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What's wrong with being "decadent"?

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Each new day the sun rose again and my parents and teaches did again all the things[1] they had been socially conditioned to do again each new day in order to have the opportunity to do them[1] yet again the next new day because that's the way they had been socially conditioned: rote living.... And part of these endlessly the same things[1] with and to no end was that them made me BMcC[18-11-46-503] too do them[1] all again and yet again with and to no end each new day Or else!....
Q: How to tell if one of these people is dead?  A: Their body temperature will stabilize at ambient room tempurature.

I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) have always been a little needy, to nobody's pleasure: "It's no big deal, Brad". Since the name they gave me: "Bradford" is close to synonymous with: doormat, they do not like to have to tread carefully in wiping their feet; they like feeling praiseworthy about themslves but if I can't "take a licking and keep on ticking" (Timex Corp.) it's more like punching a boxer when he's is already down for the count. I should be strong and stand tall ("Don't walk stooped over: its not good for you!"), so they can feel good about knocking me down and walking over me....

But the despair is new. Why? Obviously: Because I was childreared and preparatory schooled to be ignorant of what was being done to me, and I was precocious but not a genius.

Definition: "Genius": a person who makes major discoveries without any precedent, a person who pulls noetic (conceptual, inellectual...) rabbits out of societal hats. If I was a genius I would have instructed my warders how to raise me. But that's pulling oneself by one's own bootstraps which is not very likely, is it?

Since man did not make the world, counterfactual speculations cannot likely be convincing unlike a compuer program. There you can generally be confident of the results of changing the input data. The outome of my counterfaatually having had parents like maybe Noam Chomsky and schooling like Alexande the Great (tutoring by a wise scholar) are just so much flatulence. The results of the parents and shooling I got should be all too clear to anyone who really studied it from the persptctive of someone like maybe Dr Alice Miller or Dr. Sandor Ferenczi but not that of a Mitchell Rentko who did get a chance at it: here). Almost every person dies one day or another day.

Red desert

I have found a free copy of Michelangelo Antonioni's film "Red Dessert" (1964) on YouTube. So back to the future again, after his so-called "Trilogy of decadence" (L'avventura, La Notte and L'eclisse). I would like to be Monica Vitti or the character she plays or her son in he film (she apparently never bore any children in reality).

If I had got polio would that have made them treat me better? Or would they just abandoned me to the doctors to stick needles in like a voodoo doll like they did that one time when at about ae 9 years when they abandoned me to the nurse or whatever she was took me to another room stuck the long needle in the inside of my arm and they sat like lumps each on their two several couch potatoes on a bench in the waiting room like unanswered telephones?

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So let me imagine I was the little boy in the film.

He was not getting enough love, else he would not have feigned paralysis. His father's affection seems limited to himself [the father] playing with an expensive "chemistry set" he bought for the child and the child being a spectator on his fther's mini acocmplishment ther like his big accomplishments in the chemical factory he runs. His mother certainly does better than my intrusive mother bitch but she is a "lost soul". A lot less worse than what I got but not all a sensitive lttle boy needs. Given the forcedchoice, obviously I'd take being him not me. Being European, hopefully they had not cut off the end of his penis without his informed consent for his own good.

I do not believe in so-called "sxchange" operations but I would rather have been born female since, as the 16th century Ottoan poets said: Allah gave women 90% of sexual pleasure, and if I had a brilliant mind and avoided getting pregnant my intellectual life would not necessarily be impacted if I had a rich and doting daddy. Monica Vitti's ( Giuliana isn the film) husband (Ugo) understood her as little as he understood his son. Maybe he was like my father: a highly ethical and reasonably intelligent but emotionally limited man of business. Could I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) in real life have done better for a Giuliana? I should hae been Hermann Broch's son. As his real son said of ral me, his father "would have wasted a lot of time on me."

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Red Desert ends with the litle boy askng his mother about the yellow gas plumes the chemical plants's chimneys emit. "Why is that smoke yellow?" "Because it's poisonous" "You mean that if a little birdie flies there, it'll die?" "The little birdies know by now. They don't fly there any more."Image

+2024.02.16 v100
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Footnotes

  1. Haircut | Haircut (was ther anything els ebsides haircuts?) | It's all so useless I forget what it was | My mother squeezed my acne pimples after I got home from school | Pretend to read books assigned in English class | Miscellaneous homework | Change clothes into pajamas before going to bed (I did not like pajamas) | Say my rote prayer to them before they left the room at night when I went to bed | Go to gender apartheid school
  2. When I was 5 years old and they put on their little one act play to threaten me with economic abandonment to try to make me love my mother (here), that was just semiotic assault: words. Would they have gone thru with it and put me in an orphanage? I don't know but words did not come to deeds when I gave them their pyrrhic victory (Can people really be so "stupid" as to believe they can make a person love them by threat? The answer appears to be: Yes). Here they actually, materially, physically did abandon me. This was the worser of the two: a real steel needle in the vulnerable inside of my real little arm, not "just" play acting: "It's no big deal, Brad."

Bradford at age ca. 2.75 years  
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