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"I pledge the alligence to the Flag"...... Such Hypocrisy!!!!!!!!!

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  • silk
    ... [Silk: Talking about delusion, bobo takes the cake! America can do no wrong! And I d thought I d heard it all, well here s my take on present day
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 21, 2002
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      > --- Christopher Bobo <cbobo@...> wrote the facts,
      > I'll supply the evidence.
      >
      > FACT:
      > > I wish to assure every one that democracy in America
      > > is alive and well . . .


      [Silk: Talking about delusion, bobo takes the cake! America can do no wrong!
      And I'd thought I'd heard it all, well here's my take on present day
      civilization & I use the term civilization loosley]


      Hi me Silk: The use of language is for most of its existence an instrument
      designed for communication & if that ruffles some feathers so be it?

      Hell is Hells Kitchen as the sun sets. Tin can at your feet kick it down
      the street
      & thats the way to treat a friend! After all what are friends for except to
      enjoy some company occasionally or to be used. Grief can't linger long in a
      land filled
      with insincerity! Just who can one trust? Certainly not your loved ones!
      GOD, my enemies I can handle, protect me from my loved ones & fair weather
      friends....... And none dare call it treason.......

      Drunks stagger towards gutters which are home; the children of the
      hypodermic needle inject some bought and deadly fake happiness;
      the old ones who chatter to themselves speak of "bastards" who tried to
      push them off the bus and bomb shelters where the roof leaked; the girls on
      the game pursue what only something as monstrous as capitalism could boast
      of as the "oldest profession", selling submission for the price of fast-
      food; a man with a metal stick limps nowhere in particular and curses
      blacks, as if they all made him lame; a Dickensian figure whose arse is
      literally hanging out of his trousers sings "There'll Always Be An England"
      and holds out his dirt-caked hand for pennies that will not come;
      kids lie in doorways in sleeping bags which should be used for jolly camping
      trips, but are now the substitute for home for thousands in a country
      which has more empty houses than homeless people; and the police shoot past
      in cars with Nazi-like sirens, now to collect their kebab and then to
      intervene in a fight between two wage slaves who enjoyed their evening's
      release from misery so much that they tried to kick each other's brains out
      over a penalty decision in a football match.

      Graffiti on the wall says "Wogs Out", "Cath Loves Jason", (who is
      probably the Jason who will always be separated by a thick glass TV
      screen) and "Don't Pay The Poll Tax" (as if the Council Tax is somehow a
      merciful release from oppression).

      Nowhere is it scrawled "Dante Woz Here", but it feels like there
      could not have been a much better inspiration for his vision of Hell than
      the streets which we have become used to. Perhaps that is the one
      thing worse then eternal damnation: not knowing that you're in hell.

      Camden Town is not unique. It just happens that this writer is
      there frequently, witnessing the destitution of the people of this early
      twentieth-first century abyss and the impossibility to pass by
      without the inner sense of wanting to vomit, as if the malignant sore was
      within rather than all around.

      Visiting Easterhouse in Glasgow or Handsworth in Birmingham or
      Toxteth in Liverpool or St Pauls in Bristol or the South Bronx of New York
      the same gaping pits of urban hell scream out, echoing in their impotent
      rage the high boasts of the market which will provide life for anyone at a
      price � and will strip you layer-by-layer of living dignity if you are
      short of the price.

      The hell which was Auschwitz or Dachau is the most pregnant image
      of brutality available to our modern senses. Nothing compares with
      the total awfulness of systematic, industrial genocide. Visiting Dachau, the
      overwhelming memory is not the gas chambers or the starkly
      sadistic regulations on the wall or the infertile land all around the camp
      where plant life simply will not grow; it is the hill overlooking
      Dachau camp where houses stand and stood as workers were being tortured and
      exterminated.

      Somebody was looking on. Perhaps they walked the dog or told the
      children not to run too close to the wire. Maybe they too just vomited
      within, refusing to lift a finger because it was someone else confined to
      hell for now.

      But the most moving scenes from the camps � for this writer at
      least � were the photographs of liberation. We do not know what those who
      survived were thinking. But we know what they were entitled historically
      to think: Why, oh why, did you not come sooner?

      Be clear, this is not about saving other people � although
      wishing to unlock the doors of hell is no act to be ashamed of. But the
      platitudes of moralising salvation can be left to others who make a business
      form it, sitting in their golden Vatican palace and archbishops' mansions
      weeping crocodile tears for the poor "who will always be with us" as
      Christ was so eager to remind us.

      Why abolish hell on earth?
      Because it is near me and its stink can't be avoided. Because its
      flames are unpredictable and catch passers-by who imagined they were
      safe.

      Because most people reading this are only an insecure job and a
      few pounds in the bank away from the gutter. Because Dickens, when his
      family lost its money, was confined to the hell of Camden Town and after a
      century of energetic reforming the ragged wretches of its streets would
      still be recognised by him.

      Perhaps because it is impossible to be a complete human while
      others are being dehumanised before us. To live on the hill overlooking the
      death camp of our own times � which we don't call death camps because
      only the future recognises the indifference to such miseries which are so
      conveniently and euphemistically hidden from the moment of the
      present tense � is to be a collaborator in something so awful that one
      must either ignore it or destroy it, putting in its place something which
      seems decent.


      chao/Silk
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