Criticism is prejudice made plausible.
quote by H.L. Mencken
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Prejudice
IN yonder red-brick mansion, tight and square,
Just at the town's commencement, lives the mayor.
Some yards of shining gravel, fenced with box,
Lead to the painted portal--where one knocks :
There, in the left-hand parlour, all in state,
Sit he and she, on either side the grate.
But though their goods and chattels, sound and new,
Bespeak the owners very well to do,
His worship's wig and morning suit betray
Slight indications of an humbler day
That long, low shop, where still the name appears,
Some doors below, they kept for forty years :
And there, with various fortunes, smooth and rough,
They sold tobacco, coffee, tea, and snuff.
There labelled drawers display their spicy row--
Clove, mace, and nutmeg : from the ceiling low
Dangle long twelves and eights , and slender rush,
Mix'd with the varied forms of genus brush ;
Cask, firkin, bag, and barrel, crowd the floor,
And piles of country cheeses guard the door.
The frugal dames came in from far and near,
To buy their ounces and their quarterns here.
Hard was the toil, the profits slow to count,
And yet the mole-hill was at last a mount.
Those petty gains were hoarded day by day,
With little cost, for not a child had they ;
Till, long proceeding on the saving plan,
He found himself a warm, fore-handed man :
And being now arrived at life's decline,
Both he and she, they formed the bold design,
(Although it touched their prudence to the quick)
To turn their savings into stone and brick.
How many an ounce of tea and ounce of snuff,
There must have been consumed to make enough !
At length, with paint and paper, bright and gay,
The box was finished, and they went away.
But when their faces were no longer seen
Amongst the canisters of black and green ,
--Those well-known faces, all the country round--
'Twas said that had they levelled to the ground
The two old walnut trees before the door,
The customers would not have missed them more.
Now, like a pair of parrots in a cage,
They live, and civic honours crown their age :
Thrice, since the Whitsuntide they settled there,
Seven years ago, has he been chosen mayor ;
And now you'd scarcely know they were the same ;
Conscious he struts, of power, and wealth, and fame ;
[...] Read more
poem by Jane Taylor
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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How Do We Deal With Prejudice?
even those of us who've worked very hard
at not being prejudiced, have some type of
prejudice remaining. for example:
it could be prejudice by color, over religion,
over political views, concerning sexual orient-
ation.... prejudice against those who have money,
or those who dont! ...etc.
all prejudice is wrong by nature, most of it grounded
in the 'self'... in our own irrational fears, and our
stubborn streak of ignorance....
it's always taught, but doesnt have to be allowed!
it ofen hides under the banner of morality, or the
flags of patriotism...
we battle prejudice by being open minded, being
willing to listen, and learning to see ourselves
in other people...
if we say we have no prejudices, we have lost,
and prejudice has us bound.
if we admit our prejudices, name them, look at
them with naked eyes and resolve, then we're making
headway....
prejudice in the end is humanity failing to be human!
being human is a 24 hour a day,7 days a week job!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Nightmares Won't Stop
The nightmares won't stop
The thought process won't drop
You lie on the floor shaking
What is this you see?
Is it a dream or a reality
A question to explain away evil
If it is plausible not to exist
Then maybe its fake
Your not drowning in a black lake
Your not being bitten poisonous snake
Your not really awake
It is all in your head
An over active imagination
A mental complication
What a realization
Then comes another sensation
The nightmares won't stop
The thought process won't drop
You lie on the floor shaking
What is this you see?
Is it a dream or a reality
A question to explain away evil
If it is plausible not to exist
It also could be
You pinch your skin to see if this is
Your trying to open your eyes
if only to see
Their must be something you missed
Explaining away the possibility of your demise
The nightmares won't stop
The thought process won't drop
You lie on the floor shaking
What is this you see?
Is it a dream or a reality
A question to explain away evil
If it is plausible not to exist
Then when that coffin you lie in with spikes comes closed
You'll wake up alive with all your cloths
But look at all holes
Their mere shreds
How is that possible?
A mental transference of the material
Then the question comes did you wake into another dream
This is a sickness and a disease
If only solving it could be a breeze
[...] Read more
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Homophobe
Rewrite of the classic Elvis hit, Hound Dog
You ain't nothin' but a homophobe
Prejudice accusin' and finger pointin' all the time
You ain't nothin' but a homophobe
Prejudice accusin' and finger pointin' all the time
Well, if you knew what was good for you
You'd stay outta my closet
'Cause it's for sure you ain't never gonna be friend to me or my kind
When you call me out
Call me a sex addict pervert and say that all I'm interested in is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, you call me a freak and say all I'm lookin' for is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, if you knew what was good for you
You'd stay outta my closet
'Cause it's for sure you ain't never gonna be a friend to me or my kind
You ain't nothin' but a homophobe
Prejudice accusin' and finger pointin' all the time
You ain't nothin' but a homophobe
Prejudice accusin' and finger pointin' all the time
Well, if you knew what was good for you
You'd stay outta my closet
'Cause it's for sure you ain't never gonna be friend to me or my kind
When you call me out
Call me a sex addict pervert and say that all I'm interested in is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, you call me a freak and say all I'm lookin' for is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, if you knew what was good for you
You'd stay outta my closet
'Cause it's for sure you ain't never gonna be a friend to me or my kind
When you call me out
Call me a sex addict pervert and say that all I'm interested in is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, you call me a freak and say all I'm lookin' for is....
Well, I think we all know better
That's just a lie
Yeah, if you knew what was good for you
You'd stay outta my closet
'Cause it's for sure you ain't never gonna be a friend to me or my kind
[...] Read more
poem by Ramona Thompson
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Mr. Darcy
Is Obama Mr. Darcy,
fighting prejudice with pride,
or is it simply that he’s classy,
superior, and rarely snide?
Until with Hillary he dances
as Darcy would not with Miss Bennet
he’ll not succeed Bill with romances
in the White House, and the Senate
will be the only place where he
can demonstrate, while laughing at
himself, that he’s not truly lost in
a world where every Democrat
must be more feminist than Austen.
Though pride’s abominable, it
is far less reprehensible
than sensibility sans wit
in women who aren’t sensible.
Inspired by Maureen Dowd’s Op-Ed article in the NYT on August 3,2008 (“Mr. Darcy Comes Courting”:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Barack Obama must continue to grovel to Hillary Clinton’s dead-enders, some of whom mutter darkly that they will not only not vote for him, they will never vote for a man again. Obama met for an hour Tuesday with three dozen top Hillaryites at a hotel here, seeking their endorsement and beguiling their begrudging. He opened the session by saying that he knew there had been frustration about what they saw as sexism during the primary. The Los Angeles Times reported that Hillary die-hards want to enshrine a whine in the Democratic platform about how the primaries “exposed pervasive gender bias in the media” and call on party leaders to take “immediate and public steps” to denounce any perceived bias in the future. That is one nutty idea. Perhaps it is because feminists are still so busy cataloging past slights to Hillary that they have failed to mount a vivid defense of Michelle Obama, who has taken over from Hillary as the one conservatives like to paint as a harridan….
The odd thing is that Obama bears a distinct resemblance to the most cherished hero in chick-lit history. The senator is a modern incarnation of the clever, haughty, reserved and fastidious Mr. Darcy. Like the leading man of Jane Austen and Bridget Jones, Obama can, as Austen wrote, draw “the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien....he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased.” The master of Pemberley “had yet to learn to be laught at, ” and this sometimes caused “a deeper shade of hauteur” to “overspread his features.” The New Hampshire debate incident in which Obama condescendingly said, “You’re likable enough, Hillary, ” was reminiscent of that early scene in “Pride and Prejudice” when Darcy coldly refuses to dance with Elizabeth Bennet, noting, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me.” Indeed, when Obama left a prayer to the Lord at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, a note that was snatched out and published, part of his plea was to “help me guard against pride.” If Obama is Mr. Darcy, with “his pride, his abominable pride, ” then America is Elizabeth Bennet, spirited, playful, democratic, financially strained, and caught up in certain prejudices. (McCain must be cast as Wickham, the rival for Elizabeth’s affections, the engaging military scamp who casts false aspersions on Darcy’s character.) In this political version of “Pride and Prejudice, ” the prejudice is racial, with only 31 percent of white voters telling The New York Times in a survey that they had a favorable opinion of Obama, compared with 83 percent of blacks. And the prejudice is visceral: many Americans, especially blue collar, still feel uneasy about the Senate’s exotic shooting star, and he is surrounded by a miasma of ill-founded and mistaken premises. So the novelistic tension of the 2008 race is this: Can Obama overcome his pride and Hyde Park hauteur and win America over? Can America overcome its prejudice to elect the first black president? And can it move past its biases to figure out if Obama’s supposed conceit is really just the protective shield and defense mechanism of someone who grew up half white and half black, a perpetual outsider whose father deserted him and whose mother, while loving, sometimes did so as well? Can Miss Bennet teach Mr. Darcy to let down his guard, be more sportive, and laugh at himself?
8/3/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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If government, or those in positions of power and authority, can silence criticism by the argument that such criticism might be misunderstood somewhere, there is an end to all criticism, and perhaps an end to our kind of political system. For men in authority will always think that criticism of their policies is dangerous. They will always equate their policies with patriotism, and find criticism subversive.
quote by Henry Steele Commager
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Prejudice
How strangely blind is prejudice, the Negro's greatest foe!
It never fails to see the wrong but naught of good can know.
'Tis blind to all that's lofty, yea, to truth it is opposed,
Degrading things will ope his eyes, while good will keep them closed.
How cruel, too, is prejudice! how wicked is the tongue!
The evils reign supremely there, the bad is ever sung;
With some the Negro needs a soul, with others he's a brute,
In silence those remaining live and naught of this dispute.
The schools it legislates against, in keeping Negroes down,
Whatever tends to elevate it meets it with a frown.
It gives to them the Jim Crow car and vessels on the sea;
It makes the stockade to exist and take their liberty.
It makes the press to vacillate up the Negro's name,
The pulpit makes a compromise with evil, for the same,
It makes the Pharaohs of today and seals them with its ban,
It strives to close the door of hope upon the Negro man.
It causes mobs to formulate, to come and go at will,
At morning, evening, noon or night, a Negro man to kill,
It brings injustice to the courts when Negro men are tried,
It wrings the ballot from their hands—a thousand wrongs beside.
It is the country's greatest curse, the nation's open sore,
It slowly saps the precious life, is poison to the core,
Such ravages gave certain death to nations in the past,
The same will lay this country low, its fondest hopes will blast.
It minimizes all that's good and magnifies the ill,
The devil's mission upon earth, it clamors to fulfill;
'Twas prejudice that caused the death of Christ upon the tree,
He knows the pangs that Negroes feel and gives them sympathy.
When men refuse to see the light a darkness is assured,
Such blindness comes upon the scene as never can be cured!
Contagious is the dread disease, for Negroes learn to view
The white man with suspicious eyes, but here's a thing that's new.
The Negro Problem of the land, and all the same entails,
Will be no more whene'er we find a sentiment prevails,
To bury prejudice so deep it never can arise
Till all the races of the earth shall meet above the skies.
Twas God who made the Negro black, the reasons are His own
One blood the nations all the same, the facts are too well known,
He also made the Golden Rule, to use the neighbor well,
Shall prejudice among us dwell forever? who can tell?
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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(V – 2010) The Winners of the Game
Pride & Prejudice
Makes one strong;
Sense & Sensibility
Seems going wrong.
Pride & Prejudice
Rushes with ego;
Sense & Sensibility
Receives the blow.
Pride and Prejudice
Wins the game;
Sense & Sensibility
Loses the same.
It’s not because
The times are unfair
Or that people nowadays
For goodness little care.
It’s just because
The Game is of
Darkening the light,
It’s just because
The Game is of
Losing one’s sight,
It’s just because
The Game is of
Deviating from the right.
So after all
Though Pride and Prejudice
Wins the game
And, Sense & Sensibility
Loses the same
Pride and Prejudice
Remains blind
And, Sense and Sensibility
Remains kind.
poem by Kannan G
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An Essay on Criticism
Part I
INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.
'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander Pope
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Adam Lambert Gay or Straight Part 1
Rewrite of the hit Katy Perry song, Hot N' Cold
Don't change your mind about voting for him
Just because sometimes he likes to get dressed up
In women's clothes
Yeah, for him, I'm sending out this urgent S.O.S.
Winning this show can be a b, I know
But still I think he deserves the title
More than that other lame he-ho
So no need to overthink
Or speak of him overly critically
'Cause by now I think we all know
He's the one to let be
Idol's 2009 rockstar for sure
So if you think he's hot
Then don't you be so cold
Say yes to him
Never no
Take him in
Into your heart
Even through he's come out
Cheer him on
Vote him up
Don't let him down
Leave behind that prejudice wrong
To embrace what's right
Vote for Adam and show the world
Rather he's gay or he's straight
His talent is all that really matters tonight
Before our superstar came along
Idol used to be to me
Just like that old boy band, N'Sync
Empty of anything orignal
Lacking that spark of energy
Now that's all changed
Thanks to him
Lighting up that stage like a non-stop energizer battery
Used to think this reality show hype was all about nothin'
Just so plain boring
Now I know better
That thanks to him it can all change
So if you think he's hot
Then don't you be so cold
Say yes to him
Never no
[...] Read more
poem by Ramona Thompson
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It's A Disease
Prejudice is a disease.
Unlike deadly viruses;
West Nile and S.A.R.S
Prejudice does not harm you.
Prejudice is an alcohol,
that brain-washes you.
Makes you think some people
deserve less than you
because they are different.
Just because their skin colour is different
Or because they dress differently.
Maybe because of their differences in religion
or because of their difference in sexuality.
The truth is,
Prejudice may not be able to harm you,
But it is the deadliest disease that ever entered our planet.
It is this disease that gets people murdered,
and then some thrown in jail.
It is this disease that starts gangs against people who are different.
And it is this disease that has our world in a problem today.
So whatever you do,
Never let this disease into your body
or else you life will be gone-forever.
poem by Niru Raj
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Better, Deeper, More Intelligent
Better, deeper, more intelligent,
and sensitive than us, Jane Austen
provides a literary environment
in which we all, by getting lost in
admiration for her heroines,
feel so diminished we conclude
whichever of the many heroes wins
their heart is an unlucky dude.
Riding with her, dressed by Abercombie
and Fitch is not the sort of way
I’d like to spend my time. I’m not a zombie.
Perhaps because I am not gay
I can’t relate to all the topics Jane
obsesses on, and in Northanger
Abbey heroines would all complain
I was a crashing bore and wanker.
“Why couldn’t all these heroines go out
and get a job? ” was asked by Emma––
not Jane’s, Ms. Thompson’s Emma, without doubt
a heroine who’s not a femi-
nist––oh horrid word––but understands
how prejudice which is their pride
lands nearly all of them in Jane’s badlands
composed of English countryside.
Who needs a woman who is deeper than
themselves, far better, surely, and
far more intelligent? I’m not that man.
Although I think I understand
what all her heroines are saying, I
don’t look for girls who're good or deep.
I’m merely looking for the sort who’ll lie
with me before I fall asleep.
Inspired by an article by Jennifer Schuessler on “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” by Seth Grahame-Smith (“I Was a Regency Zombie, ” NYT, February 22,2009) :
The classic examples of that would be any speech by Judi Dench — her accent certainly helps — or Emma Thompson’s understated, wryly funny acceptance speech at the 1996 Oscars, when she won the award for best adapted screenplay for “Sense and Sensibility.”
“Before I came, I went to visit Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral to pay my respects, you know, and tell her about the grosses, ” she said. She also thanked Sidney Pollack “for asking the right questions, like, ‘Why couldn’t these women go out and get a job? ’ ” Ms. Thompson — who accepted another award, at the Golden Globes, with a speech in the style of Jane Austen herself — then did what cool British award winners do: she put the Oscar in her guest bathroom.
These days, America is menaced by zombie banks and zombie computers. What’s next, a zombie Jane Austen? In fact, yes. Minor pandemonium ensued in the blogosphere this month after Quirk Books announced the publication of “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” an edition of Austen’s classic juiced up with “all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem” by a Los Angeles television writer named Seth Grahame-Smith. (First line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”) … In fact, “Pride and Prejudice” may already be a zombie novel, contends Brad Pasanek, a specialist in 18th-century literature at the University of Virginia. “The characters other than the protagonist are so often surrounded by people who aren’t fully human, like machines that keep repeating the same things over and over again, ” Professor Pasanek said. “All those characters shuffling in and out of scenes, always frustrating the protagonists. It’s a crowded but eerie landscape. What’s wrong with those people? They don’t dance well but move in jerky fits. Oh, they are headed this way! ” While the vast industry of Austen sequels and pastiches runs heavily toward the romance-novel end of the literary spectrum - see “The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy” by Maya Slater, to be published in the United States in June - scholars have long emphasized the mean-girl side of Jane’s personality. Professor Pasanek, who has collaborated on a project that uses spam-detection software to analyze Austen fan fiction, cites the psychologist D. W. Harding’s 1940 essay “Regulated Hatred, ” which sounds more like a death-metal band than a piece of influential Austen scholarship.“Most people try to ignore the fact that Austen’s novels are sort of acid baths, ” Professor Pasanek said. “She’s so much better, deeper, more sensitive and intelligent than everyone around her that she has to regulate her own misanthropy. Her novels are hostile environments.”
2/22/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Prejudice, Paranoia And Narcissism
PREJUDICE, PARANOIA AND NARCISSIM
If paranoia can be rationalized
by means of prejudice, if follows narc-
issism has to be an idealized
agenda for a person who's an arse.
Rachel Shukert ("Greased, Frightening, " Tablet,5/11/12) writes about John Travolta:
Well, folks, it's been a big week in gay news. On the good side, President Barack Obama came out in support of same-sex marriage and Anjelica Huston sang on Smash. On the other, the press has been all abuzz over the lawsuit recently slapped on John Travolta by a masseur claiming the star attempted to coerce him into unwanted sexual acts during a session at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Two steps forward, one step back. That's progress, I guess.
Of all the tabloid press coverage on Massage-gate, there are two details that, er, popped up at me. One is the employment of positively J.K. Rowling-esque adjectives regarding the area in question: "solid eight inches … springy" making it sound like Hollywood's second-most famous Scientologist purchased his, ahem, wand straight from Mr. Ollivander's. (It chooses the wizard, you know.) The second is the still-unnamed masseur's assertion of how Travolta explained how he learned to Stop Worrying and Love Transactional Same-Sex Liaisons: By accepting that Hollywood is controlled by "homosexual Jewish men" who expect sexual favors in return for career-related ones….
But back to Travolta: Seen through this lens, it makes perfect sense why the Staying Alive star might articulate what he did the way he (allegedly) did: He posits a homosexual conspiracy to try to convince himself that he's not one (manipulated, sure, but that's what they do) and then tacks on the Jewish part to prove how it's extra sneaky—and impossible to resist.
And yet, I can't help feeling sorry for him in a way I never do for the Gibsons and Gallianos and Rick Sanchezes of the world. If true, it makes for a pretty sad picture to think of one of the biggest, most universally loved movie stars on the planet lying all alone in a hotel suite (and given his well-documented weight fluctuations, the empty chocolate cake wrappers lying on the floor make a particularly poignant touch—I mean, who hasn't been there?) lunging at a masseur's white-jeaned crotch (yes, in my head, he's wearing white jeans) and then blaming a David Geffen-led cabal for his actions when he gets shut down. If every prejudice is the rationalization of paranoia, paranoia is the rationalization of insecurity, and as the prophet(ess) RuPaul (for whom I definitely intend to leave out a custom Absolut vodka cocktail at my next Seder) likes to say: If you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else? Internalized homophobia and internalized anti-Semitism are just two sides of the same highly polished and wisely invested coin.
With a single (for the third time, alleged) prejudicial statement, John Travolta has neatly subverted the old maxim about paranoia, and in doing so, the essential emptiness behind prejudice itself. It's not that they aren't out to get you. It's just that "they" is usually "you."
Marc (Tracy?) adds that the fact that Travolta belongs to the conspiratorial Church of Scientology may be relevant:
So the nuts maybe don't fall so far from the tree?
5/11/12 #10169
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Deeper Inner Meanings
Let us ponder
the words and phrases
poets and artists
have used
as we delve
into obvious
and deeper
inner meanings.
What is exact origin
of these so often
quoted famous
choice chosen words?
A spontaneous
eureka phrase
born instantly
in the mind
or a protracted
laboured discourse
cunningly created
a deliberate conceit.
Writers so love
their ingenious
imaginative poetic
chosen images
writing must contain
such images
as metaphor simile
personification
a comparison
which is extreme
or far-fetched
wins accolades.
However the exact
meaning as envisaged
by moods of original
penmanship are not
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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On the Critical Attitude
The critical attitude
Strikes many people as unfruitful
That is because they find the state
Impervious to their criticism
But what in this case is an unfruitful attitude
Is merely a feeble attitude. Give criticism arms
And states can be demolished by it.
Canalising a river
Grafting a fruit tree
Educating a person
Transforming a state
These are instances of fruitful criticism
And at the same time instances of art.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Harassed
Yeah yeah yeah
Well when I was a young boy
My mama told me:
"Blood's thicker than water"
That's what she told me
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), yeah, yeah
Well when I was a little older
My papa said:
"Son yours does not cry
Get your act together boy
Then get the hell out of my sight"
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah (yeah)
Your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah...
You watch the circles
You treat me so bad
I don't dare think it over
Yeah...(mutter)
I can't give.
I said "yeah!"
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah (yeah)
Your kind (x3)
song performed by Puddle Of Mudd
Added by Lucian Velea
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An open criticism
I hated most to be called lazy
I keep my self engaged and remain busy
It is funny and very easy
To create flutter and make it noisy
We tend to become idle and relax so much
When not seized with problems as such
It is day to day affairs and must be tackled properly
It is appreciated very much when put across wisely
It is good sign to remain always active
It is equally bad sign if you expose as reactive
People may count you as hostile and immature
It may block your chances and make you insecure
It is not right on our part to offer arguments at criticism
It is known lacuna and allowed in humanism
We simply offer advice or comments without being asked for
It simply creates distrust and situation like mini war
We must learn to sustain the criticism at any cost
It is very severe and considered as worst
Why do we employ double standard when we are at fault?
It adds to woe and agony as if wounds are filled with salt
It keeps you worried all the time for critical remarks
It generates ill will and controversy sparks
It leads to heated arguments and strain the relation
To patch up later on becomes impossible and out of question
It has become now fashion to point out the lapses
No one cares as to what should be done to avert crisis
It is easy to spoil the relation and add fuel to fire
It takes less time to appreciate and admire
Words once spoken can’t be taken back
It may develop bitterness and relation may crack
It may also cause irreparable damage
It may slip out of control to manage
I shall sand to loose in all the respects
Who will search the soul and inspect?
There is something like good humor
It is best weapon in your armor
You inflict injury and your opponent may not come to know
Nice words spoken with sweetness may try to soothe and woe
It is how we tackle and come to an understanding
It is strongest and permanent thing for bonding
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Gods Favoured Me
Heat – no air-con today – realising France’s dream of
saving their coastline due to the Greenhouse effect,
went for a lunch-break stroll singing all the way,
refusing to contemplate office problems
The gods favoured me on my first day, email connection
restored, now I am so privileged to read criticism of the
work I did before leaving on holiday, I am still girdling
my loins with positive thoughts
Before tackling heartbreaking rejection of words I wrote,
New Year’s Resolution: never face today what can be
deferred to tomorrow, stop and smell the roses, I can
read nasty remarks any time
The mere fact of having an office in which to be miserable
is such a source of joy and delight, not to be spoilt with
feelings of inadequacy; why cry about the humours of
those in charge trying to convince me I am
A disaster because I cannot write the words they dictate,
cannot march to the tune they prescribe, kept in my place
by them changing their translation rules every day - I am
thankful that I can still think and feel after years
As a civil servant, I should have turned into a cyborg ages
ago, yet the incessant stream of criticism proves I am still
the same human I was at the beginning – people like me
cannot be changed into robots
No matter how much criticism is directed our way, olé!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Plausible Perfidy
I looked at her and cried,
What did she have in mind,
To console her I tried,
To understand, she denied,
My tears never dried,
She hated me, I implied
Tormented from the inside,
To justify myself I decide,
Hoping our lips could collide
Our hearts she wanted to divide,
On her, I still relied
I made a mistake yet justified
Plausible Perfidy
Did I ever go away,
Being there night and day,
Forgive me, I went astray,
To love me again, you may,
Never again shall I delay,
Or make my love a relay,
Understand me this once,
Come again lets dance,
The lost time, , deceitful
The faded moments, , unfaithful
Rejuvinating myself in you
A choice to stand in the queue,
Understand me, sweet one
I made a mistake, yet justified
Plausible Perfidy
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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