Imaginary borders vs imaginary order

Imaginary borders vs imaginary order

Original Post:

This is Canada. This is the United States. What is a border? It’s an imaginary line on the ground[, a] false construct designed to separate and control us. Borders, religions, races, politics, social class[:] It’s all BULLSHIT. We are humans on the same Earth.

Fuller Analysis:

This is yours. This is theirs. What is a property line? It’s an imaginary line on the ground, intended to create peace and order, through cooperation and civility, by establishing agreed upon rules.

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Kosher Coup d’état: Little Israel strikes again for its cry-bully daddy-state

JARED KUSHNER AND IVANKA TRUMP - THE ULTIMATE JEWISH POWER COUPLE

I want you, to kill for, and to die for, the anti-torah state of IsraelLess than a year after bipartisan colluding as to how best to disrupt and displace its desperate citizens with recent shell-shocked hordes rendered refugees by its wars of aggression; Little Israel, aka the USA, yet again lived up to the tactics of its cry-bully daddy-state, by yet more military terrorism — once again in Syria, once again based on anti-Assad Mossad-matted pseudo-intel aimed at maintaining Little Israel as the panicked, sycophantic failure-of-a-nation that all nations must be when celebrating the sucking and mutilating of babies — who sometimes die.

metzitzah b'peh

Civility vs Socialism, Liberalism vs Leftism

freedom isnt free_x

Civility sterilized into Socialism, when, “I may not like what you say, but I’ll defend, to the death, your right to say it,” became, “You may detest what they do — yet, by threat of livelihood, limb, life — you will defend, to the death, their allowance to do it!”

carry that weight, mattress performanceLikewise, Liberalism leapt to Leftism, as, “Stay out of my bedroom!,” became, “Get into my bedroom! — and bring a lie-detector machine, because I only consented to rape-play with ten of these fifteen!”

Then the homosexual child-rapists of the North American Man-Boy Love Association, toning-down a page from the playbook of Murder Slanger’s Prevented Parenthood, demanded that society, “Make Rape Safe, Legal, and Accessible.”

And everyone lived happily ever after — while eating each other alive.

bonnie rotten

Every real war is over Time and Attention, id est Faith

chess

Every real war is, fundamentally and functionally, a series of discrete battles for Time and Attention — id est a war about Faith.

In war, tactics only affect — id est disaffect — if, on some important level, they confuse — especially by misleading: Causing the opponent to misprioritize.

When setting the stage to manage your Time and Attention: Imagine, and accordingly act, as if you were at war. Because you are.

Grace’s Pyramid of Power

Pyramid of Power
To sustain Grace’s perch on the Pyramid of Power requires Faith.

Rungs of the ascending Ladder:
5. Faith
4. Patience (id est Resolve)
3. Objectivity
2. Courage
1. Humility
Guide: Grace.

Fear of Faith is a social-construct

Fear of Faith is a social construct. After all, as a most famous Naturalist Atheist framed: “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” Thus it follows: Obsession to disprove God necessarily proceeds from, and proceeds necessarily from, Credulity id est defeat on a battlefield in the war for Time and Attention, id est Faith.

Privilege, under the Diamond of Defeat

Diamond of DefeatSlopes of descending Slide:
1. Timidity
2. Aggression
3. Subjectivity
4. Stubbornness
5. Credulity
Prison: Privilege.

War is always easy to win: Warlords, by definition, always must be manic misers who, contradictorily, always spread themselves thin; thus always must focus on trends, never on individuals (id est never enough, id est never in the right way). Instead: Vainly endeavoring, by rites aka concocted trends, to control enough individuals, and cull enough of the uncontrollable, to realize their formulation of a fearful, self-flattering vie to wage enough war to practice dodging death enough for the warlord to feel — on their deathbed — that ultimately they learned how to evade death eternal.

Thus, first: Any individual can easily ‘slip through the cracks’ to escape the path of the war-machine, simply saving themselves; yet second: Any individual can easily — though surely not as easily — slip through the cracks and out of the path, id est leave the always-synthetic cave, prepare, return, and defeat the machine, by causing the synthetic cave to collapse in on itself, though the simple, irresistible invitation to implosion via the virus of objectivity. Yes, this is simple; and, as with so much that is simple: It is Not easy. Moreover, artful invitation of an Objectivity Virus is the only way to survive one’s facilitation of the victory: All other methods, always more easy and less simple, will require some form of martyrdom — which, itself, will always be the seed of the next doomed war-machine, born of a cowardice and mania whose fundament is the weakness of Impatience, however manifest — including, but certainly not limited to, the addictive impracticality of grandiosity, the timid hypocrisy of malevolence, the melodramatic bluff of rigidity.

Conclusory Introduction

Many war-tactics can, at least for a blink, effectively guard against outward, even inward, professions of Faith; yet no tactic can guard long enough against Faith’s most famed facet: Hope.

Moreover, war is easy to win because, by definition, the warlord must lose; and History is told only by the winners, dooming then, to repetition, those listeners who — whether by cowardice, vanity or otherwise id est other vice — cursorily distill parables’ plots and pageantry at the expense of the principles.

On a related note: The two necessary, sufficient elements to lymphatic rebalance are:

1. Diaphragmatic Breathing
2. Human Movement

Atrophied, barrel-bodied barrenesses bravely bleating, on the Expanded Plantation

 

Four barrel-bodied barrenesses, charged towards the wall, privilege-first, on the Expanded Plantation
Four atrophied, barrel-bodied barrenesses, each she-bravely charging, privilege-first, towards the wall of late 20’s obsolescence, on the Expanded Plantation

“Atrophy is the new excellence!,” blithely, bleakly bleated a barrel-bodied barrenesses — doe-eyed, drawing debutante-dole in a hen-house harem, on the Expanded Plantation; rarely her sheepish aims exceeding simply to avoid being the ugliest among her sterilized sister-veal.

“Men are guilty until proven innocent!,” cry-cackled a second.

A third self-siren drunkenly sigh-sang: “Prenatal children are only choices — until a veal and her sterilizer whim not to slaughter them!”

Each then flashed one or both of her meager mammary-glands at a eunuch passerby, then extorted hush-money from each him: Reparations to remedy his violent notice-raping of her dingy flapjack.

Thus the proud penis-less pawns plodded, plotted: Neutering their males, spaying themselves, and murdering their children; in order to secure, and to expand, health and wealth — for various other, better, landed, fertilized (id est real) women: Those provided protection by various slithered schemes of the patriarchy — the same daddy-government which deigned to decree vicariously, of and by its abject subjects, subsidies for any and every atrophied, barrel-bodied barrenesses who agreed to be a model of metastasizing misery masked as  manic merriment.

Marketing is baroque, and needs fixing

mall kiosk employee

“The squeaky wheel gets the grease!”

…and if all the wheels are squeaky?

…if everyone is yelling the same set of things…at the same time?

If marketing has developed a style of the Baroque — characterized by bullying silence from every space, evoking, often enough, not interest but avoidance?

And if, in this services-centered culture, surfers refuse to teach subtlety to their saddled serfs — will onlooking prospects ever be any less put off by the choruses of carnival barking?

sexy cashier“Way ahead of you,” squirm such slippery surfers: “We’ll all just hire beguiling boobs to belligerently bark our bland brands.”

Thus, the choruses continued, on the Expanded Plantation.

Father knows less: Gentrified gender roll-call, on the Expanded Plantation

“Father knows best!” -a beastly relic of a bygone error.

To subsidize vies to see subside strides towards tropes more transcendently natural, “He’s never good enough, no matter how he excels,” and, “She always more than enough, no matter how often she fails,” were deftly, deafly dealt as a delirious dual duel esteemed to be necessary and sufficient for producing men who rise to any and every occasion, and women who weather any downturn.

Yet endless crises, continually concocted to keep him on his toes and her on her knees, led many a man to give up and to seek, elsewhere, his soul’s food, else grind down to ineptitude — in either case condemning countless worn weary worried women to despised lives as common wives-in-common, each driven then by the whims of whomever would take her in from the cold, into the cold of limply filling in for the dead, dying or lying — the abandoned, else abandoning, men.

Then, to channel new-found need for suicide-staving denial, floods of films and texts fondly fed dreams long dead: A competent woman nurturing a disciplined man, so that, edified, he can strive to save the world. As the bell of available and availing men clanged by curve ever steeper, storytelling sank bit by bit ever deeper: First, into depictions of fearful women wailing generally for super men to bravely save the world; then storytelling sank more and more, until finally the meaning of ‘the world’ itself shrank to consist proudly and only of the wanton wants and whimsical worries of the manic woman featured in the filth as saved by increasingly effeminate men, whose pseudo-machismo — purposed merely for the masturbatory reverie of each sterile seething woman, and as a roadmap for the slow suicide of her male heirs — bespoke, above all else, an eerie, even downright feminine dearth of forethought.

“I’m going to die for her convenience!”

“No I’M going to die for her convenience!”

“Well I’m going to die for her MARGINAL convenience!”

“Then I’M going to die as but a precursor to an interlude which hints at a CHANCE for her to receive marginal convenience!”

Then the heroes, warring to win her smirk, beat each other to death; so the porcelain heroine, ascending, became a mongrel-factory for a few braggadocious ball-bouncing drug-addicts, on the Expanded Plantation.