Scott Adams: The Enemy of the People Trying to Kill Tucker Carlson’s Family
What needs to happen at the New York Times:
Scott Adams: The Enemy of the People Trying to Kill Tucker Carlson’s Family
What needs to happen at the New York Times:
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In Memory Of W.B. Yeats
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
from “1054 AD”
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
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The People Yes
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Camouflage
Sourdough Mountain Lookout
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Chimes of Freedom
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
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Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
De Breanski
VAN GOGH
Hillegas
To the Stonecutters
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
from “1054 AD”
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
Comments on this entry are closed.
This is them practicing the “new civility, or “going high when we go low” or any variation of their bullshit they spew that keeps their idiot voters thinking how righteous they are.
Tucker should reveal their names and addresses. No more of this “We’re better than that” bullshit.
Game Theory, Tit-fo-Tat: Bad Actors will continue to act badly until they get a taste of their own medicine. I don’t want these rules, but I’ll be goddamned if I let them play by one set of rules while they inflict another on me.
War to the knife, knife to the hilt.
That certainly sounded like a promise to me.
Can anyone here, or over at any other site, do a search for the addresses of the photographer and reporter now assigned to Tucker’s family? Can WE HELP by publishing their addresses?
I despise, detest, and distrust the NYT, and its little dog WaPoo, too!
butch sed: “Tucker should reveal their names and addresses.”
=======
Yes, cuck style.
Or he could summons a pair and confront the shitstain forthright and goad him into taking a swing.
It seems numerous fans have already doxxed the NYT reporter. MOAR! PLEASE!
They can always get another job.
Fuck up their dental records and they won’t work, or eat solid food, for months.
The picture with caption “what needs to happen at the NYT” would indicate that someone inside the NYT would start that fire. I believe that would be highly unlikely. NYT has for a very long time been far left of any reasonable expectation of journalistic integrity.
Doxxing NYT reporters, editors and photographers would be far more effective and realistic….and well deserved. Bringing things to the next level might include things like splashing accelerant on the hair and clothes of traitorous agents of the Gray Lady. Follow on actions from that point are largely in the hands of the NYT staff.
It would be a shame if that gorgeous head of hair were to catch fire. Or, Lovely designer outfit there. It would be a terrible thing if it caught on fire.
Anne,
http://www.murraycarpenter.com/about–contact.html
Belfast, Maine is a sleepy little seaport town along Hwy #1 – https://cityofbelfast.org
Shouldn’t be too hard to find the little cretin.
“Fuck up their dental records and they won’t work, or eat solid food, for months.”
Or, for the females, create phony birth certificates for their non-existent children. Inform authorities that children seen to have “disappeared.” Notify friendly media of “missing” children.
Don’t expend much expense or energy. A single .22 LR no noise round from a tiny North American Arms in the temple would do all that is needed and would not even likely be heard.
Jack sed: “….22 LR no noise round…”
=====
You can get Fram oil filters at Walmart for about 7 bux.
That, and a roll of blue tape, and you’re in bidnit.
Quite a few over at Gab have already dox’d not only that little prick but his wymon photographer and a shitload of NYT editors as well.
What fucking goes around…
Or we could test things by doxxing the self-righteous “reporter” who called the WH Press Secretary a “lying b!tch” earlier this week on-camera and with full sound. Haven’t heard any follow-up to that, have we? They’ll only learn once a few have been bloodied…