Pacifists are HYPOCRITES.

     How many time have you heard the word "pacifist"? At least a hundred times, I bet. And you thought about them (or becoming one) at least once or twice. Well, allow me to crush some dreams!

     "Pacifist" generally means "opposed to any kinds of violence or war". That is the simplest, and most accepted definition, so let's stick with it for this little article.

     There are two kinds of pacifists: ones who refuse to fight back when physically abused (i.e. punched in the nose or kicked in the balls), and ones who refuse to kill any living being. Both types do (or don't do) what they do because they believe any violence is immoral, and they will get beat up by some Big God after they kick the bucket, or get "bad karma" stuff. Yes, that's right: turn the other cheek, or go to Hell, bitch!

     Now, when I (sort of) established who pacifists are and why they do what they do, I will explain why all pacifists in the world are hypocrites.

     How many of you got sick at least once? I am pretty sure those who didn't are the legendary humans of legend, CAUSE EVERYONE GET SICK AT LEAST ONCE. Alright, with that established, how many of you wish to not get sick? Probably every single one of you. How many of you would like to have better health and better immune system? Again, everyone. Good. Health. Immune system. How does the latter work, again? Oh yes, it is a DEFENSE MECHANISM THAT KILLS MICROSCOPIC LIFEFORMS AND PARASITES THAT TRY TO KILL YOU. You kill millions of bacteria (and viruses and parasites) each day to stay healthy and alive.

     Now, you might say that bacteria, viruses and parasites are somehow different from other lifeforms, and totally okay to kill, so your karma does not care. BULLSHIT. You are trying to weasel out of your own contract. To be a pacifist, you must NEVER kill in defense.

     So, "true pacifists" out there, hear me out. To keep your namesake, turn off your immune system... now! Allow microscopic lifeforms slowly kill your body. Do not fight back. Do not kill them. Allow them to kill YOU.

     That is the only way to Buddha Heaven, amirite?




:P

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 13, 14 & 15

     Deirdre flew west as fast as she could. She was a large sleek bird and she made good time. She passed over the meadowlands with their patches of woods, their now stagnant ponds and lakes, and the swamp which stretched to the Swollen River. She flew so high the air was very thin, and she breathed steadily and deeply to keep from tiring.
     Far behind her lay the cliffs where she had been born, the coast against which the sea no longer pounded. Earlier this morning, the beach had stretched below her like a tan bondage, its stillness interrupted only by the occasional flopping of a fish come on shore to die. Not a ripple was in sight; no whitecaps flecking the ocean's surface with foam, no crash of waves upon the beach. All the aeries were empty and crumbling. She had seen no other bird.
     She flew over the Swollen River, its turbid width troubled by rocks, and over the Plain of Desiccation. Before her, the Mountains of No Return rose, blocking all view of the Deadwood Forest beyond.
     She climbed higher to crest the mountains and then swooped down into the forest. Deirdre landed on a branch, immediately folded her wings, and stuck her head beneath one as if she were asleep. Furtively she glanced around to see if any creature had seen her land, but saw nothing in the gathering darkness. She had arrived in time. Light was leaving the thick branches of the forest.
     She thought how like a net the trees looked, how like a web. It was as though a spider had knitted the forest and moved on to another uninhabitable place to wield his malevolent magic. She imagined the light being held there against its will, trapped in the crisscross of twigs, but slowly it seeped upward and faded to the west, not with any fanfare or splendor, but with the tiredness of animals who lay themselves on the forest floor, breathe their last, and by morning are indistinguishable from the refuse of the woods.
     And then the light was gone. Thick inky night filled all the branches and dripped from the heavens down, down until it seeped into her feathers, turning them a darker black. From beyond the grove of trees before her, the first hoarse guttural croak of the other ravens filtered back. She answered wearily—crauk, cr-r-cruk—and went to join the others.


                                                       *                *                *


     It was full night, though much too early, when Derin heard a rustling in the bushes behind the ledge. The sudden noise jolted him from his reverie. He jumped to his feet, his hand instinctively went to his belt and tightened around the knife's handle. Out of the gloom Matthew emerged, carrying a leather sack. Without a word, without even a nod of acknowledgement, the satyr went to the overhang and began to take apples and nuts and stuff them into his own knapsack. "Are you ready?" Matthew asked. "Have you packed?"
     "Yes," the boy said. "I've been waiting for you. You startled me."
     "I had a few things to think over," the satyr said. "I went for a run. It's like that cheeky bird said. Everything's changed. Didn't see even a wood beetle." He turned and looked at the boy. "Put that knife away."
     "I wasn't sure it was you," Derin said.
     "Of course it was me. Who else would it be?"
     "I guess I;m a little on edge," the boy said.
     "Either give me the knife or put it away in your pack. I can't have you grabbing it every time you hear a noise in the underbrush." Derin placed the knife back in its sheath but made no move to take off his belt. "When do we leave?" he asked.
     "You are not listening to me. Do you understand?"
     "I understand," the boy said. In one swift motion, he unsnapped the sheath and hurled it to the ground.
     "No, you don't," Matthew said, picking it up. "I don't think you understand at all. You are not as old as you wish you were, but nothing I could tell you would make you understand better, so you'll have to find out for yourself."
     "I don't need a lecture," Derin said.
     "Maybe not," the satyr said. "Maybe you do. Just remember one thing. On this trip you answer to me."
     "That raven came to both of us," Derin said angrily. "I have as much right as you have."
     "Damn you, boy," Matthew said.
     "I'm not a boy," Derin said. "I'm not yours to boss around."
     They stood facing each other like sparring partners, and Matthew glared at this other creature who looked so much like him. What the boy said was true; he'd grown up. His chest had broadened, his voice deepened. And he had long ago begun to make his own decisions, but now he fought back at every turn, wrestling his life free.
     Derin's face was hard. Without thinking, he struck out at Matthew, but his fist hit nothing but air. The satyr dodged, grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted, and Derin found himself on his back, his head throbbing.
     "How many times have I told you?" the satyr said. "You're learning, all right. You're quick, but not as quick as you'll need to be. So listen to me when I tell you something. We're leaving tomorrow."


                                                         *                 *                  *


     It had been Sunday all day, but the sun had never appeared. And now no stars broke the dense oppression of the sky. Derin and Matthew lay under the granite overhang, dim in the glow of a fire which had long since burned itself to embers.  The boy slept fitfully. It was close to what should have been midnight when he awoke with a start. Matthew was beside him, his head resting on the knapsack, deeply asleep.
     Opposite him, the darkness took shape, two bright gold eyes on either side of a hooked beak. On enormous talons the think moved closer. "Matthew!" he yelled. "Wake up!" But the satyr slept peacefully to his right.
     Derin rushed to the fire and stirred the embers. They scattered under his hand and slithered into the underbrush like snakes. He felt something in his hair and he recoiled in horror. He writhed, wailing, felt himself rising as if through layers of cold dark water. It was Matthew's hand in his hair, and when he opened his eyes, it was Matthew's face he saw. "So the hero has nightmares," the satyr said. "The hero is troubled by sleep."
     And it was evening, and it was morning, one day.





End of chapter one. Chapter 2 coming... at a point in the future.

It's 2014, and I am going to talk about love!

     For the sake of simplicity, not romantic love.

     For many years, many people tried to pinpoint love. What is it? What defines it? What definition should it have? Well, I have come to my own conclusion, after much meditation and obtaining the needed amount of wisdom.

     Love is a complex dish, with several key ingredients. Understanding those ingredients will help anyone identify love when it's looking you in the face, or build love where there was none.

     1. Care. You do not want harm to come to that person. You want to protect them. You want to prevent their destruction. You are concerned about their well-being. Care applies to things too.

     2. Respect. That person is just as important as you. They too can be as smart, strong, skillful, successful, wise as you. Do not hold them too close, and do NOT treat them as a helpless baby. This is something mothers (and some fathers) find very hard to grasp. Do not talk down to those who you claim to respect.

     3. Trust. Sure, we all can lie, but you must trust that the person is capable of being honest with you. Do not assume everything you hear from them is a lie; that;s paranoia. Respect can help build-up trust.

     4. Discipline. A close cousin of respect. If your friend is being an asshole, a smack on the head is not a sign of no care. On the contrary, it is a form of care. Bad behavior is harm. You don't want your son to take drugs or join gangs. Caring for someone can include being harsh. Discipline is a close friend of respect.

     5. Being fair. That person is... well, a person; a human being. Humans are flawed, you are flawed. Humans have bad habits, and so do you. You know you do, don't deny it. Don't tell them to stop smoking, when you spend your free time fapping to God knows what. You get the idea. Being fair is a cousin of trust.

     6. There might be other ingredients which I couldn't put my finger on, but they are minor. The first fire are the most important to learn and understand.


     IMPORTANT! Worship is more close to obsession than love. The relation between love and worship is akin to the relation between a kitchen knife and a katana. Both can be used to kill, but the first is designed for a different purpose.

P.S. Apparently, love is not quantifiable.

     Well, this is pretty much it! The final part of the first chapter of Satyrday is coming soon.

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 11 & 12

     Derin reached the edge of forest and entered the clearing. No one, not even the badger, was there. He looked to the sky but it was grey and empty. The raven had disappeared from view. The boy  thought about the past twelve hours, wondering what had brought him to this point. He felt he had the beginning pieces of a puzzle, only the vaguest outline, and it nagged him as a splinter does when it slips more deeply into a finger.
     He gathered his few belongings and put them in his knapsack. His woolen blanket. The carved stone, his talisman; his leather boots. He pulled the knife out of its deerskin sheath and ran his thumb along the finely edged bone of the blade, wondering if he would use it in ways he never had before. He picked up the two gourds he had played with as a child, the rattles Matthew had made for him, and he smiled as he let them drop. They would be of no use to him where he was going.
     Where was he going? He knew as much about the meadowlands as anyone who lived there, but only recently had he given any thought to what might lie beyond. Beyond lay the Outer Lands. From what Matthew had told him, they were nothing like this. But had the satyr ever been there himself?
     He pushed the last of his shirts into the knapsack and took off for Matthew's granite ledge. When he arrived, the small clearing was empty, though the smell of goat hung in the air. Where was he? Above the boy, the day seemed a well-worn piece of cloth he could put his finger through. The light was furred almost, feathered.
     He though of Deirdre headed out over that dismal landscape, tried to imagine it for himself. There were mountains, he knew, and a long stretch or arid waste, but these were things which had only been described to him, and they were as unclear in his mind as the owl was. Tell me that again after you've seen him, Deirdre had said. He remembered the wind of the previous evening, how it had surrounded him, rushing toward the center of the meadow from the periphery of trees, how it had left him in total darkness, blinded. He sat there, waiting for his friend, as the day seeped away entirely, and he imagined, his skin tingling, the faraway sound of a whirlwind churning across the forest, sweeping birds and animals, trees and bushes, into its hollow fist.

                                                    *                     *                    *

     Matthew plunged through the forest wildly. His headache was gone, and this impetuous rush made him forget the raven, the boy, the journey before him. He was agile, graceful, dodging branches which loomed suddenly out of the air, threatening to brain him. Leaves whirled by, a tunnel of green. He loved to run like this, unfettered, with no destination, through the obstacle course altered by each change of direction. He was used to surprising the animals of the woodlands, but today he saw no other creature, not even a squirrel or bird.
     He stopped, exhausted, and leaned heavily against a hickory, rubbing his back on the coarse bark. Sweat streamed down the sides of his face. He lowered himself onto the expanse of moss at the hickory's base, flung his fleeced legs in front of him, and closed his eyes. The only sound he heard was his own panting. There was no wind, no chatter, no song. He felt the muscles in his neck tense; the silence was odd indeed.
     Suddenly sure he was being watched, he drew his legs back under him and crouched, one hand on the hickory for balance. He looked up into the overhanging branches, searching the receding trunks for a movement, a shadow, but he could see nothing.
     Everything had changed. He took a deep breath. The sweet fragrance he had reveled in the previous evening was missing; the air itself was stale. Even the moss below him seemed rougher, its sheen tarnished. If the raven were telling the truth, there would be no escape from this degeneration. All the running in the world would only bring him full circle, back to this realization.
     Who was this feathered braggadocio, wanting to rule the world? Matthew ruled the meadowlands—everyone knew that. The thought of its decline filled him with fury. But the owl was strong enough, perverse enough to kidnap the moon. He began walking back toward the granite overhang. Though he knew he had no choice, the idea of the journey he was about to undertake, necessary as it might be, angered him. He hated responsibility.
     It had been fourteen years since the hooded creature had forced the baby upon him, a burden he neither wanted nor graciously accepted. He'd known nothing of infants, their squalls of rage, their sudden fevers, and he'd resented the attention the little creature needed. Fascinated by its grasping hands, its toes, its hairless skin with a smell like sun ind windblown water, he'd still felt cramped, walled in by its relentless demands.
     He'd been given no choice—either abandon the infant to a certain death, or attend to him the best he could. Derin had thrived, had grown as tall as Matthew, and sullen. Now, as the stranger foretold, a messenger had arrived from the Outer Lands, calling the boy home.
     He walked until he reached the Rock, a protrusion of granite and shale, its natural steps leading to a pinnacle which cleared the highest branches of the forest. He scrambled up the Rock's side until he stood at the top. The wind was strong there, and he faced it, a lone figure brooding over the trees. If someone had seen him, they might have mistaken him for a natural outcropping of the Rock itself.
     Matthew stood until the wind pulled water from his eyes. The sky overhead was dense and wooly, like the backs of sheep in winter, and clouds could could be seen moving toward the west, unrolling in a single thick sheet from horizon  to horizon as the air darkened. He remembered the stormy night he'd been summoned by a great blue heron from the swamp, who had guided him back to the banks of the Swollen River where the cloaked stranger had handed him the baby. He remembered Derin's first illness as he lay, bundled in furs by the fire, the flames throwing orange wraiths against the treetrunks. He thought of how he'd wished the baby would die so he'd be freed of its hold over him, and then his relief, a surprise, when the fever broke. The memories flooding him were all of Derin's anger; the time he'd broken through the thin ice on the pond; the day he'd fallen from the elm.
     The years had gone swiftly, running into one another like creeks in a spring thaw, until they roared along, a river which was today. The cold wind whipped from him any last vestige of illusion. The time has come for Derin to leave.
     It begun to rain, a fine rain which slanted from the east and struck his chest and legs like thousands of needles. Meager and cold as it was, he took it as a sign to go. He had hoped for something more particular, but he was not in a position to quibble. In leaps and bounds he reached the forest floor and headed for the overhang.

                                                   *                    *                    *

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 9 & 10

     By the time light first reached Deadwood Forest, the clearing was empty except for two ravens left to stand guard. The moon, though exhausted, was unable to sleep. The gag bit into her mouth and the effort of breathing filled her chest with pain. In the darkest hours of the night, after the animals had left, she had strained against the gag, pulling as much air as possible through it to keep her fire from going out She needed light to see by; she was looking for an evenue of escape. But try as she might, she couldn't find the slightest weak spot in the oaken fortress.
     She wondered where the owl had gone, would have considered asking one of the ravens if she had been able to talk. The forest lay below her and stretched in all directions as far as she could see. There was no sign of life, no bird song, no rustle in the underbrush, nothing but the two ravens who sat opposite her like stone totems. But most astonishing to her was the total absence of the color green. In the dark, she hadn't been able to distinguish much except the clearing itself. Now, in the milky light of what seemed a very unpromising dawn, she could see beyond the clearing, but there was nothing to see. The few leaves on the bushes were brown and dry, and tree after tree lifted bare lifeless branches. There was no water anywhere.
     Season after season, year after year, the moon had watched the world below her change from spring to summer with its vibrant greens, to the fireworks of autumn and winter's bare sticks. But here in the Deadwood Forest, the moon had the strange sensation that time has stopped. This was not a winter forest, holding deep in its sap the promise of another spring. If the trees here grew at all, they simply grew taller and more threatening, their branches spidering across a landscape like sudden jolt to clear ice.
     This thread of thought alarmed her. If there was no time, if it were fractured, she might never grow older, trapped in her cage. Things would always stay the way they were, and she would never be free.
     As she hung there, she waited impatiently for her sister, the sun, to appear. The sun could burn into this forest, remove the shadows. If need be, the sun could destroy this whole place with a well-aimed ray. What was this but a graveyard of trees and bushes?
     The moon closed her eyes and began to wish. In her mind, she saw a huge conflagration, the flame reaching over the treetops, consuming them, their embers falling away, leaving an imprint on the air. She saw black billows of smoke obliterate the sky. She saw the spirits of birds and small animals ascend to heaven. And then, she saw herself, red-hot, glowing furiously, before she, too, crumbled into ashes and joined the general destruction on the forest floor. Well, she thought, if that is what it will take to be free, so be it.
     But as she waited for what seemed hours and hours, the sun did not appear. All was suffused with the same deadly pallor. Great round tears rolled down her face and soaked her gag so that the wretched linen began to cut even more deeply into the corners of her mouth. There seemed no end to this and no beginning. What light there was was simply light, nothing more, a poor separation of the great blanks known as day and night.
     Opposite her the two ravens sat, unblinking, staring at her with cold and lifeless eyes. There was no wind.

                                                         *              *              *

     Derin glanced at Matthew, who stared upwards at the bird as though he saw a ghost. It sat on the branch, its throat and breast covered with short black feathers, its beard giving it the appearance of great age and strength.
     "Corvus corax!" sad Matthew with awe. "I haven't seen one of you for years."
     "Corvus corax?" Derin said.
     "My formal name," the bird said. "I'm a raven."
     "But you don't live in the meadowlands, do you?"
     "Does a peanut have whiskers?" the raven said, "No, not for many years. And what are you, if I may be so bold?"
     "He's a boy," the satyr said quickly.
     "Boy. A boy," the raven said, intrigued. "A new species to add to my life-list. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I was wondering what happened to the fleece on your shanks and where you'd misplaced your hooves. Never seen anything like you." Derin blushed. "I'm familiar with satyrs, of course, this one in particular," the raven continued. "No shock of recognition in that horned head of yours? Your name is—don't tell me—Martin, Mason.  .  .  ."
     "Matthew," the satyr said.
     "Matthew. How absentminded of me." The raven pecked under a wing, a self-conscious gesture that made him angry.
     "I'm supposed to know you?" he asked.
     "I'm hurt you don't remember. I used to ride your shoulder when I was a fledgling. You were decidedly rambunctious, years ago."
     "You're.  .  .  ."
     "Deirdre," the raven said. "Daughter of Orak and Oda."
     "Of course," the satyr said. "That uppity little.  .  .  ."
     "Pardon me," Deirdre said. "I think the word is 'precocious.' "
     "Wait a minute," Derin said. "What's going on?"
     "I used to live here, you see," the raven said. "I was kidnapped from this place a long time ago. One night I was awakened from sleep by a noise like rushing water. I was huddled with my parents on the limb of a beech, and they slept on while the noise grew louder. I hadn't any idea what it was. I looked and saw a wall of darkness moving through the trees, and it seemed a waterfall but it was only wind. It picked up dirt and branches as it came until it was a landslide. My parents awoke, cawing, and we tried to fly, but it caught us and in that maelstrom were other animals, rabbits, and foxes, and all manner of birds. We rose in a black funnel. Over and over I tumbled until I lost my senses. When I came to, I was what seemed hundreds of miles west of here, in a place called the Deadwood Forest."
     "It was before he was born," Matthew said.
     "How old is the boy?"
     "I'm fourteen," Derrin butted in.
     "Is that right?" the raven said. "Could it have been that long ago?"
     "What's past is past," the satyr said. "I'd forgotten."
     "There are some things one doesn't forget," Deirdre said heatedly. "There are times which live on in the memory with the vividness of dream so that life becomes a simultaneity of past and present. Both my parents died that night. I saw them drop through the whirlwind's center, plummet to the ground. I remember every detail as if it were yesterday. I vowed then to avenge their deaths; I have dedicated my life to that."
     The satyr stared into the woodlands, as though looking for a particular tree, as though he could fasten his life there and keep it earthbound. "It was a terrible night," he said. "Squirrels were taken, and ferrets. Foxes were thrown in the air like so many leaves. The wind stole every living raven from the meadowlands. The only ones left were dead or dying. I thought I'd seen the very last of them. In the morning the ground was covered with bodies. The water in the brook ran blood red."
     "But why go on in grisly detail?" the raven asked brightly. "There;s something of more immediate importance." She paused, and her red eyes glittered. "The moon has been stolen from the sky."
     Matthew stared at the bird in stunned disbelief. "You're crazy.  .  .  ."
     "The Deadwood Forest is ruled by a great horned owl," she said, "Fourteen years ago he sent the wind which brought us west. Last night he abducted the moon. Before I flew here, I went to the great sea cliffs where I was born, the cliffs still farther to the east. The ocean is still as a dead rat's teeth, and the beach is littered with fish. The tides have ceased, and the vast hood of the sky is blank as snow."
     "You're lying," Matthew said. "These things can't happen. The tides never stop."
     "A week ago I would have said the moon could not be purloined from the sky," the raven said. She was annoyed, her tone haughty. "But last night we were sent with a net. It was easier than you'd imagine."
     "You helped steal the moon?" Derin asked. "You were there?"
     "Of course I was there," she snapped. "What was I supposed to do? Sometimes one has no choice. I've lived in the Deadwood Forest nearlt all my life."
     "You might have done something," Derin said. "You could have stopped the owl."
     "Tell me that again after you've seen him," Deirdre said. A shiver shook her from the point of her sharp beak to the elegant wedge of her tailfeathers. " "He's cold and analytic, diabolical, preternatural. He means to rule the night. For years he's held the Outer Lands in his thrall. Now he's stretching his talons still further. But enough of this. I didn't come all these miles for the purpose of narrative exposition."
     "You have come very far," Matthew said. "At least a week's journey." He reached up and covered his eyes with his hands, as if he were waking from sleep. In his mind, he stood in last night's forest as the pool of darkness gathered around his hooves.
     "By air, only six hours," the ravel said dryly. "It is a hefty flight. Yes. I will take credit for that. Now pay attention." The satyr bristled at her order. "Years ago," Deirdre said, "when I was little—mind you, I'm not prone to such emotional declarations—I admired you above all other creatures, excepting my parents. Because of those memories I've come here today. You've got to help. You're the only one I can think of. You've got to help me rescue the moon. You do understand how serious this is?"
     "Of course," Matthew said, angry. He could feel the blood rising in his face. "You hot—mouthed condescending little.  .  .  ." But Deirdre cut him off.
     "Good," she said. "I knew you would. Now I've got to get back. I'm afraid they'll notice I'm missing. The moon hangs incarcerated in a tree in the middle of the Deadwood Forest. I'll be expecting you." Without another word, she ascended into the air and vaulted like a meteor toward the west.
     "How do you like that?" Matthew asked. "The nerve of that bird. Not so much as a by-your-leave. And last night I thought we were in for a heavy rain."

                                                       *                 *                 *

The INTERNET is populated by horny teenagers.

     What the fuck?!? All I see online these days are lewd drawings and text written by hormones. Now, it is no secret that between ages 15 and 25 young people get horny as fuck. Everyone knows that. I know that.
     But you know that? I don't want to listen to them! I don't care how much they want to fuck, and who they want to fuck. They always want to fuck. I don't even know which kind is worse, the ones who fuck all the time and brag about their "accomplishments", or permavirgins who fap to their waifus and talk about that all the time.
     And the usual method of 'not going to the dark corners of the web' does not work anymore. Every website with forums or some sort of 'social' integration gets this problem. Horny teenagers spill over from the bad places, and into what previously was civil territory. Horny teenagers everywhere, and I cannot escape!
     And worse of all, in out glorious postmodern society, no one has to feel shame anymore. Motherfuckers can talk about fucking anywhere they FUCKING want, and you cannot drive them away.

     Is the first world getting hornier, or are we losing what little shame we used to have as a society?

Does hating things make you feel good?

?