Author Topic: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul  (Read 485008 times)

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raul

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1500 on: November 22, 2022, 05:20:21 pm »
Holden,

Thank you again for your words. I have been coping with my migraines with the melatonin. It helps.

Well, Holden, we all suffer. You are suffering and so are your folks. In a time to come, it is a cruel thing to say, you will suffer more when, God forbid, your parents get sick and confined to a bed in hospital.

Sex and death, as you well know, are interlinked. Our ddicks give us pleasure and then sorrows. Years later we become cadavers.

Yes, my father suffered for nine months in 2018. He passed away in September 2018. But his suffering really started in 2009 when the neurologist diagnosed Parkinson´s Disease. My mother also suffered a lot. 

Euthanasia is not legal in this country. But you see, Holden, here the governments make sure you die miserably. Here, this happens in India or any other city in the world, if you don´t have money to go to a private hospital, you will die or if you don´t die you may end up severely handicapped because state hospitals lack almost everything.

So these thugs in power implement euthanasia. Those in power are the best executioners. This is a world where an ordinary citizen gets punished for playing with his sexual organs in a public place than placing the thugs in power in jail.

Just one example, months ago a 75-year old man was taken to IPS (Institute of Social Welfare) in the capital by his family. The doctors misdiagnosed him and they amputated both of his legs when the case demanded only amputating one leg. The guy survived and the authorities just covered up the neglect. I must that the old man got in the experimental injection. I wonder if the jab had anything to do with the amputation.

I met a librarian three years ago. His wife was to undergo a surgery for a kidney transplant in 2020. Because of the lockdown in March 2020 the Paraguayan Ministry of Health ordered the hospitals to cancel all the surgeries and as a result the lady died months later. That clearly is a crime. But that´s just one case among thousands. Before covid medical attention was awful and after this so-called pandemic we dont know how many have died in hospitals. So these doctors, except a minority, have blood on their hands.

But what about the so-called safe and effective Covid vaccine? It is an experimental injection, that I am sure, is causing a lot of deaths. Most of my relatives, acquaintances and neighbors took it.

It´s a terrible world we live in. Be careful, you think too much and see too much. You and those like you are part of endangered species.

Take care.

Holden

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Execution of a Viet Cong Guerrilla(For Don Raul)
« Reply #1501 on: November 23, 2022, 05:17:57 am »
Don Raul,
Thank you for your thoughtful response.

For you:



 (Eddie Adams, Associated Press - BBC News, "Eddie Adams' iconic Vietnam War photo: What happened next". Originally published in 1968.)

Nguyễn Văn Lém , often referred to as Bảy Lốp, was an officer of the Viet Cong in the rank of captain. He was summarily executed in Saigon during the Tet Offensive in the Vietnam War, when the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese forces launched a massive surprise attack. Before being captured, Lém had allegedly murdered South Vietnamese officer Nguyễn Tuân as well as six members of Tuân's family.

(From Wikipedia)

Take care.
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

raul

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1502 on: November 23, 2022, 06:15:05 pm »
Holden,

Thank you for the Eddie Adams´ iconic photo from the Tet Offensive in 1968 in Vietnam. 

There are times I would like to do to some people what that South Vietnamese general did to that Vietcong captain. But I don´t know how to use a fire arm and above all I don´t want to be a guest in the Tacumbu state prison. Here they call it the Tacumbu  Hilton.

You say my words in the last post were thoughtful. As the months and weeks pass I grow weaker in body and mind I probably must have written a lot of ccrap in the board. So I thank you for having patience with my comments.

I have learned a lot with both your and Hentrich´s comments all these years.

Stay well.

Holden

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Great Depression (of the Mind) (For Don Raul)
« Reply #1503 on: November 24, 2022, 02:17:04 am »
Don Raul,

Every single word that you write is precious to me.I mean it.
I would pray for your health's betterment.

For you:


host images

On March 6, 1936, after picking beets in the Imperial Valley, Thompson and her family were traveling on U.S. Highway 101 towards Watsonville "where they had hoped to find work in the lettuce fields of the Pajaro Valley." On the road, the car's timing chain snapped and they coasted to a stop just inside a pea-pickers' camp on Nipomo Mesa. They were shocked to find so many people camping there—as many as 2,500 to 3,500.A notice had been sent out for pickers, but the crops had been destroyed by freezing rain, leaving them without work or pay. Years later, Thompson told an interviewer that when she cooked food for her children that day, other children appeared from the pea pickers' camp asking, "Can I have a bite?"

While Jim Hill, her partner, and two of Thompson's sons went into town to get parts to repair the car,Thompson and some of the children set up a temporary camp. As she waited, photographer Dorothea Lange, working for the Resettlement Administration, drove up and started taking photos of Thompson and her family. She took seven images in the course of ten minutes.

Lange's field notes for the Resettlement Administration were typically very thorough, but on this particular day she had been rushing to get home after a month on assignment, and the notes she submitted with this batch of negatives do not refer to any of the seven photographs she took of Thompson and her family. It seems that the published newspaper reports about this camp were later distilled into captions for the series, which explains inaccuracies on the file cards in the Library of Congress. For example, one of the file cards reads:

Destitute peapickers in California; a 32 year old mother of seven children. February [sic: March] 1936.

(From Wikipedia)

Take care.
« Last Edit: November 24, 2022, 02:25:33 am by Holden »
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1504 on: November 24, 2022, 11:13:52 am »
There is nothing sweeter to me than closing the door on the world, having the walls again.- Bukowski.
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Melancholy
« Reply #1505 on: November 24, 2022, 12:45:57 pm »
“My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known; what wonder, then, that I love her in return.”

Kierkegaard
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1506 on: November 24, 2022, 01:24:32 pm »
Humiliatingly a living entity is born, humiliatingly a living entity is bound to die.

Vaxvacui
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1507 on: November 24, 2022, 01:26:16 pm »
“The most common form of despair is not being who you are.

Kierkegaard
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Mad
« Reply #1508 on: November 24, 2022, 01:31:39 pm »
“Men will always be mad, and those who think they can cure them are the maddest of all.”

Voltaire
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Kevin Carter's Suicide Note
« Reply #1509 on: November 25, 2022, 12:44:18 am »


"I am depressed ... without phone ... money for rent ... money for child support ... money for debts ... money!!! ... I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings and corpses and anger and pain ... of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners ... I have gone to join Ken [recently deceased colleague Ken Oosterbroek] if I am that lucky."
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Syrian Child
« Reply #1510 on: November 25, 2022, 01:52:47 am »



Thousands online have shared an image of a Syrian child with her hands raised in surrender - but what is the story behind it?

Those sharing it were moved by the fear in the child's eyes, as she seems to staring into the barrel of a gun. It wasn't a gun, of course, but a camera, and the moment was captured for all to see.

(From BBC News)
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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POEM ON THE LISBON DISASTER(Voltaire)
« Reply #1511 on: November 26, 2022, 05:40:08 am »
POEM ON THE LISBON DISASTER;
Or an Examination of the Axiom, "All is Well"

Unhappy mortals! Dark and mourning earth!
Affrighted gathering of human kind!
Eternal lingering of useless pain!
Come, ye philosophers, who cry, "All's well,"
And contemplate this ruin of a world.
Behold these shreds and cinders of your race,
This child and mother heaped in common wreck,
These scattered limbs beneath the marble shafts—
A hundred thousand whom the earth devours,
Who, torn and bloody, palpitating yet,
Entombed beneath their hospitable roofs,
In racking torment end their stricken lives.
To those expiring murmurs of distress,
To that appalling spectacle of woe,
Will ye reply: "You do but illustrate
The iron laws that chain the will of God"?
Say ye, o'er that yet quivering mass of flesh:
"God is avenged: the wage of sin is death"?
What crime, what sin, had those young hearts conceived
That lie, bleeding and torn, on mother's breast?
Did fallen Lisbon deeper drink of vice
Than London, Paris, or sunlit Madrid?
In these men dance; at Lisbon yawns the abyss.

Tranquil spectators of your brothers' wreck,
Unmoved by this repellent dance of death,
Who calmly seek the reason of such storms,
Let them but lash your own security;
Your tears will mingle freely with the flood.
When earth its horrid jaws half open shows,
My plaint is innocent, my cries are just.
Surrounded by such cruelties of fate,
By rage of evil and by snares of death.
Fronting the fierceness of the elements,
Sharing our ills, indulge me my lament.
"'T is pride," ye say—"the pride of rebel heart,
To think we might fare better than we do."
Go, tell it to the Tagus' stricken banks;
Search in the ruins of that bloody shock;
Ask of the dying in that house of grief.
Whether 't is pride that calls on heaven for help
And pity for the sufferings of men.
"All's well," ye say, "and all is necessary,"
Think ye this universe had been the worse
Without this hellish gulf in Portugal?
Are ye so sure the great eternal cause,
That knows all things, and for itself creates,
Could not have placed us in this dreary clime
Without volcanoes seething 'neath our feet?
Set you this limit to the power supreme?
Would you forbid it use its clemency?
Are not the means of the great artisan
Unlimited for shaping his designs?
The master I would not offend, yet wish
This gulf of fire and sulphur had outpoured
Its baleful flood amid the desert wastes.
God I respect, yet love the universe.

Not pride, alas, it is, but love of man,
To mourn so terrible a stroke as this.

Would it console the sad inhabitants
Of these aflame and desolated shores
To say to them: "Lay down your lives in peace;
For the world's good your homes are sacrificed;
Your ruined palaces shall others build,
For other peoples shall your walls arise;
The North grows rich on your unhappy loss;
Your ills are but a link in general law;
To God you are as those low creeping worms
That wait for you in your predestined tombs"?
What speech to hold to victims of such ruth!
Add not such cruel outrage to their pain.

Nay, press not on my agitated heart
These iron and irrevocable laws,
This rigid chain of bodies, minds, and worlds.
Dreams of the bloodless thinker are such thoughts.
God holds the chain: is not himself enchained;
By his indulgent choice is all arranged;
Implacable he's not, but free and just.
Why suffer we, then, under one so just?[1]
There is the knot your thinkers should undo.
Think ye to cure our ills denying them?
All peoples, trembling at the hand of God,
Have sought the source of evil in the world.
When the eternal law that all things moves
Doth hurl the rock by impact of the winds,

With, lightning rends and fires the sturdy oak,
They have no feeling of the crashing blows;
But I, I live and feel, my wounded heart
Appeals for aid to him who fashioned it.

Children of that Almighty Power, we stretch
Our hands in grief towards our common sire.
The vessel, truly, is not heard to say:
"Why should I be so vile, so coarse, so frail?"
Nor speech nor thought is given unto it.
The urn that, from the potter's forming hand,
Slips and is shattered has no living heart
That yearns for bliss and shrinks from misery.
"This misery," ye say, "is others' good."
Yes; from my mouldering body shall be born
A thousand worms, when death has closed my pain.
Fine consolation this in my distress!
Grim speculators on the woes of men,
Ye double, not assuage, my misery.
In you I mark the nerveless boast of pride
That hides its ill with pretext of content.

I am a puny part of the great whole.
Yes; but all animals condemned to live,
All sentient things, born by the same stern law,
Suffer like me, and like me also die.

The vulture fastens on his timid prey,
And stabs with bloody beak the quivering limbs:
All's well, it seems, for it. But in a while
An eagle tears the vulture into shreds;

The eagle is transfixed by shaft of man;
The man, prone in the dust of battlefield,
Mingling his blood with dying fellow-men,
Becomes in turn the food of ravenous birds.
Thus the whole world in every member groans:
All born for torment and for mutual death.
And o'er this ghastly chaos you would say
The ills of each make up the good of all!
What blessedness! And as, with quaking voice,
Mortal and pitiful, ye cry, "All's well,"
The universe belies you, and your heart
Refutes a hundred times your mind's conceit.

All dead and living things are locked in strife.
Confess it freely—evil stalks the land,
Its secret principle unknown to us.
Can it be from the author of all good?
Are we condemned to weep by tyrant law
Of black Typhon or barbarous Ahriman?[2]
These odious monsters, whom a trembling world
Made gods, my spirit utterly rejects.

But how conceive a God supremely good,
Who heaps his favours on the sons he loves,
Yet scatters evil with as large a hand?
What eye can pierce the depth of his designs?
From that all-perfect Being came not ill:
And came it from no other, for he's lord:
Yet it exists. O stern and numbing truth!

O wondrous mingling of diversities!
A God came down to lift our stricken race:
He visited the earth, and changed it not!
One sophist says he had not power to change;
"He had," another cries, "but willed it not:
In time he will, no doubt." And, while they prate,
The hidden thunders, belched from underground,
Fling wide the ruins of a hundred towns
Across the smiling face of Portugal.
God either smites the inborn guilt of man,
Or, arbitrary lord of space and time,
Devoid alike of pity and of wrath,
Pursues the cold designs he has conceived.
Or else this formless stuff, recalcitrant,
Bears in itself inalienable faults;
Or else God tries us, and this mortal life
Is but the passage to eternal spheres.
'T is transitory pain we suffer here,
And death its merciful deliverance.
Yet, when this dreadful passage has been made,
Who will contend he has deserved the crown?
Whatever side we take we needs must groan;
We nothing know, and everything must fear.
Nature is dumb, in vain appeal to it;
The human race demands a word of God.
'T is his alone to illustrate his work,
Console the weary, and illume the wise.
Without him man, to doubt and error doomed,
Finds not a reed that he may lean upon.
From Leibnitz learn we not by what unseen
Bonds, in this best of all imagined worlds,
Endless disorder, chaos of distress,
Must mix our little pleasures thus with pain;

Nor why the guiltless suffer all this woe
In common with the most abhorrent guilt.
'T is mockery to tell me all is well.
Like learned doctors, nothing do I know.
Plato has said that men did once have wings
And bodies proof against all mortal ill;
That pain and death were strangers to their world.
How have we fallen from that high estate!
Man crawls and dies: all is but born to die:
The world's the empire of destructiveness.
This frail construction of quick nerves and bones
Cannot sustain the shock of elements;
This temporary blend of blood and dust
Was put together only to dissolve;
This prompt and vivid sentiment of nerve
Was made for pain, the minister of death:
Thus in my ear does nature's message run.
Plato and Epicurus I reject.
And turn more hopefully to learned Bayle.
With even poised scale Bayle bids me doubt.
He, wise and great enough to need no creed,
Has slain all systems—combats even himself:
Like that blind conqueror of Philistines,
He sinks beneath the ruin he has wrought.[3]
What is the verdict of the vastest mind?
Silence: the book of fate is closed to us.

Man is a stranger to his own research;
He knows not whence he comes, nor whither goes.
Tormented atoms in a bed of mud,
Devoured by death, a mockery of fate.
But thinking atoms, whose far-seeing eyes,
Guided by thought, have measured the faint stars,
Our being mingles with the infinite;
Ourselves we never see, or come to know.
This world, this theatre of pride and wrong,
Swarms with sick fools who talk of happiness.
With plaints and groans they follow up the quest,
To die reluctant, or be born again.
At fitful moments in our pain-racked life
The hand of pleasure wipes away our tears;
But pleasure passes like a fleeting shade,
And leaves a legacy of pain and loss.
The past for us is but a fond regret,
The present grim, unless the future's clear.
If thought must end in darkness of the tomb,
All will be well one day—so runs our hope.
All now is well, is but an idle dream.
The wise deceive me: God alone is right.
With lowly sighing, subject in my pain,
I do not fling myself 'gainst Providence.
Once did I sing, in less lugubrious tone,
The sunny ways of pleasure's genial rule;
The times have changed, and, taught by growing age,
And sharing of the frailty of mankind,
Seeking a light amid the deepening gloom,
I can but suffer, and will not repine.

A caliph once, when his last hour had come,
This prayer addressed to him he reverenced:

"To thee, sole and all-powerful king, I bear
What thou dost lack in thy immensity—
Evil and ignorance, distress and sin."
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Falling Man
« Reply #1512 on: November 26, 2022, 09:41:11 am »


World Trade Centre, 9/11.
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

raul

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Re: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul
« Reply #1513 on: November 26, 2022, 02:09:17 pm »
Holden,

Thank you for your quotes and specially The Falling Man, the picture that shook everyone on September 9, 2001 in New York.

These words written by the British author Colin Wilson apply to you, in my opinion, :

The Outsider is a man who cannot live in the comfortable, insulated world of the bourgeois,accepting what he sees and touches as reality. He sees too deep and too much, and what he sees is essentially chaos.  He is the one man who knows he is sick in a civilization that doesn’t know it is sick.”

I can also say that you are a nomad, existentially speaking, because you have not sown seeds in this sad earth.

Stay alert.

Holden

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L'Absinthe (For Don Raul)
« Reply #1514 on: November 27, 2022, 07:05:49 am »
Don Raul,

Thanks for your words.
For you:


(Degas)

Painted in 1875–76, the work portrays a woman and man sitting side-by-side, drinking a glass of absinthe. They appear lethargic and lonely.The man, wearing a hat, looks to the right off the edge of the canvas, while the woman, dressed more formally in fashionable dress and hat, stares vacantly downward. A glass filled with absinthe is on the table in front of her. The models used in the painting are Ellen Andrée, an actress who also appeared in Édouard Manet's paintings Chez le père Lathuille and Plum Brandy, and Marcellin Desboutin, a painter and etcher. The café where they are taking their refreshment is the Café de la Nouvelle-Athènes in Paris.

(From Wikipedia)
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.