Sunday, January 16, 2011

(excerpt 5) Psycho-Neurosis of Slavery

Psycho-Neurosis of Slavery
No sugar, no salt, no alcohol, just rice. Brown rice that is.
There is a wisdom tradition that adheres to a diet centered on brown rice. Apparently the brown rice provides all the nutrients and amino acids needed to bring the body back to a state of equilibrium.
Obviously, alcohol dulls sense perception and stunts electromagnetic receptivity, paling the chakras. Sugar is a straight up poison producing static in the subtle body, in one’s thinking, inhibiting Supreme Consciousness. Salt taints one’s bodily fluids producing a high acidity, again blocking the ability of the human to receive and transmit light.
Every cell of your body is a receiver. So the brown rice diet was part of an effort to cleanse and stimulate the human body, to reverse the atrophy.
As there is a bleaching process turning brown rice into white rice, brown sugar into white sugar, and a fermentation process to produce liquor, there was a process which turned noble, proud Africans captured during slavery into a Negro, a necro, a zombie with no will of his or her own.
Lynching, quartering, tar and feathering, all the sadistic torture techniques were just bulwarks to enforce the damage done. Thus producing the psycho-neurosis of slavery: deeply embedded morays, habits, ways of thinking, acting, reacting and not acting at all cemented firmly into the collective Black American psyche still evident today.
One of the many outgrowths of the psycho-neurosis of slavery is a matriarchal society among Black folks.
Black men were totally demasculinized, physically and psychologically; our innate masculinity robbed. The X and Y chromosomes functioning only biologically.
Watch a male hawk. The male organically searches for a mate, a female hawk. He’ll present her with gifts, maybe a mouse, showing his ability to hunt. He’ll successfully fend off any would-be suitors, showing his ability to protect and defend her. Then he’ll take some twigs and grass, fly to the highest point of a tree or mountain and build a nest, a little home for the two of them.
They consummate the union.
When the babies come, the brother hawk goes to work triple-time to feed his children while simultaneously killing any would be aggressors to his family.
Then papa hawk teaches his children how to fly and fend for themselves, imparting all his hawk-knowledge passed down hawk-to-hawksince dawn-time. But here are grown men among us that can’t do any of that. What happened?
A mass lobotomy was performed on the mind of the Black male. But the spirit, unconquerable by nature, never dies having never been born. The fact that I can articulate this to you (and you feel me) proves that another Power greater than the “power” of the oppressors was present.
I’m coming to something.
For hundreds of years we had no rights over our own bodies; man, woman, nor child. Pedophilia, as American as apple pie, was the norm. Every orifice of any man, woman, or child was poked and prodded by the oppressors from the moment of conquer. The sadomasochistic abuse, degradation, and humiliation of the Negro was a recreational sport complete with souvenirs and postcards to commemorate the festivities.
Now imagine a female hawk having to take on the role of the male. The male hawk reduced to a breeder who just fucks her and hangs out with the other males on a tree stump. (Not in the sky.)
Imagine if this role reversal occured in all of nature. The entire ecological integrity of the planet would be thrown off.
So this matriarchal thing sprung up where women play both roles. She’s got testicles, the man’s got a vagina, and the little boys look to mama for an example of manhood. This is a sad and tragic thing. I wish it were a fairy tale but we know it’s very real.
Universal Awe awakens the masculinity innate in a man and reawakens the feminine in a woman. I had it naturally. All the men around me were super strong. Weakness was not tolerated.
If you spent a week around Mister Lushus, William Roberts, Michael Thomas, the Moppingtown crew, or myself, any punk in you would disappear, be beaten out of you, or you’d have to relocate somewhere else more befitting your condition of punkaphila.

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