Jimmy Carter: Opposition to Obama is Racist

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Excerpt from Art of Loving, Erich Fromm on Capitalism

“The human problem of modern capitalism can be formulated in this way:

Modern capitalism needs men who co-operate smoothly and in large numbers; who want to consumer more and more; and whose tastes are standardized and can be easily influenced and anticipated. It needs men who feel free and independent, not subject to any authority or principle or conscience – yet willing to be commanded, to do what is expected of them, to fit into the social machine without friction; who can be guided without force, led without leaders, prompted without aim – except the one to make good, to be on the move, to function, to go ahead.

What is the outcome? Modern man is alienated from himself, from his fellow men, and from nature. He has been transformed into a commodity, experiences his life forces as an investment which must bring him the maximum profit obtainable under existing market conditions. Human relations are essentially those of alienated automatons, each basing his security on staying close to the herd, and not being different in thought, feeling or action. While everybody tries to be as close as possible to the rest, everybody remains utterly alone, pervaded by the deep sense of insecurity, anxiety and guilt which always results when human separateness cannot be overcome.

Our civilization offers many palliatives which help people to be consciously unaware of this aloneness: first of all the strict routine of bureaucratized, mechanical work, which helps people remain unaware of their most fundamental human desires, of longing for transcendence and unity. Inasmuch as the routine alone does not succeed in this, man overcomes his unconscious despair by the routine of amusement, the passive consumption of sounds and sights offered by the amusement industry; furthermore by the satisfaction of buying ever new things, and soon exchanging them for others.”

Me thinks…

I love the freedom that these last few days have given me, I love the chance to read again to read that which I want to read, I love the reality that in a few months I will be free again. I love the fear of the hardships of PMing that I have ahead to me, so much uncertainty, yet so many possibilities. I love the challenges that I have given to myself (& fear its possible negative consequences) but all in all I Love Love.

And how is the company doing?

the company at the moment is in school figuring/scheming on how the company should be able to do in the very near future

continua

life presently feels as if I trudging though waist deep snow
or walking through water…
its weight influences and slowly transforms me
forces me to figure out how to do things more efficiently

D.H. Lawrence’s Epitaph – Words we hope will be said about us and our purpose…

lawrence

From an obituary of D.H. Lawrence, by Catherine Carswell:

“In the face of formidable initial disadvantages and life-long delicacy, poverty that lasted for three quarters of his life and hostility that survives his death, he did nothing that he did not really want to do, and all that he most wanted to do he did.

He went all over the world, he owned a ranch, he lived in the most beautiful corners of Europe, and met whom he wanted to meet and told them that they were wrong and he was right.

He painted and made things, and sang, and rode.

He wrote something like three dozen books, of which even the worst page dances with life that could be mistaken for no other man’s, while the best are admitted, even by those who hate him, to be unsurpassed.

Without vices, with most human virtues, the husband of one wife, scrupulously honest, this estimable citizen yet managed to keep free from the shackles of civilization and the cant of literary cliques.

He would have laughed lightly and cursed venomously in passing at the solemn owls– each one secretly chained by the leg– who now conduct his inquest.

To do his work and lead his life in spite of them took some doing, but he did it, and long after they are forgotten, sensitive and innocent people– if any are left –will turn Lawrence’s pages and will know from them what sort of a rare man Lawrence was.”

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ep·i·taph
1. An inscription on a tombstone in memory of the one buried there.
2. A brief literary piece commemorating a deceased person
[Middle English, from Old French epitaphe, from Latin epitaphium, from Greek epitaphion, from neuter of epitaphios, funerary : epi-, epi- + taphos, tomb.] n.

Never forget….

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