Visits: 34

Written by Abdun Nur

Chapter Eleven

The Circus of Academia

“The evil was not in bread and circus, per se, but in the willingness of the people to sell their rights as men for full bellies and the excitement of the games which would distract them from the other human hungers which bread and circus can never appease.” Marcus Tullius Cicero

“A right is a grant from a master to a slave, only a slave has granted rights, and all rights exist at the whim of the granter. A free soul has inherent power, needing no other to give them permission; inherent power is based on the innate reciprocal duty of care inherently binding all souls.” Abdun Nur

Later that same afternoon a large group of well-dressed people stood at Gwen’s door in the heavy rain, as soon as she opened her door she encouraged them inside, straight away without introductions, and they all crowded quickly into her hall. “It’s really pouring down today.” She said, closing the door.

“Let me introduce you to the group Gwen, or do you prefer Gwendolyn?” Tom Shepherd asked her.

“Gwen’s fine.” The old woman replied. Gwen felt a little off balance, she hadn’t expected such a large group, and really didn’t want to be entertaining anyone, when Tom had told her, he’d bring some friends, she didn’t really want him too, but he really didn’t ask permission.

“This is the Dean of the university doctor George Plantagenet.” When Tom turned from Gwen to introduce the dean he found all the group were transfixed and engrossed by the artwork on the hall walls.

Tom being ignored, smiled back at Gwen. “Oh, well I can introduce you as we go along.” Tom said.

“Well…” Gwen didn’t know what to say to get them all to leave. Nothing came to mind, so she resigned herself to whatever this was, and thought a cup of tea and they would likely go.

“Please, why doesn’t everyone move into the living room. I’ll set up some chairs, and I’ll bring some tea and biscuits.” She gave a forced smile.

Tom encouraged the group to move along the hall, as the old woman disappeared into her kitchen. They moved slowly as they talked among themselves about the paintings, they took so long the old woman had returned with the tray of tea and biscuits and they were still in the hallway. But after a few more minutes the entire group had entered the living room, and Gwen had supplied enough chairs from her dinning room for the group.

The group now marveled at the artwork decorating the living room and their chatter continued unabated.

The old woman offered tea and biscuits, but no one was interested, nor in being seated. “Here’s the tea.” She said loudly feeling snubbed, placing the tray on a coffee table between two chairs.

“Gwen.” The dean said. “I’m sorry your artwork has taken my manners, please forgive me, I’m George.” He held out his hand, and the old woman shuck it. “When Tom told me you were the Michelangelo of our time, I thought him foolish, but he wasn’t exaggerating.”

“Oh, well thank you, it’s nice to meet you, would you like some tea?” She asked him with a smile.

She was briefly introduced to some members of the group by the dean and eventually they all sat with tea.

“I’m not used to entertaining, this has been a strange month, people normally avoid me, not force their company onto me; it’s certainly a new experience.” The old woman said, feeling a little self-conscious with so many strangers focused on her.

“Gwen.” Said the dean. “Your work is magnificent, and you now have the full support of the university, we’re very fortunate to have such a talent on our door step, and we wish to offer you every facility and encouragement.

We have, at the university, an art gallery, and we also have professional storage facilities for artwork of this nature. What we would like to do is, to display your work, and be its custodians, the work would remain at all times yours, we would simply protect it and display it on loan.” The dean finished and waited for the old woman’s response.

“I see.” She replied and then fell silent. All eyes were on her now.

“I don’t think I could part with my paintings. No. I couldn’t do it. And I don’t think you realize the number of paintings I have, it would need a very large space to store them, even this house is getting towards full capacity.

But I don’t mind showing them to you. Why don’t I take you all around the house when you’ve finished your teas and you can see for yourselves?” She replied.

“Hello Gwen, my name is Frank, I’m the curator of the art gallery and oversee the storage of artifacts for the university.

We can store several thousand paintings, but with such a prestigious collection, if it were required to expand the facilities, that would also be organized.”

“I see, well, thanks, that’s a generous offer, but I think I’ll keep them. But you think my work is that significant. My work?” She replied.

“I couldn’t describe how important your work is, I’m in awe of your creative power, and skill of expression. Your composition, your depth of vision, how could you get such visualizations, in order to create them in paint?” Frank continued.

“Well the secret, among other things, which you may find difficult to hear, is cannabis oil. I take very small amounts of it every day, and it opens my mind, it connects me to worlds within worlds, to see the unseen, to feel the truth of things; to smell the colour of emotion, to taste texture and form.” The old woman smiled.

The faces of the group stared silently at her.

“Well, you asked.” She continued feeling less inclined to collaborate with them as she now felt uncomfortable, and her tone was now defensive.

“Sorry, sorry. Yes that’s certainly unexpected, but interesting.” The dean replied.

“My name is Anna.” A middle-aged woman with a French accent said. “I work in the university restoring, cataloguing and filing the artifacts and literature. What we’d do, is professionally photograph each painting, and create a digital record of your work, this can then be used to create books, prints, cards, posters etc., also we can produce reproductions of your artwork framed, possibly as limited editions, all these things would be for sale, and as a joint venture the university and yourself can share the proceeds from sales, also when your paintings are used for advertising or promotion then the copyright fees generated would also be shared. The split is normally seventy-five, twenty-five after costs in favour of the university.” Anna explained.

“That seems an unfair division. I have a large collection of sculptures also, if you’d like to see those?” The old woman offered.

“If you would allow us, most certainly, seeing the sculpture of the girl from administration over there, I’m anticipating ‘amazing’ from your sculptures.” The dean replied.

“It’d be nice to see the paintings displayed in a nice setting, I focused so much on creation I haven’t really given much thought or care to the appreciation of my efforts.

“I really love the painting of the bees.” Anna commented.

“Gwen has a story for every painting, please Gwen tell the story of the bees.” Tom interrupted a little excited.

“The Miraculous Honey.” Gwen replied.

“I’m fascinated.” Anna smiled.

The group went silent, and all eyes were on Gwen.

Gwen stood up, checked the frame of the bee painting for a reference number, found the right book from her bookcase, then returned to her seat, opening the book.

“In a cottage there lived an old beekeeper and his son, the beekeeper was wise and their life was good. The old beekeeper loved his bees as dearly as his own son.

Generation after generation of the family had nurtured the bees, and bee cottage sold the finest honey that could be found, so good was the honey, it was sold at twice the price of any other honey, even then he could have sold all he had a hundred times over.

It came to pass the old beekeeper died and his son inherited the business, he loved the bees and the bees loved him, and life was good.

The lands around Bee Cottage were owned by the Lord of the Manor, a fat greedy man who worshiped gold and power.

The Lord of the Manor coveted the honey of Bee Cottage, his own honey farm produced only simple honey, not the miraculous honey that flowed from bee cottage.

The Lord of the Manor was a devious and cruel man, and with the help of his cousin, a judge of the court, they hatched a plan to steal Bee Cottage from the beekeeper.

The Lord of the Manor, accused the beekeeper of stealing the nectar from his flowers and selling it, depriving the Lord of the manor of that revenue, and the court charged the beekeeper with theft.

The beekeeper was jailed and then presented before the court of the lords cousin.

“Using your bees you have stolen the nectar from the flowers of the Lord of the Manor. How do you plead?” Asked the judge.

“The charge is without reasoned foundation.” Replied the beekeeper. “Therefore I could not plead, a true wrong would have to have been committed. What is innate cannot be a wrong.” He concluded.

“Do you understand the charges?” Bellowed the judge.

“I do not.” Replied the beekeeper.

“What is claimed stolen cannot be owned, can the wind be owned? Can the water be owned? Can the Earth be owned?” Asked the beekeeper.

“Yes it can legally be owned, if a legal construct is created.” Declared the scheming judge.“Who can claim to own what they did not create?” Asked the beekeeper.

The judge was silent. “What is the basis of ownership?” The bee keeper demanded.

“The law is the basis, ownership is the bedrock of the law, and it will be defended. God has given the king dominion over this land and through that grant ownership is determined.” Replied the judge.

“Do you have a copy of that grant?” asked the beekeeper.

“The Holy Bible is the grant!” The irate judge declared.

“Who wrote the Bible?” Asked the beekeeper.

“I don’t know; it is not relevant.” Said the judge.

“Where in the bible does it declare the grant issued from the God of the Christians?” The bee keeper asked.

“I will consider you in contempt of the court if you continue down this path.” The judge threatened.

“Can an insect steal?” Asked the beekeeper.

“Of course not, but you can use insects as the vehicle of your theft.” The judge retorted.

“If you do not plead, I will hold you in contempt of court.” The judge concluded.

“I cannot plead, there is nothing to plead to, I am here to be robbed, not answer to a wrong.” The beekeeper replied.

“You’re representing yourself in this dispute.” The judge noted.

“No, I stand as only soul before the court, nothing represents me as an equivalent fictional form.” The beekeeper replied.

“Due to your clear mental incompetence, the court will impose a representative on your behalf.” The judge replied.

“The court may not do that without my consent, and I do not give any consent.” The beekeeper replied.

The judge silenced the beekeeper and imposed a legal representative upon him, who pleaded guilty on his behalf, the judge awarded damages to the court in fines, of all the beekeeper’s savings, and as punitive damages granted the beekeepers home and bees to the Lord of the Manor, and sentenced the beekeeper to three years in jail.

The Lord of the Manor installed his head gardener in to the home of the beekeeper, who looked after the bees.

The Lord was greedy and increased the cost of the miraculous honey three fold, so good was the reputation of the honey customers queued up to buy it.

But when they got the honey home and tasted it, it was just plain honey, the customers demanded refunds from the Lord of the Manor, accusing him of fraud and deception.

He questioned his gardener who didn’t know why the honey was no longer special, all his efforts to steal the miraculous honey, and he had nothing.

He went to the jail to speak with the beekeeper. The beekeeper was in a poor state at the jail, the Lord asked him. “What is the secret of the miraculous honey? Tell me or I’ll pay the jailer to murder you.” The Lord demanded.

The beekeeper smiled. “Love.” He replied. “And that is one ingredient you cannot take from me.” Gwen ended the story and sipped on her tea. The group sat silently staring at the bee keepers painting for a while.

“OK. I’ll show you around the house now.” The old woman said putting down her empty cup and standing up.

She led the group from room to room, all they could see in each room, were carefully wrapped paintings hidden in layers of cloth and plastic, each room was cautiously stacked to the ceiling with her artwork some in frames of varying sizes, but the vast majority of her work was not framed, simply laid flat stacked up with card board between each canvas and all wrapped in plastic. It was a large house and her paintings filled it.

“My god. You have many thousands of paintings, tens of thousands. It’s just breath taking.” The dean said as they returned down stairs, although they had only seen the wrapped profiles of the paintings and not the paintings themselves. “Do you have a story attached to each piece of artwork?” Tom asked.

“Yes.” Gwen replied.

“It would be fantastic to record each story and display it below each painting.” Tom commented.

“OK. I can give you the stories, it’s no problem, but I can’t let you take my children; I mean my paintings.” Gwen told him.

“I’ll show you the sculptures now.” The old woman said as she led the group towards the back of the house.

She opened a door to a very large room, originally the dining room. As she opened the double doors, against both walls there were heavy steel racks loaded with sculptures, and between the racks, on the floor, sculptures completely covered its surface. “To be honest I’m now struggling to find places to store my work.” The old woman commented.

Right in the centre of the dining room stood a huge sculpture formed of a multitude of different coloured marbles, and granites, it almost touched the ceiling, and was at least ten feet square, it was of a battle scene in full action, the epicentre of a greater fray, ‘A scene of ancient Albien’ was carved on its base, and below that the word ‘The Battle of Ely’.

The group stared at the centrepiece in silence. After a few minutes the dean said. “How did you get that huge piece of marble into the room?”

The old woman smiled. “It isn’t one piece, but the company that supplies my marbles and granites bring them in and place them for me. I connected many pieces together to form the whole. It also dismantles when it has to be moved.

The only reason that’s built up, is because it’s not finished, it takes me a year or two to do a large piece like this one, some times longer, depending on how much time I devote to it, I’ve been working on this piece for five years on and off, it’s very intricate and time consuming, I work on many pieces at the same time, working on each one when the mood takes me, I do the same with my painting.” She told him.

“You’ve used steel set into the marble, for the blades of the weapons, you can almost feel the torment of the dying the fighting warriors are stood upon.” The dean said still focused on the centrepiece.

“Yes one of my smaller large pieces.” She smiled.

“You have larger pieces than this?” The dean said astonished.

“Yes, many. They’re not assembled, as they take up less room in pieces, where I can stack them. I had a local engineering company make the stainless steel elements for the sculptures, and then I set them in with epoxy.

I love to make huge sculptures, the bigger the better. Unfortunately working here limits my scale a little.” The old woman answered.

“Would you be willing to do a commission piece for the university?

A marble sculpture as big as you wanted, to decorate our main entrance.

You could make full use of the university facilities to do the work. Ideally as a teaching project with the art students, to teach them some of the skills of sculpting, but the teaching part is up to you; it’s only what I’d like. But it’s what you want that’s the main priority” The dean said hopefully.

“If I did wouldn’t I become well known, and lose the tranquillity of my solitude.?

Although this past month I’ve enjoyed little solitude.” The old woman deliberated almost to herself.

Tom spoke. “No Gwen, we will create a pseudonym, a non-de plume.

We’ll have a professional make-up artist and photographer do a photo shoot, so in your normal attire no one would recognize you.” He smiled uncomfortably as he realised his slightly insulting comment.

“The idea of doing a huge sculpture is very alluring, I’d an idea for a sculpture decade ago, but have never had the ability to express the vision, as it needed to be on too large a scale, this would be an opportunity to give birth to that, and an apt, or more amusing location for exhibition.” She replied almost as if she were thinking out loud.

“This is fantastic news Gwen. We’re all so excited to bring your work into the public view, these are exciting times.” The dean said attempting to make the weak agreement from Gwen seem firm. “And you’ve stories attached to each sculpture also?” The dean asked.

“Yes. Of course.” Gwen assured him.

“I’m Mr. Cohen.” A small, thin, balding man with glasses said extending his bony hand. “It’s very nice to meet you tonight Gwen. I’m the head of the financial department at the university; the cost of any work commissioned by the university would have to be agreed before any work was undertaken, and we’d need to insure you, if you died before completing the work we’d need compensating through insurance.” Gwen recoiled from his grasp a little; his hands were cold and clammy, he made her feel uncomfortable, he emanated a disturbing nuance.

Mr. Cohen introduced Helen and Gerald they greeted her and shuck her hand. “If you decided to give any of your work on loan to the university, Helen and Gerald will appraise each painting and sculpture to determine an estimated value, in order to have your collection fully insured.” He explained with a serious tone.

“OK, thank you, but they cannot be replaced, so a monetary value would have little benefit.” The old woman replied.

“Never the less.” Mr. Cohen answered, and moved back slightly.

Frank spoke. “Gwen I’ll be in charge along with Anna, for the collecting of your work, and transporting it, and then storing it safely at the university, and ultimately for its display, if you allowed some of your work to be released to the university.

There is an alternative.

We could catalogue all your work, record it digitally along with the stories attached, this would form a back up for you, in case, heaven forbid anything happened to your work, so your painting would remain here.

We could come anytime to begin the cataloguing of your life’s work, if that was something you decided to do?” He suggested with a smile.

I’ll call tomorrow morning, with a small team; we could be here around nine a.m.” Anna told her.

Gwen was more open to this idea, it appealed to her. She thought for a few seconds. “Yes. That I could agree to. You can come whenever you’re ready and get it all recorded.” Gwen replied.

“You’ll need to sign some paperwork for the university Gwen in the morning, for each painting.” Anne said.

“OK. No, I need to consider things first, on second thoughts.” The old woman was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed, things were moving quicker than she now felt comfortable with.

Ideally, when your ready, for the purposes of cataloguing, if you could give your thoughts and comments for each painting or sculpture, and provide the story attached.” Anna continued. There was a short silence as everyone was examining the sculptures.

“This one is the most beautiful composition I’ve ever seen.” Anna adds pointing to a large canvas hung on the wall of the sculpture room.

“Yes, I painted that quite a few years ago.” Gwen commented.

“Would you tell us the story of that canvas?” Annas asked.

“If you would like. I’ll have get the book from the living room, just a minute” Gwen went to collect the book after checking the number on the frame. She returned after a couple of minutes book in hand. The group gathered around the picture and waited for Gwen to begin.

“Love is powerful upon the soul; the deepest hate cannot be likened to its passion. Love can lift a soul to altitudes of experience never dreamt of; or love can drive a soul into despair so deep no light can penetrate.

Love’s grief can provoke a soul to abandon life, to sacrifice all and everything they are upon that altar. The torment of grief is the pain of separation, the greater the pain the deeper the love; such pain is insurmountable, the only escape is to educe that love through the pain, that love cannot be taken from you, that love will never diminish, it’s a bond, and death is only a temporary separation, the love, as the soul remains.

This is a story of unconditional love, as are all substantive stories of life.” Gwen explained.

“Every soul of reason seeks to expose the ultimate questions of life. What’s worth living for, and what’s worth dying for?

It was a bitterly cold night, the snow drove into his face almost horizontally, he walked slowly, his head down into the driving wind, he’d been walking for hours, the cold was biting into him; but his torment of thought was so great, it immersed all his attention.

His mind was not concerned, it had lost touch with pain or cold, it didn’t care if the wind froze the stubble on his face, it didn’t care if his body was shutting down slowly, his mind didn’t care because it was screaming, it didn’t care because it was suffering beyond measure, it didn’t care; it was incapable of concern.

He wondered lost on a deserted road, if you could call it a road, without the layer of snow it would be a dirt track barely eight feet wide, running tortuously through an old dense woodland; the snow was a foot deep, an uneven blanket of white, hiding objects like snowy mounds. His progress was slow; the snow-laden tree branches formed a canopy above the track, making the lane a wintery tunnel, which seemed to draw him toward the shadowy mist ahead of him.

His were the only tracks in a deserted landscape, each step was laboured; each step was graceless, and difficult.

A soul that loses their spouse is called a widow, and they can be at a loss, but they’ll move forward and may find someone to replace that loss and have a new spouse. A child who loses their parents is called an orphan, and they suffer all their lives at the loss, but move forward and may find someone to replace that loss and have new adoptive parents. There is no word that could describe a parent that loses their child, no word could encompass the pain, no word could express the anguish, no word could define the sickness that burns upon the reasoning soul at such a loss, there’s no moving forward; nothing can replace such a loss.

He walked to seek oblivion, he had burnt all his bridges, he had no safe harbour; he was a creature crucified upon the cross of ambivalence, his soul burned with outrage, anger, vengeance, a burning that no winter could cool, while his mind was in anguish, in the throes of utter defeat, beyond any consoling.

His shivering body was seizing up, cold was overwhelming his reserves, he looked up and could see his unintended destination, the gates were halfway open in the snow, he walked into the graveyard, although the body of his son was not there, he knew this, but he didn’t care. He had never been to this graveyard before; it was just a place to stop.

Inside the cemetery he stood at a gravestone, snow covered, but with the inscription still legible. ‘Born 1867 Died 1870’. The grave of a child, this child had been laying here, covered with Earth, for well over a hundred years, the gravestone was old; he brushed away the snow resting on its top, the sandstone was icy beneath his hands as he balanced himself against it; he kneeled down falling back on his heels and sat there.

He collapsed backwards, now laid out facing the snowy night sky, and he gave in, he surrendered, he thought about the events of the past weeks and tears ran from his eyes and he waited for the cold to take him, it was better for the icy hands of nature to take him than the goons who hunted him.

The numbing cold had stopped hurting and his shaking abated, all his physical pain had left, he felt warm now; he felt at ease as he watched the snow dance in the wind.

He thought about his son, his laughter, his cuddles, his beautiful smiling face, and his contagious love for life. He loved his smell, breathing deeply when he held him close, he smelled so pure, he thought about him beginning to walk, his first words; his unconditional love. Then anger tore through his mind as he recalled holding his son’s lifeless body, his son’s bloody punctured corpse; murdered!

The scream of that moment had not left his mind, it held him transfixed still, overwhelmed, all he could do was hold him as his heart broke open, emotion so powerful he shook, his tormented body ridged, seized by emotion; emotion no soul could comprehend that hasn’t themselves experienced the bursting of the heart.

“AARRRHHHhhh” his voice rang out into the snowy blackness, the emotion even in memory so palpable it demanded a physical release.

A gang member, a costumed enforcer of psychopathic dictates, murdering, beating, stealing, inflicting fear and violence without any accountability; an arrogant and unconscionable creature.

His son was given no respect, he was collateral damage, the gang member was protected; the gang members of the legalised mafia who dominate the masses were beyond the reach of any redress, officers of corporate policy, labelled law, the goons of the walking dead that dominate the worlds imposed onto empathic souls.

He was forced to do the only thing he could, blood feud was the ancient term, he was forced to deal with the unaccountable, he was forced to give relief to his own torment, he was forced to find the gang member himself; because no other soul cared, no other soul was interested in his small son’s life, his laughter, his joys, his sorrows, the love of his cuddles, the beauty of his soul.

He had found him earlier that evening, still in his childish costume, still carrying the weapon that destroyed both his and his son’s life, still arrogant, still violent, still without any ability for remorse.

He walked slowly over to him, and stood in front of him, his costume trimmed and accessorised; the blank expression as he stood in front of him; he didn’t even remember who was before him.

He looked at the name on the badge pinned onto the jacket of the unhealthily obese carcase, ‘S Yudelson’, he only stared at him a second, then he moved quickly hooking his ankles and pushed Yudelson to the ground, Yudelson landed heavily in the snow, he pressed his knees on Yudelson’s upper arms and placed his own forehead in the snow; and then he reached down and slid his right hand around the left side of Yudelson’s neck and took a firm hold of his collar.

The costumed creature labelled Yudelson was swearing and threatening bloody vengeance, but he was not interested in anything the bloated sack of sweaty fat uttered, he slid his left hand around the right side of his neck and grabbed the collar crossing under the hand already in position; then he twisted his wrists pulling his hands away from each other, while holding the collar firmly, and lifting his elbows up, squeezing the sides of the costumed butchers neck; he held that for such a long time; but he had no need to, the gang member was quite dead after a couple of minutes, he thought of his little son as he squeezed, his anger pumping through him.

He stood over the creature laid dead in the snow at the side of his police car, and looked upon him; he was lifeless, his dead eyes stared into the darkness just as they had when he lived; after what to him seemed like a few seconds, but was in reality a few minutes, he walked slowly away, his grief was not lessened by the reciprocal relief imposed upon Yudelson, but his outrage had reduced a little.

His wife would not understand, or maybe she would he thought, she would suffer even more now, but that was a choice he couldn’t avoid, he couldn’t allow such utter contempt for his family to be unanswered.

In the graveyard the wind had calmed a little and he could hear a dog barking in the distance, as he laid there in the snow, and with that bark the sound of people’s voices. “They must be close now, the goons love to hunt down the defenceless, they love to beat and humiliate the innocent, but I’m almost gone, as I can no longer see.” he thought.

He remembered the violent goons ripping his sons bleeding corpse from his arms and throwing it aside like a worthless rag, his anguish and horror held him transfixed as a boot hit him in the face, his contorted mind remained seized in utter anguish as the gangsters punched him repeatedly; their relentless group beating was malicious, continuing even when he was semi-conscious, although he was incapable of any resistance; his body was immobile, because his mind could hold nothing except the deafening scream of silence, it filled every nuance and embraced every synapse.

He was never charged, as his abuse was a warning to others not to question the authority of state, a demonstration of power, an illustration to instil fear and deter others from the same course.

The goons had no warrant, no authority to murder and assault, no legislated mandate from their masters, they acted above account, they had grown so arrogant they could act as they wished; the corporation of State was their protector. These were his final thoughts in life.

He breathed out, but he couldn’t breathe in again, his eyes were fixed and sightless as the snow continued to cover him.” Gwen finished, there was silence.

After a few seconds Gwen asked. “Would you like to see my sculpting studio?” The spell was broken and the group chatted amongst themselves again.

“Lead on Gwen.” Tom replied.

As they entered the studio, which was a large extension on the back of the house, the first thing that struck them was the intricate mosaic tiled floor of abstract patterns, beautifully laid out and flowing like water around the room. Everything was well organized with tools and racking, draws and several part completed sculptures. At one end of the studio a door led into a greenhouse full of plants.

The group flowed into the room. “The floor is beautiful Gwen, you do mosaic as well, your talents have no end. And you’ve got green fingers; how do you find the time?” The dean commented.

“I grow my own hemp to make my own cannabis oil.” The old woman replied. Again the group fell silent, Gwen again felt uncomfortable. “You’ve a problem with hemp?” She asked.

“Well it’s illegal.” The dean replied.

“Saying that something is illegal isn’t an argument against that thing, it’s an appeal to authority, as an academic, should you not be an expert at identifying and disregarding all logical fallacies?

Laws are an arbitrary judgment made by whoever has political power, and what’s political power? Political is the policy of a corporation, a corporation is a group that work together against community, and the power of this group of parasites is in the imposing of their monopolies through their overarching monopoly on violence.

Laws are a means for a small group to govern the mental perceptions of the regulated majority; who’re born into hierarchies originally imposed, commonly, through genocide and theft.

Are you all statists?” The old woman asked with a stern tone.

“Why’re you so anti-establishment?” The dean asked.

“Every mind that has mastered the skill of reasoning stands against all forms of hierarchy, and against all those who impose them.” She replied.

“But why, hierarchy is a natural way for people to maintain order.” The dean argued.

“Based upon what evidence George?” She asked.

“Well look at the progress and achievements mankind has accomplished within hierarchies.” He replied.

“That’s a non sequitur based upon observational selection; another flaw in your reasoning. Logical fallacies are like tricks or illusions of thought George. If examined objectively progress would be in spite of hierarchies not because of them, and if free of hierarchy progress would be far greater, and far, far more morally centred, as hierarchies are almost always dominated by the soulless psychopaths that feed upon the multitudes, imposing poverty, wars, extortion’s, monopolies. And the most tragic casualty of hierarchy is truth, they suppress or pervert knowledge, when that truth would threaten them or those monopolies.” Gwen told him.

“Without hierarchy there would be anarchy.” George persisted.

“Anarchy means no hierarchy, but is painted to mean chaos, consider what hierarchy generates presently. The earth is ravaged by wars, poverty, disease, slavery, with the hoarding of the earth abundance by a small group of psychopaths, they murder, steal and subjugate the masses, acting above the laws; laws they invent upon those below them in status, laws are created for slaves, free souls are not bound by such fictional constructs, they’re bound only by inherent power, based upon three simple precepts. So hierarchies are the definition of chaos, for the majority hierarchy impose chaos.

The question a reasoning mind would ask is, how was anarchy organised in the past, when it existed as the dominant form of community?” She asked.

“Anarchy has never been the common form of community.” George replied.

‘George, what is community?

It is common unity.

What is hierarchy?

It is division into ranks of status.

Now ponder that, is it possible to have division in unity?” She asked him.

“Well, there is a sort of unity in hierarchy.” George replied.

“You mean we’re all equal in so much as we’re all within the hierarchy, but within that structure we’re far from equal, therefore there is no actual unity in hierarchy.

Hierarchies drive out all forms of community, and leave a soul exposed and defenceless against the dictates of their violently imposed masters.

A favourite quote of mine is by Terrence White, who wrote wisely:

“The Destiny of Man is to unite, not to divide. If you keep on dividing you end up as a collection of monkeys throwing nuts at each other out of separate trees.”

So it seems from this little chat being academics you don’t know what legal really means, what hierarchy does, or how it effects community, and you don’t seem to know the history that allowed the present hierarchical situation to form on the earth, or how anarchy, as an alternative form of collective living, works?” She probed them with a strong tone.

“Look, it’s not an issue, we won’t say anything about your illegal plant collection. Will we.” The dean said looking around, some of the group nodded.

“Legal is the law madam.” Mr. Cohen answered. “And ‘you have’ no right to question it.” He concluded.

This comment fired the old woman up further. “Laws are legislated rights, granted by an owner upon a slave; this makes them fictional legal constructs. All laws are simply the policy of the agents of corporation. This corporation of State is used to hoard the resources of the land for the paedophile class of soulless entities that grant each other title and privilege.” The old woman was feeling a little hostile towards the group now.

“Hemp is the most important plant on earth, if freed it would heal the sick, it would feed the hungry, it would fuel the car and the home, its uses have no limit. But it would, if let free, remove the many monopolies of the paedophile class, the toxins peddled by the pharmaceutical industry would have no buyers if cannabis oil were flowing free, the oil industry would have no customers if hemp oil was in abundance grown in every region, the paper and fabric industries of wood and cotton would be obsolete, the plastics industry would no longer pollute with the crude oil monopoly made impossible. And that is the key to its universal ban, it’s banned across the Earth, because it would strip the monopolies of the paedophile class completely, to the point the usury they impose of ownership, profit, rental and interest would be impossible to maintain, no matter how many mindless goons they sent to intimidate and abuse the masses.” The old woman looked around at the silent faces of the group, who seemed a little stunned.

“A schooled mind is the most uneducated.” She continued with a stern face.

“You’re a subversive madam.” Mr. Cohen replied.

“And you’re a ‘statist’, and although you may not grasp it, there is no greater insult possible, than to be called, a ‘statist’!” The old woman retorted passionately. “It’s an insult so profound I couldn’t imagine a greater, or even comparable one.”

“Mr. Cohen. Be quite.” The dean said with a strong tone.

“I’m phoning the police.” Mr. Cohen replied.

“Mr. Cohen!” the dean chided.

“I’m leaving.” Mr. Cohen replied, at which, while tapping the face of his phone, he walked through the house heading for the front door. “Hello, I’d like to report a large scale cannabis grower… Yes, I can hold.” He said into his phone as he walked away.

“Not to worry Gwen, I will sort this out.” The dean reassured her.

“I think maybe you should all leave.” Gwen replied.

“Please Gwen, Mr. Cohen will be censured by the university, and if you commit to the university, I can arrange for a medical exemption for your drug habit, also I can talk with the police superintendent. This whole thing wouldn’t be an issue, just forget about Cohen, he’s a fool.” The dean tried to assure her.

“I don’t have a drug habit, drugs are associated with poisons, which is the basis of the pharmaceutical industry, they poison the body. Cannabis oil, like many natural substances, is a naturopathic ingredient of life, not a poison.” Gwen pointed out.

“Please Gwen let’s go back to the living room and we can discuss the whole arrangement, if Tom and Frank will stay, I’ll see the rest of you in the morning.” The dean said to the group with a smile.

“This is Terry the logistics and purchasing manager. Sorry I should’ve made the introductions fully at the start.” Terry introduced himself and commented to Gwen on her beautiful work. “This is Fatima, she’s our media and I.T head.” Fatima introduced herself and commented on her work in glowing terms. “This is Vladimir, he’s in charge of our security. I want you Vlad, to organize some security here as soon as you can.” The dean told him.

“No. No. Please I don’t want security men around my property, thank you anyway.” Gwen told the dean firmly.

“OK. So now you’ve met the team, we’ll all work closely with you, and make certain you’re happy with everything we’re doing in regard to your artwork and yourself.” The dean smiled, desperate to reassure Gwen. “I could have security brought over to make sure you and your collection are safe, I realize you’ve had no issues to date, but as more people become aware of your work, the greater the danger someone who wishes to take advantage may become aware.” The dean told her.

Gwen had remained silent. She was thinking about what she should do. “I’m quite happy and content with how I’m living, your three ring circus really isn’t that important to me. I may have let the cancer of egotism begin to grow this week, that’s not good.” She pondered.

“Gwen let’s not let this end before it’s really begun, you still have many productive years ahead of you, with the resources of the university you could explore new forms of expression and creativity, and build relationships with people who appreciate and enjoy your talents.” The dean responded.

“How many more productive years do you think I have?

At eighty-eight I think my days are numbered.” She replied.

“That’s impossible!” The dean answered, and the group looked at her with surprise. “You look no older than fifty, even barely… How can that be?” The dean said quietly.

“I’ll tell you what.” Gwen said firmly. “Leave now. And I’ll ponder this situation, I’ll sleep on it, take you circus and go.” Gwen was not happy about how the evening had ended, and was realizing this nonsense was a real threat to her tranquil life.

The group left after they’d tried to persuade her a little more, and as she closed the front door, she felt a little violated, her simple life complicated. “Cathy!” She thought. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Click Link: Chapter Twelve

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