In the end that’s all we have – to hold on tight until dawn.”
- Gregory David Roberts, “Shantaram”
“Shantaram”
by Gregory David Roberts
“Crime and punishment, passion and loyalty, betrayal and redemption are only a few of the ingredients in “Shantaram,” a massive, over-the-top, mostly autobiographical novel. Shantaram is the name given Mr. Lindsay, or Linbaba, the larger-than-life hero. It means “man of God’s peace,” which is what the Indian people know of Lin. What they do not know is that prior to his arrival in Bombay he escaped from an Australian prison where he had begun serving a 19-year sentence. He served two years and leaped over the wall. He was imprisoned for a string of armed robberies peformed to support his heroin addiction, which started when his marriage fell apart and he lost custody of his daughter. All of that is enough for several lifetimes, but for Greg Roberts, that’s only the beginning.
He arrives in Bombay with little money, an assumed name, false papers, an untellable past, and no plans for the future. Fortunately, he meets Prabaker right away, a sweet, smiling man who is a street guide. He takes to Lin immediately, eventually introducing him to his home village, where they end up living for six months. When they return to Bombay, they take up residence in a sprawling illegal slum of 25,000 people and Linbaba becomes the resident “doctor.” With a prison knowledge of first aid and whatever medicines he can cadge from doing trades with the local Mafia, he sets up a practice and is regarded as heaven-sent by these poor people who have nothing but illness, rat bites, dysentery, and anemia. He also meets Karla, an enigmatic Swiss-American woman, with whom he falls in love. Theirs is a complicated relationship, and Karla’s connections are murky from the outset.
Roberts is not reluctant to wax poetic; in fact, some of his prose is downright embarrassing. Throughout the novel, however, all 944 pages of it, every single sentence rings true. He is a tough guy with a tender heart, one capable of what is judged criminal behavior, but a basically decent, intelligent man who would never intentionally hurt anyone, especially anyone he knew. He is a magnet for trouble, a soldier of fortune, a picaresque hero: the rascal who lives by his wits in a corrupt society. His story is irresistible. Stay tuned for the prequel and the sequel.”
– Valerie Ryan
Freely download “Shantaram”, by Gregory David Roberts, here:
"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise."
"Every 90 days I lie in a whirling CT machine, dye coursing through my veins, and the doctors look to see whether the tumors in my liver are growing. If they are not, the doctors smile and schedule another scan. The rhythm has been the same since my doctors told me I had stage IV colon cancer two and a half years ago. I live for three months, take a deep breath and hope to start over again. I will probably do this for the rest of my life. Whatever that means.
When my scan is over, I need to make clear to my friends and my family that though I pray to be declared cured, I must be grateful. I have three more months of life. Hallelujah. So I try to put the news in a little Facebook post, that mix of sun and cloud. I am trying to clear the linguistic hurdles that show up on my chart. Noncurative. Stage IV. I want to communicate that I am hoping for a continued durable remission in the face of no perfect cure, but the comments section is a blurry mess of, "You kicked cancer's butt! " and "God bless you in your preparations. "
It feels impossible to transmit the kernel of truth. I am not dying. I am not terminal. I am keeping vigil in the place of almost death. I stand in the in-between where everyone must pass, but so few can remain.
I was recently at a party in a head-to-toe Tonya Harding costume, my blond wig in a perfect French braid, and a woman I know spotted me from across the dance floor. "I guess you're not dying! " she yelled over the music, and everyone stopped to stare at me. I'm working on it! " I yelled back, after briefly reconsidering my commitment to pacifism.
We all harbor the knowledge, however covertly, that we're going to die, but when it comes to small talk, I am the angel of death. I have seen people try to swallow their own tongue after uttering the simple words, "How are you?" I watch loved ones devolve into stammering good wishes and then devastating looks of pity. I can see how easily a well-meaning but ill-placed suggestion makes them want to throw themselves into oncoming traffic.
A friend came back from Australia with a year's worth of adventures to tell and ended with a breathless, "You have to go there sometime! " He lapsed into silence, seeming to remember at that very moment that I was in the hospital. And I didn't know how to say that the future was like a language I didn't speak anymore.
Most people I talk with succumb immediately to a swift death by free association. I remind them of something horrible and suddenly they are using words like pustules at my child's fourth-birthday party. They might be reminded of an aunt, a neighbor or a cousin's friend. No matter how distant the connection, all the excruciating particularities of this person's misfortune will be excavated.
This is not comforting. But I remind myself to pay attention because some people give you their heartbreak like a gift. It was a month or so into my grueling chemotherapy regimen when my favorite nurse sat down next to me at the cancer clinic and said softly: "I've been meaning to tell you. I lost a baby." The way she said "baby," with the lightest touch, made me understand. She had nurtured a spark of life in her body and held that child in her arms, and somewhere along the way she had been forced to bury that piece of herself in the ground. I might have known by the way she smoothed all my frayed emotions and never pried for details about my illness. She knew what it was like to keep marching long after the world had ended.
What does the suffering person really want? How can you navigate the waters left churning in the wake of tragedy? I find that the people least likely to know the answer to these questions can be lumped into three categories: minimizers, teachers and solvers.
The minimizers are those who think I shouldn/t be so upset because the significance of my illness is relative. These people are very easy to spot because most of their sentences begin with, "Well, at least.." Minimizers often want to make sure that suffering people are truly deserving before doling out compassion.
My sister was on a plane from Toronto to visit me in the hospital and told her seatmate why she was traveling. Then, as she wondered when she had signed up to be a contestant in the calamity Olympics, the stranger explained that my cancer was vastly preferable to life during the Iranian revolution.
Some people minimize spiritually by reminding me that cosmically, death isn't the ultimate end. It doesn't matter, in the end, whether we are here or there. It's all the same, said a woman in the prime of her youth. She emailed this message to me with a lot of praying-hand emoticons. I am a professor at a Christian seminary, so a lot of Christians like to remind me that heaven is my true home, which makes me want to ask them if they would like to go home before me. Maybe now?
Atheists can be equally bossy by demanding that I immediately give up any search for meaning. One told me that my faith was holding me hostage to an inscrutable God, that I should let go of this theological guesswork and realize that we are living in a neutral universe. But the message is the same: Stop complaining and accept the world as it is.
The second exhausting type of response comes from the teachers, who focus on how this experience is supposed to be an education in mind, body and spirit. "I hope you have a Job experience", one man said bluntly. I can't think of anything worse to wish on someone. God allowed Satan to rob Job of everything, including his children's lives. Do I need to lose something more to learn God's character? Sometimes I want every know-it-all to send me a note when they face the grisly specter of death, and I'll send them a poster of a koala that says, "Hang in there! "
The hardest lessons come from the solutions people, who are already a little disappointed that I am not saving myself. There is always a nutritional supplement, Bible verse or mental process I have not adequately tried. "Keep smiling! Your attitude determines your destiny! " said a stranger named Jane in an email, having heard my news somewhere, and I was immediately worn out by the tyranny of prescriptive joy.
There is a trite cruelty in the logic of the perfectly certain. Those people are not simply trying to give me something. They are tallying up the sum of my life - looking for clues, sometimes for answers - for the purpose of pronouncing a verdict. But I am not on trial. To so many people, I am no longer just myself. I am a reminder of a thought that is difficult for the rational brain to accept: that the elements that constitute our bodies might fail at any moment. When I originally got my diagnosis at age 35, all I could think to say was, "But I have a son." It was the best argument I had. I can't end. This world can't end. It had just begun.
A tragedy is like a fault line. A life is split into a before and an after, and most of the time, the before was better. Few people will let you admit that out loud. Sometimes those who love you best will skip that first horrible step of saying: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this is happening to you. " Hope may prevent them from acknowledging how much has already been lost. But acknowledgment is also a mercy. It can be a smile or a simple, "Oh, hon, what a year you've had. " It does not ask anything from me but makes a little space for me to stand there in that moment. Without it, I often feel like I am starring in a reality program about a woman who gets cancer and is very cheerful about it.
After acknowledgment must come love. This part is tricky because when friends and acquaintances begin pouring out praise, it can sound a little too much like a eulogy. I've had more than one kindly letter written about me in the past tense, when I need to be told who I might yet become.
But the impulse to offer encouragement is a perfect one. There is tremendous power in touch, in gifts and in affirmations when everything you knew about yourself might not be true anymore. I am a professor, but will I ever teach again? I'm a mom, but for how long? A friend knits me socks and another drops off cookies, and still another writes a funny email or takes me to a concert. These seemingly small efforts are anchors that hold me to the present, that keep me from floating away on thoughts of an unknown future. They say to me, like my sister Maria did on one very bad day: "Yes, the world is changed, dear heart, but do not be afraid. You are loved, you are loved. You will not disappear. I am here. "
"Someday stars will wind down or blow up. Someday death will cover us all like the water of a lake and perhaps nothing will ever come to the surface to show that we were ever there. But we WERE there, and during the time we lived, we were alive. That's the truth - what is, what was, what will be - not what could be, what should have been, what never can be."
Examining a crucial historical pivot in American history...
by Bill Bonner
"Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall.
Sure we never won a battle – ‘twas Owen won them all.
Had he lived – had he lived – our dear country had been free;
But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ‘tis slaves we’ll ever be…"
"Lament for the Death of Owen Roe O’Neill", By Thomas Davis
Youghal, Ireland - On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy was shot. He died soon after. Much of the world went into mourning. Never before or since has Washington seen such a gathering of dignitaries…nor so many common folk…all who came to pay their respects.
Jack Kennedy had made many friends. His New Frontier was widely applauded. At home, he lowered the top marginal tax rate from 91% to 65%. Abroad, he sought peace. He explained in a speech at American University that his kind of peace was “not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave."
And yet, after his death, American weapons were soon at work, creating a world, not at peace, but almost constantly at war. Before his assassination, JFK had sent out an order, bringing US troops back from Vietnam. That order was quickly forgotten. The new president, LBJ, had another program, much more to the liking of the ‘military industrial complex.’ Over the next 11 years, 2.7 million American soldiers would go to fight a war that Johnson had promised would be a war for the Vietnamese to fight. By the time the last US helicopter escaped from the US embassy roof in 1975, 58,000 Americans had died and a trillion dollars had been spent. More importantly, the good had given way to the great.
An Historical Pivot: We are reviewing a ‘pivot’ in recent American history. It was the moment when the military/industrial/spook/Congressional complex – the most powerful industry in the world – took control of US politics...and the empire took on a life of its own.
Specifically, we are recalling the history of the 1960s – aided by the recollections and research of Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. – and our own personal history. Bob Dylan, the Doors, Aretha Franklin…marijuana…the Rolling stones…bell bottoms – and the hope of a better world – it is all coming back into focus. We were not born cynical, dear reader; it took many fads, rascals, bear markets and political campaigns to make us what we are today.
One clear memory…It was a summer evening in 1967. We had gone with a friend to the banks of the Chesapeake. Percy Sledge’s great hit – ‘When a man loves a woman’ – was on the radio. We were back from college, regaling each other with our adventures. But Tommy had dropped out. He set his sights on a different life – simpler, more local. He had read Faulkner and Hemingway. His goal was success at home…not abroad. It was success as a person he wanted, not as captain of industry nor of infantry. “Aren’t you worried about getting drafted?” “No…I’m going to sign up. Get it over with.” “Aren’t you worried about getting killed? And what’s the point, anyway? The war seems like a waste.” “Yeah…but otherwise, I’ll have to listen to my mother complaining about me dropping out of college.” That was the last time we saw Tommy. Life is full of casualties. Some are more tragic and pointless than others. Tommy was one of them.
America the Great? What the Kennedys seemed to be aiming for was a government that practiced restraint and reduced the casualties. A good nation does not tax too heavily, does not spend too much, treats people with respect (even those with whom it doesn’t agree) and only fights when it has to. But after Kennedy was assassinated, the US took a different course. Lyndon Johnson promised action…activism…empire. Bombs and bamboozles. Attila was great. Alexander was great. Caesar was great. Napoleon was great. Why not Lyndon? Why not Ronald…Donald…or Joe?
“The People” took the cue. The masses always come to think what they must think when they must think it. Americans were no different. Flattered by the best military money could buy, they came to believe that they were an exceptional race. Madeleine Albright, then Secretary of State, must have reached some apotheosis of conceit when she proclaimed that “if we use force, it is because we are America. We stand tall….we see further into the future.”
We have argued that there are patterns to markets (the Primary Trend)…and patterns to history. A normal man is held in check by his friends, his wife, and his children. When he makes a jackass of himself, they are quick to let him know. So too is a humble nation held in check by its neighbors, its resources and its own people. It may be good or bad. But sometimes – with the wind at its back – the lust for greatness takes over. A nation seeks not just to get along, but to dominate…and control; it becomes an empire. But the Kennedys stood in the way.
Concrete Boots: First, Robert Kennedy took on the mobsters. Appointed Attorney General by his brother, RFK had a ‘Manichean approach’ to law enforcement. There were good guys and bad guys. He wanted to put the bad ones in jail.
At the time, the mafia was gaining power…and corrupting the US justice system (suborning witnesses, bribing judges). He aimed to put them out of business. In Senate hearings, he brought in Anthony “Tony Ducks” Corallo; Joe “Little Caesar” DiVarco; Carlos “The Little Man” Marcello…and dozens of other colorful mobsters. In his first three years as Attorney General, RFK filed 673 indictments against organized crime figures.
The mafiosos didn’t forget. And didn’t forgive. What’s more, they felt betrayed. They believed that the Kennedys would protect them, not prosecute them. There are several competing stories to explain it. One tells us that Joe Kennedy had made a deal with the mob; if they helped deliver the votes in Chicago he would tell his sons to lay off them. Another story is that the Kennedy boys were connected to the mob on their own. Their sister, Pat, was married to Peter Lawford, one the famous “Rat Pack,” along with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Sinatra installed a heliport at his residence in Palm Springs so the president could come to visit. Jack Kennedy may even have shared a mistress – Judith Campbell Exner – with Sinatra’s mafia pal, Sam Giancana.
Whatever the origins of the story, the mob felt betrayed when Bobby Kennedy went after them with a vigor they had never seen before. “Livarsi na petra di la scarpa,” said Carlos Marcello in 1962. The old Sicilian curse has an English variant, said to have been invoked by Henry II: “Will no one rid me of that turbulent priest?” In another documented exchange, mobster Santo Trafficante assured Cuban exile leader Jose Aleman that he needn’t worry about President Kennedy: “No, Jose, he is going to be hit.”
An Empire Unchallenged: Another group that didn’t like the Kennedys was the aforementioned War Industry. Their business, too, was being severely hampered by the Kennedys’ desire to give peace a chance…and their general distrust of both the military and the spies. By this time, the CIA and the mobsters were working together. Their target was supposed to be Fidel Castro. The mafia had its connections in Cuba. The CIA’s mission was to assassinate Fidel, at which, it failed.
The assassination of JFK, however…like the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury in 1170, was a shocking success. Who did it? Did the CIA aim for Castro and hit Kennedy? Did the mafia settle its score with the Kennedy family? Or was it a ‘lone gunman,’ as the Warren Commission concluded? We don’t know. But since then, no president has ever seriously challenged the empire’s agenda. "
"What Americans Fear Most In The JFK Assassination"
by Jacob Hornberger
"One of the fascinating phenomena in the JFK assassination is the fear of some Americans to consider the possibility that the assassination was actually a regime-change operation carried out by the U.S. national-security establishment rather than simply a murder carried out by a supposed lone-nut assassin. The mountain of evidence that has surfaced, especially since the 1990s, when the JFK Records Act mandated the release of top-secret assassination-related records within the national-security establishment, has been in the nature of circumstantial evidence, as compared to direct evidence. Thus, I can understand that someone who places little faith in the power of circumstantial evidence might study and review that evidence and decide to embrace the “lone-nut theory” of the case."
"The most incomprehensible talk comes from people who have
no other use for language than to make themselves understood.”
- Karl Kraus, "Half-Truths & One-and-a-Half Truths"
"Things, possessions, life on the installment plan or credit card. This is the season to buy, to accumulate more folderols, to give things to one’s children and each other, which, we like to believe, will bring joy. It’s make-believe, of course, an adult lie conjured up out of guilt and fear that our lives, the stories we live, the stories we dream, and those that dream us, are insufficiently meaningful to bring our children and ourselves the joy we say we seek.
Driven by a pure sense of guilt devoid of any sense of redemption in a capitalist materialist culture, we buy and buy, accumulate and accumulate, in the vain hope that such tangible “gifts” will bring a magic that we can possess. Our exchange of gifts is a consumer culture’s parody of the true meaning of a gift: that gifts are given to be given away, to be passed around, like the peace pipe of native American Indian tribes.
As Lewis Hyde writes in his extraordinary book, "The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property: "…a gift that cannot be given away ceases to be a gift. The spirit of a gift is its constant donation.” What we are given, in the inner and outer world, must be shared, allowed to circulate. But we like to own, to stop the flow. As a result, we have become stuck, selfie people who can’t understand that to possess is to be possessed. Stop, pose, click. Got it!
Describing art as a way of life, or walking life’s way as an art, the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke put it thus: "Not any self-control or self-limitation for the sake of specific ends, but rather a carefree letting go of oneself; not caution, but rather a wise blindness; not working to acquire silent, slowly increasing possessions, but rather a continuous squandering of all perishable values. This way of being has something naïve and instinctive about it, and resembles that period of the unconscious best characterized by a joyous consciousness, namely the period of childhood."
The truth is that we are sustained by stories – oral, written, existential – not by things, as a commercial civilization would have us believe. From infancy to old age, we crave stories that will allow us to make sense of our lives, to give them shape and spiritual significance.
And the greatest gifts we can give each other are stories that draw on the mystery and sacredness of existence, stories that express, in ravishing language and a musical spirit, clarification for our lives. Stories that help us resist the nihilistic ethos of our times, the violence and deceit that defines them.
For example, long ago a Jewish boy was born in a stable because his parents couldn’t get a room anywhere. The parents then had to flee with the boy because the government was murdering children and was out to get him. Later in life, this child Jesus, became a radical opponent of church and state, preached peace, love, non-violence, and living by faith, not money; he embraced the outcasts, condemned the hypocrites, and was finally executed as a radical criminal by the state. But his spirit was undefeated; he conquered death; and his name has become synonymous with love and kindness to such a degree that we celebrate his birth as the light of the world as the darkest days of the year turn brighter.
It’s a beautiful story from beginning to end, and if heeded, would bring massive resistance to the way things are throughout the world. No wonder it has touched the hearts of so many for so long. Sadly, however, Wordsworth put it perfectly when he said that, “getting and spending we lay waste our powers.” And the consumer-gift-stories we indirectly tell our children by participating in the madness of holiday shopping are tales unfit for young ears. To live to buy is to tell them lies.
Our children (and all of us) wish not things but stories that will help them face life with enthusiasm and courage. When I was a young boy, my father would ease me to sleep with “Jiminy Cricket Stories,” imaginary improvisations on Pinocchio and his conscience. They were in no way trendy like the most recent Pinocchio film adaptation, but fundamentally sound as in the song "As Time Goes By "– it’s still the same old story.
I can’t remember any of his stories today, but what stays with me is their underlying theme, their spirit: to become a real boy, a genuine person, one must determine to tell the truth. One must be brave, truthful, and unselfish. Yet even more, when I think of them, I feel my father’s unconditional love and the timbre of his lilting voice.
These stories about truth and bravery contained hard but vital lessons for a father to pass on to a son, but he did it in such an entertaining way that I took the lessons to heart. Ever since, in gratitude and wonder, I have been trying to make my story adhere to that spirit of truth. Trying; for as we all know, truth is a hard taskmaster. We never hold it, only seek it, and can only approach it if we are possessed by language and allow its musical spirit to carry us on into the unknown.
When I became a father myself, I tried to pass on to my children a love for stories and the words we use to express our lives. Without words, and the ability to use them meaningfully, we are lost in the world of things, a place where consuming replaces creating. So from infancy onward, my wife and I would read to them, and eventually I began to tell them imaginary stories of my own, “Willy Daly Stories,” inspired by a boyhood pal. They would hang onto each word, and swing into depths of reverie as I strung them together into tall tales.
“At the bottom of each word/I’m a spectator at my birth,” wrote the French poet Alain Bosquet. Entering into this creative spirit, Susanne and Daniel would ask me. “Is that really true?” And I could not lie and say no. So they would laugh, I would grin, and we would go on.
Like all children, they loved these stories, the ones I told and the ones we read. They entered into them, and they, into them; their inner worlds germinated. When they were very young, each started to read, not haltingly but fluently and with amazing comprehension. “Out of the blue” something clicked (and neither was “taught” to read, but was read and talked to by my wife and me as though they comprehended everything, even the most abstruse words), and from that day on the words that they previously heard became theirs. They received the gift, even when they didn’t understand the meaning, they grasped the music.
Now it has passed to my grandchildren, Sophie and Henry, who are children of the word, lovers of the epiphanies stories can disclose. “The bright book of life,” as D.H.Lawrence called the novel, opened to them. Novel: New. New life forever arising out of the old. Miraculously (is there any other word for it?), they were in possession of the gift of words that they could pass on; they had the power to hear and tell their own stories, to understand their lives, not as the pursuit of things, but as the pursuit of meaning. They felt proud and I felt blessed.
“Art tells the truth,” wrote Chekhov. Indeed. And the wheel of life turns with the seasons. The gift of stories is passed on. Christmas turns to New Year’s. People pass on, but so do stories. The things are forgotten.
The wordsmith Leonard Cohen sang in his song, “Famous Blue Raincoat,” that “I hope you are keeping some sort of record.” The words stick on the page, but the beautiful melody carries them into our present and into the future and we imagine stories carrying us on as the music and the words don’t stop and we keep humming the tune and imagining as we move along to that which cannot be said and about which it is impossible to be silent, to paraphrase Victor Hugo.
My daughter: Susanne. Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne: “There are children in the morning/they are leaning out for love/and they will lean that way forever/while Suzanne holds the mirror.”
My son: Daniel. Like brave Pinocchio being swallowed by Monstro, and Daniel in the Lion’s den, the stories of courage and derring-do, told indirectly.
Daniel Berrigan, S. J., a friend and mentor, the puckish fierce poet of beauty and peace, whose fierceness belied his tenderness.
The Biblical Susanna, the falsely accused, and Daniel her liberator.
Names contain multitudes, tales never told, stories traveling on. The gifts must be given away, like playing or listening to live music. Here and gone; one time only. Like life.
I recently saw a book for sale at my local library – "From my Father, Singing" by David Bosworth – a beautiful book, a true work of art. I read it once at the suggestion of my storyteller father, and have just reread it. I am grateful to Bosworth for his gift and to my father for passing on the word. It is a tale in the form of a letter from a father to a son, a father in search of the meaning of his own father’s life, that elusive gift that can only be found in a story, in the telling.
The letter writer, our author, is in flight from a life lived “according to script,” a wife in love with money, shopping, and things, his dead-end job – “the place where I pretended to earn our living” – a life of pretense and lies, a living death in which all efforts were made to deny its meaninglessness: “to have fun, to keep busy, to buy something, to face the bleak descent of Sunday evening by preparing already for the following weekend.”
In order to explain himself to his son, a young infant, he explores his own childhood, the life he lived caught between his parents’ conflicting worlds. In the end, by fashioning this letter, by putting word behind word behind word, he comes to understand and appreciate his father and consequently himself; he composes a letter to his son (who cannot yet read but whom we know will) “intended as a gift, a living legacy in words.”
Yes, art tells the truth. Pass on the word, the true gift.
“What strange world is this? Earth. In the foreground of the featured image are the Pinnacles, unusual rock spires in Nambung National Park in Western Australia. Made of ancient sea shells (limestone), how these human-sized picturesque spires formed remains unknown. In the background, just past the end of the central Pinnacle, is a bright crescent Moon. The eerie glow around the Moon is mostly zodiacal light, sunlight reflected by dust grains orbiting between the planets in the Solar System.
Click image for larger size.
Arching across the top is the central band of our Milky Way Galaxy. Many famous stars and nebulas are also visible in the background night sky. The featured 29-panel panorama was taken and composed in 2015 September after detailed planning that involved the Moon, the rock spires, and their corresponding shadows. Even so, the strong zodiacal light was a pleasant surprise.”
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that has nothing to do with you, this storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up the sky like pulverized bones.
You have to look! That’s another one of the rules. Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That’s the kind of world we live in. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes. Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won’t make time stand still.”
- Haruki Murakami
“Closing your eyes won’t make the awfulness go away. It may be that nothing will. But dwelling on it, dreading the evil, playing out the misery in your head – doesn’t this feed the monster? You can’t close your eyes to life, but you can choose where your gaze lingers.”
"When I see the blind and wretched state of men, when I survey the whole universe in its deadness, and man left to himself with no light, as though lost in this corner of the universe without knowing who put him there, what he has to do, or what will become of him when he dies, incapable of knowing anything, I am moved to terror, like a man transported in his sleep to some terrifying desert island, who wakes up quite lost, with no means of escape. Then I marvel that so wretched a state does not drive people to despair."
“The day has been so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and smiles; and though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone. Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night’s heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pain and Sorrow are but angels of God.”
"Why does modern society no longer think critically? Why do so many people repeat ideas instead of questioning them? And why did George Orwell foresee this mental decline decades before the digital age? In this video, we dive deep into 'Animal Farm' - Orwell’s brilliant allegory that reveals how societies slowly surrender their ability to think, how language is weaponized to shape perception, and how truth becomes flexible in the hands of power. Through psychology, philosophy, and real-world parallels, we explore how modern life mirrors the farm: endless noise, emotional manipulation, groupthink, and the disappearance of independent thought."
"The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from
pig to man again: but already it was impossible to say which was which."
"Animal Farm"
by George Orwell
Biographical note: "George Orwell, 1903-1950, was the pen name used by British author and journalist Eric Arthur Blair. During most of his professional life time Orwell was best known for his journalism, both in the British press and in books such as "Homage to Catalonia," describing his activities during the Spanish Civil War, and "Down and Out in Paris and London," describing a period of poverty in these cities. Orwell is best remembered today for two of his novels, "Animal Farm" and "Nineteen Eighty-Four."
Description: Power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely- and this is vividly and eloquently proved in Orwell's short novel. "Animal Farm" is a simple fable of great symbolic value, and as Orwell himself explained: "it is the history of a revolution that went wrong." The novel can be seen as the historical analysis of the causes of the failure of communism, or as a mere fairy-tale; in any case it tells a good story that aims to prove that human nature and diversity prevent people from being equal and happy, or at least equally happy.
"Animal Farm" tells the simple and tragic story of what happens when the oppressed farm animals rebel, drive out Mr. Jones, the farmer, and attempt to rule the farm themselves, on an equal basis. What the animals seem to have aimed at was a utopian sort of communism, where each would work according to his capacity, respecting the needs of others. The venture failed, and "Animal Farm" ended up being a dictatorship of pigs, who were the brightest, and most idle of the animals.
Orwell's mastery lies in his presentation of the horrors of totalitarian regimes, and his analysis of communism put to practice, through satire and simple story-telling. The structure of the novel is skillfully organized, and the careful reader may, for example, detect the causes of the unworkability of communism even from the first chapter. This is deduced from Orwell's description of the various animals as they enter the barn and take their seats to listen to the revolutionary preaching of Old Major, father of communism in Animal Farm. Each animal has different features and attitude; the pigs, for example, "settled down in the straw immediately in front of the platform", which is a hint on their future role, whereas Clover, the affectionate horse" made a sort of wall" with her foreleg to protect some ducklings.
So, it appears that the revolution was doomed from the beginning, even though it began in idealistic optimism as expressed by the motto "no animal must ever tyrannize over his own kind. Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers." "When the animals drive out Mr. Jones, they create their "Seven Commandments" which ensure equality and prosperity for all the animals. The pigs, however, being the natural leaders, managed to reverse the commandments, and through terror and propaganda establish the rule of an elite of pigs, under the leadership of Napoleon, the most revered and sinister pig.
"Animal Farm" successfully presents how the mechanism of propaganda and brainwashing works in totalitarian regimes, by showing how the pigs could make the other animals believe practically anything. Responsible for the propaganda was Squealer, a pig that "could turn black into white." Squealer managed to change the rule from "all animals are equal" to "all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others." He managed to convince the other animals that it was for their sake that the pigs ate most of the apples and drank most of the milk, that leadership was "heavy responsibility" and therefore the animals should be thankful to Napoleon, that what they saw may have been something they "dreamed", and when everything else failed he would use the threat of "Jones returning" to silence the animals. In this simple but effective way, Orwell presents the tragedy and confusion of thought control to the extent that one seems better off simply believing that "Napoleon is always right".
Orwell's criticism of the role of the Church is also very effective. In 'Animal Farm', the Church is represented by Moses, a tame raven, who talks of "Sugarcandy Mountain", a happy country in the sky "where we poor animals shall rest forever from our labors". It is interesting to observe that when Old Major was first preaching revolutionary communism, Moses was sleeping in the barn, which satirizes the Church being caught asleep by communism. It is also important to note that the pig-dictators allowed and indirectly encouraged Moses; it seems that it suited the pigs to have the animals dreaming of a better life after death so that they wouldn't attempt to have a better life while still alive...
In "Animal Farm," Orwell describes how power turned the pigs from simple "comrades" to ruthless dictators who managed to walk on two legs, and carry whips. The story may be seen as an analysis of the Soviet regime, or as a warning against political power games of an absolute nature and totalitarianism in general. For this reason, the story ends with a hair-raising warning to all humankind: "The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again: but already it was impossible to say which was which."
"A Trillion Dollars Goes Poof!The Epic Cryptocurrency Crash
That We Are Watching Is A Major Warning Sign For Global Markets"
by Michael Snyder
"The ride up was a lot of fun for crypto investors, but now many of them are getting wiped out by the ride down. For a long time, people were using borrowed money to make absolutely enormous returns in the cryptocurrency market. Unfortunately, that bubble is bursting and an epic cryptocurrency crash is now upon us. The price of Bitcoin has fallen to the lowest level that we have seen in more than six months, and other major cryptocurrencies are getting slammed even harder. In many cases we are seeing forced liquidations take place, and it certainly wouldn’t take much for this panic to bleed over into the stock market. There have already been plenty of signs that the AI bubble is beginning to burst, and once investors start rushing for the exits it could easily turn into a stampede.
The amount of money that crypto investors have already lost is staggering. On October 6th, Bitcoin had a market cap of 2.48 trillion dollars. As I write this article, it has a market cap of 1.72 trillion dollars. That is a loss of more than 750 billion dollars in less than two months. Let that sink in for a moment.
Those that got in at the top of the market are getting absolutely crushed. On August 22nd, Ethereum had a market cap of 583.2 billion dollars. Today, it has a market cap of 341.6 billion dollars. That is a loss of more than 241 billion dollars in less than three months.
On July 21st, XRP had a market cap of 201.4 billion dollars. Today, it has a market cap of 120.1 billion dollars. That is a loss of more than 81 billion dollars.
On September 18th, Solana had a market cap of 134.4 billion dollars. Today, it has a market cap of 73.6 billion dollars. That is a loss of more than 60 billion dollars.
This last example is my favorite. On January 17th, Dogecoin had a market cap of 61.4 billion dollars. Today, it has a market cap of just 22.5 billion dollars. That is a loss of more than 38 billion dollars. In other words, Dogecoin has lost nearly two thirds of its value since January 17th. If you invested in Dogecoin, I hope that you got out in time.
When you total all five of the examples that I have shared above, the collective losses come to well over a trillion dollars. There are more than 17,000 other cryptocurrencies that are being actively traded, and most of them have been getting monkey-hammered in recent months as well. Speculative bubbles can be fun, and if you time things just right you can make a lot of money. But if your timing stinks, you can end up being the one holding the bag when the wheel stops spinning.
In the days ahead, a lot more bubbles are going to burst because the real economy is steadily deteriorating. Earlier today, CNBC posted an article that declared that we are in “a structural goods recession”, and anyone that looks at the numbers objectively cannot deny this…"For the first time in 2025, rates for van, flatbed, and refrigerated loads in October were all lower on both a month-over-month and year-over-year basis, according to the DAT Truckload Volume Index. “Freight volumes in the third quarter and October reflect what we’re seeing in the broader goods economy, with shippers drawing on inventory built up earlier in the year to reduce their exposure to tariffs and weak consumer demand,” said Ken Adamo, DAT chief of Analytics. “As a result, the traditional peak holiday shipping season looks virtually non-existent this year,” Adamo said.
Van truckloads were down 3% compared to September, and 11% year over year. Refrigerated truckloads were down 2% month over month, and 7% year over year. Flatbed truckloads were down 4% month over month and 3% year over year. The reduced level of dry van and temp-controlled loads that are moving now through the supply chain are goods moving from distribution centers to retailers. The causes of the trade decline range from weakness in housing and manufacturing to energy costs, and shippers pulling forward imports earlier in the year and building inventories to reduce tariff impacts."
Meanwhile, the number of corporate bankruptcies just continues to soar. According to Zero Hedge, through the month of October the number of corporate bankruptcies in the U.S. had already nearly reached the grand total for the entire year of 2024…"First came the spectacular implosions of subprime auto lender Tricolor and auto-parts supplier First Brands. Then came the regional-bank fiasco, prompting JPMorgan CEO Jamie Dimon to warn that more late-cycle accidents may be ahead. Add in signs that lower-income consumers are tapped out, frothy valuations across the AI equity sphere, and even Bitcoin sliding below $100,000, and it’s no surprise that many are beginning to wonder whether mounting financial stress signals the early stages of a broader downturn."
Another flashing red warning sign is new data from S&P Global this past week, showing that through October, 655 companies have filed for bankruptcy, nearly matching the 687 total for all of 2024. S&P Global data showed that in October alone, there were 68 new corporate bankruptcies filings. In August, there were 76 filings, the highest monthly tally since at least 2020.
As even more large companies get into financial trouble, we will see even more mass layoffs. Today, everyone is talking about how Verizon is planning to cut “13% of its workforce”…"Verizon CEO Dan Schulman said in a Nov. 20 letter to employees that the wireless telecom is cutting 13,000 employees, or about 13% of its workforce, as it seeks to “evolve as a company” by slashing costs and restructuring operations.
The company employed 99,600 workers at the end of 2024, according to its most recent annual report. “Our current cost structure limits our ability to invest significantly in our customer value proposition,” prompting the need to “evolve as a company,” Schulman wrote in the letter, which was posted on Verizon’s website."
I think that Verizon is going to continue to lose market share to competitors such as T-Mobile. It just isn’t being run very well. You can fool people for a while, but reality will always catch up with you eventually. We live at a time when the greatest economic and financial bubbles in our history are starting to burst. I hope that you have positioned yourself for what is coming next, because it is certainly not going to be pleasant."
"Middle class collapse is hitting hard, and in today's video, I break down what it means for America right now. From the affordability crisis to skyrocketing restaurant closures, we're seeing the middle class struggle like never before. I’m taking you through the latest developments while filming outside the Bellagio during the Formula 1 race in Las Vegas - it’s a wild scene! We’re talking about financial pullbacks, businesses barely scraping by, and how the rich and poor divide is becoming more apparent. Plus, I share startling stats on restaurant closures and the growing trend of jackpotting ATMs. It’s clear that the middle class is the backbone of society, but what happens when they can’t spend anymore? You’ll see how this is affecting everything from home values to the economy as a whole."
"It's amazing that you can have businesses that have been around for well over 130 years and even survived the great depression but the economy today is so bad that, only now today they are going out of business. In many ways, this is the worst economy that we have ever experienced considering on the surface things look good but underneath it's anything, but."
Kroger Just Fired Thousands Using An AI Phone-Call"
"“Today is your last day.” Thousands of Kroger employees heard those words - not from a manager, but from an AI phone call. In a shocking move, Kroger has begun using automated systems to handle mass layoffs, leaving workers blindsided, angry, and humiliated. This isn’t just a company cutting costs - it’s a glimpse into the cold, automated future of the American workforce."
"Americans once believed their neighborhood grocery stores would always be there - bright aisles, familiar brands, and chains that felt too rooted to ever disappear. But in 2025, that belief is breaking apart. Behind shuttered storefronts and empty parking lots, a nationwide grocery unraveling is accelerating faster than anyone expected. From historic names like Piggly Wiggly to modern players like Amazon Fresh and everyday staples like Kroger, Safeway, and Family Dollar - entire sectors of the U.S. food system are being squeezed by inflation, razor-thin margins, aging infrastructure, and a consumer base struggling to keep up. This isn’t just about store closures. It’s about how the American grocery landscape itself is shifting under immense financial pressure.
In this investigative countdown, we break down the ten major grocery chains now cutting locations, retreating from cities, or collapsing outright. Using the latest verified data on closures, operating costs, debt loads, and consumer patterns, we examine what’s truly happening - and what these changes mean for small towns, older adults, working families, and the future of food access in America. A new reality is emerging - one where even the biggest names can vanish almost overnight."
