About

Currently living between the Mahau Sound (header pic) and Geraldine, New Zealand.

[Click on young Daisy Dog to get back to my posts.]

Bio – Sort Of (For What It’s Worth):

Over time in my posts you will/might learn more about my novel manuscript (including if it has any chance to see the light of day – and there’s a tiny bit more hope in that than I might have once thought). In that manuscript I write the following about the US under autocrat Trump from the point of view of minarchism – [complicated, but think small state]:

After Barack and Michelle Obama performed one of the classiest presidential duo acts to grace the Whitehouse – two humans in love, and a respectful, functioning family – the sane hope for the US presidential election, 2016, had been for Hillary Clinton to lose and Donald Trump not win. So the Dream, and probably decency, was never going to survive the result, and America was left wondering what it was, exactly, they had let go. But like all Camelot’s, once lost, it was gone for good. (Or perhaps… well no, in reality, it never existed, did it.)

  [Cliché]. You reap what you sow and the identity politick planted the seeds not of a Clinton presidency, but Trump taking a throne they created in Their Own image…

 [And, to the point…]

 I hope Trump will be a severe disappointment to his parade of voters ‘marching by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison’ (Kundera) for their demand of a strong leader to set their little worlds right, and to quell Islam. A free people should never wish for an autocrat. Because so it came to pass, as in all fairy tales ending in dystopias, there was a dawning in the great unwashed that allowing generations of career politicians to bypass the spirit (if not word) of their constitution and build another surveillance state with an executive holding untrammelled power, wasn’t such a good idea when they then voted in a megalomaniacal nepotistic narcissist (in Their minds anyway) that can use IRS to persecute his enemies – after having executed the notion of a free individual by tax statute – and with the entire apparatus of the US state and war machine at his disposal. Their constitution is so weakened, so bureaucratised toward redistributing away an individual’s right to be left alone, and that high office voted so strong, that a rogue president, with a small band of disciples bound by hatred, hardly more than twelve required, could bypass every department of state to execute a bloodless coup and assume total power over the US within two months.

 That doesn’t bear thinking about, but has to be thought about when the politick has become so addled the analysis of the commentariat falls on the problem merely being of voting the wrong tyrant in, not the systemic problem of the slouching size and power of the (S)tate itself.

Noting that Trump has now [7 February 2017] completed his coup with just 29 people, the significant point is that unfortunately, again, we have voted a society of the cannibal that turns on stereotype and identity not individualism. The Alt-Right ban what they don’t like based on identity (Mexican, Muslim, choose your bigoted poison), and the Alt-Left identity crowd demand rights bundled up with identity to the exclusion of individual rights. That, after social justice warriors focused – if not created – the Alt-right that swept Trump to victory in the first place. Alt-Right and Alt-Left are two sides of the same loathsome coinage, with the cycle of retribution set to repeat in ever increasing circles: the Alt-Left breeding the Alt-Right breeding the Alt-Left in a vicious, hate-filled null-minded tribalism that is destroying our Enlightened society. Or, my manuscript again:

A much vaunted Progressive tolerance being only, after the votes were counted, an election result thin; and as for Clinton’s rallying call that the election was about ‘love over hate’, it was discovered that love trumping hate involved a lot more arson and assault than was anticipated, as the Deplorables became interchangeable.

I’ve written this because it’s the context from which to view my below bio. Note this is merely copied and pasted almost word for word from the last post of my old blog published 15 December 2015, after I realised that blog was done with. Thus it doesn’t move in a straight line … mind, not much of my writing does.

* * *

Before I go; this [old] blog.

I had a central point I wanted to make; that the civilised world is one based on individualism … so these final words are stated with the intellectual honestly I strived always for here, being the enactment of the beauty contained in that word, individualism: the ethos that every single damned life is unique, and that a single life is the highest value.

The minute too many of you bastards thought it was acceptable to sacrifice a single individual’s hopes and aspirations to the mob, either through the tax take or worse, more directly, then you became inhuman, you are inhuman, as you wake every day and set about nothing less than the destruction of humanity.

So this individual is tired of our political system, this bullying party political childish bullshit which is rotten to the core, and I’m signing off with the only important thing we can sign up to: our unique selves – ‘to thine own self be true.’

Circa 2015, I’m guessing as deep as we are into the tyranny of each other, many who read this, or most, won’t understand the nature of the following, and that it is a purely political statement.

My name is Mark Hubbard.

Read through my posts and you’ll know me better than my face to face friends ever will.

For some ludicrous reason the hope I derived from putting one word after another on the page in my ill-fated creative writing, cribbing those few minutes I could spare here and there, has got me to the setting of a professional career I’ve always hated. It was enough.

Words, and of course, the love and mateship of a spectacular woman over the last twenty five years and into the future, Mrs H.

Please note despite the tone, my life is at a magnificently happy place. I am uniquely comfortable in my own skin. Always have been. Others should be so lucky to have the contentment (otherwise) and choices I have available.

I grew up in a loving family home with four sisters. Too many now don’t.

One of my sisters is IHC. She is happy pretty much all the time, and material things mean nothing to her.

My family were Exclusive Brethren until they were – thank God (that’s irony) – excommunicated when I was four years old. From that day my sisters and I never saw our four living grandparents, my parents never saw their parents.

A lawyer once rang dad four days after the Brethren buried his mother. There was a legal issue, otherwise dad would not have known his mother was dead. Voltaire famously said (something like) those who believe in absurdities become capable of atrocity. I’m a humanist, atheist, because I believe religions are inherently evil.

I believe in a morality of man qua man.

Because mum and dad lost their farm via the Exclusive Brethren, I grew up on a series of uneconomic, back breaking small holdings with mum driving buses and dad trucks to make ends meet. My sisters and I never wanted for a thing.

I have learned that the definition of teenage mortification is your mum driving a high school bus. (No really, think about it.)

My sisters and I all lead very different lives, but we’re a tight unit, we make sure we get on. My eldest sister and I both went off track for a bit, but we never lost contact with the family, nor disrespected our parents, ever. Our family is at peace with its differences.

More people should go off track for a bit. It broadens your viewpoint and opens you to difference, and how good and essential difference is.

My dad, a gentleman, died this March. This is my eulogy to him, spoken nervously at his funeral. I don’t like public speaking, but sometimes I can get over myself to do the right thing. I was asked by many attending (an attendance that filled three levels of the church) for a copy.

As I write this, mum has been in and out of hospital in Christchurch, the docs can’t pinpoint why she keeps getting bladder infections. One of my sisters has texted mum is to have a head scan next week. Wait a minute, what? I’ve left a message for her to ring on her mobile.

Christchurch is a 6 hour drive from where I am in the Mahau Sound.

Addendum: my mum was, I thought, the ‘strong’ one in her marriage. Yet when my dad died she started to fall apart physically and in her mind. The degradation over the last month has been alarming, and my sisters are now getting her assessed at a rest home because she can’t look after herself alone. Perhaps two people can live so long together, they can’t learn how to live apart.

Last June my mum and dad would have been married for 60 years, had dad survived March.

That same June Mrs H and I had been married for 25 years, officially. Unofficially in our own ceremony of two we married ourselves the previous year with a significance far beyond the later state sanction – anarchy! 🙂

I’ve learned there are oftentimes no solutions, but determined companionship can be enough.

Mrs H and I live between a house in the Mahau Sound and a house in Geraldine. We have an earthquake munted house in Diamond Harbour which would be crucifying us financially if we’d not had savings. The ineptness of EQC and the government’s shambolic rebuild confirms my beliefs toward self-reliance, minarchy, and the need for freedom from the bungling command economy of the big state.

I know from an email I received when I wrote my post on race relations, that one person figured out the strange mathematics of my personal life: how a then 49 year old could have grown up (step) granddaughters that should have been the age of my own children. You can’t escape mathematics, that’s how I know our big brother welfare states will eventually destroy themselves, as they are in Europe. There could only be the one solution: obviously Mrs H, beautiful, strong willed and more ornery than I, my best friend forever, my lover, is 18 years older than me. Even with an income, you silly peeps, you don’t get to put enough savings together to take your foot off the income pedal at age 50 if you have to pay to bring up kids of your own.

I never wanted children. That was a choice I was always going to make. Many women are making that decision now for themselves, and being repugnantly vilified for it. Kia kaha, to those who follow their dreams, and not the expectations of others. (Mrs H has had problems with me not being able to have children of my own – her two children being roughly my age – thinking I was missing out on something. I wasn’t. Children for me would have been hell. I would have simply bribed them to get peace, or worse, I would have tried to be their best friend: either way, I would’ve moulded monsters.)

I have a cclose-croppedbeard. That’s as in Don Johnson – for those my age – shadow closely cropped. If I shave the beard off I look like I’m 40. Mrs H won’t allow me to shave my beard off (reread above). My beard itches sometimes.

Four, perhaps five (?) years before I met Mrs H I had a mohawk: it was three rows of blue, 30cm spikes, the tips of which I painted white. I had to sleep first with my head on the left side, then with my head on the right side. It hurt my neck. I immaturely thought, I think, it was the price of art. I once poked a girlfriend in the eye with a spike. I wore Doc Martins, stove piped black trousers, and frilly, fluffy, BIG white oldy day shirts like Darcy wore coming out of that fountain. Those were hilarious days.

Law101 was the most depressing thing on earth, attended by people dead before their lives begun. My ‘look’ really didn’t fit; some of those bastards were wearing suits for Christ’s sake. I chose by year two to live in the rarified elite air of literature and language only. Commerce was for the engineers and the uncoordinated on the dance floor.

Two years before I met Mrs H I was a gloriously happy stoner living at the desolate – love desolate – Birdlings Flat, with dreadlocks, listening to reggae (because I do nothing by halves), working as a casual at IRD with my Arts degree, so bored I was piercing my ears until someone fired me. I got to fourteen earrings and no one had said a thing. That’s the best way to make a fool of someone; ignore them. Those were chilled days.

Mrs H was a GST auditor. I used to spend my smokos in the smoko room with the GST auditors because they had a bit of life. Mrs H had so much life it was worth cleaning my act up for her, and sitting two accounting degrees. I lived that death, and have done 25 years for Mrs H., happily. No regrets.

I bluffed my way into my first job in a CA office, and spent the first day teaching myself double entry with a text book under the desk. It was the easiest thing.

Over the last 25 years I have worked far too hard, and too many hours, to be called a toy boy.

I don’t care if people call me a toy boy.

In my busiest year I combined (near) full time work with seven tertiary papers at Massey University – six was a full time study course – I received grades that year of A, A, A, A+, A+, A+, A+, A+. I received the Institute of Internal Auditors New Zealand Prize. Throughout my arts (Canterbury) and business (Massey) degrees I received a clutch of merit prizes and scholarships. My grade average was A+. I graduated accounting studies with first class honours. In the year of seven papers, I turned over fees of $ – no, some things are still private (well, other than IRD of course; this being partly the point I’m making).

Kiwis are not supposed to brag about shit like that; it’s not becoming of us. We are taught to be self-effacing. I’ve come to believe if you kill part of yourself doing shit like that, then hell, you’re allowed to brag about shit like that, because what was the damned point otherwise.

I tweet respectfully with Massey University tax lecturer, Labour Party member and fourth wave socialist identity-politick feminist Deborah Russell. I like Deborah besides giving her the odd hard time in this blog. But it kills me a little more inside that she teaches tax to the next generation of Big Brother State bots who will be filling accountancy offices. Every mind converted to the big state model via the tax take is a nail in the coffin of the world where I might have been left alone. No, (see comments) Deborah does not consciously impart her ethos, good, but from our education in total there’s a word called osmosis I’ve become fearful of. It’s a thing. This after New Zealand long ago lost the judiciary to the state. (Hey, luv ya Deborah, truly, keep fighting for all you’re worth.)

It doesn’t seem in me to hate people; not really.

I have learned there can be no compulsory tax state without the full submersion surveillance state. It was the end of a free world.

I hate this new rendition of the Gulag that has been voted in. I’ve never voted for the fucking thing.

Morality, and my private life, are not subject to majority vote. That’s a prison also; why can’t we ever learn to leave each other alone?

In most Western States the tax state aides funding of a government sector representing up to half the economic activity in entire economies. Combined with central banking’s artificial interest rates and helicopter money thrown like confetti to pay a sick homage to that man who destroyed the West, J.M. Keynes, we have had forced on us command economies, at the price of free, capitalist ones.

That’s me. I’ve given you this information voluntarily. At least two government agencies could collect all that personal information by law, against my will. That’s why this blog screams into the goddamned night like a deluded banshee. I’m so pissed off. Every Leftie reading this would turn a blind eye to my inner life, and sacrifice it to the Commissioner of IRD to build ‘their’ vicious society.

Wondering if I need to revisit that ‘I don’t hate’ clause.

We are all unique: don’t confine my future, my expectations, my pursuit of happiness, ME, to a stereotypical identity based on my skin colour, my age, or my gender. That IS the gulag – think about the atrocities of the twentieth century.

Don’t. Do. That. Awful. Shit.

This is random, I know. I believe in a life of reason, but that doesn’t mean I think in straight lines.

Watching our politicians in the Fortress of Legislation, and every Act of enslavement they’ve spewed out, has convinced me the zombie apocalypse was a thing, because those bastards did it with near no opposition. Every statist damned thing.

My wish is you all would get yourselves some self-awareness please, and Progressives, stop emoting about everything despite yourselves. Because you are killing my Self.

You need to have a passion in life. Passion is meaning. Without meaning you are a hollow receptacle, walking around, being filled with all sorts of statist shit we’re now brainwashed with from pre-school by progressive unionised teachers. (Refer back to my point on the zombie apocalypse.)

I think a lot of shit at times. Often I can’t shut my brain down and I suffer insomnia.

Fellas; beer pots are gross. If you’ve let yourself go like that it says something about you, you bet it does. Get it sorted.

Keep the weight off, period, all of you. I’m fat shaming, and talking common sense. Life feels better when you can run more than thirty bloody steps.

There must be no such thing as a safe place.

Mrs H is a first wave feminist (if that is even a thing) – better stated as simply she’s a unique individual. Classical liberal. She can be magnificently fearsome. She doesn’t concern herself with fourth wave feminism, which unfortunately is a thing, though if she did I’m pretty relaxed in saying she recommend they be drowned in their own sea of identity. I know for certain Mrs H would like to give the women of Islam a swift boot up their combined jacksies for being so stupid as to fight for their right to have no rights. She can’t even …

Yeah, I bored even myself – we were all in the same boat much of the time here – with my blog’s latter concentration on fourth wave feminism, but that was only because, as Germaine Greer found out, it represents a dour ending from a wrong-turn, and thus a consignment, again, again, again, of the free society to oblivion.

Or perhaps the anti-feminist feminist Camille Paglia is wiser when she says of young feminists, ‘if they want to be passive wards of the state, let them’.

To all fourth wavers – Merry Christmas. I was never the enemy, indeed I am a feminist by dint of being an individualist, and seriously, you have to do way better than this.

Mrs H is so onery she won’t take prescription drugs, she simply self-educates and changes her diet and lifestyle to fix ills when they surface. It works. She has argued every doctor she’s had into their desk.

She is stubborn as all hell.

This could be the prose of love, I think.

We pretty much share the cooking, other than periods I’m busy as Mrs H has been weaning herself from our practice. She’s worked full time since she was 13, waitressing and office temping in South Hampton, with two years off work to bring up her children. I could do more about the other house chores, and I try, but sometimes get lazy and allow a dying patriarchy to let me off with what I shouldn’t. I know I’m wrong, and work on that.

Booze is fun when you control it. It’s not fun when it controls you. Although if you can’t control it, that is NOT an excuse to lobby the bullies in the Fortress for alcohol controls and excise taxes on me. Keep your nose out of my life please, live your own life, or as generation text would say, STFU and bugger off.

Wine; posted with no further comment  – hattip to the Listener’s best political journalist:

wine

Cannabis is way more pleasurable, and less toxic – possibly medicinal – than booze, but we live in a kindy of a country, and aren’t allowed it by the codgerati who think they have some sort of divine fucking right to rule us. They don’t.

The evils of wowserism became a major topic for me, summed up in my post Political Subversion in a Wine Glass: Scarlett Johansson and the Context of Joy.

You bet there’s a price to wowserism, as I’ve written many times in here – search my wowserism tag – and as I commented on Karl du Fresne’s grand post about government Mother Grundy.

Every stupid law we have: ignore them. I make it a point to try to. We owe it to all those who died across successive world wars that we rebel and free ourselves of law after law after fucking law made to bind us.

Looking at some of the dreadful law out of this National Government, from Look Through Companies to Collins’ dreadful Anti-Money Laundering and Countering Financing of Terrorism Act, which ludicrously killed the innovative iPredict, and latterly looking at the nonsensical waste of resource of some government agency actions, I suggest we don’t have to worry ourselves about climate change; we’re going to drown in sea of bureaucratic stupidity long before that becomes a concern.

Let’s deal finally to this hoary old egg: if you don’t wear a cycle helmet you’re a moron, however, there need be no law enforcing that, or – yes – seat-belts, because it’s more important humans have the freedom to die stupidly.

That above point does not apply to children.

But it does apply to mountaineering.

Never forget context.

If you haven’t got electronic bidets with warmed toilet seats, you ain’t first world, sorry.

Have you figured out how important hilarity is yet? If not, and over 50, get back to go, start over, apply more alcohol.

Despise politicians. Even the nice ones. They are sanctimonious patronising bullies to a last one. It is true the cliche that those who think they were born for public office, are generally the last people who should hold public office.

A nice politician is a Terminator smiling. You’re probably about to get your arse kicked (and you can guarantee they’ve picked your pocket already).

In case you haven’t read, Aussie politicians this week are using tax law to take down the rival philosophy to state fiat money known as Bitcoin.

Freedom is an end unto itself. The notion of a bounded freedom, or a bounded liberty, is ludicrous.

We are free as individuals, or we are not. We are not and we continue to lose freedoms every time the Arrogance of Altruists in Wellington sits.

The West has fallen so far that when I say freedom is an end unto itself, indeed, the end point, most people now class me as a loon and an extremist (FFS).

Think about it: how the hell did that happen?

In my entire life I have not once heard a New Zealand politician use the word freedom or liberty in a speech, interview, or … or whatever. I have never heard one of those creatures utter those words.

The US has become such an abomination nowadays that when I hear their plastic politicians and pork barrel lobbyists sprinkle the words freedom and liberty through their speeches, I assume I’m listening to stand up.

I’ll ask again; please write a submission before February 1 [ 2016: now expired, sorry] in support of the right to die with dignity. Let we free individuals have ownership of our bodies and health outcomes ‘back’ at least.

I’m not going to end in an old peoples home, unless by a treason of my body  I can’t control, such as sudden incapacitating stroke, in this land where my living will is ignored. Boy oh boy I’ll be pissed if that happens, and a doctor signed up to the negligent NZMA bullshit ethos, cruelly keeps me alive against my will. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but will make a point of coming back to haunt every fucker involved in my living will not being legal. Seriously, you bet I will. I’m speaking to that mystical idiot Catholic Minister English, and the seminary trained MP O’Connor farcically cheering the select committee on euthanasia. As if Monty Python was running government. I saw what you did there with O’Connor’s Chair, Prime Minister Key, and will never forgive you for it.

Kudos and respect to former Labour MP Maryan Street for putting her euthanasia bill in the private ballot – kudos to current MP David Seymour for his bill, but Maryan’s is better written, I reckon, given her’s covered end of life directives. Happily because Maryan is no longer a politician, I’m allowing myself to like her 🙂 However amongst the people never to be forgiven, all politicians, is then Labour Leader David Cunliffe for advising Maryan to withdraw her bill in an election year because our MPs weren’t adult enough to debate it while attempting to hold onto the baubles of power. He was right, that is what is wrong with our political system, but he effectively euthanised her bill.

Regarding my death, if I have my way, at some future date, after having lived, and I do LIVE, I shall pass away to a sunset, I think, on this deck, after a martini, and a joint, by my own hand. I just hope to God peaceful means are available to me, and I don’t have to asphyxiate with a plastic bag over my head, as our politicians ensured Mrs Mott had to.

balcony

There’s enormous contentment to the thought of passing peacefully away to that sunset. Perhaps I’ve just written my right to die with dignity submission right there. Although I’m awfully tempted to ask for time to give a spoken submission, turn up, and simply say ‘to hell with you I’m even here; what right does anyone have over my life, and my death. Can’t we all just grow the fuck up.’

The piece I promised on literature and aesthetics in this post ain’t ever coming. Sorry, not sorry. I’m doing my own thang now. Learning the craft of creative writing for no other reason than my own enjoyment.  [I guess you can see where my new blog has come from.]

On literature, my passion, this was the personal favourite of all the posts I wrote.

When the last human who understands individualism passes, so will pass the entirety of human art – that absolute necessity to express a Self.

A Self is so fragile it can’t survive being forced to live the lives of others. Humans teach themselves this again and again but never learn.

We are not living at the peak of a Western Civilisation; we live in the collectivised wreckage of its ruins.

Umbrage taking: don’t do it. You should have left that with childhood tantrums. And forget the strait-jacket of your idiot safe place. It’s yet another lifeless, humourless – the bigger sin – grey little cell.

Again, again, again. Individualism, please, read this blog, understand it. It’s not about selfishness you immature, facile numpties; it’s about uniqueness and the value of every individual life. It’s the insurance against sacrificing a single life to any political program or religious pogram, most particularly by those misogynistic bearded weirdos.

Understand capitalism is not about goddamned money; it’s a philosophy based on the voluntary transaction. The voluntary society not the coerced one humans have always sought to enslave populations with. To enforce the common good, is to barbarically force individuals from their pursuit of happiness to sit unfulfilled, their potential squandered, in the prison of each other’s minds. It’s the death behind every death reported in this final post.

A market, a free one, is merely a meeting place where individuals seek each other out to resolve their complex needs and desires, without force. However its beautiful complexity of coordination is broken in every case where oaffish central planners force their ruddy great egos between the voluntary transactions of consenting adults so the tax-state can take its pound of flesh. They need to bugger off.

There is no free market left in the West, I know this because the latest free trade deal, the TPP, was negotiated by central planners and needs a zillion pages, or whatevers, to contain, regulate and bind traders with. It’s bounded liberty again.

This [old] blog has become a repetition of the same post over and over. Freedom from the tyranny of each other, and let’s create a society based on voluntarism. I’m tired of writing that post.

To any clients who may happen on this I may have fallen out of love with the job, but I put the appalling amount of time in required to keep up with tax law and, of course, I love ya. How couldn’t I, you’re all adorable. But one thing please: check your bloody emails! You all take days to answer simple queries and that does my head in.

Please be kind to animals; they can neither defend nor speak for themselves nor unionise. How you treat an animal, humanely or not, says a lot about you – you bet it does. I guarantee you will be treating humans the same in your mind.

To the nation of Japan: can you stop killing and eating every life form in the sea, please. Those beautiful whales, and the dolphins, have bigger brains than those cruel swine slaughtering them. Plus if you have a nervous system that feels pain, what do you think it’s like being eaten alive on a plate. Seriously, the term cruel wankers doesn’t begin to describe that part of your culture. You need to unlearn all that shit, and let me tell you something world leaders are too kind too: the symbolism of those harpoons, think about it – the rest of us are assuming you’re making up for something.

Damn … I’ve run out of puff. Oh look, wine.

Have a good one, albeit at the level of the state, leave me alone, please.

Why am I saying please? Leave me alone. There is no more basic right than that, to be left alone if that is an individual’s wish; without it we are not a free society, and we’re so far from that, all these enforced obligations to one another bleeding out true compassion and charity freely given on the ruthless desks of cold hearted bureaucrats just following their orders.

If our money exhorted by the tax take over the years, and I do my taxes conservatively so there’s been a lot of it, had been available for voluntary giving, Mrs H and I could have made a difference giving to those charities and causes with an ethos of building self-reliance and not this enslaving dependency to the big state model turning young minds to mush and taking volition from them before they’ve had an independent thought of their own.

I’ve always done my taxes conservatively because you can’t beat the state and it’s punishments: the state is huge and vicious. I determined long ago to live and spend none of my time enshrouded in the cold dungeons of court rooms locked up with bloody lawyers fighting a pointless war.

I am no martyr; I like my wine too much.

Ahem; and Mrs H.

Party politics was the death of sanity and the inception of public life as a meaningless, often offensive, yawn-fest. I’m going to live my life as if the Fortress of Legislation and that dreadful Arrogance of Self-Serving Altruists who crawl around on their bellies therein, don’t exist.

I’ve always thought there was something romantic about a relic; and find I’m happy turning this blog into one.

This is my second blog, my first was hijacked; the perp is still posting using the former URL. My wish for him or her is a case of piles as big as grapes.

I know I have some regular readers; thank you for hearing me out.

If, after walking down the empty halls in here, reading my thoughts, you want to understand more about individualism and reasoned, peaceful lives free of tyranny, then below I’ve linked my top  blogs, you might want to peruse them:

Peter Cresswell’s Not PC;

Lindsay Mitchell’s blog, reporting on the mis-reporting of the welfare state.

Scott Wilson’s Liberty Scott;

Kiwiwit’s Thoughts from 40 Degrees South;

Paul Walker’s Anti-Dismal;

Eric Crampton’s Offsetting Behaviour;

Related, I love reading Deborah Hill Cone’s columns, and think some of the vile stuff I’ve seen spewed out in comments on her raw honesty have been the low point in New Zealand journalism, lately … off track, sorry. Love some of Deborah’s 30 random points.

Another low is the current reporting of late Jonah Lomu’s financial affairs and the property deal with his father-in-law. The wife/daughter has just buried her husband and has to deal with this: did the reporter concerned – the same reporter who was rightly concerned over the privacy breaches on Nicky Hager’s raid – and his employer, once stop to consider what they will be doing to her? To that reporter, why the double standard here? Because one was a celebrity and fair game to you, the other a lefty so you’re a bit more concerned about him perhaps? We are all individuals; none of us your property to publish publicly like this, no matter what position in life.

The Lomu story is one with zero public interest, and thus sadly evidences a newly conceived tabloid press in New Zealand thinking it owns Jonah Lomu’s inner life, and the lives of his surviving family, just as our government does.

It’s the tyranny of each other, again.

And that’s me done; time to depart the blathering classes. Off to rewrite a book. I might see you on twitter, though I’m trying to stay off politics there – our politick is beyond repair, and I’ve not got enough life left for it. I’m gonna enjoy myself.

Good cheer.

Good health.

Above all else, be kind.

The biggest word in the English language is empathy.

I so hoped we had consigned cruelty and totalitarianism to the twentieth century. Looking at the identity politick … no. Those evils seem to be some primal impulse we can’t leave behind, even after being Enlightened.

Never be cruel (Dr. Who that one).

No really, individualism – do you get it? It’s simple. It’s me, warts (vanity I don’t have any)  and all. And, of course, you. We are sacred.

We are all a little bit scared.

This was never a flouncing, it was a celebration. Stillborn.
Below is the wee dude; I’m trying to teach her patience, and not to pile out of the kayak whenever she thinks something looks more interesting. I’m not getting anywhere with that.

I’ve just fulfilled Mr Voltaire’s quotation at the start of this piece; I’ve bored even myself. That’s the tombstone.

If you’ve made it to here it may interest you to know that just over a year on writing the above, I started a new arts blog here: Books, Films & Art, Plus a Bit of Life I’ve Squeezed In. Arts from very particular point of view.

Goodbye.

daisy1

If Daisy could talk, and she almost can, she would say this:

art-care-for-animals

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