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- Pale Existence
- A Pale Existence
But how are we to make history together when our victories are your defeats? If we invite you to share in Algerian Independence and the victory in Dien Bien Phu with us, would you agree to break your solidarity with your warmongering states? We have a more interesting proposition. It was made to you in the past, a long time ago, by the late C. James, who was already a believer in revolutionary love:. These are my ancestors, these are my people.
They are yours too if you want them. James offers you the memory of his negro ancestors who rose against you and who, by freeing him, freed you. In essence, James says, change the Pantheon, this is how we will make History and build the Future together. Ironically, I am struck by rhetorical parallels between Ms. The Hebrew scribes wrote these texts during the first millennium before Christ, in a cultural context very distant from our own. The creation of the memory of the exodus allowed these Hebrew scribes, descendants of diverse tribes and residents of a scarcely developed corner of the Levant, to relish in a glorious and common past.
By inventing the exodus, the Hebrews invented themselves. Vast amounts of anthropological and ethnological literature are dedicated to such dilemmas as how we can judge cultural practices outside of our institutional and mental universe, or whether we must we defend female circumcision, the caste system, or patriarchy. But Bouteldja goes further: she questions even Arab intellectuals on the pretext that, in trying to transform their society, they internalized the dominating norms of the colonizer. She explains further on:. The radical critique of indigenous patriarchy is a luxury.
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If a responsible form of feminism were ever to see the light of day, it would have to take the sinuous and craggy routes of a paradoxical movement, which will necessarily have to pass through a communitarian allegiance. At least, so long as racism exists. There are a few issues here.
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If a responsible form of revolutionary love were ever to see the light of day, it would have to take the sinuous and craggy routes of a paradoxical movement, which will necessarily have to pass through a communitarian allegiance. At least, so long as antisemitism exists. Bouteldja writes:. I know today that my place is among my own people. More than an instinct, it is a political approach. But before becoming conscious knowledge, this return was accomplished through a collective will for survival and resistance.
My consciousness comes from this. Our collective self reacted by creating its own immune system. This is the second time she uses the image of the biological body to discuss the collective. Among them, humanism and the monopoly of ethics. Take this powerfully beautiful passage:. In Europe, prisons are brimming with black people and Arabs. It is in our eyes that they are diminished. And yet they try desperately to reconquer us, often through violence. In a society that is castrating, patriarchal, and racist or subjected to imperialism , to live is to live with virility.
Yes, we are subjected with full force to the humiliation that is done to them. Male castration, a consequence of racism, is a humiliation for which men make us pay a steep price. In other words, the more hegemonic thought tells us that our men are barbaric, the more frustrated they become, and the more they will oppress us. The effects of white, racist patriarchy exacerbate gender relations in the indigenous milieu.
This is why a decolonial feminism must have as its imperative to radically refuse the discourses and practices that stigmatize our brothers and that, in the same move, exonerate white patriarchy. We will be beggars so long as we do not break with our tutors, those who decide for us, without us, and against us. We will be beggars so long as we accept as universal the political divisions that cut up the white world and through which they conceive of the social conflicts and struggles that these divisions will engender.
We will be beggars so long as we remain prisoners of their philosophy, of their aesthetic, and of their art. We will be beggars so long as we do not call into question their version of History. They say Very well. And what lesson does she take from ? She writes:. Therefore, when a white Frenchman crosses paths with a Muslim Frenchman, he does not encounter a friend or an enemy, but rather, an enigma. Who is this foolish creature to whom we have delivered Enlightenment on a silver platter, and who persists in turning toward Mecca, like a sunflower that only the sun can subjugate?
To the mirages of a civilization that birthed the nuclear man, in both senses of the word, where he is located and where he has been assigned — the place of the radical Other — and to he who claims to challenge God, the immigrant answers: Allahou akbar! And he adds: There is no god but God. In Islam, divine transcendence calls for humility and the permanent awareness of the ephemeral. We begin one day and end another. Only the Almighty is eternal.
No one can challenge his power. Only the vain believe they can. From this complex of vanity are born blasphemous theories on the superiority of white people over non-white people, on the superiority of men over women, on the superiority of humans over animals and nature. There is no need to be a believer to interpret this philosophy from a profane point of view. That being said, her analysis should be taken with a grain of salt.
Be that as it may, Bouteldja is adamant that communitarian allegiance to Islam requires abandoning an anthropocentric view of the world. Lay My Soul to Waste is the audible equivalent of that; rotting and morbid with no real chance to become positive, but you have zero intention of ever looking away.
The band hasn't changed their sound in the slightest from their debut, And Hell Will Follow Me , which isn't a bad thing. Former Type O Negative drummer Sal Abruscato takes the reins on guitar and vocals with that same downtempo gaze that Type O was so well known for, bringing it to a different pain of existence with A Pale Horse Named Death twice now.
So it's a ripoff of Sal's career with legendary vocalist Peter Steele? Not really.
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Sal and the guys known damn well what they're doing in terms of coming up with original music. Lay My Soul to Waste gets off to a sleepy start with the introductory ambient title track, but gets right into digging graves and casting shadows on what might be the best song off the album, "Shallow Graves. They submitted to the hierarchy of authority over them even unto death, and God has brought about great glory for Himself through them. Did God personally set Trump in the office of presidency?
I have no idea, nor do I care. What is your responsibility? If he is a professed believer, then you have permission to hold him accountable as an individual believer not as a president. That is not the case. Look at King David in the Bible. I wonder if when He was young, He dreamed of things to come. I wonder if when He played, He pondered His fate, no longer delayed I wonder if when in school, He told others, He made all the rules. I wonder if when rabbis read, He mouthed the words the prophets said. I wonder as a younger lad, the pain ahead made Him sad.
I wonder how hard it was, turning thirty just because, this was it, the last short while, three more years, and all was final. I wonder what that must have been, to have all friends flee and then, to stand before the ones who said, crucify! Release Barabbas instead. I wonder when thorns pierced head, how he still loved as He bled.
I wonder how when flesh ripped and tore, He just forgave, all the more. I wonder if on the tree, again He thought of you and me. I wonder about His final breath, the Son of Man submissive to death. I wonder what the angels thought, three days, the Word was not. I wonder about that battle scene, between Satan and our Lord and King. What a fight it must have been, when Jesus conquered all of sin. Powerful and mighty is He, all enemies submit to Thee!
In Him alone is the power to save, nothing can stop Him, not even the grave! Believe in Him, He paid the price, a ransom for your very life He covered all our sin, and gave new life again. He took my place on Calvary, I worship Him eternally. I wonder no more it is done!
For when He rose up from that grave, my life, my soul, He did save. I wonder no more, all is new. Jesus Christ reigns, this is true. I gladly lay all at Your feet, for with You there is no defeat! Oh my Master, You reign supreme, over all creation, every being! You reign above everything! You are constantly challenging me, and making me stop to consider what I believe; making me go to the Word of God that I might fully understand what He has said. In doing so, you make me a stronger follower of Christ, and obedient to His call.
While this poem is written from the first person, they are not necessarily things that I personally wonder about. It is written as if another writer were to ponder them. As all the angels rejoiced. What a site that must have been. None of that is Biblical, by the way, it is just my wonderings. The first part of this poem, gives the impression that Jesus may not have known everything while on earth. When a child is born between two humans, we say that the child is fully human because both parts were fully human. When the child is fully mature, he may resemble his father because he has been taught by his father.
If you have seen a child, who directly mimics his father, then you can say that in the same way, you have also seen his father for the child is a mirror image of his father. In similarity, the question arose about Jesus being submissive to the will of the Father in Heaven. This is important to understand. We cannot live our lives as Christ did, unless we understand submission to His will, yes, even submission unto death.
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While that in itself may seem confusing, I hope to make it clear for you when I address sin in another post. In short, Christ paid a great price for you to save you from being a slave to sin, and we have all sinned. We are now slaves to Christ as He has purchased us with His life. He does not force us into submission, but He does not tolerate that which He came to abolish in His Kingdom either. I hope this poem blesses you this Easter, and that it is a reminder of all that Jesus Christ has done for you! Praise our Lord and King! I was talking to some friends this morning who has a son that might consider going to India.
Which got us talking about clean water issues, population, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I knew India has a massive population, but for some reason hearing it today in light of all the recent immigration craziness, made me ponder it a bit. I thought it would be fun to run some numbers.www.cantinesanpancrazio.it/components/hucityje/166-controllare-liphone-dal.php
Pale Existence | Discography & Songs | Discogs
Area sq mi India Square Mileage: 1. Still less than our target of Lucia, Bermuda, Haiti, St. I was awaken the other night around am when I thought I heard someone in our living room. I froze for a moment and then gathered the courage to protect my family. I ran up, grabbed a corner of the blanket and yanked it back. I gasped as a little black girl squirmed back into the corner of the couch pulling her legs in tight to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
Her head bowed into her knees in fear. I could see the shame in her eyes, but I was outraged that she had broken into our house…my home! Wait, I knew this girl. She lived right across the street from me. I said hi to her parents all the time. Oh, but the nerve of this little girl to come and steal from me. To my surprise, she hit the floor on her knees, grabbed my ankles and begged me to let her stay.
I was horrified as she described how her father and brother were brutally raping her. I looked her in the face, saw her pain — in some way, felt her pain. Before I could show sympathy, my eye caught glimpse of a small tear in my leather couch that only she could have done. Anger rose inside me.
I grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the street to her house. Her father answered the door, and I handed her back to her raper, to be tortured again. I felt satisfaction that she was getting what she deserved — that filthy little girl, tearing up my couch, breaking into my house. As I drifted off to sleep, I laughed a little at the irony.
Well, it feels like mine. I grew up here. My grandparents murdered the family who lived here, assumed their identity, and just passed the house to my father who gave it to me. My family likes it just fine. We complain about the leaky faucets and single pane windows, but we get along just fine. You know what, it is mine. Enough time has passed.
A Pale Existence
This is my house! It better not be that little girl again. Let me stay. My nostrils flared. Oh the nerve of this woman! In the same night! As she sit helpless, on her knees crying, I grabbed her by her hair and began dragging her back to her house. As we crossed my lawn, she kicked and screamed. Pleading with me. Porch lights came on as some neighbors came out to see the commotion. She could have knocked. At the very least she could have called before breaking in to my home.
As we entered the street, a police officer arrived; my wife must have called in. Ashamed, I let go of the woman. Clearly I was out of line. Apologetically, I approached him as he stepped out of his vehicle and I began explaining that she had broken into my house and that I was just protecting my home. Yeah, I was just protecting my house. The officer just walked right past me to where the woman was just pulling herself off the ground.
I leaned my head back and took a deep breath realizing I had gone too far. I would be the one in handcuffs tonight. Surely, my actions were unwarranted. I stood there in disbelief…my eyes fixed on the woman screaming in pain. What just happened?