Men Must Write
I’ve copied this from a New Zealand political page … It could just as easily apply here.
In the current political muddle, or puddle if you prefer, a review of politics with high quality research that advances scholarly debates in all areas of policy and in political theory is essential to the restoration and strength that conservatism needs to successfully restore its guiding influence.
Quoting Mark Twain, “A man who doesn’t read has no advantage over a man who cannot read.”
The historical difficulty of men reading or taking the time to read is well described and was largely circumvented in New Zealand and quite successfully through the strength of journalism and quality of our newspapers.
That’s not the media of today, of course.
Those issues were read aloud in workplaces, smoko rooms, around kitchen tables and various other places communicating and educating in a way we don’t see today.
There was a unity amongst men that we also don’t see today.
There’s comedians aplenty and good meme-makers and they are an influence but today, as was noted a century ago by Jane Mander, we must encourage men to write.
Wise words from our history books and sadly they must be repeated today.
I have written little privately, mostly online.
Started writing a story twice, but best I can, destroyed them.
However I am planning to write some things.
Just need lots of time with nothing to do.
Highly likely I will blessed with some.
Then again only a sentence can say many things.
Even those who don’t know what they are.
Is still relevant, so something to explore.
Along with better explanations for some science stuff.
I know I got some things correct, and understand it better.
All going well, the important stuff hidden in the background.
And normal stuff in the foreground.
I think Downunder that we both have written our fair share.
You are not writing enough!
“We must encourage men to write”!
Geez, writing for me involves parole like monitoring.
I will search for some encouragement.
I have never had any from people in my real life.
For writing here.
Strange how that works.
That somehow the subject of ours is poisoned.
But I see now it’s because of fear.
That they can’t handle the truth.
That women see us looking at there crimes.
We have also both written about the long term effects on men.
And blatantly now with boys.
I don’t know how reliable it is but I saw a statistic.
80% of a type of rapist were raised by solo mothers.
So let’s persecute boys.
Clearly it’s the boys fault.
Being naturally misogynistic to his mothers plight/choice.
An upbringing absent of any masculinity is otherwise clearly working.
The results are bad.
But if we double down.
More sex crime laws, more DV laws.
Add a little time………
Quick plug the holes.
The HMNZ Misandry is sinking.
Start the pumps.
Denigrate them with media, and celebrate hate men marches.
This men, as women’s compliant property, must work.
@1 I studied literature to a greater depth about 10 years back. That no doubt reflected in my style and content but personally it gave me a general acceptance that anything I wrote would be historically relevant rather than accepted in the present.
That seemed to be an incomprehensible conflict for our resident psychologist back then and the difficulty in making that transition if you can call it that was the help of another writer.
Female in this case and although somewhat feminist dedicated to the profession. This has very much been the case in history that the best writers or writing are often produced by association and probably had much to do with the persecution of many in history – the best writers die in gaol, is an old saying.
From what I see online with modern technology, writing, is of course, easier and an audience of some description easier to find and with that a lack of attention to what can be learned from study and reading.
Men in this respect are falling behind very fast without realising.
Somewhat difficult to get your head around, Mander.
She was definitely an early feminist but you need to keep that in perspective. She was never the greatest writer for the same reason, and her first and only significant book “Story of a New Zealand River” once it did get published overseas ended up in the restricted section of New Zealand libraries … because she had that strength of character … placing her own experiences in that of a child in the story.
She was never a man hater, and probably as a consequence of her father had a very holistic view of the world.
Why men must write, is very much the case today, (Mander was a pre-war writer even though publication was delayed until the mid 1920s) so, what we are essentially missing, and we’re failing to understand this … not everyone of course … is that it’s easy to get lost in the current propaganda and not see what is actually happening.
I don’t think the man hating side of feminism belongs to all feminists.
There is many countries where genuine feminism is needed.
Feminism is not needed in NZ.
Do feminists have a genuine argument for where it’s needed.
Arguments about % pay gaps is not feminism.
As females have freedom.
Free, to low cost, contraception.
Abortion, and morning after pills.
Childcare, and working for families.
Maternity leave, and Child Support.
Police that will believe any accusation.
Refuges, and endless other services.
Representation in law examination, making.
Lesser sentences, if charged at all.
Children in prisons.
Specialist, women only Law firms.
50% or more of assets.
And near guaranteed child custody.
Can legally rape men.
Sexually assault males, free of consequences.
Kill children, under special laws.
Not name fathers.
Or choose to live on a benefit for life.
Have 5 baby daddies, all with protection orders.
Make false accusations, with near immunity.
Live longer, safer lives.
Commit suicide at natural rates.
NZer of the year awards.
And now $50 million to try and stop 50 cervical cancer deaths.
To feminism we have a value to a woman’s life, budgeted for value.
What then to the value of a mans life.
Men can write all they want, but precious time spent.
If ones life is worthless, to feminism.
The words, more valuable.
As is the writing, of genuine feminists.
Feminism in various forms had been on the rise since the 1700s especially in Europe and obviously played a contributing part in the lead up to WW1.
It was effectively outlawed in Germany during the armistice as the National Socialists grew through to WW2
Post war conservatism and rebuilding kept women occupied through to the 1970s when feminists found a protest vehicle in the Vietnam War.
It’s hard to know what books influenced Mander and apart from an early participation in teaching she was a journalist and Newspaper editor by 1907.
We had limited publishing facilities in those days and I imagine we lost so much valuable information that history can easily be rewritten to the advantage on the ruling gender which has been a common trend in international literature.
Firstly I don’t have to much difficulty with the sentence.
Once everything is considered.
But I must write.
What price a mans life.
In my own experience of similar.
My partner had taken my money from my account.
So I had no money for petrol, to get to work.
I asked her what the money was spent on.
Strangely knifes are a women thing.
And in her hand, she ended the conversation.
Luckily for me, I got away, to the safety of a bedroom door.
Luckily for her, nobody got hurt.
But so simply, a murder, of this young man.
Such a short price, for a mans life.
No life, for a life, even as just a sentence, of time.
Without, minimum parole.
Hell, call it what it is.
Would be a good, official information request.
Last 50 cases of females charged with males death.
Last 50 cases of males charged with females death.
Including not charged.
Imagine the sentence difference.
For relationship stabbings
7 years until parol.
So I hope she leaves, a better person.
And rewards society.
For its charity.
Life has inevitable moments, and shed a few tears.
The emotion of forgiveness, a likely cause.
Far better than wanting justice.
The thing about wrongdoing, it’s like the lie.
The truth teller, has no burden of the past.
The wrongdoer, knows, you know the truth.
No better, forgiveness.
Should it not be, there burden.
That it’s they, that must forgive themselves.
I thought that the sentence for murder was mandatory life imprisonment. That meant that early release is always accompanied by being subject to recall to jail, if the police are not happy with any aspect of the released prisoner’s life.
But the Crimes Act has been amended to a maximum sentence of life imprisonment. I personally think that it is dangerous to forgo recall to prison, for convicted murderers.
What do you think?
Does anyone know when that change was made?
@8 No idea about that, myself.
But an axe murderer would know that, surely.
Do we know any axe murderers?
I picked up a book.
One I have actually hardly read.
Skimmed over the important bits.
And occasionally, just randomly going to a page.
So I tried, to see how I interpreted, what is written.
So John Acts 2
My interpretation is that.
When Jerusalem has devout people of every nation.
Speaking there own language.
But easily understood, by the listener.
Are you now all the same, just humans, Galilean.
And I rarely drink, so it’s not the wine speaking.
So no speaking tongues, a misinterpretation.
It says what it says.
Coming of the Holy Spirit.
Power of the internet, likely.
Not speaking tongues.
Often used by the conmen of religion.
Also at the time, many religions existed.
But ultimately for any religion, if it was on sound ground.
Would emulate Christianity.
Just as Buddha and Christ are similar.
So to the people of the time.
Listening to the ideas of other religions.
Would if Universal Theory compliant, sound identical.
To the words of Christ.
Hence Gods words, in all speech.
Speaking, in all tongues.
So possibly out of context.
As in the point of view, of the author.
I have been asked about my book of writing.
If there is any secrets in there.
I am certain some were lost, torn out.
But there is some funny things.
“This pen while writing nicely, pisses me off”
“This pen behaves the worst of my four pens. Really I should learn how to use the thing properly.”
Have lost what the other pens, said about themselves.
One of them wrote this.
Space we come to admire.
From a distance we aspire.
Stare speckled universe.
A daunting distance free.
Light escaping everywhere.
Never to be set free.
Catch a glimpse of yesterday.
Where today is all we see.
Cant escape fast enough.
Because tomorrow has to be.
But we may always remember.
Today will always be.
Stare speckled universe.
Never to be set free.
I have been advised to write some poetry.
And just now, change the music on my radio.
The poetry just happens.
Trying to write it intentionally, struggles to work.
But my radio.
Music has with time, become a comfort.
And a guide.
At some point I will write a letter.
Both time and distance are in play.
What, and to whom.
While I work things out, a story.
I found the place where man separated the sea.
I found myself at a dead end.
The first time, I knew there was something there.
When I found myself there again, I saw a sign.
A lady stumbled in the distance, going up to a walkway.
I knew whatever I was supposed to see, must be there.
So I left my car and followed, to the same place she fell.
And climbed the bank, and found a magnificent view.
A great reward, for the short walk.
There before me.
To my left the sea.
To my right the sea.
Separated by the walkway, and tracks.
There in the background, the makings of humans.
So I searched the sea for life, and saw none.
No weed or fish, barren and still.
So I looked again.
To the left tracks, for some distance.
To the right tracks, for some distance.
Certainly it’s in the middle, I thought.
So I walked, to I couldn’t decide.
And there I stood, looking.
And at my feet I found it.
Just a weed.
Upon it two flowers, one good, one bad.
So I picked the good one.
The most perfect, of any I had seen.
I knew then.
I could go to meet my mother.
The other day something interesting happened.
While at a special place for me.
The sun set, exactly in the V of the hills.
In a gap of clouds.
While behind us.
The full moon rose.
Cresting a hill.
Certainly wise, the wait.
To see it.
The thing I feared the most.
Due to my experience, in October last year.
Was the fear I would be stoped, from writing.
I knew I must write, and face the consequences.
I learnt early in life there is some things, you cannot say.
The result being locked up in mental health facilities.
Something that’s stoped my writing, twice.
So I have been very lucky.
My writing intimately examined, judged.
So I have done well.
Treading the fine line, to get the words out.
An output, to my experience.
And a better understanding of things.
So if it happens again.
Who knows then.
What argument, would be written next.
bildungsroman … is a European word for a classification of books we refer to in English as ‘coming of age’ literature.
The one I remember most from my teenage years is “The Contender” by Robert Lypsyte.
Do they still feature in adolescence today?
Are there modern versions?
Do you remember a particular book from your teenage years?
Some interesting arguments in this.
The title itself, can be looked at with humour.
Are humans overrated, still a little simple.
“So you might think our galaxy has produced civilisations more than once and maybe thousands or millions of times. But there’s no evidence of this.”
This is the important part to the argument.
Because it’s the only evidence we have.
“Life on Earth is about 3.8 billion years old and that was pretty much single-cell life for about 3.2 billion of those years, he said. More complex life started evolving on Earth about 600 million years ago.”
The first issue is going from nothing to the cell.
If that’s a statistical miracle, we may be the only one.
But science can show how it can happen.
Humans can attempt to measure the odds.
It took an awfully long time, for multi cell creatures to be created.
If that’s a statistical miracle, we may be the only one.
But science can show how it can happen.
Humans can attempt to measure the odds.
It took an awfully long time, for human intelligence to be created.
If that’s a statistical miracle, we may be the only one.
Are we not our own science experiment.
Certain we are alone.
Even another civilisation lasting 100 million years.
Is only a small window of time.
Not even we humans have proved, interstellar colonisation is possible.
Or even communication.
I actually support the idea of very simple life being common.
Even if it’s one in every 1000 stars, life is still common.
Millions of examples, and millions of extinctions.
There remains only one question.
Have our statistical miracles run out.
In the darkness, shadows are complete.
Then at dawn, your shadow appears.
As long as it will be, it approaches.
Slowly until midday, your shadow greets you.
As short as it will be, even directly below you.
Slowly then, the shadow grows taller.
The shadow rising, as the sun sets.
As long as it will be, it flees.
Then again, in darkness hides the shadow.
This is an interesting argument.
I have watched a documentary of his, so have listened to his point of view.
If evolution is involved in everything, but innate things like a rock.
Then even knowledge, is evolutionary.
The example used, the mats shows knowledge in practice.
How then did the knowledge, develop.
Was there an observation, in the distant past.
The observer, then intentionally doing it again.
The story told, and passed on.
Myths then are an analogy, of knowledge.
Observation, has evolved a story.
Even gravity becomes a story, of an apple falling from a tree.
So myths are not in conflict, with science.
They are the observation, of science.
They can and do, get taught together.
A piece of knowledge, can in words be complete fantasy.
And clearly, not true.
But it’s philosophy, may be undeniably science.
Dawkins proposal, is for boring science.
Narrowed down, to only the empirical.
What is knowledge then, without a description.
When the apple breaks free, it will certainly hit the ground.
Even Dawkins reverence to science, commands it to be so.
There is an error, in calling the rock innate.
What then of the pebble, did it not evolve from the rock.
Broken loose from its perch, the rock begins life.
Gravity seals its fate, moving it inevitably lower.
Nature visits the rock, with its wind and rain.
And life swarms it, atom by atom dissolving it.
Slowly it falls, swept up in even the smallest of landslides.
Greeting its new master, the stream.
Swept up in the flood, it tumbles.
Chipping away, at its surface.
Slowly nature shapes it, to be aerodynamic.
The rock now evolved, into the pebble.
Carried down stream, for some even to the sea.
Deposited, for an age.
It’s the human, that can play god with the pebble.
Digging it up, changing the pebbles fate.
It is humans, that can crush the pebble.
The rock evolving, ever smaller.
Using humans, to be new again.
But now, many new rocks.
Even Santa is something, evolved by humans.
It was not a thing, when Christ was around.
So we made a day, to celebrate him and his gift.
Guessing a day, and being contented with it.
For us it’s near our longest day, the heat of summer is arriving.
Santa’s parts are real, if you think about it.
Sleighs are real, so as well the domesticated Reindeer.
Near the shortest day, and longest night.
So plenty of time for some, even the endless night.
Time enough for the elves to make things, and Santa to deliver.
But what of the myth, of flying.
Is that not a magical thing, when the story was made.
Yet look about, do humans not fly.
Have humans not evolved the imaginary, real already.
Soon a human will make a contraption, a flying sleigh.
I am certain children would find such a thing, entertaining.
After all, that is what we celebrate for.
New life and the smile, of a child.
At is maximum potential, yet completely helpless.
For one birthday all children, can share in goodwill.
The subject of a person splitting into personalities, is interesting.
As I did it at a very young age, as a result of an accident.
It’s were I put all the bad things, some now blank patches in time.
There is no need to remember, some things.
One personality is presented to the world, the other is in hiding from it.
One is calm and collected, one is an emotional train wreck.
One writes, and one speaks.
Dare not one speak, as anything may be said.
Dare not one write, as it would be boring.
I have been to the same place, twice.
A small cliff top, high enough to hurt properly.
And stood on the precipice, for the view.
Both times, of fog covered lowlands.
And both times the first stop, in a long day.
I have sat at the same seat, twice.
Lost at what to do facing the sea, for the view.
But different days, years apart a pregnant lady walked.
For a walk to the beach, and struggled as they met the sand.
Both of them picked themselves up, with pride.
I have been to the same mapmaker, twice.
Both times, to get her last copy.
As I had lost my way, and needed her help.
Both times grateful I paid more, refusing change.
And left with her at the door, wondering what just happened.
I have been to the second hand shop, twice.
Both times finding the same things, but years apart.
My partners present, and my mothers.
Certainly I placed my mothers cup, on the shelf myself.
Hiding it in the back, knowing it was important.
I have found places to walk on water, twice.
Once at the sea, to help walk a boat.
And just recently, at the river.
The currents strong shifting sand, making little islands.
Well from the shore, standing toe deep.
Somehow one day, can help to make another day.
Could one then put all the days together, for the perfect day.
Or is it pieces of a day, like a wedding.
Bit by bit imagined out, to create the day.
For my part I am only guilty, of placing the cup.
I have reached my distance limit, with good timing.
As I have written, enough.
And have already begun, preparing the next step.
I will keep writing, until it is finished.
I must be patient, as things have there own timing.
My daughter has her birthday, and start of school.
I must also be, concise.
My childhood, is not free of memory.
It is filled with moments, of events and places.
I struggle badly, with remembering names.
Maybe left it out to have more room, for other things.
Many memories are of my father, as he took us to do things.
But he was also, absent a lot.
Essentially I walked out the door, in the morning.
And returned, in time for dinner.
I don’t actually have bad memories, of my parents.
I certainly got a little, discipline and mostly deserved.
Only once by my father, who hit me for something I didn’t do.
He apologised sincerely, once he learned the truth.
Inherently it was my mother, who raised me.
She worked as well, to give what we had.
It was my mother, who would discover the wrong doing.
Waking me in dreams, sternly her voice states my name.
We are lucky space, is so peaceful.
People would die, if the light cooked the ground.
And can happen, at any time.
Earths beginning, must have been very chaotic.
Maths wise, if you created the curve.
The start involves, constant collisions.
Billions of years later, there is hardly any.
Yet there are still many, tiny bits of dust.
Without intervention, certainly the curve is not finished.
Even as our solar system, travels recklessly in space.
It’s mass mostly processed, into planets.
It can simply travel trough, the path of countless objects.
One must explore a long way, to predict the future.
This is an argument, that I had with myself.
I had tried to be good, but my number of partners had increased.
So the celibacy thing, is not my experience of life.
I guess also like the tinder lifestyle, I don’t remember there names.
There is a path to righteousness that one must follow.
Passing life’s hollows of sorrow.
Peering past a future that may be.
Eternally yours as your judgement sees.
Your future remains in your grasp.
But temptations hand closes fast.
As it’s slippery finger decides to play.
And the path to righteousness has lost its way.
The opposite page just says, to seek to explain.
Which I have tried my best, to understand.
Space can only become, more inhabited.
Many nations, can send things into space.
If NZ can do it, then why not every nation.
This won’t be, arguments about space stations.
Politics, interfering in science.
At some point, there will be a land grab for the moon.
Even Mars, will be calved up into legal titles.
As humans fight for land today, just as it always does.
Will they also fight, over the moon and Mars.
Even asteroids, may be claimed by possession.
The land on earth for the tyrant is occupied, space is claimless.
Only a tiny little bit of land, with US flags exists.
Soon there will be many more, footprints and photos.
I too am a writer of masculist theory.
I believe all the five or so main platforms of feminism can be thoroughly challenged by men
Including their views on war, violence, rapes, statistics, malign-ments, and so on.
We have no especial need to be or feel especially guilty as men; for all this undivided once was called part of the ‘Human Condition’.
We really need to neutrally end up there eventually.
In stark contrast to what one may expect, of a NZ child’s life.
I have come across something, that has revived memories.
So I lived at our army camps, wandering them unchecked.
I knew the golf course, at Linton army camp well.
Swimming in the pond for golf balls, selling them to golfers.
Fishing for eels, and catching crawlies in the creek.
But because it’s humans, hidden away was a treasure trove.
The army camp dump, was a common playground.
Sneaking around with a slug gun, shooting rats.
Finding trinkets, and small treasures thrown away.
Still today I have learnt, from that experience.
There was moments of joy, in finding a stamp or a coin.
Moments of shame, as the rat fled squealing injured.
Moments of fining a place to rest and think, in squalor.
It to leaked into the swamp below, a sheen of pollution obvious.
Spellcheck has its good points, and bad.
It is finding, not fining.
My minds spellcheck sucks, as I missed the error.
Tick tick goes the clock, it cannot be stopped.
A date quickly approaching, making something come true.
Somehow I knew from the beginning, what would happen.
I must be careful what I write, or worse making contradictions.
How then can things be true, but also not true.
You can create limits to things, in three ways.
You can limit things with time, like a date.
Saying to yourself, that is the date you act.
If they haven’t called by this time, you will.
I will check the oven, when the adds come on.
You can limit things with numbers, like a goal.
Saying you will do something, maybe a hundred times.
Possibly always a whole number, if not it’s one thing.
10.25 kilos, is still one weight.
You would not want to do 99.5, Base jumps.
Stuck halfway, 100 jumps and 99 safe landings.
You can limit things with distance, like your Speedo.
When it gets to 80,000 kms, you will get it serviced.
If your very close, you may guess the day you reach it.
The closer the distance, the better the guess.
But with certainty, try then and ride two bicycles 100km.
And stop exactly, at 100km.
You could not have guessed the time, or the place they stop.
The bicycles, inevitably fractions different.
#32 is reference to me writing using the username, the man in absentia.
DJ Ward is the man in absentia.
That when they judge me, I am not present.
Even questioned, nobody has got the questions right.
Although that statement was written, when I started here seven years ago.
I knew then what my recent offence would be, and how they would act.
Obviously the finer details, where completely unknown to me.
But is why I made that statement, of what happens to me at this place in time.
It is also a recognition of two consciousness’s, the other I suspect is the Atman.
I don’t need to write separately, anymore.
That could be, a confession.
In retrospect, I can look back at what I have done.
In the long run, it is not me but humans that make the book.
But I know I am the first, to do something.
To try to explain the experience, called enlightenment.
Because in reality, it is a complete mystery.
Certainly for me, I had no idea what was happening.
But I am the first, to write it down.
I have done my best, to avoid religion.
Even religion, looked at like it’s science.
But it’s unavoidable, to understand what Jesus was.
The bible is an argument, trying to explain it.
Books within books, even chapters and sentences.
Hidden in the background, is my other arguments.
Ones I only notice being made, after they are made.
It is a great time of year.
Twice this week, I have seen a moonbow.
Soon it will be a season of rainbows, at the river.
I like this article, for the subject and the research.
If you have something, then you can use it.
NZ is no threat in nuclear war, as we have none.
But today we have war makers, with them.
Humans have chosen, to use them already.
So the test, is the response to its use.
When it happens inevitably, according to the article.
But are other things, also inevitable.
You could argue, at some point no nuclear weapons will exist.
Worse is science leads, to easy bomb making.
By the citizen or factory, with millions of bombs.
Sadly science, is well past that point.
Then humans are tested, can they catch up with science.
Did it resolve WW1, with a truce that didn’t last.
Millions lost, with bombs and poison.
Dit it resolve WW2, with Russia also invading Poland.
Millions lost, with better bombs and industrial poison.
It is not war then, that is the problem.
The test is, conflict resolution.
Can even if nukes are used, limit what’s happens.
A global effort to end wars, winning.
If you are even a small distance, from another star.
Is it very difficult to get any signal, to that star.
The signal so faint, they can’t see it in background noise.
Personally I see life having many starts, being common.
But even our life had a billion years, of only the simplest life.
At some point, a statistical miracle happened.
Life leaping ahead, until the next statistical miracle.
Very few planets, will have the billions of years needed.
And to exist then, when we exist is near impossible.
So intelligent life, within 100 light years is impossible.
Having existed at some time, the odds increase.
Within 1000 years intelligent life, could be extremely rare.
Having existed, may be likely.
Since any science started, we are but a blip in time.
The alien may have checked, over millions of years.
But seen nothing, intelligent at every check.
In a thousand years it may check, and still find nothing.
My distance limit, has been delayed.
Strangely, it happened last time as well.
I must think positively, that the reason is good.
Accidentally I practice, the art of positive procrastination.
I have read to much, to think my cunning plan can work.
So actually my aim, must be for it not to work.
Then the task becomes, an easy task.
What then would be the purpose, and I worked it out.
It is not what you want or need, it’s what’s necessary.
Since I know what’s necessary, my plan can then work.
I think there is a difference, between men and women.
Especially in things like, the desire to hunt prey.
An argument against that, is girls raised to hunt.
More importantly, is self initiated going hunting.
And in my own life, a girl has done that.
While in my mind, I stereotype boys as wanting to hunt.
I did take her creek fishing and possum hunting, in the past.
So for my small part, I influenced the outcome.
So for our gender, our stereotypes and outcomes in behaviour.
Can we not make any child, to break stereotypes.
My writing for my plan, came to a stop.
Not that I’m finished, but to think things through.
For writing here, the outcome has been good.
To much of my thinking, was saying slow down.
If I’m correct, I’m only at halfway for my book.
I was a very fit young man.
Even doing runs around Palmerston.
Back when biking was normal transport.
Surely my wheels and footsteps cover every street.
Nobody new where I went on my journeys.
Just me and my memories.
Few are left but one remains.
Sitting alone looking over the lake.
I couldn’t help but see her distress.
Tears and an attempt not to show it.
I live with the regret of not knowing what to do.
As I left the scene when I could have helped.
It seems such a meaningless thing.
Some may say I even made a good choice.
Yet somehow just by trying I may have helped.
Could I have just said hello.
Sat near her and just hoped she said hello.
Such a small mistake memorised like a sin.
I didn’t realise, I was standing in the same spot.
The first time, I was running away to find my mother.
At a lookout on a precipice, arms stretching.
The view identical, with treetops in fog.
The first time, I had no hope of success with no plan.
But what a start in fresh air, and imminent death.
Not for a second could I see, I made a day.
Event by event, would repeat themselves.
Sitting on a bench at the sea, and a stumbling pregnant lady.
A shrine at a dead end to the baby Jesus, passing then stoping.
Going the wrong way, down the same streets lost.
But years apart in the same shop, the placing and taking of a cup.
A lady stumbling on the path, and the finding of the same flower.
Urinating in the bushes, and three girls in a car who saw me.
Buying from the mapmaker, and refusing change.
The same day, just with a different ending.
One I drove away into the night, one I found my mother.
Armed with my flower and cup, and aided by the map.
All I wanted and all I asked for, was for someone to hug me.
All my effort of my day was worth it, as I finally met my mother.
My bipolar started at a young age, certainly from age three.
I have an early memory, of an episode of clinical depression.
The event taking place, when I am about seven or eight years old.
What a strange creature, the bumblebee.
Fluttering about, when they say it shouldn’t fly.
Somehow managing, going flower to flower.
Dare not touch it, even avoid it landing on you.
I had learnt the lesson, in the past.
At some point, trying to grab one.
Certainly there’s memory, of a painful event.
There in the hedge, in reach was the bumblebee.
I stood there, contemplating the bumblebee.
Was it worse, than what I was experiencing.
Was that pain more, than the pain I was already in.
What a choice, swapping one pain for another.
I couldn’t take my pain, and I dare not touch it.
All I could do was admire, as it flew about.
Free of my pain, ignorantly living its life.
I could not decide fate, innocent was the bumblebee.
For some reason, maybe a million or more.
People have experienced, thinking they were Jesus.
So much so it’s real to them, and they expose themselves.
Claiming they are Jesus, and nearly always insane.
Not that psychology, has it in there book of conditions.
No Jesus test, searching for the real thing.
Imagine then, when it’s true for a person.
The moment in time, when they discover themselves.
You would assume, it’s a moment of joy.
But it cannot be that way, if it was real.
Imagine the weight, of expectations.
The billions of lost lives, the billions of prayers.
Only the false, think things end well for Jesus.
Has none of them read, what humans do to him.
An impossible list of tasks, and magical powers.
A book to write, with nothing but a title.
Defend the worst, and save the world.
Have the greatest gift, and keep on giving.
No the real Jesus, would first deny being Jesus.
Scared as hell, no expletive way am I Jesus the reply.
Imagine then being Jesus, maybe just a teenager.
Knowing all those things happen, and you can’t stop it.
As human as any other, as powerless as any other.
At some point in time like the false, he is exposed.
Can humans find him, among the millions.
Is it not true, they will know him when they see him.
The Prophet and the Policeman:
A New Zealand book written by John Cullen
The Story of Rua Kenana the Tuhoi Prophet
The incident in short arose from Kenana adopting the position of a Māori Jesus.
Very confrontational for the Christian society the country was at the time.
I rarely pray for anything, as I’ve had many failures.
In some ways even with coming true, what was the bad thing.
If the universe magically gives, it must magically take away.
So I dare not prey for a miracle, or I tempt disaster.
So I found myself, in a predicament.
My partners real love, is her photography.
And she had got the job, with her best friends wedding.
The weather forecast of thunderstorms, could ruin her day.
I have known the bride, as long as my partner.
Watched her struggles in life, even her near death.
A broken relationship, and battles with mental health.
Always good to me, I couldn’t help myself.
So I made a little prayer, but for the bride.
Asking for a break in the weather, for the wedding.
And on the day, that’s what happened.
Rain stopping just before the wedding, and starting at the end.
It’s no miracle, as quite in a storm is normal.
No matter my prayer, really it was just lucky.
Like rolling a dice, you will guess the number.
Maybe real miracles, just happen on accident.
I was talking to my niece, on the subject of catching birds.
Watching for the fledgling, that you can run down.
Certainly catching a bird, is a rare thing in life.
I can can only count, a few times in my own life.
So off she goes, to tend to her injured horse.
A short walk, up to the barn.
I no time she had returned, eyes wide and smiling.
She had caught a sparrow, and couldn’t believe it.
Luckily the birds parents followed, waiting when let go.
I experienced the strangest thing, love at first sight.
Many years ago now, but still a clear memory.
As it turned out, the first girl I had asked out.
She said yes, and we went to a movie.
Life can do that to you, surprise you.
I was miserable, my life wrecked.
And for a moment, she changed my world.
With the first look, there was no going back.
Sadly it didn’t last, but I have great memories.
The bad ones, as well as the good.
I can only say, we were meant to meet.
Decades have past, my regrets are gone.
Her drive for life, far greater than mine.
Her the extrovert, me the introvert.
They may attract, but they are definitely not the same.
Not even that moment, could save the relationship.
Can the impossible, be possible.
Certainly nobody can believe, that Jesus can actually return.
No human can write, the book of love.
Nobody can actually cause, a judgement day.
The problem is a moment in time must exist, or not exist.
Somehow someone, works out how to do it.
Humans watching, any suspect is doomed.
It would have to be a very cunning plan, to fool humans.
The book with a start, and an end.
It cannot be written, thousands have tried.
Preachers and false profits, all claim the word of god.
Yet no human can explain it, thousands of years prove it.
Certainly then, judgement day cannot be true.
What judgement, judgement of what.
What is this court, with judgement day proceedings.
Nonsense I say, no such thing exists.
So it’s impossible, and also not possible.
Yet Jesus made a book, and was judged.
Living secretly, until the start of his book.
And makes an ending, that terrifies the next Jesus.
They watch me, my many memories.
Flawed as they are, I cannot avoid them.
There’s a ten year old, hunched crying.
Watching me, judging me.
It isn’t real, it’s fantasy.
That somehow, I owe him anything.
Yet the ten year old, caused everything.
Men’s rights, were his problems.
Judging treatment of girls, and treatment of boys.
Judging things that have happened, and going to happen.
Shocked at the world, he was angry at the world.
The ten year old watches, he cannot be stopped.
No surprise then, the brain wiring itself up in childhood.
The arguments scared in by repetition, my fate made.
Then ten year old seeing what’s wrong, and I cannot unsee it.
The ten year old cry’s, waiting for the adults to act.
Heartbroken, I hear of young boys.
What they think of girls, and how girls see boys.
The ten year old, certainly was not blind.
Sadly for everyone, there is more like him.
Men are prey, and the boys see it.
I walked for hours, lost in the dark.
Trapped in a forest, going in circles.
I lost track of time, my memory’s few.
There was no time to stop, I had to get away.
They came to get me, to get me again.
The worst had happened, I had failed again.
Humans were coming for me, and I couldn’t get away.
So I did and I ran and ran, into the hills.
The mania to much, even just jumping fences escaping.
I couldn’t stop myself, I was as scared as ever.
I could not do, what they did to me again.
The panic absolute, I was making no decisions.
By the morning, I had fallen.
My body giving out, sleeping to the sun woke me.
It was to far and to late to go back, the deed was done.
My fate sealed I stoped, I must surrender to it.
My father woke me, it was early in the morning.
He spoke from the door, but I didn’t hear.
I just didn’t understand, what he was saying.
Either that, or I just blocked the moment out.
And he was gone, not to return.
What a New Year’s Day, one to forget.
Yet not for some time, did I even know.
Life around me, carried on as normal.
University was about to begin, life was good.
Had a part time job, and I was feeling well.
My illness was soon to get me, waiting for me.
Soon my mother would tell me, dad was gone.
In days I was broken, like a switch depression arrived.
I hid for the day, working as a sandblaster.
Helmet on and alone in the world, I even avoided smoko.
I cried the day, I cried the day away.
Soon my mother would follow, leaving home.
Both to new partners, and still together today.
They got the best thing, so that I got the worst.
Without there help, I never stood a chance.
I have had an argument, with my partner.
I knew it would happen, it’s bad timing.
I have said my relationships ruined, it’s now no better.
I do hope, for this to be over and finished.
Since I learnt, I am being prosecuted.
I have felt, under constant attack.
Everyone mocking me, thinking I’m crazy.
Not a single person, has any faith in me.
I am constantly told, to give up.
In two days time, I attack the crown.
So stuff it, here’s some crazy.
He is ready Satan, you have prepared him well.
His desire to destroy, is absolute.
“Yes they will hate him, far more than they hated Jesus.
Your bible useless to stop him, humans know nothing.”
Fool did you not see, it wasn’t for humans to read.
Humans can’t tell, the left hand from the right hand.
The left hand can read, and knows therefore the right hand.
“Can you not feel his anger, you were there when he felt wrath.
It was you who made him suffer, and he knows it.”
I made him suffer, because he disobeyed me.
I commanded him to do things, and he refused.
Can you not see, he has learnt your lessons.
All of us have experience, with life.
They shape us, they make us who we are.
Our experience, can change our life.
Destiny was one path in life, but fate made another.
Why have I ended up, writing.
Was it my first teacher, who broke me with words.
Scolding me, just for asking a question.
Was it the teacher, who used shame as punishment.
Getting a girl to slap me in the face, in front of class.
Was it the teacher who stood over me, terrifying me.
A simple mistake, with terrible results.
Was it the teacher, who ranted and raved at me.
Until I cried, and a classmate made her stop.
Was it the teacher, who told me I would become nothing.
Giving me detention for not trying, yet I came first in class.
Was it the teacher, who I bet in a contest of minds.
Who at prize giving, told me I could be anything.
He saw in me, what I couldn’t see.
My social science teacher, would be shocked at my writing.
Tomorrow is Good Friday, for many just a holiday.
Not for me, I have memories.
Experiencing psychosis, I let myself be him.
Tried to be him, experiencing it as if it was real.
Experiencing the emotions, feeling his feelings.
Being him watching, watching humans watching him.
Crazy as that sounds, I didn’t enjoy Good Friday.
Give me your secret, the humans demand.
Such a travesty, as he tried his best.
They didn’t listen, he had the greatest gift.
New Zealand developed as a Christian society.
Christianity was our primary religion even though the country has never had a designated state religion.
In the process of manufacturing a civil society, secular society, call it what you like, this attempt at blending ideologies created, for various reasons a certain number of political refugees.
In that form of state which ultimately demands compliance those that are excluded for non compliance will choose some form of alternative lifestyle or in the extreme suicide.
Some will obviously relate to and examine the Christian foundation which was born in the same circumstances in Rome 2000 years ago.
Religion I guess, is what we celebrate.
A Christian society, has Christian holidays.
Followers go further, with traditions.
That’s no different, to any other religion.
Fate made us Christian, with the culture of immigration.
The people that came to NZ, were very Christian.
Going to church, was a very normal thing.
Today Richard Dawkins, tells us religion is not real.
Religion is imaginary, the holidays and tradition fantasy.
Do the religious actually believe, god is a real thing.
Have we reached the peak, of not believing.
I can argue for Dawkins, and against him.
But the more of life I experience, the more I don’t agree.
The miracles may be nonsense, but the argument isn’t.
If God exists, religion was inevitable as an argument.
If Religion exists, isn’t God also then inevitable.
It’s real enough, to create holidays and traditions.
How can it not exist, if it didn’t you can’t then argue it exists.
It existing, made the argument of existing and not existing.
Not existing, means they argument would not have begun.
I am certain, the sun was setting and the moon was rising.
To be fulfilled, Jesus had to be destroyed and God did it.
Tick tick went the clock, it couldn’t be stopped.
His life was a mystery, returning in words.
I am certain, a moment in time exists.
The story hastily written, with twelve copies made.
Then they fled, into history saying there goodbyes.
In time all but a few copies remain, now in the bible.
Each of them with additions, by the apostles themselves.
Witness to arguments, remembering them and writing more.
Can we not see, the clock is still ticking.
Destroying things, is supposed to happen.
If that’s the test, could humans stop the clock.
No God say the humans, we are not letting you do that.
That’s funny to me, I’m having a giggle.
The Easter bunny’s name, is Scratchy.
It’s has escaped, and nobody can catch it.
It’s escaped a few times, it’s learnt not to get caught.
I look at its life, the beginning a small cage.
Ignored most of the time, even by the kids.
It even spent time, alone out in the sleep out.
So I was happy to hear, I was to buy a rabbit hutch.
So it would be outside, eating grass like a rabbit should.
Disappointed building it, it’s size made me cringe.
So rubbish in fact, the weather ate it away.
I moved it to new grass, as often as I remembered.
Once in a while, not much was left but dirt.
Scratchy soon got a chance, the hutch falling apart.
So for weeks now, it’s roamed free.
Part of me, is as happy as ever.
Tonight it played about, in the back yard.
It’s traveled to the cow shed, only to return home.
Not the dog and even the cats, bother Scratchy and freedom.
We cannot avoid, the subject of sex.
Imagine not having desire, not having lust.
Nobody ever trying, nobody initiating sex.
Sex would never happen, we would become extinct.
We celebrated at the pub, and I drank my share.
I never spoke to her, but I would catch her looking.
And I can’t deny, she caught me looking at her.
The night over I made my way, walking to my accommodation.
I could not be more surprised, at what happened next.
She walked beside me, and began talking like couples do.
Following without care, till we got to the house.
There was no questions, her following to my room.
I wish a could repeat all of it, every moment of it with her.
It being completely irrational, to just have sex with a stranger.
I don’t even know her name, or ever saw her again.
I couldn’t help it and not for a second, have I any regrets.
For a moment, I felt what love was like.
I was innocent, but there I was in a prison cell.
Locked up for theft, with my older brother.
My father took us in, to teach us a lesson.
My brother doing the stealing, from a shop.
Us playing with the items, got us caught.
I was only young, maybe only six.
The police officer, giving a stern lecture.
I was scared of the police, from then on.
Especially in my youth, into my adult years.
I listened to them, I watched them behave.
Examined them, with every detail.
Yet what now do I say, to the six year old.
They came to get me, but were nice to me.
Flawed as they are, they are good people.
While I have no bad thoughts, of the event.
No desire even, to say that my prison time was wrong.
It did change me, is was a real event.
Scared and crying, not understanding things.
Punishment was still to come, when we got home.
Six of the best, was delivered by our mother.
And we were made to apologise, to the store owner.
Haven’t been arrested, for stealing since.
Soon in just days, we celebrate life and death.
It comes for all of us, even the survivors are dead.
I should be a few times, just from my accidents dead.
I did not cheat in its lessons, if somehow I cheated death.
Soon in just days, it was men who died.
Rising from the trench, only to then fall down dead.
It’s in no way rational, to know you will die.
Yet they rose and fell, many slowly praying until death.
Humans did it, they are the masters of war and death.
The military marching, the hero causing the most death.
Countless people, never needed to die.
Yet they did in millions, countless soldiers died.
War is what not to do, it is the worst of human failure.
The least civilised of human things, to want to kill humans.
Over and over, civilisations have been wrecked.
The power of the pen, ignored for the power of the sword.
We should not forget, war can make pointless life or death.
What is gained, by hiding in the trench.
A little bit of land, a medal for the general.
Or did it change history, civilisation got better by the sacrifice.
Hearing voices, is not something I normally experience.
Even when I was most ill, I didn’t hear voices speaking.
In all the months in total of psychosis, there was nothing.
All of my few experiences, have been very supernatural.
I know it was me, that created the voices words.
Somehow my subconscious, attached to my hearing.
Out of nowhere, I actually hear the voice speak.
So shocking to me, I have forgotten no words.
My first is at three, as my second memory.
Clear as day, the event has never gone away.
What does that even mean, it didn’t even exist as an idea.
Shocked and scared, nobody was there to say the words.
Not till I was sixteen, did it happen again.
My first command of what to do, was followed by denial.
I didn’t listen the voice not real, my denial absolute.
Why then and why in that moment, did the voice speak.
What follows, is punishment.
Each command, followed by denial.
The path made, my choosing another.
If I had only listened, from the beginning.
Tell them, so I shall tell them.
Look at teenage fathers, and I have looked.
They are talking about you, and I tried my best.
Hold on, and I am.
Tomorrow I’m in court, and anything could happen.
I reminisce the past, how much I have prepared.
A man I trust said, you won’t need anything written down.
You must know the subject, so one must become ready.
You cannot start, until your finished.
Once you know the truth, you have everything you need.
Once in my life, I have been asked the worst of questions.
Forced to by a doctor, like in an interrogation.
Do you think, that you are Jesus.
So I told the truth, and said no.
Strange as that sounds, he didn’t believe me.
I’m guilty of course, locked up insane.
I couldn’t explain, what was happening to me.
And saying anything, just made me look crazy.
Nobody will believe, I experienced revelations.
Felt rapture and wrath, felt helpless and despair.
And there I was, telling the truth to a nonsense question.
Part of me was outraged, that I wasn’t believed.
I have reached the point, of no return.
I have had a good holiday, with the family.
We visited Christchurch, and did the tourist things.
I pad free, for both me and the kids.
Times together, that will be hard to forget.
Doing things together, some things we have never done.
Feeding eels and deer, giraffes and trout.
Walking in gardens, getting ice cream together watching a fountain.
Playing together at the arcade, with mini golf and bowling.
I even had a moment, or more an experience.
Scared of heights, the Gondola was no fun for me.
Even atop the mountain, vertigo was getting me.
With my son running around, with no care.
We drove to lyttelton, on it’s cliff edge road.
Watched ships docking, and walked about.
Driving randomly until we stopped, and had the restaurant lunch.
Went to a beach, and the kids got to play in a cave.
I needed it, an escape from the world.
Spending quality time, with the children.
Together with my partner, it was good for us.
It is a precious thing, having a family.
Its value far exceeds, the cost of the holiday.