What concerns me here is that only 'giving charity' is ethical. The process to holiness does not necessarily involve goodness but meeting a set of obligations-
there is no 'do unto others as you would hath done unto yourself'
do not kill-expressed weekly, for muhammed killed
do not steal-expressed elsewhere
OBLIGATIONS ARE NOT ETHICS
Friday, 26 May 2017
Back to Religion:
A commentator in The Times, bearing a Muslim name, after the Manchester bombing wrote about Islams five pillars-charity, love, forgiveness, etc. Confusing thereby Christianity and Islam.
Islam's 5 pillars are not ethical, except for charity.
Islam's 5 pillars are not ethical, except for charity.
- Faith.
- 1.2 Salat: Prayer.
- 1.3 Zakāt: Charity.
- 1.4 Sawm: Fasting.
- 1.5 Hajj: Pilgrimage to Mecca.
In the Salat one prayer invites readers/believers to praise the conquest. All are merely about confirming Islam-there is no love, no humanity here. Very bleak indeed! Meeting all the above confirms someone is a true believer-not a true human being.
BACK TO RELIGION
Fallon the Lib Dem leader was recently asked why he was a Christian. He replied that all the archaeology confirmed what was in the Bible.
Whoa!!!
No it doesn't. Archaeologists have found virtually no support for the Bible. Where did Fallon get his information? From the Internet? This is supposedly a senior politician who displays little to no academic capacity.
Whoa!!!
No it doesn't. Archaeologists have found virtually no support for the Bible. Where did Fallon get his information? From the Internet? This is supposedly a senior politician who displays little to no academic capacity.
Sunday, 21 May 2017
POEM-Samuel Beckett
What would I do without this world
a poem by Samuel Beckett
what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust
what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness
Tuesday, 9 May 2017
SPACE by RAYFED
Space
written by: RayFed
@Raymond_Fed
Autonomous battle mode Dom.
Aye, aye, captain I say and his eyes close at the last.
In the delirium of my battle screens I watched crimson rain of micro beams fall and cyan streaks of plasma cut through the air.
The flash of fresh burnt copper vaporized and accelerated to speeds of light hangs in a haze over my view.
I find myself unable to act for a micro second, caught in hideous beauty of war within a vacuum.
To believe I and my comrades could be the cause of so many flame wrecked shells of the enemy battle engines.
Agony shatters the stillness and I sense a crippling hit.
Screams erupting, electronic shrieks echoing, alarms echoing through my now lifeless hallways and battle centers.
Closing my eyes I pray, but to no god I know, that I may continue to do my duty.
Hoping that they on the flanks are not mine, burning fresh.
As the sun snuffed out by smoke and death I hide within myself.
The reality here is a burden and I will not shoulder it.
Full burn and I engage to the last.
Falling headlong into and breaking the back of the invading horde.
The system fails and I am slipping, slipping, slipping...
Program end.
Aye, aye, captain I say and his eyes close at the last.
In the delirium of my battle screens I watched crimson rain of micro beams fall and cyan streaks of plasma cut through the air.
The flash of fresh burnt copper vaporized and accelerated to speeds of light hangs in a haze over my view.
I find myself unable to act for a micro second, caught in hideous beauty of war within a vacuum.
To believe I and my comrades could be the cause of so many flame wrecked shells of the enemy battle engines.
Agony shatters the stillness and I sense a crippling hit.
Screams erupting, electronic shrieks echoing, alarms echoing through my now lifeless hallways and battle centers.
Closing my eyes I pray, but to no god I know, that I may continue to do my duty.
Hoping that they on the flanks are not mine, burning fresh.
As the sun snuffed out by smoke and death I hide within myself.
The reality here is a burden and I will not shoulder it.
Full burn and I engage to the last.
Falling headlong into and breaking the back of the invading horde.
The system fails and I am slipping, slipping, slipping...
Program end.
paedophiles and psychiatrists 4
The boy was from then on treated even worse by his family. They had been told by psychiatrists after all, no doubt in technical language, that he was mad. Perhaps they had told them he was psychotic, even though none of the requisite symptoms. For psychiatrists that would be like confirming he had TB, totally unware of any impact. He remembers during the case interview being asked pertinent questions about visual hallicinations, and he told them of one-which wasn't really one. He was after all only 16. Significantly, they did not ask about his family life or anything that might possibly be pertinent.
He realised then and now that psychiatrists have little genuine knowledge of the world, the mind, certainly nothing on psychology. They are taught an ABC approach to mental health based upon lists.
His family treated him appallingly, usually as if he was cognitively impaired.
At one point his parents tried to get him into a home for the educationally subnormal.
Broken by the drugs and treatment, he returned to the hospital several times, living with drug-addicts, paedophiles, rapists, murderers. He felt that somehow, receiving such treatment, he was guilty of a terrible crime!
As a consequence of arrogent and ignorent psychiatrists, his relationship with his family, parents and siblings, was destroyed. No doubt, he was one of very many who had suffered in this fashion. Psychiatrists seem not to believe there is any consequences to their actions, as, for doctors confronted with a physical illness who treat it often without reference to family and friends.
Understandably, he was broken by these terrible experiences, and further damaged by the drugs given to him.
In this narrative, the paedophiles, perhaps to their amazement, got away with their crimes-I can assure you that this was merely one instance amongst an unrecorded many!
He realised then and now that psychiatrists have little genuine knowledge of the world, the mind, certainly nothing on psychology. They are taught an ABC approach to mental health based upon lists.
His family treated him appallingly, usually as if he was cognitively impaired.
At one point his parents tried to get him into a home for the educationally subnormal.
Broken by the drugs and treatment, he returned to the hospital several times, living with drug-addicts, paedophiles, rapists, murderers. He felt that somehow, receiving such treatment, he was guilty of a terrible crime!
As a consequence of arrogent and ignorent psychiatrists, his relationship with his family, parents and siblings, was destroyed. No doubt, he was one of very many who had suffered in this fashion. Psychiatrists seem not to believe there is any consequences to their actions, as, for doctors confronted with a physical illness who treat it often without reference to family and friends.
Understandably, he was broken by these terrible experiences, and further damaged by the drugs given to him.
In this narrative, the paedophiles, perhaps to their amazement, got away with their crimes-I can assure you that this was merely one instance amongst an unrecorded many!
GOD'S DEFENCE
I feel I have to make my defence
Regarding those who over several millennium
Believe they can speak for me;
I do not need to name names, do I? You know
Exactly who I mean. What can I do?
I speak briefly to someone once and, before
I know it, we’re bosom buddies-they claim to
Know my inner-most thoughts,
My opinions on every subject from what
Clothes to wear to who to marry.
Do I not have more important things to think about?
The well-being of an entire universe to evaluate
On a daily basis?
How you treat one another is your concern-
Just keep me out of your bigotry and spite,
My name out of your books, my voice out
Of your heads. I am not who you claim me
To be; I am far better and, at certain times, far worse.
I am both nothing and everything!
You can nevertheless be assured-
I do not lead your armies, support your murders,
Sanctify your suicides, bless your hatreds.
I do not inhabit your words,
Your statues, your art, nor am I the knowing
Voice in your head or the gnawing pain
In your heart. Own what is yours!
Originally, I was a small-time local deity,
Lord of the mountain, brooks and olives.
Benevolent, lusty and shy.
Nothing special! One god amongst many
In and out of pantheons, attached to this
Goddess or that. Sometimes I was el of the
Desert, sometimes the family god in
The corner or staring out of the tent flap-
Inauspicious and insignificant!
I was happy then. I had none of the obsessive
Responsibilities of a universal god. I seduced
The local women, fathered thousands of mixed-children-
Part deity/part human-received the flow of eager
Sacrifice; the few remaining aurochs,
Bulls, deer and first born. The smoke always revitalised me!
Children’s flesh was always particularly nourishing!
For such extensive insurance for my continued interest
I protected each group who so honoured me, destroying
Their enemies, as well as their friends.
(But, oh, not now! I’m expected now to exterminate entire neighbourhoods,
Nations and cultures! Now I’m expected to be the murderer,
The sole master of death!)
I was without ideas! I accepted everyone, loathe to judge!
Sexual peccadilloes I found interesting, fun.
Adultery I saw as an aspect of marriage,
Homosexuality, the absorbing antitheses of the endless
Production of new life, from its sterile cusp
Seeping forth new ideas and artistic burgeoning.
I created beauty, adoring it. I danced to
Lively music, sang to beautiful songs.
In Egypt a disgruntled warrior-priest arose, preaching violence,
Preaching conquest. I trembled in his angry presence,
Shaken by his bloodlust. An excitable poet sang of his adventures,
Turning a 100 followers into thousands. The poets used my name-
One fashioned in gentleness-to encourage war.
Then, from the confusions of statehood, prophets emerged
Spreading their misery through my authority,
Grinding my benevolence under soiled sandals,
Telling others what to do, as if the words were mine-
Engaging in genocide with pitiless intention.
They flail my soul with madness!
And so on and so on; numerous messengers
Shouting of sin and retribution,
My voice reverberating with their words,
As I stand in the shadows like a serial killer,
Frightened of lamplight. With nothing
More to do, conforming savants
Described rules for life, a non-existent heaven,
Transcribed my thoughts from their own experiences
Created another reality, ignoring their own.
I am now terrified of my name
(EL, YHWH, Allah) Terrified of what it represents-
Burdened by its acquisition
By the bombastic and cruel.
I, who was once a god, now
Am captive, a prisoner of recitation.
Where once I had priests to beckon, they
Now beckon me. Where once I pronounced on
Goodness, I am now too alarmed to speak.
Where once I was the object of sacrifice
I am now the sacrifice itself.
Regarding those who over several millennium
Believe they can speak for me;
I do not need to name names, do I? You know
Exactly who I mean. What can I do?
I speak briefly to someone once and, before
I know it, we’re bosom buddies-they claim to
Know my inner-most thoughts,
My opinions on every subject from what
Clothes to wear to who to marry.
Do I not have more important things to think about?
The well-being of an entire universe to evaluate
On a daily basis?
How you treat one another is your concern-
Just keep me out of your bigotry and spite,
My name out of your books, my voice out
Of your heads. I am not who you claim me
To be; I am far better and, at certain times, far worse.
I am both nothing and everything!
You can nevertheless be assured-
I do not lead your armies, support your murders,
Sanctify your suicides, bless your hatreds.
I do not inhabit your words,
Your statues, your art, nor am I the knowing
Voice in your head or the gnawing pain
In your heart. Own what is yours!
Originally, I was a small-time local deity,
Lord of the mountain, brooks and olives.
Benevolent, lusty and shy.
Nothing special! One god amongst many
In and out of pantheons, attached to this
Goddess or that. Sometimes I was el of the
Desert, sometimes the family god in
The corner or staring out of the tent flap-
Inauspicious and insignificant!
I was happy then. I had none of the obsessive
Responsibilities of a universal god. I seduced
The local women, fathered thousands of mixed-children-
Part deity/part human-received the flow of eager
Sacrifice; the few remaining aurochs,
Bulls, deer and first born. The smoke always revitalised me!
Children’s flesh was always particularly nourishing!
For such extensive insurance for my continued interest
I protected each group who so honoured me, destroying
Their enemies, as well as their friends.
(But, oh, not now! I’m expected now to exterminate entire neighbourhoods,
Nations and cultures! Now I’m expected to be the murderer,
The sole master of death!)
I was without ideas! I accepted everyone, loathe to judge!
Sexual peccadilloes I found interesting, fun.
Adultery I saw as an aspect of marriage,
Homosexuality, the absorbing antitheses of the endless
Production of new life, from its sterile cusp
Seeping forth new ideas and artistic burgeoning.
I created beauty, adoring it. I danced to
Lively music, sang to beautiful songs.
In Egypt a disgruntled warrior-priest arose, preaching violence,
Preaching conquest. I trembled in his angry presence,
Shaken by his bloodlust. An excitable poet sang of his adventures,
Turning a 100 followers into thousands. The poets used my name-
One fashioned in gentleness-to encourage war.
Then, from the confusions of statehood, prophets emerged
Spreading their misery through my authority,
Grinding my benevolence under soiled sandals,
Telling others what to do, as if the words were mine-
Engaging in genocide with pitiless intention.
They flail my soul with madness!
And so on and so on; numerous messengers
Shouting of sin and retribution,
My voice reverberating with their words,
As I stand in the shadows like a serial killer,
Frightened of lamplight. With nothing
More to do, conforming savants
Described rules for life, a non-existent heaven,
Transcribed my thoughts from their own experiences
Created another reality, ignoring their own.
I am now terrified of my name
(EL, YHWH, Allah) Terrified of what it represents-
Burdened by its acquisition
By the bombastic and cruel.
I, who was once a god, now
Am captive, a prisoner of recitation.
Where once I had priests to beckon, they
Now beckon me. Where once I pronounced on
Goodness, I am now too alarmed to speak.
Where once I was the object of sacrifice
I am now the sacrifice itself.
Tuesday, 2 May 2017
Paedophiles and Psychiatrists 2
The GP sent a psychiatrist to see the boy who offered him a place in the local mental hospital. Foolishly the boy saw this as a way out of his misery, not understanding the truly appalling position he was in.
Psychiatrists pathologise. Give them a patient they will provide a diagnosis. They see other people, but not themselves, as teeming with instabilities and personality disorders. Anything that points to the unusual, anyone outside the norm, must be suffering from one mental illness or another.
They inhabit something of a fantasy world. They are unaccountable, their disgnosis rarely challenged.
Also, the boy's diagnosis was the consequence of social prejudice. The boy's claims to erudition, his interest in writing and ambitions to write were seen as clearly abnormal considering the family he came from. While in the hospital all sorts of problems were assigned to him by one of the psychiatrists.
On one occasion, he sat before a whole group of varied professionals, nurses, doctors and social workers. According to his testimony he had no idea the danger he was in. Everything he said, he considered to have been twisted from normal to abnormal.
Another psychiatrist he saw couldn't speak English and misunderstood much of what he said.
Everything was written down unchallenged-every falsehood and mistake, filed away and never challenged nor corrected. Written records play a huge part in the process of solidifying psychiatric fantasy.
Parents:
The parents' opinions were sought-to psychiatrists parents are/were solid, caring, trustworthy. They did not abuse and if they did, it was the victims of their abuse who were/are diagnosed. It is always the victims, not the aggressors. They must have been very frightened at first of being found out, but no doubt were quickly relieved to discover psychiatrists' gullibility, even if this was constructed from arrogence and lack of accountability. What webs his parents must have spun! What lies they must have told!
The case was sewn up! The boy was mentally ill! Psychiatrists would have supplied the reasons. He was put on drugs.
A month later, feeling defeated, he left the hospital and went back to his parents. He had achieved nothing. Now he was officially mad, matters grew worse. A few days after arriving back home, he began to feel strange. He became excrutiatingly affected by sunlight, unable to pass windows, often doubled up with fear. He remembered one time seeing his father watching him. The boy knew he was in immense trouble thrown back into the snakes' pit, and overwhelmed by strange thoughts and feelings.
Hearing this, I realised the boy had been affected by the drugs given to him in hospital. As he talked of following black-outs and disturbed ramblings, this confirmed it for me. After all, he was only 16.
Psychiatrists pathologise. Give them a patient they will provide a diagnosis. They see other people, but not themselves, as teeming with instabilities and personality disorders. Anything that points to the unusual, anyone outside the norm, must be suffering from one mental illness or another.
They inhabit something of a fantasy world. They are unaccountable, their disgnosis rarely challenged.
Also, the boy's diagnosis was the consequence of social prejudice. The boy's claims to erudition, his interest in writing and ambitions to write were seen as clearly abnormal considering the family he came from. While in the hospital all sorts of problems were assigned to him by one of the psychiatrists.
On one occasion, he sat before a whole group of varied professionals, nurses, doctors and social workers. According to his testimony he had no idea the danger he was in. Everything he said, he considered to have been twisted from normal to abnormal.
Another psychiatrist he saw couldn't speak English and misunderstood much of what he said.
Everything was written down unchallenged-every falsehood and mistake, filed away and never challenged nor corrected. Written records play a huge part in the process of solidifying psychiatric fantasy.
Parents:
The parents' opinions were sought-to psychiatrists parents are/were solid, caring, trustworthy. They did not abuse and if they did, it was the victims of their abuse who were/are diagnosed. It is always the victims, not the aggressors. They must have been very frightened at first of being found out, but no doubt were quickly relieved to discover psychiatrists' gullibility, even if this was constructed from arrogence and lack of accountability. What webs his parents must have spun! What lies they must have told!
The case was sewn up! The boy was mentally ill! Psychiatrists would have supplied the reasons. He was put on drugs.
A month later, feeling defeated, he left the hospital and went back to his parents. He had achieved nothing. Now he was officially mad, matters grew worse. A few days after arriving back home, he began to feel strange. He became excrutiatingly affected by sunlight, unable to pass windows, often doubled up with fear. He remembered one time seeing his father watching him. The boy knew he was in immense trouble thrown back into the snakes' pit, and overwhelmed by strange thoughts and feelings.
Hearing this, I realised the boy had been affected by the drugs given to him in hospital. As he talked of following black-outs and disturbed ramblings, this confirmed it for me. After all, he was only 16.
Monday, 1 May 2017
The Paedophiles and The Psychiatrists
There was clearly something wrong as while only 5 years old he was caught several times playing with his penis in class. No suspicions were aroused of course and the incidences were quickly dismissed and forgotten. At that point in time, his relations with his parents remained good no matter that they were interfering with him.
All that soon changed. Over the years his father grew increasingly hostile to him, intimidating and frightening. Over the years, he grew increasingly frightened of his home, shaking whenever he heard his father enter the house.
But matters grew worse!
Between 9 and 12 his mother developed a blood-clot on her brain (as was it seems later discovered) and begain exhibiting disturbed psychological behaviour. As a consequence, or perhaps it would have happened anyway, she took her young son to bed with her where he ran exploratory hands over her naked body. This occurred many times until the father found out.
When the boy was 12 the father had an affair and for a while the boy brightened at the thought that his mother would kick him out of the home, as many betrayed women did even back then. For the first and only time in his life he prayed. But she never did, and the daily torments continued.
Father:
My client recalled a trip by the family to Leicester to see an old friend of his mother. While there, his father pawed the poor woman, a divoicee, in front of her children and in front of his own children, touching her bum, bosom, and vagina. She giggled but was surely mortified? That night the poor woman asked my mother to sleep with her, no doubt terrified of the father. The father was put in a bed with my client-who couldn't sleep the entire night, kept turning over to look at his sleeping father in horror, rising at 5 am and waking up his brother who was in bed with the family friend's son.
Later, when his sister reached puberty, developing an attractive figure, the father would take his two sons into the room, strip and fondle her in front of the boys.
My client also remembered his father ridiculing a Down's Syndrome child he noticed when they were on holiday.
When the sister reached puberty the father would go into her bedroom with his sons, expose her and permit the boys to feel her breasts.
Family:
The family disdained education, rarely read or were remotely interested in books. There were hardly any books in the house, and what books were there were for young children. There was nothing remotely complex. There was nothing remotely challenging. My client resorted to the public library. If his father caught him reading he would launch a verbal onslaught on him. His siblings were similarly intellectually limited.
Adolescence:
My client became more intellectual, reading Dante, Freud, and Russell.
From 13 to 16 he constantly sought for ways to escape his family. He researched as to how he could run away and survive in London perhaps or some nearby town. As he approached 16 he sought help from a variety of people, including a priest. In the end he turned to his family doctor. Why? On TV doctors had been continuously shown as intelligent and understanding, and the boy was desperate. He just wanted to get away from his father's constant bullying.
The GP came, a junior member of a two-man surgery.
The boy told him his hopes and fears, but could not, out of fear and mis-placed loyalty, explain what his parents were doing and had been doing. The GP decided-or possibly worse- he was mentally ill.
All that soon changed. Over the years his father grew increasingly hostile to him, intimidating and frightening. Over the years, he grew increasingly frightened of his home, shaking whenever he heard his father enter the house.
But matters grew worse!
Between 9 and 12 his mother developed a blood-clot on her brain (as was it seems later discovered) and begain exhibiting disturbed psychological behaviour. As a consequence, or perhaps it would have happened anyway, she took her young son to bed with her where he ran exploratory hands over her naked body. This occurred many times until the father found out.
When the boy was 12 the father had an affair and for a while the boy brightened at the thought that his mother would kick him out of the home, as many betrayed women did even back then. For the first and only time in his life he prayed. But she never did, and the daily torments continued.
Father:
My client recalled a trip by the family to Leicester to see an old friend of his mother. While there, his father pawed the poor woman, a divoicee, in front of her children and in front of his own children, touching her bum, bosom, and vagina. She giggled but was surely mortified? That night the poor woman asked my mother to sleep with her, no doubt terrified of the father. The father was put in a bed with my client-who couldn't sleep the entire night, kept turning over to look at his sleeping father in horror, rising at 5 am and waking up his brother who was in bed with the family friend's son.
Later, when his sister reached puberty, developing an attractive figure, the father would take his two sons into the room, strip and fondle her in front of the boys.
My client also remembered his father ridiculing a Down's Syndrome child he noticed when they were on holiday.
When the sister reached puberty the father would go into her bedroom with his sons, expose her and permit the boys to feel her breasts.
Family:
The family disdained education, rarely read or were remotely interested in books. There were hardly any books in the house, and what books were there were for young children. There was nothing remotely complex. There was nothing remotely challenging. My client resorted to the public library. If his father caught him reading he would launch a verbal onslaught on him. His siblings were similarly intellectually limited.
Adolescence:
My client became more intellectual, reading Dante, Freud, and Russell.
From 13 to 16 he constantly sought for ways to escape his family. He researched as to how he could run away and survive in London perhaps or some nearby town. As he approached 16 he sought help from a variety of people, including a priest. In the end he turned to his family doctor. Why? On TV doctors had been continuously shown as intelligent and understanding, and the boy was desperate. He just wanted to get away from his father's constant bullying.
The GP came, a junior member of a two-man surgery.
The boy told him his hopes and fears, but could not, out of fear and mis-placed loyalty, explain what his parents were doing and had been doing. The GP decided-or possibly worse- he was mentally ill.
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