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The pseudo-intellectualism of contemporary discussions about homosexuality

Liberals usually claim that homosexuality is inborn. Religious people and manospherians usually claim that homosexuality is a mental illness. Both commit the same fallacy, an appeal to nature based on personal bias. Both assumptions, when declared doctrine, are potentially harmful.

If we declare that homosexuality is inborn, we take all hope away from those who truly suffer from emotional disturbances and developmental setbacks. They are left in a desperate situation and when trying to reconcile the conflicting voices in their heads, they feel forced to support the voice that urges them into homosexuality, inflicting strong pain on themselves from even thinking about it.

On the other hand, I think it is plausible to make room for the assumption that some people are truly homosexual at their core and suffer gravely from having to repress that. Telling them that homosexuality is a mental illness hurts them just as much as those who experience the dilemma from the other perspective.

To make a little analogy, there may be a man who truly enjoys photography and art. And there may be another man who truly enjoys hard work and carrying around big bricks at the building site. Now let’s assume that each of them thinks that his profession is the only true and natural thing to do for a real man. They get children. The artist’s kid would secretly love nothing more than to be a hard worker. The hard worker’s kid would love nothing more secretly than to be an artist. Let us assume that both shame their kids for not doing what they think is the right way. Both kids suffer for having to be something they do not truly wish to be, feeling guilty towards their parents for not truly wanting to be their narcissistic mirror image. And yet, the fact that the kids suffer from having to live a life that does not fit them does not mean that this life would not perfectly fit somebody else.

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Anger hypnosis – why do politics enrage us so?

Nietzsche suggests in his book On the Genealogy of Morals a historical account of a nation that was harmonious and peaceful inside, while periodically going on crusades against other nations, committing the most heinous crimes; rape, murder, torture. And they enjoy it. He suggests that this nation has developed this mechanism as a way to vent the more animalistic tendencies that are suppressed inside its civilization.

Why do we get so angry about politics? Why do we see a flag or a famous monkey and are so hyponotized by it that we elevate it, in our minds, above all of those who oppose it? Why are we seemingly ready to kill people who disagree with us about political issues – and yet seldom dare to speak our own minds if they oppose that which is morally accepted?

I think the answer is simple.

Political issues and political leaders give us the permission to be angry. Something we are generally not allowed to be.

To be angry and violent, those are qualities that are looked down upon in society. To use force and power to get your own way, that is perhaps the greatest crime of all. Beware the selfish man. Serve the others, always be compassionate and so on. And yet, when our personally chosen leaders talk about the enemies of their values, we become feral, with foam at our mouths, ready to do almost anything to silence them. Very peculiar.

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Is your pain created by yourself or others?

I want to ask you a question. I want to ask you to answer it spontaneously, without thinking, out of your gut. The question is: Who creates all the pain in your life?

Okay, I admit it. I am not that creative. This question is just a variation of something a woman asked me in response to a Quora question of mine about free will. She wrote: Who creates your life? Although it seemingly had no connection to my question, I felt a deep desire to answer this question. And although I did not fully understand my own answer, it was simple: I. I create my life. I choose everything I am and everything I experience.

I still do not fully understand it. But I can not deny that the only answer that feels right is still the same.

There is a cool site called Existential Comics with lots of comics poking fun at philosophers of all ages. Here is a fun bit about stoicism. The message is a bit similar: You can not harm me. It is only me who can choose to suffer from events I have no control over.

I have been doing meditation for about half a year now and about two weeks ago I had a short insight into how this is true. I was at cinema and the ads started running as they always do. And as always, I had a reflexive reaction to them: I felt contempt, boredom, ridicule.

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I saw a crazy screaming woman today – she reminded me of me

My first day as a free man in two months. I take a ride into the city to buy a cheap checkers game. On my way around the cathedral I hear a woman scream. A man is firmly holding a relatively attractive young woman’s two hands at a restaurant table. Let me go, she shouts. I wonder what it is about. I look at her hands; she has some kind of necklace wrapped around her fists.

I suspect she attacked the man and now she is getting what she asked for. Let me go, you asshole!

She looks around; a few somewhat amused people are watching. Help me! Help me, you cowards! Aah, you are hurting me! I feel mild shame, but I will not interfere in a situation I know nothing about. Besides, it is interesting to watch. In fact, it is interesting that there really seems nothing I can do without knowing what happened. Justice is a blind bitch.

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Fighting the system – Part 3: Transit

Inoccuosly, one of the cops calmly opens the metal cell door. Have they decided to treat me with respect, after all? Then two cops in heavy armor and helmets come rushing around the corner. I lie still and let it come and happen.

One of the stormtroopers jumps right onto my chest with his knee. I let my body be limp and after a few moments, I end up lying on the floor of the cell with handcuffs behind my back.

I ask them whether they intend to carry me. Drag along, rather, one remarks.

I study the floor and their shoes. The ones who stand right next to me look like a bird shat on the dominant black leather. The pair further away looks more cared after.

You could learn a lesson from your colleague there, I remark, his shoes look much cleaner than yours.

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Fare well, long dead uncle, the only dad I ever had

I have always lived with this quiet conviction that this world belong to the crazy monsters we call women and that men have no real place in it. I protested against it, but deep down, I felt it was futile and against the natural order. Their madness was destined for victory.

And real men? For whatever reason, they scared the hell out of me.

I avoided masculine men and when I looked into the mirror, I did not see a real man. Sure, I saw all the parts of a man. I saw a beard, a masculine face, all that. But I did not see masculinity. Could not see it. I saw a face that should look masculine to me and likely looked masculine to anybody else, but my sixth sense told me that it was a face totally and utterly devoid of masculinity. As if cursed.

Something inside me told me to call this blog Man Without Father a year ago. But I did have a father. Not the biological one, whom I never really emotionally cared about, yet that is something I did not understand. My real father was the man who took care of me until he died around my age of 2. I intellectually knew he had been there, but it meant nothing to me.

Until now.

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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 9: Frog poison

Happy reunion with the other trippers. We sit in a cafe and I pretend to care about the other’s great journeys. I guess that is a scene I saw in a movie. A dude meets people who experienced something and is interested; my act is to be interested. How impolite to refuse such a game. I am much too scared, much too alone, much too obsessed with being the stoic dude to actually care about what really intrigues me.

Listening to other people’s journeys is a bit like watching football in television; pointless.

I feel somewhat ashamed of the incident back at the camp, but I still believe the shaman is the devil. We meet up with the Viking at a bar. He asks me whether I still believe that the shaman is the devil and I am torn between not wanting to look like a fool and wanting to stand by the truth. I choose the latter.

We have some juice, the others chitchat about happiness and enlightenment and I pretend to somehow be a part of this, torn between my addiction to be nice and my addiction to be an uncaring asshole.

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How to do a frog poison hunter ritual

A year ago Peter Gorman explained to me how to do a frog poison hunter ritual. It sharpens the senses and cleanses your blood vessels, that is what he said. I will share this with you, along with a few explanatory images. This particular kind of frog venom is called Kambo or Sapo. It is not psychedelic, it is just good old-fashioned pain.

Peter Gorman is an old and tough guy with a calm deep voice and the only weakness I could find in him was his confession that he listens to women, because he likes to kiss them. Indeed, a girl was the reason why he broke his plans to become celibate. This guy is a character. He is an author, too, and I seemed to be the only one who had not heard of him. He wrote a book about Ayahuasca. I guess I was generally somewhat out of place down there in Peru, apart from the angry atmosphere. The only guy interested in an Ayahusca ritual who was pretty much a non-spiritual super-rational (read: dumb) atheist and not all mesmerized by the spirituality and shit.

The reason I tell you of Peter is because people give relevance and credence to information. Stories become powerful. This guy is an adventurer. He has a foot half eaten up by flesh-eating bacteria, a big gaping wound that is open and wet at all times. I think he said he fought a crocodile once. He hunted wild boars, too. Beat them to death with a club. I have no doubt he is speaking the truth. He arranges Ayahusca rituals, trips to the deep jungle, has shrooms, frog poison and more. A day before I met him, someone had stolen his tablet and a little boy had brought him a little note with instructions how to regain it. Wild world down there. Here is his website.

Anyway, he offered to do a frog poison ritual with me and a few others and that is what we did. Instructions are not so easy to find and when you find them, who knows if they are believable? Many are afraid of legal repercussions. Fuck that. If you sue me, you are a fucking idiot. The ritual is really simple and if you do it wrong, you must be a moron.

Anyway, here goes. I will tell you how to do it in clear steps and what to expect from it. I am a novice in this, but it is really simple and I think that this is a great initiation rite for men. A friend of mine whom I met on the trip also did it at hine with his son and said it was great – he also contributed an article. A test of character. I cried when I did it the second time. I always vomited.

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Lonely alps: How I almost died in the mountains – Part 1

Three hours of exhaustive ascent. I stand tall and erect, my breast protruded and head held high in pride; my head is shaven and with a jeans, jeans jacket and a simple shirt underneath I arrogantly claim the rule of the world. I look down from the Montscheinspitze, a summit of the Karwendel range in Austria, three thousand feet above the place where I kicked off. The sun lingers 2 remaining hours high above the comb of the surrounding mountains and, supported by a slightest fog, strikes light rays down into the valley.

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