People Who I Plan to Take Down, thanks to Justin Trudeau:

 Another Ringside Report from the Great White North

by Kevin “The Champ” Annett

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When I learned the other day that it’s no longer a crime in Canada to publicly criticize Christianity, or to hold a duel, my first assumption was that now the atheists and the church goers will finally get to fight it out with pistols at twenty yards. Why else would a Parliament as sober as Canada’s enact such an eclectic mix of legal reforms: of dispensing with the medieval crime of Blasphemous Libel while allowing again the medieval practice of Trial by Combat?

But then suddenly I recognized the hand of divine providence in this typically mixed-up Canadian law: namely, that I’d finally get to legally execute the United Church Moderator.

Now hear me out: I have nothing personally against Jordan Cantwell, the present Moderator. I don’t even know the guy, besides the fact that he was a shoe-in to the position thanks to the male gender of those he sleeps with. But if we’re ever going to put such a messed-up institution and mindset out of its misery, hell, shouldn’t we start at the top? And it’s not like I don’t have just cause.

So I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been practicing my Muhammad Ali impersonations in front of the mirror in recent days, since it’s just me now in the ring against Jordan Cantwell: armed and dangerous, squaring off against each other at fifty paces.

Because face it, people! The guy is nothin’, and he’s just plain ugly. Man, he’s so ugly the sweat drips backward from his face so it don’t have to go there. I’m gonna wup his ass even without any bullets. Man, when I get through with Jordy he ain’t gonna be able to Moderate a phone booth! I’ve wupped Popes! Some mealy-mouthed nobody from the flatlands ain’t nuthin’ compared to the Champ!

Mind you, I doubt that the little bastard will accept my challenge. When it comes to United Church bureaucrats, shit boy! I can carve a better human out of a banana! So in the name of justice for all those mangled little kids, I ain’t gonna confine my challenge to some watery know-nuthin’ like Jordan Cantwell, who shits himself when he hears the words “Kevin Annett”. I’m out for bigger game! I’m on the prowl for any church big shot who’ll have it out with me, ’cause man, they got nuthin‘ now! Those church boys can’t put me away anymore for calling them out on their crap! The law’s on my side now! Blaspheme my ass, dick weeds!

I’m talking to you, Fred Hiltz! That’s right, you mutha fucka! Don’t try hiding behind that funny hat and all-white-boy Anglican smirk! I know what you done. Maybe you can wallop a mess of little brown kids and shove ‘em in the ground but you dealin’ with the Champ now! And I know why they call you the Primate, you little shit! ‘Cause you ain’t nuthin’ but a big stupid ape in a fancy dress! So choose your weapon, mutha fucka! And meet me at high noon some Sunday outside your fancy Toronto temple! I’ll be waitin’!

And let’s not forget the Papists.

Shit, I already took down their champ, so they is nuthin’. They’re too busy shreddin’ documents and hidin’ all their kiddy fuckas to put up any fight! Hell, I won’t even need to draw a bead and shoot on them jokers. They is already skedaddlin’ with all their loot for the Cayman Islands and Abu Dabhi, man! The papacy’s as big a fake as Sonny Liston was when I dropped him in five!

So what’s the Champ to do? I hear voices from ringside yellin’, “Give ‘em the knock out blow, Champ! Land ‘em one right in their gut and put ‘em down for the count!” I got the bead on them, that’s the truth. But takin’ them down ain’t even fun now ’cause they’re not even puttin’ up a fight anymore. They ain’t even buryin’ their own dead but are hightailin’ it out of sight before you all wake up and deal with ‘em yourselves. Just like George Forman in our Jungle Rumble, man, those churches can run but they can’t hide! They’re the real blasphemy, children, and they knows it!

Maybe the government knows it, too, which is why they is makin’ it easier for us to challenge them fake churches to a standoff now that they don’t have Big Brother holdin’ their coat for ‘em while they take down innocent little kids. All of them is scared now, people, so why the hell are we still so scared of them?

Like my good buddy Dalton Trumbo wrote when they were tryin’ to take him out for good, during his own blacklisting years:

Put the guns into our hands and we will use them. Give us the slogans and we will turn them into reality. Sing the battle hymns and we will take them up where you left off. Not one, not ten, not ten thousand, not a million, not a hundred millions but a billion of us, all the people of the world, we will have the slogans and we will have the hymns and we will have the guns and we will use them and we will live. Make no mistake of it we will live this time. We will be alive and we will walk and eat and sing and laugh and love and bear our children in tranquility and security, in decency and in peace. You plan the wars but we will aim the guns, and this time we will know which way to aim them.

Walter Meets the Primate: A Recollection

Dear friends,

Well, I couldn’t resist. The news this week that Top Canadian Anglican Fred “Hide the Bodies” Hiltz has honored yet another child rapist, former Toronto Archbishop Terence Finlay, prompted me to brush the mothballs off this piece I wrote some years ago. Laughing at the criminals may fall short of putting them away, but it’s one of the next best things.

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by Kevin D. Annett

In his more coherent moments, my big buddy Crazy Walter from Vancouver’s skid row would wander from his voyeuristic pastimes around First United Church. Sometimes he’d seek the greener pastures of the University of British Columbia campus, where abounded plenty of thrown away food, comfy couches and young nubile female students. Walt also knew that I attended the seminary there. So much to his delight and mine, the guy would show up unannounced at the Vancouver School of Theology (VST) and seek me out, usually in a loud voice. And then he’d spend the day hanging with me in the student lounge or sitting in on various classes where he’d pretend to be a visiting scholar.

His ruse worked more often than not, since your average seminarian or theology professor is about as sharp as an eraser. Walt never got shown the door at VST because nobody there quite knew whether he was not indeed some eccentric savant rather than a local bum. And even though the long hair and beard definitely gave him an arcane messianic quality, Walt couldn’t help but unnerve the official Christians. And so my seminarian colleagues gave Wally and his ripe odor a wide berth whenever he ensconced himself in the VST lounge, regaling anyone within earshot about his latest ecstatic revelation and proving that he could bullshit as good as any egghead.

And Walter was thus poised the day the Primate came to visit.

Anglicans are generally odd, and not just because they’re Englishmen. Their Wannabee Papism makes their pretensions not only comical but downright inscrutable. Take “Primate”, for instance. That’s what the Alpha Male is called in the Anglican Church in Canada: the top-of-the-food-chain official, who lies just beneath the Archbishop of Canterbury. And guess who was coming to dinner at VST that day?

I could tell something was up as lunch time approached, and the Sycophant Index among the school crowd began climbing steadily. Well dressed big shots and their mink-coated wives started clustering in the VST rotunda, and students began hurrying around, speaking in hushed and excited whispers. Principal Bud Phillips actually emerged from his office for a few moments to flash his perfect smile and pump the flesh of all those potential donors.

Walter never let anything slip by him, and pompous bullshit always set him off like a cat in heat. And so from his perch next to the coffee machine he suddenly proclaimed “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

One of the few students who associated with me until he was told not to, an American Methodist named Rich Lang, ducked out of the lounge to go and see.

“Probably another cluster fuck” mumbled Walt to me, emptying the last of the coffee from its urn with a bellowing slurp.

Just then I noticed out the window that a colossal limousine had pulled up from which emerged a scowling bearded fellow in a funny hat and a huge gold cross. He was adorned in a flowing purple and red robe.

Rich popped his head into the lounge and with a provocative grin announced, “It’s the Anglican Primate!”.

Exactly as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt from the Almighty, Walter turned from his coffee and with an aroused look of joy he bellowed,

“The Primate? The FUCKING PRIMATE? He’s HERE?!”

Walt hurried as best he could to the hallway and stood facing the arriving dignitary, who of course stepped into the rotunda just as Wally did. And with his hips visibly quaking in anticipation, my buddy turned and thrust his considerable and rotating ass towards the cleric and his crowd of austere hangers-on while loudly emitting the kind of primal grunts and moans that no doubt does it for your average baboon in estrus.

It’s all a stage, for sure, and Walt had suddenly seized its front and centre. The Primate and his crowd were riveted into a shocked stupefaction as they watched the bearded lowlife perform his little mating dance for them. The entire place was instantly silent, save for Walt’s groans and the sound of Rich and I screaming our heads off with laughter.

“Oh god, boys, it’s those fucking colours he’s got on!” Walt gasped as his bum kept rolling and reaching out to the object of his affection, and we two soon-to-be-disciplined students rolled on the floor hysterically, trying to breathe.

George Orwell was right, of course, when he observed that the only thing the rich and powerful ever really fear is to be laughed at publicly. And so after its momentary eclipse at the hands of the unwashed and unruly, official church decorum quickly recovered. Reassuming their briefly-shattered authority, the Primate and his little flock turned their collective back on Walter with a decided sneer and hurried off to the reception hall where awaited not the Second Coming but lots of free food and booze.

Their retreat didn’t faze Wally one bit, of course, and he called out to the departing object of his feigned desires, “Oh don’t go! Don’t just up and leave me like that again without even giving me your fucking phone number! Prime me, baby, Prime me!””

Rich and I were somehow still breathing by then, although we were spent and quaking. The other students in the lounge had long since departed, hurrying past our irreverent shrieks with the kind of career-conscious disdain I would encounter only too often in the church during the years that were to follow. None of them would even look at Walter, whose lecherous gyrations continued as he flashed them a semi-toothless grin.

After the discomfited Christians had departed the three of us sat together once more, alone in the VST lounge. Walt’s eyes were aflame and deeply happy, and he let out the same high pitched giggle that he always employed whenever the collection plate was passed around down at First United. 


“You crazy bastard, you could have got us lynched” I commented to Walter.


“Well?” he replied.



Everyday Carnage

Table Talk – A Series by Kevin D. Annett

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Some of our handiwork, Lejac “residential school”, Fraser Lake BC

Of course they did it. Look at how they act now. It didn’t matter to them then and it doesn’t matter to them now” - Protester at Christ Church Anglican Cathedral, Vancouver, on Aboriginal Holocaust Remembrance Day, April 15, 2007

“There is none who are righteous or who understands, there is not even one who seeks for God. All have turned aside and together they are useless, for none do good.” - Romans 3:10-12

Most of the other young boys on my street never did the actual killings, but they knew about them. They even stood around and watched. The City of Winnipeg was paying for the slaughter, which may have had something to do with its normalcy and popularity among my fellow pre-pubescents. After all, who would pass up a chance to make a quarter from every prairie dog tail sliced off a still-quivering little brown creature?

The bigger guys among us wielded the mops or wrenches that shattered the captured animals’ backbones, and the rest of us were encouraged to dive in with our Swiss army knives to finish the job and claim the fluffy bounty. I was one of those who didn’t, but who nevertheless stood by and watched fascinated and with a suspended horror at the bloody ritual. The glazed and happy look of contentment in the eyes of the killers has never left me, nor have the dying squeals of the little creatures as each blow fell.

Everyone in our neighborhood knew about the killings but never talked about them, especially those who’d participated and cashed in. Yet a sickly haze hung over all of us. We were lessened because of what we’d done, just by living alongside it. And looking back, it seems that we were all living precariously every day as if awaiting a knock on the door by some higher judgment.

It finally came in the person of Mrs. Wyatt, a local mom who’d found some bloody animal remains in her alley and tracked down the source. The woman raised a passionate public stink about the prairie dog slaughter and without pointing her finger made us feel our collective culpability for the first time. And we all hated her for it.

We briefly shifted our aggression away from the local rodent populace to Mrs. Wyatt’s doorstep, where we began leaving assorted garbage and obscene messages. Our parents aided our take-down campaign by publicly badmouthing and then shunning the woman, who’d brought such discord to our once self-satisfied community by “making us all look bad”. She of course was the problem, not us. And so after a few months of harassment the inconvenient woman and her family moved away, and the killings carried on.

Thus at ten years of age did I learn an essential part of what it means to be a Canadian: that the problem isn’t what is going on but that somebody has talked about it.

Perhaps as part of the judgment hanging over my shamed young mind, that essential Canadiana kept seeking me out and admonishing me with the same fervor with which we had assaulted good Mrs. Wyatt. The deeper I gazed into our neighborhoods the more slaughter I encountered, and the same industry of rationalization and routine behind it all.

Murder had not been called murder when I was ten, but “a rodent control program”. The same safely-euphemized mental buffers have allowed the bigger crimes to continue alongside and because of our terminal Canadian niceness, as genocide becomes “cultural insensitivity” and mass murder is called “abuse”. And so when I began to understand Mrs. Wyatt after uncovering more than rodent remains on my doorstep, I was officially warned. Just prior to my own immolation and banishment, I was told that there really was no cause for any concern besides the fact that I was mentioning the unmentionable. Otherwise, things were just fine.


What prompted this reflection was a question put to me by an unsuspecting interviewer, who asked me how my view of Canada has changed after twenty years of exposing what she called “our rotten underbelly”.

“We’re a nation of psychopaths” I replied. “All of us. Dead children are dead children.”

Or dead prairie dogs, for that matter.

I’ve waited unrequited over those long years for a single tear of grief to emerge from out of the mountains of words, political posturing and Royal Commissions into our own home grown bestiality. At the end of the day, nobody is bothered by the heaps of little corpses rendered so by our own hands, any more than my Winnipeg neighbors were upset about our extermination of our innocent little  neighbors. What causes my people to become emotional is when I keep talking about their everyday carnage.

Those years have also brought me a strange resignation, not from despair but a blinding realism, an awakening to that of which I am part. My training on an Acute Psychotic ward prepared me to spot all the signs.

Caught up in the general madness, I absurdly appealed to the conscience of the conscienceless. I sought something that was never there. But even more horrible was my discovery that my own heart shared the same void; that the nightmare was reduced in my mind to sterile words like genocide, war crimes and legal liability. My heart, like those of my own dead and dissociated people, was in suspension somewhere.

Yet still somewhere in my memory echoes the unanswered scream of the innocent as their backs were shattered by drooling and laughing boys with blood-soaked mops; and of my own outraged despair as I find what the years of accommodation have done to me. For it has been the suffering of little rodents that has most moved my heart, rather than the screams of my own flesh and blood.

The carnage begins first in ourselves, for it emerges from there. Is that why there is no balm in Gilead; no healing for me or for my people?

Kevin Annett: A Portrait at Sixty One

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So tell us, Kevin, are you a happy man?

The term is ambiguous. It’s like asking if the sun ever shines on me.

Let me put it another way: Are you satisfied with your life?

With my work, yes of course I am, but not because of the work; that’s merely an expression of my own essential being. Ask me about the seed, not the branches.

By that you mean your Essentialist philosophy, right?

Don’t do that. We don’t need another shrine to grovel before. Next you’ll be quoting me.

But people are curious about you, Kevin. What is it that keeps you going?

Does it really matter? Look, I’ve matured enough now to stop living vicariously. I refuse to give anybody an answer for themselves. Are people really that banal, to have to search for their own meaning through my example? Or through anybody’s? Can’t we grow beyond that infantile need for parental approval?

Well, speaking for myself, you’re an inspiration.

Why should you even need to be inspired? Are you that devoid of your own fire? And why I am worthy of emulation? Because I’ve done what you won’t do, or made it easier for the rest of you by showing you how the magic works? What does my example make you inspired to do: go out and copy me, or merely applaud? Or maybe, just maybe, acting from your own mind? You see, that’s what I mean about maturing past vicarious living. The applauding spectator is just an empty shell. The imitator never goes beyond the model. The times call for much more than that.

Like what?

Jean-Paul Sartre said it right when he described how modernity serializes human existence out of existence. The price of cooperation with the world is we must remain dead souls waiting to be born. We’re kept that way by a global corporatocracy that requires us to be components, thingified parts of institutions rather than free souls. But we are co-dependent in that process of “assimilation” – the word means “to be eaten”. We insist on keeping ourselves reliant on the very system that’s feeding off us. We are raised to desire slavery over inner freedom.

And what is freedom?

The capacity to die on our own terms.

Not live?

No. It’s not possible to live within the modern world, which is just a life-sucking machine. We can only operate in it as lifeless serialized units. But we can pull the plug. We can pull out of the machine.

How do we do that?

There you go again: always the how. Don’t you have an answer? But of course you don’t, or you wouldn’t have asked me – unless you’re just being rhetorical.

No I’m not. I don’t have the answer.

You mean, how does one pull out of Necropolis?


You start by coming to life.

But you said you can’t live here; not in this system.

That’s right. So where does that leave you? Imagine.

Long pause

I think you’ve spent your whole life struggling with this.

Of course I have.

Have you always felt estranged from the world?

The word means to no longer be on friendly terms with something. But I never was friends with this world.

You mean you never fit in?

Well who the hell would want to? Going along out of habit is not the same thing as choosing to be part of this insane butchery we call civilization. That’s something the armchair critics of all those despised, so-called “sheeple” don’t understand. No-one raised in and confined to this world is capable of making a free and conscious decision, including the armchair experts.

But you have.

How would you know that?

Well, that’s how it …

Appears. Correct?

But what else can I go on?

Alright, fair enough. And the answer is yes. I deliberately chose very early on in my life not to fit myself in anywhere, much to the consternation of my so-called loved ones. No career prospects. No planned sinecure somewhere. Nothing to achieve, no personal empire to build on someone else’s back.

Then what did you live for?

To overturn everything. It was a natural reflex, a gut level imperative. Everything had to go.

How old were you when you realized that?


Did something in your upbringing prompt your awareness?

If we’re going to tread the hackneyed garden path of pop psychoanalysis, son, excuse me while I sleep.

It’s a legitimate question.

Uh huh. (pause) Look, it wasn’t that a light switch suddenly went on for me. I always knew not to take anything here too seriously. One day, after having been ripped to pieces, I found out what was left of me, the part that couldn’t be wiped out, and I owned it. I owned my own experience and I let it guide me after that.

You conformed the world to yourself, and not yourself to the world.

So you’ve read George Bernard Shaw.

Of course I have. He’s Irish.

Only half Irish: the unacceptable half.

So what’s that been like for you Kevin, to always conform reality to your own understanding of things? I’d think that would be hard to sustain over time, just you against the world, up against even reality. Haven’t you ever identified with anything in the here and now?

Briefly, but I was always repulsed in the end.

Such as?

Well, I was married three times. Or was it four? And therein lies the biggest illusion of all.

You mean love?

Marcus Aurelius said to never to lie to ourselves by dressing up a simple thing in the rich garments of our own desires. He said that being in love essentially comes down to a mixing of bodily fluids.

Oh come on now, Kevin …

Essentially, he’s correct. Everything else is romantic fluff we add on to try to sustain forever what cannot be. And as for the heart and soul, well, Jesus apparently said that in the Kingdom of Heaven there is neither male nor female, no winners and losers. Everyone is married to everyone else. Total existential oneness. I guess lonely souls like to call that God.

So you’re not a fan of monogamy, I assume.

Well it’s all so trite. We are basically incapable of knowing ourselves, and yet somehow we’re able to know another person well enough to join up with them for life. That’s about as ridiculous as when God-believers and atheists both proclaim that they know with absolute certainty the nature of a cosmos of which they can only perceive or sense barely a fraction.

So we can never act on anything because of the basic uncertainty of everything?

Sure we can act, like a man walking around with a blindfold on. But act with complete knowledge or understanding? Of course we can’t. But why should that bother anyone? It’s quite humbling, actually.

Well of course it’s bothering! What you’re saying amounts to a recipe for complete apathy! How can you believe that? You, who’ve acted with such devotion your whole life, who’s changed so much in the world …

No, no, you’re not understanding me. You’re confusing realism with apathy. To know how incomplete everything and we are actually makes us even more determined to act. We have to act, to create meaning and purpose in a universe that’s ultimately empty of both. Nothing else will do that for us.

But we’re always incomplete …

Well of course we are. We’re not a machine but a thought in process. But as to how we actually go about fighting the evil around us: well, it took some hard knocks for me to get it. I started in blindness, like everyone. I set out with the illusion that reality was a jigsaw puzzle that could be seen as it really is and then reassembled. But when that didn’t work I realized that it was all beyond repair. I told you, I chose to pull out of my allegiance to the illusion. And the more I withdrew, well, I suppose that’s what’s responsible for the changes I’ve been able to make.

I don’t get it.

What happens to a balloon when we stop puffing into it?

It collapses.


So it’s that simple?

Sure. We stop giving away our life force to something else. But that’s only possible when we reclaim and learn to control that life force. That’s always the hard part, and something that’s effectively impossible for humanity, right now at least.


Because people are not themselves and they don’t want to be.

But it is possible for you.



Let’s get back to love.

I thought you’d say that.

Some call love a mystery.

Here’s what I wrote about that one night in a Madrid airport: “What we carry inside ourselves is too spectacular to endure, so we flee from its flames. Later, safely distant, we call the simmering residue Love.”

You mean we substitute our own fabricated human desires for the divine love?

Well, that should be obvious. But it goes deeper than that.

How so?

First principles, son: the little matter of existence. (pause) Just go up to anyone on the street and ask them the reason they’re alive. Why are they here? Not about existence in general or in the abstract, but about their own life. Why did they come into being? If they’re honest in their responses, every single person you ask will be as confused and panicked as if you told them they’re about to die. (pause) So why is that?

You tell me.

Why is the most basic question of our existence unanswerable? Logically, it should be the easiest one to answer. And it would be, if we were actually alive.

You mean we don’t exist?

If we did, would there be such an enormous disconnect? Quantum physics and Taoism both say that the smallest particle contains within it the totality of everything. Well, if that’s true, then surely we, as a very tiny bit of the universe, would have within us the same sum of everything, including the answer to that question, Why are we here?

So in other words, we’re not conforming to the Laws of the Universe.

Again, that should be obvious.

Then who and what are we?

Maybe we’re somebody’s nightmare or some weird experiment. We’re definitely operating under another set of laws and forces outside of cause and effect, justice, reason or anything else we pretend is in operation.

Maybe our heart has the answer our mind can’t provide.

Heart or mind, it still bangs up against the same enormous paradox and the Great Cosmic Shrug. Can anyone ever really love an absentee God?

So from the sounds of it you don’t believe in God, is that right Kevin?

The cosmos doesn’t require my belief in it for it to be. But I’d say it needs my capacity to reason.

But you just said reason doesn’t apply here, that we’re outside the laws of nature! We’re simply caught in an irrational chaos!

Correct. But somehow, and don’t ask me how, the fog of chaos diminishes when I bring my own substance to bear. Put another way, some absolute truth is reasoning through my mind. Does that make sense at all to you?

No. I assume it does to you.

I’m not talking about habitual thinking, the kind of minimal functional intelligence granted to us stock yard animals until the big knife descends on us. I’m speaking of Reason, the creative light in the void that one of my ancestors described as the Divine Mind incarnated within us.

Peter Annett.

That’s him. He scared the shit out of the British establishment in the 1760’s because he publicly called on everyone to use their reason and bring it to bear on everything, starting with religious superstition and political tyranny.

Ouch. So no wonder the big knife fell on him, too.

Sure, but that didn’t change anything. Peter planted the germ of doubt in the monstrous Body Politic. He made the crack in the official House of Mirrors, just like I’ve done. Time does the rest.

So even in this irrational madness we’re in, we can create meaning?

That’s all we can do, and it’s the reason we’re here. We create meaning and it creates us by our mutual immersion in everything. The sunset outside my window just now set the huge oak tree ablaze with a shimmering and dying goldenness. That had meaning for a moment because it merged with everything that is me, the pulse of love in my breast, my seeking mind, my hall of memories and the roots of my integrity. Meanwhile, a child dies not a block away from me, and I’ll never know about it. So which is more true? It’s like examining sub-atomic particles: the closer they come, the more they disappear. All our tiny, separate moments aren’t what’s real. Only the big mosaic is.

Maybe the madness comes in trying to figure it all out.

No, that’s just a cop-out. What’s crazy is focusing on the particulars as if they had substance. Ever worked on a psychiatric ward? All the inmates there are totally absorbed in the meandering details of the moment because they are trapped within their own illusory subjective neurosis, which is like a stuck record playing over and over in their heads. That’s what makes them crazy: they can never see the big picture and step outside themselves and their own now. They devote themselves to trading their mealtime desserts with one another or squabbling over the TV channel as if it that’s the Alpha and Omega of their life.

Well, that’s not so unusual.

Exactly. Welcome to the nuthouse.

And it seems to be getting nuttier every day.

Well yes, and that’s the intriguing part, the chink in the illusion if you like. The collective fantasy we call civilization is unraveling and it can’t be sustained. In the latter days of the Roman Empire the coinage began to not only be devalued and worthless but the design on the coins became less clear, more impressionistic, almost like its meaning was fading out of time and space altogether. It was a symbol of their disintegrating matrix. That’s precisely what we’re in today, except our group neurosis is more extreme.


Because everyone knows everything instantly. We don’t have the buffer of space and quiet anymore. The infection spreads everywhere now and there are few, very few, spaces of retreat left to us. Whoever is plugged into the single electronic medium that runs our collective mind now is not capable of clarity or sanity.

So what do we do? Become latter day Luddites?

No need. It’s all coming down. At least, it had better be, for the alternative is unimaginably horrible.

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