Doomsday Obsessions

As far back as I can remember, my parents were obsessed with death and destruction, and that on a daily basis. While I can understand it was some kind of post-war/cold-war PTSD, people don’t necessarily all react the same way. Some were inclined to compensate by appreciating life one day at a time, while others had a wild hair up their butts on a strange quest for the promised land. What I got bombarded with was just plain coercive, like everything I took any degree of pleasure in had to be shot down with every kind of tragedy as a point of argument à la “Whatcha gonna do if”. If it wasn’t some Fate Magazine style article of some astrophysical cataclysm, relentless reruns of Steinbeck and Felini, or the loss of a beloved pet through their misdoings, say nothing of their objections to every friend I had, there was always the threat of mutually assured destruction at every turn of the cold war. Stuck in the no-zone between east and west forced me down a path I never would have taken if I had a place to call my own, but they all made sure I couldn’t even aspire for that until they were all gone or dead and buried. Now brushing away the ashes of all the bridges I had to burn, I still hear echoes of it from the numpty’s mood swings, but I’m just getting too wise to fall for that futile hostage crisis. The real problem is not so much death as staying alive and sound of mind, so I’m not about to have an anxiety attack just because some jerk can’t stand anyone having a good time. Go pray to your gods for deliverance and let me drink my wine in peace.

Never Ceases to Confound Me

Every day, when the numpty gets home from work, he gets in front of that cursed computer to molly coddle his beloved NZ troll, and that right in front of his wife. Aside from this circus also starting at around 5 in the morning, it gets much worse on weekends not to mention the confabulated family histories and comparative analysis of how bad we are compared to his and her holiness, which in reality scarcely falls short of bipolar delusional. While my parents were never really the loving kind, at most both physically and mentally abusive, I’m inclined to blame that on growing up in a war zone and its subsequent brain and behavioural damages. I was the first born, and as my father put it so quaintly about women, we’re only good for marrying, but irony would have it, I never did. In this part of the world, I’m not alone among those kind of dysfunctional families, so I’ve come to accept my lot in life, appreciating the small pleasures while making improvements wherever they’re feasibly possible. With him it’s an entirely different story. He was my parents golden boy who could do no wrong, and being as my mother was so frontal lobe damaged, it was forced upon me at the age of 8 to be some kind of surrogate mother as my father was seldom there. To make matters worse, the numpty got extreme pleasure in getting me penalized for his misdoings, the epitome of which he almost set the damn apartment on fire. Of course I opposed the beatings vehemently and refused to be housebound, taking every opportunity to escape into the wilds. Unfortunately I was given such a bad rapport by my family, my every flight to freedom was always under public scrutiny, while their own children were getting away with every kind of atrocity on the sly...but I never let that stop me from doing whatever necessary for my own peace of mind. Being dragged half way across the globe and back, there’s not much you can really call home anyway. No community for moral support, no business or property to build upon, let alone inherit. I tried saving up a nest egg, only to end up having to compensate their every mismanagement. Say nothing of the bank card the numpty had secretly acquired to pillage my mother’s account. Needless to say, I wound up penniless with the numpty still on my case. For all the parental blame-shifting he still seems to think he’s above the law, tells people I abused him as child like I was supposed to be his mother, and therefor owe him every kind of financial and emotional support...and just as he finally got over his insolvency, he goes to NZ while still trying to get over pneumonia and winds up in emergency with severe thrombosis. Now he’s 17 grand in arrears for that stunt and still won’t admit that it’s the female hormones he’s secretly taking that caused the whole problem in the first place. He believes a sex change is going solve all his emotional issues. As for the troll, between emotional blackmail and Hepatitis C, I just don’t see what she really has to offer, especially after that sex change. This guy is so far removed from reality, the other day he questioned my remark about his jekyll and hyde behaviour between us and his troll. “Oh like you don’t get cynical to other people” he says. I laughed and responded; “Sorry pal, but I’m not the one going around claiming to be Mr. Nice-Guy. On the contrary, I take no prisoners, and I’m well-known for that”. Well, by the time he gets over that failure, he should be about 75 and hardly fit to start a new life anywhere. Whatever the case, after 20 years struggle to get away from one colonial backwater, I’m not about to go running off to another one. Not anytime ever.

Retrospect

In a week I will be 64. The odd people I once knew, landed somewhere across the Atlantic, now either dead or faded into anonymity. I’m not even sure they understood where they were coming from, let alone going to, for lack of any communication skills beyond their own mind set. How they struggled to be the status quo, in a regime of banana republic double standards. Stuck in the political no-zone between lost adolescence and latent xenophobia. Never really aspiring anything beyond that deleterious comfort zone. The wanton pillars of a community that scarcely remains a memory. The lame attempts on social media, only to be blatantly ignored. Did you honestly think I had nothing better to do than conform to such petty platitudes. Like a ship in the night I simply moved on until that last beacon disappeared beyond the horizon. As always I had other plans but you were always too full of yourselves to even notice. Que sera.

Stalemate

Well, the numpty got himself blocked on FB for 24 hours, but then it’s no surprise. It’s foolish enough going open public on some altruistic crusade full of contradictions; but accepting friend requests willy nilly is just itching to be trolled. Riding the schism between submissive and passive-aggressive, it really just boils down to a lot of projection. The dialogues are tediously long winded, too indulged in self-expression than ever make a point clear and concise. With the average attention span being 8 seconds, it’s bound to be a losing battle; especially when so many do have that ugly habit of talking right past each other. Coming on like some forsaken drama queen doesn’t help much either, only draws an onslaught of wannabe saviours, all competing for donations to their cause. Naturally, when push comes to shove, he has this nasty tendency to extremely prejudicial remarks, and that’s exactly where the irony lies. As if that’s going to convince some religious no-mind to be reasonable.

Transgender Hypocrisy

While I have known a few to be genuinely androgynous, it’s the fanfaring wannabes that really annoy me with their stereotypical role models, as if all that cosmetic fakery is really going to play the part. Of all things I despised in my youth, it’s petty-minded conspiring girlie types with their jealousy and adultery issues, as if all those cosmetics and fashion statements can really hide that kind of ugly. Sure, there will always be the fools that take things for face value, but they’ll be a long time waiting for any sympathy from me. I’ve been watching that circus for years and quite frankly; can’t see the difference in sexual posturing between them and any other simian, no matter what role they try to assimilate... and then there’s the shysters eternally trying to lament with that old “more feminist than thou” as if I should have some part in this charade. Well guess what, I don’t, for obvious reasons of genetics. Nice try but no banana.

And then there were none...

Those of us who grew up in the no-zone of the Cold War regime are certainly a messed up breed, but at some point one has to burn those bridges and leave them far behind. While my life has been one long battle with that enemy within, there are still some things that amaze me to no end. Among all the MK ultra victims, there was one particular family that tried to take me under their wing- assuming I really needed that kind of parental misguidance. The mother came from utter destitution in post-war Holland whereas the father came from very rural New Brunswick. They were clearly trying to overcompensate this with the kind of bogus glam typical of any social-climbing wannabe. Always trying to model me into some pretentious mannequin of this unlikely social norm, I don't think they had any idea of where I was really coming from. Good grief, her husband was just a sergeant, a mundane desk job to put it bluntly. The eldest was a radio DJ in Kelowna; and having been through the Okanagan Valley, it's not like I missed anything. The other tried to follow in his footsteps- that was until he got nailed for black-marketing in Mallorca, then lost Lamborghini and all to some conman allegedly from London. Finding himself skint in Heathrow, he gets the bright idea to call in a bomb threat on the Tube for want of a million pounds in a briefcase. Of course he goes for the briefcase, thinking there's nobody around. That landed him in an asylum for one year, until the authorities granted his mother custody, only to send him back to Mallorca. Indeed, some people just have more luck than brains. Hence the younger brother wound up a perpetual peter pan, DJ-ing for want of an eternal teen age following, to make up for his own mundane desk job. I remember the fury when he got nailed for possession back in our teens when one of his enemies tried to set me up for selling cannabis. His mother slapped me for being „such a bad influence“ as if he were so innocent and I was the one supposed to set an example. Don't ask me how, seeing as I had grown distant, spending much of my time among fellow Germans my age; out of sight and definitely out of reach. I was neither in possession nor selling, rather, always in the habit of giving it away before returning to that stupid military community, so the case got dropped. Of course, they didn't like the fact I was „hanging around the Germans“, like I was supposed to deny being one myself. No surprise that they finally got banned from the town by the Polizei.

What irony.

As for the sister, she was never anything I could understand much either. Her obsession with UFOs was really down a dark and twisted path. After all failed efforts to peer pressure me, I had become her nemesis for demonstrating graphic skills superior to hers, especially when it landed me a job in HQ, heaven forbid. She became a „special“ member of NICAP, which at the time was notorious for CIA experiments in false memory implants through hypnotic regression. I'll never forget when Jacques Vallee called Hynek's bluff at the symposium in Geneva. She never did get over that one. Her needless diatribes against the Air force were utterly meaningless rhetoric. There was a cold war on with all kinds of shit sneaking around, say nothing of experimental technologies behind that masquerade of cosmic hocum. Then she got married to some tank maintenance sergeant, raised a family, moved to Nanaimo and fell into anonymity along with rest.

The last I'd seen of that lot was on some obscure website in Mallorca. The wayward brother had apparently tried to launch his own TV show on cosmic paranormal shit, while still side-lining as a DJ and selling holiday flats. He died last year of Leukemia. It makes me wonder if all that superficiality was really worth it. As a psychologist friend once put it; „We had to create new terms to describe these bizarre cases of social maladjustment“.

Cognitive Distortion and Selective Abstraction

This pretty well describes the fashion statement of Wicca these days. Its all about the gospel of Llewellyn authors and pilgrimages to the esoteric shops of Sedona, Salem or Glastonbury; cherry-picking the ancient mysteries of foreign culture without having to go the distance. A convenient subterfuge for identity crisis, seeking to be exceptional, beyond the mundanities of social norm, while resorting to the same politics of sycophancy and exclusion as the evangelism they allegedly oppose- grasping at the straws of forbidden grimoires on much the same quest for the holy grail. Coming on like they fell out of a Shakespearean prop room just doesn't cut it with me, especially spouting that dogma they call the „rede“ like some kind of holier than thou. Oh really? 

Yeah, we all come from the god-ass or didn’t you know?

If divine intervention or some similar empowerment is what you're really looking for, then go back to your church where you belong. I don't need all that spook to summon what my mental faculties are already capable of, and that in fully practical application.