender
lookin for a stockholm hostage
I can infect like an opt-in tumor
enthrall in love with a capital D
with my weaponized sexuality

I'm just looking for another hole
to stuff my bullshit in
and if it isn't deep enough
I'll keep digging in

my twisted princess to have and to have
to hold and to suffocate
own and control
and kick to the curb
when I'm tired of playing house
till I catch her back
on the bounce

I'll treat her like a goddess
to worship and adore
as long as she keeps me happy
because I love you only means
I love the way you make me feel
and nothing makes me feel
very good
for very long
and I get bored
very easy

i'm addictive
best taken with other drugs
cause complications
and decrease tolerance

by the time they pry her loose from me
both our asses will be covered in clawmarks
and the screaming lies called promises
will still be ringing in deaf ears
and hollow hearts
till something new comes along
to fill the holes

Un Dunga Dook

2011-02-09T13:58:00.001-05:00

ten million years ago, right here
give or take a couple thousand millenia
bo chaka came back from the hunt
with a fat sack of elephant meat
and his youngest son
cho locka cho
with the cowlick dredlock
and a heart full of pure love said
un dunga dook

which means nothing in the here and now
with unlimited text cell phone internet plans
and ten million digital channels
but what he said to his father that day was
daddy, where have you been

and bo chaka the brave
with his well-scarred flesh
said son, I killed me an elephant
but it sounded more like
un dunga dook

un dunga dook the boy said
how did you do that daddy

and daddy said un dunga dook
with a little help from my friends
T-boy and shorty,
and lazy-eye ned with the limp

we went to the jungle and ned hid in the branches
and T-boy hid behind the tree
shorty went to scare up an elephant
and chase his fat ass right to me

and when he ran up I told it a joke,
to keep him distracted while ned jumped on down
and T-boy hit him low, shorty got the behind
and we got us some meat for the town

cuz cain't none of us take daddy elephant
by ourselves, we get squished just like grape
but un dunga dook son with a little bit of help
we can be something more than an ape

and un dunga dook, poetry was born
it a hot cave in a swamp in a jungle
and ever since
we been trying to get it right

but that's a fallacy
a pipe dream
a phantom in the wind
because there is no right
when you share it
when you paint the world with your heart and breath
or peel paint with the force of the stench
it's all good

un dunga dook
it's not about
looking cool
being right
fitting in
or being proper

connect letters
into words
string words into lines
lump lines into something like stanzas
and with enough truth you got yourself a POEM
connecting two minds, two hearts, in telepathic synchronicity
like Corsican colonies feeling communal pain
we beat with one heart, scream with one voice
the fittest beast only in company

because a poem unshared is like jizz in a sock
it might feel good, but nothing will come of it
and a poem in the wind is like dandelion seed
carrying love and pain like a desert monsoon
sprouting weeds in the gardens of stepford
un dunga dook

speak your heart
speak your mind
and fuck anybody who says they didn't like it
it's your poetry
it's what you're made of
so make love to my soul with your wind

You have a day off. it's cold outside. What do you do to stay warm and hibernate at home?

2011-01-15T14:00:00.001-05:00

That's a great question, there are a couple different options.

1) Just stay in bed, bundle up in the blankets with a flashlight and read something stimulating, like Guacamole Baseball.

2) Call a friend to come over and get in the blanket with you, twice as much body heat, and maybe a little calisthenics if everything goes well.

3) Stand in front of a hot oven with some cocoa. Remember to turn frequently for even browning.

4) My favorite cold weather activity is sorta a combination, I like to get into a big cast-iron tub, with a friend, if possible, point a forced-air heater at the side to get it nice and toasty, and read and drink hot chocolate in the tub for a couple hours.

What's Good?

Three Kinds of People

2011-01-12T15:18:00.001-05:00

Human nature and experience is usually best summed up and communicated through pithy, sweeping generalizations and clever pie charts, supported with bullshit, unverifiable statistics pulled straight out of the rotten, stinking asshole of common wisdom.

It is in that tradition that I present to you my own simple classification system for people, as relates to how they judge my actions and efforts in life.

The worth of the information is usually in calibrating my behavior and improving the fruit of my creative labors. Your mileage may vary.

There are three kinds of people, cosigners, haters, and other.

Co-signers

Co-signers love everything I do. No matter how droll or rudimentary, something about the way our personalities mesh means that they are instantly in love with and approve of everything I'm putting out there. You could call them enablers or cheerleaders, even. They can be either positive or negative influences. If I'm beating myself up and not appreciating what I've got to offer, then a visit to the co-signers is great, because it helps me feel better. If I'm comin with some straight bullshit, then they are the most dangerous sorts of people to be around. They will give me plenty enough rope to hang myself with. If they start telling me to slow my roll, I know I'm in some serious doo-doo. Co-signers are about 10% of the people I know in my life.

Haters

Haters gotta hate. That's what they do, and they do it well. No matter how perfect something is, a hater is always gonna find something wrong with it, and you know what, I fucking love them for that.

Why do people hate? Who knows. Maybe I did something legitimately wrong to them, and they have a resentment they just can't let go of. I'd put my ex-wife in that category. Maybe they just aren't happy with themselves and need to hate other people to feel better. Maybe they're just jealous because they want something I've got and don't know how to get it for themselves, like my Mommy always told me.

Haters will hate, regardless, so I don't really listen to what they have to say. They only serve to make me want to do better, so I can get more haters. I keep score by how many I can gather. I also think it's a supreme victory whenever I can manage to recruit a hater over to the co-signer's side of the fence. Haters are also about 10% of everyone I know.

Other

The other 80% of people are what I like to call "Other". They honestly do not give a shit, and this is why they are so valuable. Others are wrapped up in their own lives, they have things to see and people to do, so if I can catch their attention, and then, by some miracle of "Bob" solicit an honest opinion, it's a blessing of unparalleled goodness, regardless of what that opinion may be.

With these, there is a simple rule that I use. If one person tells me I'm fucking up, I can safely ignore it. If two do, then there's possibly a chance I need to look at things. If three do, then I'm in serious need of some self-examination.

These people are "the middle" that politicians try to appeal to during election cycles, and the place from which future co-signers and haters are drawn. If I'm lucky, they'll stick around long enough to let me know what they think in comments or conversation. If I'm super lucky, then they'll be my friend and go to dinner with me, or subscribe to the blog by email so they can read Guacamole Baseball for free.

Friendly Verse: The Wizard

2011-01-08T23:26:00.000-05:00

On the minute of the hour of the morn of the day,
The wizard came out to play.
Sublime and mundane, serene and profane,
The wizard learned how to pray.

"Free me from the shackles my own fists hold together,
Whisper secrets
into my crusty eyes.
Power flows to and through me
I am vessel
I am the skye."

And silence met the wizard's words
as sea meets shore and air meets land
as fire crossing millions of empty miles
meeting flesh
becomes God's active hand.

At the minute of the hour at the close of the day
The wizard flew back to his home
Clear intention like a raptor
diving, striking in the night
The results, as of yet, unknown.

On Censorship and Huckleberry Finn

2011-01-06T13:38:00.004-05:00

Before we get into this, I want to warn you that I will use the word "nigger". I doubt I'll use it 219 times, but I'm not going to resort to "the N-word" as if it were some sort of linguistic voldemort that will come into my room and cast the cruciatus curse on my muggleness.

It's a word, a tool, a symbol. In and of itself it has no power or importance. What determines the effect and impact of the word is how it's used. As George Carlin said "There is absolutely nothing wrong with the word “nigger” in and of itself. It’s the racist asshole who’s using it that you ought to be concerned about."

That quote sums up my position on this Huckleberry Finn censorship beautifully. I think we can all agree that "nigger" is a foul, ugly word, but what determines the danger it presents is the context in which it's used.

I've even used the word myself in poetry.

So let's talk about context.
Huckleberry Finn deals, largely, with the issue of slavery. At that time, in America, Africans were bought and sold as livestock, beaten, raped with impunity, and generally treated as less than human by the rest of the population.

A black person in America was referred to, 99.9% of the time as "nigger" just as a female canine is referred to as a "bitch".

So is it surprising that Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain), a social progressive by all accounts, when writing about slavery would use the word "nigger" 219 times in a single book?

Not at all. Because that is how people talked. The language reflects the attitude of the characters, and what we would call the disgusting treatment of an entire race of people.

There's a movie made in 2006 called "Amazing Grace" that follows the efforts in parliament of British abolitionist William Wilberforce to end slavery.

In an early scene, William is playing cards with another MP who runs out of money. To cover his bet, the other lord tells his manservant to "fetch my nigger" to use as collateral.

So let's give this scene the same treatment. Compare the emotional impact of "fetch my nigger" against "fetch my slave".

Slave, while odious, doesn't come close to capturing the brutality and disregard for basic human dignity that this character is expressing.

At the most basic level, censoring the work of one of America's most beloved and skilled wordsmiths is artistic vandalism. Words are chosen carefully, and for specific impact. You may as well knit a sweater for the Venus DeMilo, to cover up those naughty nipples. Or put a black CENSORED bar across the breasts of Manet's "Olympia".

More importantly, changing a word like "nigger" in the context of the historical south is egregious historical revisionism. We may as well change Elie Wiesel's "Night" to have the nazis putting delicious chocolate chip cookies in the ovens at Auschwitz.

It subverts the artistic vision of a great American author, denies our cultural history, and is a slap in the face to the heritage of those slaves and freed blacks who had to suffer through this shameful period in America.

So what is the point of this censorship? To protect the tender sensibilities of modern, enlightened people? To protect the feelings of black people, who still face racism in America, from being hurt by reading the word?

The advocator of this censorship, Dr Alan Gribben of Auburn University is a white man, from Alabama, of all places. This is the place where, in 1972, George Bush worked on a senate campaign that accused the opponent of being "soft on race".

I'm not accussing Dr. Gribben of racism in his efforts. I'm sure that his claim that his motivation to get the classic Twain work in front of more readers is valid, but it is misguided. Living in a place where racism is such a major concern should make such a person of learning more sensitive to revisionism that attempts to sweep the historical treatment of blacks under the rug. This censorship could justifiably be seen as an attempt to hide the shame of our white ancestors.

What's next, claiming that the Tuskegee experiment involved the injection of flu vaccine? Alabama has a shameful history with regard to race relations.

I understand the desire for greater exposure. Growing up, "Huckleberry Finn" was on a list of "banned books" along with "Catcher In The Rye" and "Of Mice And Men", that didn't stop me from reading them.

If a potential reader isn't mature enough to handle the word "nigger" used in a historical context, they aren't mature enough to understand what "Huckleberry Finn" is really about.

So readers, when you pick up a copy of the uncensored book, read that word "nigger" and take it for what it is.

White Americans, be ashamed for the mistakes of our forebears that allowed such dehumanization to occur, and be proud that we've come as far as we have towards the acceptance and tolerance of individuals and minority groups. We're not all the way there, but we're much further than we used to be.

Black Americans, identify with the suffering of your ancestors, and appreciate the strides that have been made for equality in this nation. You're not done yet, either, but progress has been made.

Above all else, protect the integrity of our history and literary heritage, for those that forget the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them.

1-1-11 The Sweat Lodge

2011-01-02T18:40:00.002-05:00

On the way to Okeechobee for New Year's lodge

When I tell people that I regularly participate in Native American sweat lodge ceremony, I usually get one of two reactions.

"Didn't some people die in one of those?" or "What's a sweat lodge?"

Yes, I tell them. Some people HAVE died in sweat lodges.

James Arthur Ray held a "Spiritual Warrior" retreat at the Angel Valley Retreat Center in Arizona that resulted in the death of three participants and the hospitalization of twenty others.

He packed 55 people into a 415 square foot lodge, covered it with plastic tarps, kept them in there for two hours, and brought more hot rocks in every fifteen minutes.

The farm land on which we hold lodge in Okeechobee

Needless to say, he wasn't really following traditional protocol.

Oh, and he was charging $9000 - $10,000 per person for the five day retreat.

This isn't how a sweat lodge should be run, and is a gross perversion of the practice, in my opinion.

What is a Sweat Lodge?

In a nutshell, you build a dome, cover it with canvas or leather, bring in some hot rocks, sit down, soak up the heat, throw some water on the rocks to make steam, play the drum, rattle, sing, pray, and meditate.

WARNING: Don't try this at home without competent supervision. I'm only including this information for you to get an idea of what it's like, not so you can go out and catch heat stroke.

The inipi, before covering or laying out blankets

You start with a structure. Sometimes it's willow branches, bent as in the picture. Sometimes it's pressure-treated two-by fours. On reservations they have buildings made just for the purpose.

You cover the structure with heavy canvas. Something that breathes and soaks up the excess steam, but doesn't let the heat escape. James Ray used plastic tarps, which allows the steam to condense and doesn't breathe at all. When you pack that many people in such a tight space under those conditions. Bad things can happen.

Blankets are arranged on the lodge floor in the outdoor structures, with a space in the middle, lined with stone fragments, for the hot stones to rest.

You build a fire. There is a specific way to do this. You start with two logs, say about 8 inches in diameter, and place them parallel, then you pack some light, dry kindling between them, and make a platform with more thick branches going across. This platform is where you set the stones.

You pack more kindling around the stones, then put some light, thin sticks and branches on top of that, with one end in the ground and the other resting on the stones. Then you put some heavier wood, like split logs, over that, surrounding the stones completely.

You light the fire, and then tend to it to make sure as much heat as possible is being directed into the stones. It's a good idea to offer tobacco to the fire before lighting it, a pinch for each of the four directions.

The fire is constructed to be a birds nest, to invite the messenger spirit of the hawk down to carry the prayers to the heavens. The lodge, or inipi, is constructed to resemble a womb, of the earth mother, where the spirits are invited to commune with the participants.

A covered inipi the moring after lodge,
with drinking water and drum displayed

It's recommended to fast before the lodge, for as long as you are capable of doing it, this helps with the cleansing and with reaching a higher meditation state.

Different lodge locations will have different setups, and may be run differently. This description is just what I've done in my own practice, according to the medicine man I'm working with and his tradition. Other methods may vary.

Men and women are both allowed in our lodges, the women go in first and sit on one side, the men on the other.

Fresh stones laid out for their first use in the inipi

For clothing, whatever you're comfortable in. Some people have stripped naked, others down to underwear. I wear loose, comfy shorts, and bring a towel. I've been told to take off all metal jewelery, no earrings or necklaces, etc, but I leave my nipple rings in and haven't had a problem with them yet.

You can't bring anything into the lodge except a towel and an instrument, prayer ties if you wish to offer them to the fire afterwards, so drink whatever water you can beforehand to help prevent dehydration.

When the stones are ready and the time arrives, the medicine man goes in and everyone is smudged with sage smoke. Everyone except the fire tender(s) enter the lodge on their hands and knees and crawl clockwise, arranging themselves to take up the space.

The most people I've seen in lodge, personally, were fourteen, but some left early, and the rounds were cut short to accommodate the more intense conditions that crowding creates. We normally host between four and eight.

When everyone is settled, the fire tenders bring in the stones.

The fire for our first lodge on New Year's Eve

The way we do it is we bring in all the stones at once. I've heard of some others doing ten stones at a time, and adding stones between rounds, but that's not how we do it. Anywhere from twenty to fifty stones are carried in on pitchforks and placed in the center of the lodge.

If everything has gone well, the stones should be glowing red hot.

With each stone, the fire tender says "grandfather coming", the medicine man taps it with the peace pipe, and the lodge answers "welcome grandfather". Yes, the stones are called grandfathers. There are native words for this, but I have trouble remembering them, and wouldn't know how to write them down, other than phonetically.

The fire for our second new year's lodge

The medicine man throws sage on the stones, and it lights up and burns to fill the air with the sweet smoke, purifying the space, according to native beliefs.

When all the grandfathers are in, the fire tenders bring in the bucket of water, and place the pipe on the buffalo skull that sits gazing into the entrance way. The inipi is then closed. The medicine man uses a dipper to put this water on the stones to create steam. The dry, radiant heat of the stones is easily bearable, it's when that steam hits you that you really find out what the sweat lodge is about. It's intense, to say the least.

Usually, before the steam hits, he will pass around bear root. It's a native root that is chewed to help you through the ceremony. It's bitter, numbs the mouth a little bit, and is not intoxicating.

The buffalo skull that looks into the lodge

The medicine man opens the lodge with offerings to the great spirit. Each participant is given the chance to offer up people that are in need of medicine for healing. Steam is added to the lodge, and the first song is sung.

From there, it varies, sometimes, the lodge is opened to let air in after each song. Sometimes just the front flap is opened, sometimes both front and back. Sometimes, it isn't opened at all. It depends on who is in the lodge, how well the stones have retained their heat, and how hot or cold it is outside.

We do four rounds of song with some time for silent meditation and reflection. On the third round, we have a chance to pray for whatever blessings we wish to receive or bestow on others. After the fourth round, water is usually given, everyone must drink all the water they are given. Each round is intended to open a door from each of the four directions, with a specific intent related to that direction.

Heritage Lemon from Varri Green Farms

After water, everyone smokes the peace pipe. It's filled with an herbal smoking blend, no tobacco, no marijuana, just herbs. It's very tasty, and I cherish this time of the ceremony. The intent is to pray silently while smoking it.

The medicine man then passes information he's gotten from the spirits to the participants. We pass the instruments to the front of the lodge, and exit, on hands and knees, in a clockwise direction. Everyone lines up and the medicine man taps our chest and head with the peace pipe, then we huddle around the fire, talk, and eat.

"Why on earth would you want to do such a thing?"

Old stones that are no longer usable, having been hollowed
by the heat and steam, they are as light as styrofoam

It's for physical and spiritual cleansing.

Now I'm not going to get metaphysical here and start talking about spirits and astral projection. That's something that it's up to you to figure out for yourself. It is impossible to penetrate the mystery of direct spiritual experience without going out and getting you some. What is possible is talking about my own experiences.

I believe that the human being has four bodies.

Ash from the sacred fire of the lodge, this is scattered around
the farmer's trees as fertilizer

The first is the physical body, which we are all familiar with, legs, arms, skin, that shit. Most people can barely even see that correctly. They see the outer shape and don't even think about where all the organs and tissues that give it form are at, or what they're doing, or how what we eat and do can affect them. Martial artists, doctors, and fitness types are more familiar with the inner workings, but most folks just think their bodies are just meat sacks with a food hole and a poop hole and some fun bits to play with. This is only about half the equation though. The other three bodies can be considered to be a part of what the New Age folks like to call the "ethereal double" they are made up of the energy that animates and permeates the physical frame.

The next is the mental body. We like to think of it as "the brain" but the brain itself is part of the physical. The thoughts and ideas and memories we carry are what I'm talking about. Like the physical, most people, if they are aware of this body at all, just see the surface and think "that's all there is" but it goes much deeper.

The emotional body is the collection of subtle sensations. It's often confused with the mental body. The difference is that the mental body says "this is a picture of my mother" and the emotional body produces a response to that, love, anger, sorrow, guilt, whatever.

The last and most often overlooked, doubted, and misunderstood is the spirit body.

Each of these bodies has a common trait, we need to exercise them, and feed them wholesome food. For the first three, this is obvious, healthy food, intellectually stimulating information, healthy emotional situations. We exercise them by moving the body, using the mind, and reaching out to other humans in emotionally supportive ways. The more we love, the more we understand love, for example.

The Spirit Body

The spirit body is the part of your body that interfaces with the primordial energy that supports and sustains all things. I said I wasn't going to get all metaphysical on you, but this is important stuff for understanding the concept of Spiritual cleansing.

Many people think "spiritual" and automatically think of religion. This is because religious practices tend to affect the spirit body, often through the other three bodies.

A gas outlet fire seen
enroute to Okeechobee

We often hear "spirit" in different contexts, refering to "the spirit world" or in reference to attitude, "fighting spirit" or "team spirit", etc.

The Chinese have a good way of describing this, our raw sexual energy, ching, feeds our bio-electrical energy, chi, which feeds our spirit energy, shen, which then feeds the ching in a sort of feedback cycle. This is why we have women in skimpy outfits jumping around and waving pompoms at sporting matches, to help the crowd feed spirit energy to the players.

Physical and Spiritual Cleansing

So the sweat lodge cleanses and purifies the physical and spiritual bodies. The hot stones heat up the air which heats the body, which raises the body temperature and helps to fight off sickness. This is like an induced fever, which helps to make the body inhospitable to germs. The sweat also helps the body remove toxins. By participating in regular sweat lodge ceremonies, there is a cumulative change in the body. I can't describe it specifically, but the heat bothers me a little less each time, and I've become more tolerant of cold, as well. After my first lodge, the veins on my temples bulged for a couple days, but that doesn't happen any more. I'm not a doctor, I can't tell you everything that occurs, but a change happens.

The spiritual cleansing is partly enduring the experience. Surviving the trial of heat and steam proves something to you, intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. It quiets the mind and emotions and allows the spirit time to be fed. You have to remember that you're sitting in a pitch black space, with no sound but the hiss of the water and the crackle of the rocks. You're singing songs that have been sung for hundreds of years and adding your own identity to the sound with drumming and rattling as the spirit moves you. The body is weakened, ego is destroyed, and you're faced, ultimately, with nothing but what you've brought in with you.

Deep stuff.

Visions

People claim to see spirits, lights, and travel to distant places, like under the ocean, out to the stars.

A drawing based on sweat lodge visions

Personally, each time it's a little bit different. I've seen indigenous animals, animals from africa, dragons, figures in native american dress, eclipses, strange symbols that seem meaningless, and fantastic displays of light. One common visual effect is a blue light hovering in the lodge around the other participant's faces, and a "spotlight" effect coming from the backside of my drum. Swirls of colored light coming from the stone pit, after they stop glowing red, are also common for me. I've gone hunting through verdant forests, and visited balconies with overgrown trellis where I watched transcendent sunrises. I've talked with armed horse-riding warriors in the painted desert.

All while sitting in the dark in Cocoa, without a trace of intoxicating drugs in my system.

The visions are not the point, and there are times when I have no visions. The point is getting out of the way of the experience and letting it unfold as it will. Opening my third eye and letting my thoughts and visions float past without trying to force them or guide them.

A pattern recreated from my memory
of a sweat lodge vision

From start to finish, the experience of participating in Sweat Lodge ceremonies requires effort, physical and spiritual, and I feel rejuvenated and refreshed afterwards, even if the day after I'm wiped out and just want to sleep. By the third day, I usually feel stronger and bolder than ever, which can sometimes get me in trouble, but only if I start overstepping my boundaries.

If nothing else, the camaraderie of sitting around the fire, constructing the ceremony, and the sights and sounds and smells of the lodge event are a treat, but I do believe there is more going on than meets the eye, even when visions occur.

For New Year's eve, we went to Okeechobee and held two lodges, one starting around nine, and the other starting at 11:30, so we could be in lodge as the year turned. The pictures in this story are from that lodge.

2010, can I get a refund?

2010-12-30T20:25:00.000-05:00

This is the time of year when we think back and say "Damn, that was pretty stupid," or maybe "I really rocked it this time."

Either way, we can all agree that we lived through it, and things were done, some for good, and some for awesome. Mistakes may have been made.

This time last year, I was fully ensnared in active drug addiction, buying, selling, using. I don't even remember New Year's eve. It was a day like any other. I woke up, bought a bunch of drugs, sold some, used some, and went to sleep.

When I say I don't remember it, I'm not saying that I went to a party and got so fucked up I blacked out. I'm saying I literally have no idea, what so ever, what the fuck I did for New Year's. I don't know where I was or who I was with.

All I can say for certain is that drugs and strippers were most definitely involved in a major capacity.

After the New Year started, things are a little clearer.

Early in January, I got arrested with a bunch of Roxys (hydrocodone), morphine, xanax, and marijuana in my possession.

There was that and a little bit of beer in my system at the time. They put me in a "turtle suit" which is this velcro tunic thing made out of quilted green padding, and locked me in "the bubble", a detox/psych wing of the county jail with a plexiglass wall. My cellmate had been there for twelve weeks, I fell asleep on the thin quilted blanket, still wet from the laundry, on the concrete floor.

My girlfriend bonded me out, and I lost my mind, my income, the whole point of my life, pretty much. An emotional wreck, still smoking weed, taking unprescribed xanax, and drinking, I oscillated between rage and tears at the slightest provocation, doing my best to stay as high as possible as much as possible.

I'd only spent six hours in jail, but I knew that it was six more hours than I ever wanted to spend there.

Since I had to lay low, I started writing again, and recording myself reading. I burst into tears the first time I recited "I Wanna Dance Like Gene Kelley" It was the first time in several years I recited one of my poems out loud, and the feelings it stirred were uncontrollable.

Following that, I spent a month or two working on recording methods to produce "Twisted Princesses" sixteen tracks of poetry about love, sex, and dysfunctional relationships, which is also available as a free ebook.

While messing around with reading and audio production, I took my poem about drug addiction and put it to an electronic beat "Chemical Rhinoplasty" there are more songs and readings available for free download on that reverbnation site, as well.

All that paled in comparison to my most ambitious project to date, releasing "Guacamole Baseball" as both a trade paperback and an eBook. In my recent insanity, I've actually made the ebook available for free to folks that sign up to receive email updates from my blog.

Then I went to court, and managed to get admitted to the county's "Drug Court" program. The one good thing that I can say came out of that experience is that they forced me to attend my first NA meetings, which is where I started thinking that maybe I didn't have to use drugs any more to feel okay about myself.

Of course, it didn't take, at first, I was arressted in January, and I didn't stop using drugs till May 14th. They kicked me out of drug court the first week in July, and I left my girlfriend to focus on maintaining my recovery and getting my life together.

It's been a hell of a ride.

Sometime in all of that I came up with some new characters. Sarah, the Mermaid of Mercy Street, and Buck Gabriel, being the most notable. The novels are still in progress. Recovery is an act of breaking down the ego and rediscovering your true self, aside from all the bullshit. Since my perspective has been shifting during this process, it has been difficult to write from any place of authority or true comfort.

I used to just fire up a blunt and let loose some bullshit. Now I second-guess myself and get distracted with easier tasks, like arguing with feminists.

A surprising development has been that my style is becoming far more minimalist than before, as is evident in my short story about alien visitors, "Brand X" and sporadic bouts of what I consider some of my best and most honest poetry.

But it has been done in fits and spurts, and little to actual completion.

So for 2011, I'm not holding back. I'm committing myself to making time each and every day to work on a novel or new poem, or both. I'm also re-entering the workforce, as I've been living off the state and the largess of the VA the past couple of months.

It's been very helpful, but it's time to take my life back. I am on felony probation with drug conditions until August, and after that, the world is my oyster.

So you, dear readers, thanks for sticking with me through this tumultuous process, and if you didn't, fuck you, but I love you anyways.

Please, if you're liking what I'm bringing, let me know. You can comment on the blog through disqus, and there are links to my twitter and facebook feeds in the upper right corner of every page here.

Even better, if you like something on the blog, share it with a friend, and let them glimpse a little bit of the madness.

That small encouragement is the nourishment that feeds the creative spirit, to know that somebody out there digs it and might want to see what else is waiting to well up inside.

In closing, life is better, much better, without drugs in them. For the first time in twenty years, I'm starting to actually get a little bit of an idea of who I am and what I stand for. It's frightening and fabulous, and if you're strong enough to try it, I recommend it to anyone else out there who has to rely on dope to cope.

And if you could spare some change, I've got a week to raise $10 to keep my .com domain functioning.

Love,
Jason

Nobody Likes Me

2010-12-23T15:37:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, I want 1000 views on this here video right here.

Can you help me?

#mooreandme and me

2010-12-22T00:35:00.001-05:00

This past few days, I've been caught up in the frenzy surrounding Micheal Moore's statements concerning the rape charges being brought against Julian Assange.

I used the opportunity of so many impassioned feminists paying attention to one spot to get a better understanding of what they're about and how they do what they do.

I'm not anti-feminist, but sometimes the extremes to which they go to get their point across scares me. The invented vocabulary and rhetorical tricks used to advance their cause is no different than any other cult mentality.

Which isn't to say that feminism is a cult. Just that I believe that everyone deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. Sometimes, that seems difficult for feminists to accomplish. It attempts to be THE ANSWER, and when we have the answer, we stop asking questions or thinking for ourselves, instead taking the easy way out and parroting what we've been told.

The result is that people that could be united in bringing actual change to the world and helping victims of rape and domestic violence instead begin fighting with each other on points of dogma.

A recent blog post pulled some of my tweets out of context and used them to "bust straw men" which they were never used to construct. I've posted my response below.

When it comes to rhetoric, these feminists are guilty of every tactic they've falsely accused me of, and many more. In contrast, some were very open to discussion, and I learned a lot from the exchanges. This likely won't be the last conversation on the subject.

taojoannes says:

Your comment is awaiting moderation.

December 21, 2010 at 10:17 pm

Hey, I’m in your article. Neat.

I do want to clarify that you are using my tweets out of context.

Taojoannes: @EAGSquared @jhameia anger is a rational response, but acting out of anger leads to irrational behavior

Jahameia: @taojoannes Except not all of us in #mooreandme are acting from a place of anger. Nor are we acting irrationally.

Taojoannes: @Jahemeia If you aren’t, then that statement doesn’t apply to you, does it?

Jahameia: @taojoannes Scuse me for standing up for everyone in #mooreandme, I had no idea solidarity was a bad thing.

Taojoannes: @jhameia if you aren’t guilty of an accusation, you can’t use your innocence to clear the accused. does that make sense? #mooreandme

——–

The question of eliminating due process is part of a discussion concerning a victims behavior after her rape, and how that can impact a successful conviction.

Many survivors behave in ways that undermine their case when it comes to court, destroying evidence and behaving in ways towards their attackers that seem very strange in the courtroom, such as in this case, throwing a party for the person, bragging about spending time with him, and allowing him to stay with her for another week, only bringing charges after finding out about another woman in his life.

My point in that discussion was that, while there is no “normal” way to behave after rape, education prior to a rape occurring can help victims respond in ways that will strengthen their legal case.

But since I ever voiced any disagreement with any part of feminist dogma, when I suggested this, I was labelled as a troll and a rape apologist, even though The Sexual Violence Center gives exactly this sort of advice.

Reductio ad absurdum and ad hominem were very common responses to any attempt to engage #mooreandme supporters on any aspect of the specific case or the theory in general.

I was told to kill myself, I was told that I was a rape apologist, I was called a dummy, ignorant, troll, etc. Even after identifying as a rape survivor, which I am. You can check replies to me to see this disgusting behavior, which I never degraded myself by sinking to.

Beware groupthink, misrepresentation of facts, prepackaged belief systems, and prepackaged rhetoric. These are common characteristics of the cult-like mentality that strips individuals of their ability to think independently, a key aspect of human dignity.