“SEVENTY-SEVEN AXIOMS FROM BONDAGE”

By Andrew K. Burward-Hoy

Written, these observations, these axioms, this eighth evening of April of Two Thousand and Twenty, after Christ, or more commonly A.D., in Chicago, Illinois. And, after alterations by hands unknown, restored and revised in Los Alamos, New Mexico, the evenings around the fifteenth of December, of Two Thousand and Twenty by the author.

(corrected, again, the Thirteenth of November of 2023, in Melbourne, Australia)

THE AXIOMS

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Eventually, the Karma that perpetuates this, will atrophy, and it will become something else.

The American Woman, possessed as she so often is with a horrid fascination for monarchism or dynasticism, finds, I would surmise, such interests, from school classroom studies in primitivism, violent imperialism (of one form or another), feudalism, and Hollywood. One can construe by this, that She is often, uniquely, bored.

Kiwis share with the French a natural aversion, one with the other; but also share an egotistical sensitivity, both, as temperamental as cigarette paper.

The history of the Earth is nothing more than a combat, at its worst, between prestige, ego, and a profound fear of embarrassment---death.

The history of the Earth is nothing more than a convalescent home in combat, at its worst, between a paraplegic named Prestige, a megalomaniac named Ego, and a profoundly insecure person named Embarrassment---all fighting it out for the best piece of poached salmon with hollandaise.

As the twenty-first century seems, to my mind, so much more complex than the time after Christ Jesus, after meditating an entire afternoon on The Seven Deadly Sins: Anger, Sloth, Envy, Malice, Lust, Vanity, Avarice, if it not exceedingly unbecoming of me, I suggest three more: Legendry---an uncompromising desire for fame, for the obtention of limitless sexual viability; Impersonation---a horrifying temptation to pass oneself off as someone else, either for temporary or lasting self-aggrandisement, or to perform a malevolent task of manipulation, towards one or many individuals, brainwashing; and Megalomania---an unsubstantiated and baseless claim, an undeserved and unworked for sense of entitlement to rule a country, province, suburb, or planet. Or a woman whose sexual appetite involves domination of a huge group of men, or less so women, by sexual conquest and charm: polyandrism. The opposite, polygamy, domination by man over women is less prevalent---due to limitations of the male sex organ and infringements on the rights of men.

Depending on the individual circumstances of a country, women sharing fifty-percent of its power might indeed mean, one belongs to half a sovereign nation. This sounds almost like a pun on coinage.

Is it safe to say that The Seven Deadly Sins are more pronounced as civilisations fall, in equal measure to their ascent? If yes to both, perhaps a strong abhorrence of idle talk would be more than meritorious, to all.

New Zealand is a small but vital, strategic link in the Pacific Rim, endowed, most recently, with the almost staggering self-determination to decide their own fate, trusting their lives to those who have not the slightest idea what is best for their country.

The Sicilian Mafia---from my largely removed position from its many adherents---strikes me as consisting chiefly of clown princes to a fool king.

My time as captive to a variety of institutions---both penal and ostensibly palliative---were a revolting tug of war with some hopelessly mesmerising killers: Japanese Man of Wars.

After having, in the past, played ad nauseum the Chinese game of Chess, I’ve since concluded that the great mystery behind its endless fascination to The West, is the no doubt eons-long walled secret that the game is a satire on the idiocy of ruthlessly violent feudalism---and the horror of massively powerful obsessions with unquestionably seductive cunt.

A speck; a hidden miracle; a blood cell---at once marvellous, stupefying, and unspeakably sad.

When mothers effectively make their daughters husbands, in a foul, potty-mouthed conspiracy of fools, their mothers, effectively, become widows.

Millions upon millions of bimbos, nose-diving off a cliff, because a European warlock tells them to.

I suspect my family’s inexcusably neglectful ignorance---their Social Darwinism---helped engineer this massive, self-inflicted massacre, at once hell-bent, and shepherded, by the blithe European man, and his wife. Why? Bombs over Europe, opportunism, and incinerated bloodlines.

I’ve witnessed for years, in at least three countries---and now, increasingly----drop-dead gorgeous bet-hedgers.

When Italians genetically engineer hookers, their creations become as flat and over-designed as Leonardo da Vinci madonnas.

The leader, if there is only one, of the Italian Mafia, should he ever desire to instruct Americans, his subjects, maybe even to his experiments, I would suggest strongly he shoot himself, and regenerate himself, with a larynx in his lower colon, and thus an orbicularis oris at the anus, so as to better offer his edicts to his adoring throng---no doubt at a level that they can best understand.

Homosexuality, I see, after some study, is an affliction to society. Far from a Right, an end-point, in a centuries-long fight against oppression, such an argument is absolute nonsense. Sodomy---for that is indeed what it is---is merely a starting point, and I would wager preceded by cowardly, woman-fearing pederasty. In such a case, a perverted domination, as stated, built on male cowardice in the face of intimidation—crippling—from the prettiest and most seductive of womankind divorced from all reason and politeness, expressing itself though this unfortunate cowardice in boys and men in likening the smooth, somewhat asexual bodies of young boys, to those of women. Thus, I would guess that this menace, sodomy, begins with an unsatisfied lust and hence anger toward women, frustratingly, violently, and selfishly inflicted on naïve young men, boys or captives, as a consequence. As such, the bedrock of such behaviour rests on sexual confusion, misplaced lust, and selfish self-satisfaction through violence towards those of the more accessible, same sex. Sodomy is the beginning—and leads in time, if idiotically accepted by a city or society—to greater and more unbelievably monstrous violences and to hopelessly nonsensical infractions of Man’s Laws; Man’s Laws, which are Nature’s Laws, and thus, such horrifying men and women become utter Satanists—demons—capable of anything. At this point, unless stopped or routed, these pathetic beings invariably, according to the historical records—both extant, eroded, and somewhat understood—pull apart the very fabric that holds together a civilisation: Sodom and Gomorrah.

Minutes after meeting with an anonymous judge using a pseudonym, and in the company of a laughing mental health advocate, via computer cameras—regarding a continuance over whether my five-month incarceration at hospital, dutifully recorded here, should continue, amidst false accusations of being quite frankly, the Messiah and (or?) a secret agent, I’ve been blessed with having met many immigrants from the United States, in Chicago, Illinois—the place of my capture. Based on my experiences, with film, I’ve concluded that as American cinema is the face of above all California, and Her products are one of The United States’ chief exports around the World, the immigrants that the United States has attracted to Her flame from around the World over the years, resemble those who have settled in Her, California: children.

Any country as great as The United States, having evidently permitted the takeover of the administration and governance, its criminal justice system and hospitals, to immigrants, who to my limited view seem hardly worthy of being in this country, such a country, Chicago, doesn’t deserve the respect of countries who understand the blinding influence The United States has had on the World, including New Zealand. The Light, is fading.

An indication of the monumental cowardice and corruption of The United States: An American woman’s voice, aroused, on the other side of a door, suggesting that New Zealand can’t terminate its diplomatic and trade relationships with The United States, and this voice then being joined by an American man’s, ‘..Because New Zealand is hopelessly in need of America’s whores.’

Black sex, brutal, strong, and the face, the very mask of virility, has long now served for white women as a substitute, for the remarkably well-noted, abroad, diminution of white strength and influence for decades. The Feminist, in her largely facile and mischievous toying with men’s minds, en masse, has created a massive, exploitation by black men: white effeminacy—often strategized about, rarely spoken about, in the company of others. Continental esoteric flirtations, for acts committed, in plain sight, has ensued. Media dialogue, day and night, for years, is a fine example. I have witnessed others. The result should be like a knife in the gut to the American man: the truth. The black woman, whose laughter has echoed for a considerable time indeed, is, I suppose, the first indicator that the truth, conveyed by me, is true.

In short, and after extensive writings politely critiquing such things as ‘Don’t ask. Don’t tell.’, Feminism, lack of politeness and its influence on community, violence, film, multiculturalism, white weakness, crime, and utter illiterate stupidity, I’ve concluded that regardless of who eventually takes credit for these writings, the message, as well as the attention to nuance, details, will not survive—like so many other originals. And like so many in the past, I suspect just like Juvenal, this is simply a pity. Burke once wrote of the discord between author (creator) and writings, should the two ever become obscure. Change the author, necessitates, due to nakedness (of inauthenticity), changes to works—as I suspect happened to the Roman, Juvenal.

The American woman, after having fought tooth and nail, for years, for her Liberation, now, in the beginnings of this second decade of the twenty-first century, is amazingly beautiful, arguably smarter than her equivalents, mischievous, exciting, fashionable, inviting to all, even to the expense of her own, generous, well-schooled in an array of exceptional things, prosperous, gregarious, thirsty even when sated, a traitor and soon, when completely exposed, a Sorceress of such size and visibility that she is without equal in the historical record. Photography has made this a certainty. International air travel has made the already stated, as well, a profound questionmark. A dropped napkin after a condition, a cold, abroad, the beginning of a double life—dark, to the world of Light.

American film has had, as any in this country know, an awesome influence on the rest of the country. As it should be the chief conduit to communicating important events—both real and fiction—to the public, therein lies the rub: the public’s inability to differentiate between fact and fiction. I’ve thus long believed a regrowth in documentary film (and a death to reality shows) critical to America’s rebirth.

Recently endowed with a staggering economic surplus, New Zealand has seen fit to address both the homeless problem and its healthcare situation. Time is the variable, vital to both, and money, even enormous sums do little in the short term. Young people’s lives are at stake. The rebirth of the New Zealand armed forces, as well as an effective air force, would give such young direction, education and nationalism—until enough houses can be built, and beds, medical personnel to address the Kiwis’ eventual headaches to come. It is New Zealand’s Imperative.

The New Zealand Film Commission should task itself with more than the plight of the contemporary Maori as principal ‘cause celebre’ of New Zealand. The bicultural growth of its too interconnecting divides yields a far more complete picture than this. Tourism will grow in this regard as well—as well as much sought-for foreign acceptance.

Polite elusiveness is a skill that I have studied in writing. John Updike’s opinion of Czeslaw Milosz, pointed the way.

Franz Kafka was an insane man, and an extraordinary talent, so exceptionally intuitive, that his intuition overshadowed in not a few places, his coherence. A masterpiece maker of tremendous size.

“Omega Point” by Don Delillo, of which I only read the beginning, left such an enormous shadow over my mind that I still do think of its hypnotic intensity. I regret that I was so appalled, I didn’t, couldn’t finish it.

The double entendre, so seemingly little used, is the magic key to the busting guffaw.

The seemingly incomprehensible, Modern Science, lays waste to chiefly the young American woman’s ongoing and remarkably obscure, parochial ‘assumptions’ on what is and what is not ‘appropriate’. Primitivism, narrow-mindedness, coupled with terrifying remedies to ‘scary’ problems accepted as necessary solutions, not only by her friends elsewhere, but also now by her ‘gurus’—popular icons, I’m sure both known and unknown I would suggest—has led to the mind’s slow awakening that she now finds she must either run or duck and cover. She seems, in the light of day, to be doing both. As the American Woman wakes to the reality of it, I suggest her ‘friends’ do the same.

It is profoundly dangerous not to weigh into historical phenomena, the influence of scientific breakthroughs. To my mind, a book is needed in this light, on the impact of Hubble—not least on the resultant ‘schism’ his discovery engendered, on the European mind, as enraptured as it was with contemporary mechanised weaponry, African, Polynesian primitivism and art, but more importantly on Hitler and ‘Il Duce’ Benito Mussolini.

Historical ‘forgetting’ is a power, a Might, of such existential ruthlessness, such expansiveness, that I fear even these words on the ‘subject’ written here. The truths surrounding Christ’s life and death, his ‘renown’ and its consequences to The Roman Empire uniquely weigh, as of late, heavily upon my mind. European obfuscation, forgetting, and necessity to a power’s continuance make me wonder significantly about the real story: about a Wolf and one of the last ‘sheep’ of a lineage, called The House of David. Crucifixion and its horrors, may likely, given the convenience of historical forgetting, recur, as it has already done so, in my opinion, in the Americas. It, historical forgetting, is an expedient, a remedy, to threats to order and its future—made unavoidable when the only other choice is confronted: Embarrassment.

(written on Good Friday morning, 2020)

Regardless of the computer, three-dimensional laser carvers, direct casting from life, if the sculptor depends on these things, he is no better off than a well-trained illustrator, who learns over time to depend on a camera obscura or lucidograph only to find, over time, to have lost, eventually, all his soul and ability.

“Speak the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” —my father Kenneth Burward-Hoy, quoting from the New Testament.

The wonderful thing about being on the street is at least you’re in good company. This happens to be true of bachelorhood, too.

A human being

For most people who attempt to master the English language, they more or less get it straightened out by fifteen or sixteen. Sadly, in my case, it’s taken decades.

Italians are a mystery. I once knew an Italian woman, of about twenty-six years. She was a post-doc in Biology. I met her on a train to Pisa. I couldn’t speak Italian; she couldn’t speak English. We carried on marvelously well, all over Italy, for over a week. I paid for everything; she found everything. Since that time, my experience with Italians has been limited. But from what limited information I have, the Italian strikes me as effeminately insecure, soft, malicious, snake-like, and the most mischievously—to the point of idiocy—chameleon-esque man I’ve ever known. His American equivalents, both male and female, seem much the same. Either Italy has conquered The United States, or The United States has conquered Italy, because I still don’t understand why I’m still alive.

The drawings of Jacopo Pontormo, though he was a Mannerist, far exceed his painted works in vitality and life—a fact that is oft-noted.

The peoples of the Earth have been living with the spectre of cities, arbitrarily, being vapourised for decades. The danger is here. Should ever, as an example, Manhattan be ‘held’ for ransom by bastards—foreign or otherwise—is it not better to lose a hand than your entire body? Is it not better, if thy right hand offend thee, to smite it off?—to paraphrase a good man, from another time. Unlike a body, a Continent can be rebuilt, and to quote another good man, even better than before. Should the United States ever one day find itself in such a position, I should hope the American People would strike sure and sound, and cleave it off.

No man, regardless of his intelligence or lack, should be mocked for recording his thoughts, either in writing, or the arts, if they be supported by virtue, ability and understandable, measured respect for others. Naturally intelligence, which can be developed, is the yardstick of greatness given the already stated.

As Plato said, mimesis is the bedrock. In literature as in the arts.

Copying is fundamental to the apprentissage of any visual art. It is the beginning. Both painting and sculpture in the round. If you desire, in your deepest heart, to become a Sargent, study Hals, Titian, Velazquez. You’ll find, should you devote yourself to study from reproductions, then originals, when you are in time as good as Sargent, who you are as a person will guide you, tangentially, under your own sail—and you will, for a time, leave your own unique wake similar to a Master, but completely your own; you will, at that time, be ready to jettison like unnecessary ballast your idol, and you will then be your own idol. You will then be your own guide.

Degenerates find their principal source of strength from raucous, nonsensical laughter at others. If a nation prides itself almost exclusively on laughter, under such influences as too much insensitivity to the innate sadness of the conditions of life, I fail to see how it can stand, how it can maintain itself, without being a source of hatred, to other peoples, and in time also to itself.

Virtuosity in brushwork obeys the eyes, not the ego. The ego is merely the fuel that warms the engine: intelligence, training, and eyesight.

If an artist on the body desires to sculpt with the ability to make his sculptures breathe, to live, he or she must redouble their efforts, if even and especially in their mutual company—the two devoted to the maitrissage of all that is human, thus animal. Desire, blood, bone, cartilage, articulations and their flexibility; muscles, their origins, attachments, and functions; and endless curiosity on the magnificence of variation in God’s creation: an organic machine with a history of chiselling and perfecting, by its own hand and the luck of the Elements extending back millions of years. Be proud of your and your lover’s machine. It has a legacy.

The sparse existence of works by da Vinci is a veritable certainty that his genius was, indeed, stratospheric. What appears to me to be the continual derision of the dead man, even to this day, I have no explanation for.

The United States has known no equal to Daniel Chester French since his death.

El Greco was an egomaniac without a sense of good colour, and arguably no compositional sense as well. I’m sure the Church of Rome would agree—even to this day.

Michelangelo’s best works were his youthful works, in sculpture. The impact a sculptor’s hammer has on the hand over time probably always makes this common, and natural—expected.

‘The Artist’s Spirit’ by Robert Henri, frequently available on art store shelves in Los Angeles, is a dramatic find from an inspired teacher who dares his ‘students’ to outmatch him, and to go even further.

I never listen to much pop music—except on occasion. One song composed by a criminal, his body covered, as his face is, with abominable tattooed markings, and I’m sure a darling of the American Harlot, has a song entitled “Sunflower” (I assume). It is flowery indeed, and targets with an anonymous venom and with such affectation that the songwriter invites—without politely providing lyrical explanations on why he hates a woman—an inescapable accusation of decadence. The historical record will probably agree—unless he addresses such directions toward kitsch—if such an historical record survives his music at all.

For painting ‘au premier touche’, it is necessary to achieve first the structure, composed, of the figure or figures with either charcoal or brush of very small size, and then attempt to capture in a vague sense with paint—both with the squinting at the live model—the large patterning of the principal light and dark shapes and their relative colours and intensities. If the model is in direct light, decide on the protagonist of your play: shadow or light. This is best decided by an artist’s intention, an artist’s sense purpose: his sense of narrative and poetry. Dominance of either light or shadow become the chief choices at this time. If shadow, expect a ‘white-washing,’ a prevailing blankness to dominate the lights in conjunction with the ‘star’ of your painting: the deep, and minutely nuanced, rich shadows. If the light is the focus of your painting, the opposite: colourful nuances and subtle colour-facetting, detail and a prevailing optimism that embues the whole. Expect to spend considerable time and energy in the development and complexity of the border between the shadow and the light on your model, the ‘edges,’ regardless of how you proceed with either shadow or light, for the indispensable development of form. From experience, when painting ‘au premier touche,’ the more indirect the light-source, the more the eventual and necessary growth of details from a simple, blocked-in and accurate but simple beginning. The more nuanced development of a mosaic effect will occur, adding depth and nuance, verisimilitude to the painting as a whole, both in light or dark. Next, a softening of the mosaic effect creating a remarkable life to the painting. This will carry the day, and of course the subtle development of line—revealed in all its remarkable and all-important complexity; an inextricable, subtle development to the painting as it evolves.

Velazquez, without the intervention of the King of Spain to summon the Master back from Italy, might have to this day, been known simply as a Spanish ex-patriot, living in Italy, of considerable though negligible talent. A derivative.

Without social distancing engendered by the tragedy of Francisco da Goya’s deafness, his genius as a social critic and, to a lesser extent an historian of the Napoleonic Age would naturally never have transpired. He was, prior, a royal portraitist of mediocre talent.

Degas was intelligent. A deeply reclusive talent who consciously, and with deliberance, distanced himself from his rivals, jeopardizing the proper care of his extensive wax sculptures of young women after his life. Without their survival, I would hazard, based on his skill and originality, he might have been, in our age, interpreted as a misogynist or a homosexual. Similarly, my unbronzed works of women may not survive. And this, in large part due to suspected jealousies of family to whom the care was charged. One work of approximate half life-size, of an armless woman, was an incalculable loss that I accredit to my older sister’s negligence, even arrogance. Another, a miniature masterwork of an old woman, was conveniently smashed by a stranger—a European. In the former case, the motive was jealousy; in the latter, a mystery, for which I still await an explanation from the destroyer: a European woman who owned an art school.

Extraordinary ability, in anything, necessitates true friendship, even if only and especially from one who must survive you. Meteoric skill, genius, is routinely jeopardized by the maliciously jealous, the common in life. The more degenerate the age, depending on the unique talent, the greater likelihood of all, or most, of his or her works to be irretrievably lost to oblivion.

To study Sargent is to study Velazquez; to study Velazquez is to study Titian; to study Titian is to study Giorgioni; to study Giorgioni is to study Bellini. On and on, further and further back it goes. Not isolated genius, which, on rare occasion also exists but giant upon giant—extending through the ages. To find an isolated genius is a rare exception, a strange find. Such a boy, or even rarer a girl, needs sheltering, cared-for solitude, and the gift of adequate, questioning and carefully probing confidence—lest he or she, in a base age such as ours, be burned as a monster or witch of some unrecognizable sort.

Suffering is not only generative to genius, but often inescapable. Recognition of spiritual greatness almost from the outset, and after dumbfoundedness from the common, the mediocre, this degrades into disbelief, denial. Such degradation often in concert with ‘rumour-mongering’, for which the mediocre are known, inevitably targets the light and attempts to destroy it, to snuff it out completely. If they succeed, it’s murder and abomination. If they don’t, to the growing genius, depth and penetrative insight—into life and the secrets of good and especially evil. Expect great things, from the light, from this point onwards.

Excellence deserves cautious and reserved jubilation. If suspicion, it is advisable to retreat into study and extensive reading, if necessary for years, to discover why, most probably, you’re wrong.

The extraordinary in Spielberg, in my limited view, from having worked in the motion picture arts, lies with what must surely be the obsessive energy he puts into his storytelling—the intensity. From as far back as “Close Encounters of the Third Kind’, the sheer delight, directness, and charm of his polite though stupendously manipulative camerawork is breathtaking to the heart. He directs with his finger on the pulse of the common man. It is the explanation, in addition to the sets, colours, and brilliant casting, of course, for the lasting importance to American cinema he uniquely holds.

Of the women composers I have listened to, I am most struck by Robert Schumann’s wife—to my ears a beautiful soul with a marvellous poetic sense, dutifully, and with a note of sadness, living in the broad shadows of her lover and husband.

The decades-long dogma of multiculturalism has set deeply, within Her veins, the inveterate poison—that has blinded Her joy and attraction to Her most desired for—Her most longed for. The poison I write of is moral relativism. Unlike American Citizens’ unprecedented rights (and this must not be forgotten), not all civilisations are created, nor ever were created, equal. Moral relativism, inspired by multiculturalism, in strong, extremely desirable women is a poison, a lethal one, to any civilisation that owns Her—that beds Her. Of the strictest, most important foundations to keep in place in a civilisation of any worth, is survival and the ownership of women. The two are inextricably dependent, vital, one with the other. Many from other countries, many of those who invariably end, for a time, in prisons, know this. Moral relativism, in the hands of free women, is a steady, growing (and if left to grow stronger, and then again stronger) intense firestorm. It loosens and utterly burns the cornerstones, the roof, the stones, everything, within a civilisation worthy of the name. History proves this; and in the end, the firestorm leaves nothing. It cannot, with study, be argued with. Test it in your teeth, like gold; you will see that it is true. If this storm has not been quelled here, in the United States, and my experiences in The United States and its notorious prisons leave me to believe that this is true, this firestorm, an irreconcilable consequence will have reached a fruition. It was irrefutably, childishly sparked by the Sexual Revolution and then the irresponsibility, the naiveté, of an advertised silliness all over the World: The War of the Sexes. If this storm builds momentum, nationally, extensively, the situation is critical. Genocide, inevitable. No man of the American Republic will ever, under any circumstances, never, allow beautiful, desirable women, Citizens, to be fornicated with ‘en masse’ by bloodthirsty and ruthless criminals. Millions, tens of millions, if not already dead, given any truth of such a nationwide firestorm, will surely die. This simply cannot be argued with. It is of no importance if the culprits are corrections officers, prostitutes, porn stars of any number, and criminals of an astounding number. All will surely die.

The cleft of the woman’s sex to the eye of a man: more powerful than the most intoxicating elixir. And, when in health, and conjoined with the phallus, a magnificent moment of spiritual union, a oneness—with merely the scantest hangover upon separation, called continuing desire.

If any of my sculptures had survived, of young women—my principal muse of the past and present—they would have revealed a mark of remarkable interest, that I would encourage any young sculptor to enjoy sculpting as well, and to experiment with. A fusion of the Southeast Indian’s total acceptance of the highly arousing, though in its case less realistically realised woman’s sex or vulva, and the West’s denial of the already stated. When united, fused as I’ve said, in an artful way—and in my case, Leonardo da Vinci’s word sfumato, best describes the effect—one can most assuredly produce the most soothing, ‘rejouissant’ results on the eventual spectator. One can only hope with less dramatic consequences than poor Praxiteles’ infamous Aphrodite. If I recall, his Aphrodite had to be removed to a sacred island temple, to prevent the sculpture from being attacked by aroused men on an island in Greece. Perhaps horse manure, but the legend still stands. I doubt the sex of Aphrodite was sculpted in its complexity, In contemporary, developed sculpture, the key in my view to the modelling of her sex is ‘sfumato.’ If the sculpting of her sex is excessive, the over-modelling sets the modelling of the hands, legs, likeness of the eyes, nose, mouth and hair as well as other areas of wandering interest, into startling contrast and will engender a giggle—which if left to stand, can lead effectively to embarrassment for the sculptor—from the eyes of the viewer. In light of ever so slight, excessive preoccupation with the woman’s vulva and cleft, the modelling of the shaft of the clitoris, etcetera, this can damage a sculptor’s reputation as it will ouweigh the development of the other areas of detail of the sculpture. If not balanced in level of detail with the other characteristics of the form, an uncomfortable incomprehension will abide in the viewer. The solution requires a balancing act in the fabrication of the sculpture of the woman’s form, certain to interest any man who loves women, as I do, for some time to come. The results, when achieved—an interesting amalgam of West and East, can indeed be continually breathtaking. The Greco-Roman sculpting tradition, despite its remarkable achievement, its developments beyond the Egyptian archetype—the contraposto chiefly—leaves, sadly, nothing to tell on the rather horrifying impenetrability of the sculpted Greek woman’s, the Roman woman’s, private parts. To those in our present, having viewed both African, Oceanian, and Eastern works of art for a very long time, it’s an omission, glaring, that invites curiosity—as perhaps it might have, counterintuitively, the Persian enemies of Greece and Rome as well. From a point of view, such a sexual obfuscation could possibly have been called ‘the curiosity that launched a thousand ships’—just to see if it was true that Greek and Roman women have no opening.

My time in this mental health building, observed, without the normalcy of shoelaces, a belt, and human dignity, as I sit peripherally surrounded by so many beautiful women who will not cooperate with common sense, Reason, I find stupefying, and immensely humbling—infuriating.

When I was an American I had in my family a sole friend. My father.

Though I love American women, her across-the-board slothfulness, after children are born, I find baffling. It’s as if to say, ‘I’m so beautiful, but to show you how much I love you, and would never in your company ever be unfaithful to you, I will become overweight and under-exercised, even cut my hair short, so, even if I am alone with another man, surely, despite lasting beauty, he would inarguably never tempt me, because of my ugliness.’ Evidently, neither would her husband.

The nude photography of Jock Sturges captivates me. Investigated by the FBI, involving I assume paedophilia, their investigation led to no malfeasance. His models, young, sexually developed for the most part, young women who, between I would imagine eleven to eighteen years of age, possess a seriousness, an understated awareness and a voluptuousness that only the French, les francaises, seem uniquely to own. In short, the marvelousness of ‘O so lovely young women,’ bien dans la peau, and a Ray of Light, a promise, at once profane and unnatural, of Nature’s Law most enthralling: in every girl, a woman to plunder. The American man should take note.

Given the origins of the Olympic Games, long ago, in Athens, why does it serve the civilised man, the never-ending prudery of the female athlete, not to rid herself—the gymnast, the sprinter, the pole vaulter, the swimmer—of the hindrances to her naked magnificence? I write of her garments, which though fashionable, really serve no real function; they neither cover to significant degree, nor expose the primordial, so memorable, and never to be seen again youthful charms of her body. She should be allowed, as in times of old, also a civilised time—and even to this day even arguably more so—, to disrobe. To contemporary man, so impoverished to genuine and eclatante female nakedness, in addition to countless impoverished aesthetes, the result will largely and inalterably be staggering applause.

With women, confidence is endlessly arousing. But, without some remnant, however distant in her soul, of modesty, there are no breaks on her descent into monstrosity.

It seems to obey the Laws that govern men’s Nature, that if a man weds a woman in excess of her beauty’s growth, perhaps thirty-three to forty-five—an arbitrary range of sorts—inevitable sexual violations of any of their daughters of such a marriage, a union, is inevitable. The husband will, as his daughters age, as they flower, become so hopelessly entranced, so saddened at how irretrievably lost his wife’s beauty is, and with the terrifying flowering of his daughters’ beauty to his eyes, this will dimmish his wife’s charms, her attraction, in favour of his daughters’ daily, and augmenting charms. Violations of their purity will, I would wager, be unavoidable. This is a tragedy. Antidote: marry young. As young as Nature makes obvious. An older wife is a joy; a young wife, a boundless treasure.

A wise man once said, ‘build your house on a rock.’ The union between a man and his woman is sacred. Inviolable. As long as respect and compassion exist between a man and his woman—with the obviousness of strong, mutual attraction—the house will stand. It has as its principal ingredient: sexual arousal and respect, mutual. Build your house, Americans, on a rock.

In Chicago, and awaiting as a vigil the coming morning, The Easter, amidst the frightening sounds and smells of orgies, I find it odd that the Roman Catholic Church should name the day of Jesus Christ’s crucifixion, his death, Good Friday. Any man sacrificed and prior, tortured, with such negligent fury, only to be nailed and hoisted on a cross with a crown of thorns affixed to His forehead, in front of His people, with a sign stationed above Him, ‘Here Lies Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,’ such a day, is not a ‘good’ day. Critics argue it is, to be precise, the moment He was taken down, and placed for burial. Regardless, the whole affair, I find extremely suspicious. The irony of the inheritors of His killers, the Italians, calling Jesus Christ’s death, good, smacks almost if I may say so, without eliciting the Demon upon myself, as mischief of a very high order indeed.

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EPILOGUE

My opinions, hard-won, that have herein been written down, were assembled and organised over countless hours, supine and thinking, alone and ruminating, as the young, cursed, exceptionally beautiful, and the old alike, frolicked, at The Los Alamos Detention Centre-New Mexico, The Las Vegas Behavioural Health Institute-New Mexico, The Santa Fe Correctional Facility-New Mexico, The New Hanover County Correctional Facility-North Carolina, The New Hanover Mental Health Centre-North Carolina, The Saint Pancras Hospital-London, The Holly Hill Hospital-North Carolina, The Te Whetu Tawera Mental Health Hospital-New Zealand, The Manukau Hospital-New Zealand, The Concord State Hospital-New Hampshire, The District of Columbia Department of Corrections-Washington D.C., The Arlington County Detention Facility-Virginia, The Western State Hospital-Virginia, The Butner State Hospital-North Carolina, The Baltimore High Security Jail-Maryland, The Saint Elizabeths Hospital-Washington D.C., The New Hampshire State Prison-New Hampshire, The 60 Willis Street Apartments-New Zealand, The Swedish Covenant Hospital-Illinois, and the Chicago-Read Mental Health Centre-Illinois.

May God Almighty have mercy upon their souls. Their Governments, my Government, did not.