napalm burn

nytimes.com
Is Your God Dead?
Building walls, banning refugees and ignoring the poor are the social expressions of bankrupt theologies.
By George Yancy

“Any god who is mine but not yours, any god concerned with me but not with you, is an idol,” Heschel writes. Think of segregated white churches during Jim Crow, or the many churches today, in our “post-racial” moment, that continue to be de facto segregated every Sunday morning. Think, too, of the blood that has been spilled in the name of the God we claim as our own. You have all heard the underpinnings of this idolatry: “God Bless America,” which I see as the words of a bankrupt neoliberal theology. In fact, there is something profane in that statement, which worships and calls upon a God that blesses America only.

…In fact, I would ask, what if [our] tranquility, [our] peace of mind, rests on the rotting corpses beneath our feet? What if as we pray and rejoice in our churches, synagogues and mosques, we are throwing handfuls of dirt on God’s casket? After all, prayer and rejoicing can also function as forms of narcissism, as ways to drown out the screams of the poor, the oppressed. In a story shared by Heschel’s daughter, Susannah, she writes that he found praying during the Vietnam War impossible, but necessary to demonstrate. “Whenever I open my prayer book,” he told a journalist, “I see before me images of children burning from napalm.”

Heschel writes, “The prophet’s word is a scream in the night.” I wait to be awakened by that scream. I have not yet heard it. It is that scream, that deep existential lament, that will awaken us to the ways we are guilty of claiming to “love God” while forgetting the poor, refusing the refugee, building walls, banning the stranger, and praying and worshiping in insular and segregated “sacred” spaces filled with racism, sexism, patriarchy, xenophobia, homophobia and indifference.

…In 1968, in conversation with King, Heschel asked, “Where does God dwell in America today?” I ask myself this question today. But I do not find the answer. Heschel also asks, “Where does moral religious leadership in America come from today?” I look, but I have not seen it. Perhaps, like Diogenes the Cynic, you’ll find me carrying a lamp in the daytime. But instead of looking for an honest man, I will be looking through the catacombs of your own making, asking, “Is your God dead?”

2AM Dr.Strangelovery

So at 2am I was messaging my boy @ crudehorrible and it developed into some of the weirdest Dr. Strangelovery I’ve ever encountered. This is a shitty highly detailed blue print of how this thing works

ONE:

So we have our normal ICBM with  MIRV warhead, but the missile and warhead are fucking huge. Like, big enough to transport 10 B-52s in the warhead safely.

BECAUSE IT FUCKING IS CARRYING 10 B-52s!

Now when the MIRV releases all 10 B-52s, they go heading for their target area to drop their payload as this picture below shows.

But at a certain altitude this big old mother fucker splits into THREE MASSIVE BARREL BOMBS!

BUT IF YOU THOUGHT WE COULDN’T MAKE THE UN MUNITIONS PEOPLE SHIT THEM SELVES EVEN HARDER, THERE’S MORE! 

EACH ONE OF THESE FUCKERS HAS A 15KT CESIUM BOMB (yes i know i spelled it wrong in the pic, this was 2am cut me some slack), ENOUGH WHITE PHOSPHOROUS AND NAPALM TO BURN DOWN HALF OF SOUTH EAST ASIA, SARIN, AND ANTHRAX FOR GOOD MEASURE. IT’S ALSO RIGGED TO BLOW AT GROUND LEVEL, THIS CREATING THE MAXIMUM AMOUNT OF FALLOUT!



wait why the fuck did we make this thing. This is both horrifying and fucking stupid.

Quotes from my best friend and roommate

“Ok there are a thousand and one things that are morally wrong with that, so in the interest of saving time lets focus on like, the first 5″

“We can’t do that because there are at least 5 felonies and probably a war crime or two involved”

“Keep your boyfriend away from my dinosaur nuggets or I’ll break every bone in his hand”

“If it weren’t a violation of international law I’d totally be down”

“I’ll kick your ass and look cute doing it”

“If Maggie’s cooking is how I’m gonna die, I wanna be drunk when I go”

“So a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar. There’s no punchline here, just three sexy fine ladies who want a drink”

“You know all that leftover napalm we had for burning stumps? Well, it’s not a problem anymore.” 

“Why is the outhouse on fire?” “Hand sanitizer is actually really flammable”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be into bondage, it’s not really the kind of leather I’m into”

“I wanna paint the Mona Lisa on his back with my tongue” 

“It’s not Thanksgiving unless someone drinks wine through a kazoo” 

“Missionary dating just turns into missionary position”

*as we’re watching our neighbor through his window while he’s feeding his naked girlfriend bananas while wearing a banana* “Wait, I’m confused. Isn’t sex when you take off the banana suit?”

“Penis is addicting. A-DICK-ting”

“I’m bringing a flask and not wearing underwear just in case”

“You shook her hand. She probably shook your boyfriends penis at some point.”

“Hey i’m trying to find games for my friend’s bachelorette party. Not like boring conservative games, but not quite pin the penis on Chris Evans”  

“Crying over otters is punk rock”

“You will treat people with respect or I will shove it so far up your ass you’ll taste politeness for a month” 

*At the gym* “You know what’s REALLY sexy? RACKING YOUR FUCKING WEIGHTS”

5

SYRIA. Aleppo governorate. Aleppo. September 27, 2016. The ruins of Aleppo, reduced to a ghost city, where more than 250,000 civilians are trapped in basements and rudimentary shelters. Stills of a drone footage.

Aleppo is currently experiencing the heaviest bombardment campaign seen in the five year old war. Barrel bombs, phosphorus, napalm, cluster bombs and now bunker buster bombs have been indiscriminately unleashed on rebel-held areas. The airstrikes have killed hundreds, most of them civilians, especially children, since the end of a week long ceasefire, ten days ago.

Photographs: Handout via Reuters TV

On day one I tucked a bomb under my tongue and your teeth caught the pin
Pulled it back
Swallowed it
Your hands were a sweeping flash of napalm
I have been burning ever since
On day two I sewed my jaw back together
Reassembled the debris of my body
And talked for an hour about
How happy I was to have a fuck buddy
Watched my mouth shape words like carefully constructed land mines
Not knowing that I would be the one to step on them later
Hiding them inconspicuously in your bed
Where my limbs could blow apart at the ligaments
Pieced apart until I am nothing more
Than a discordant bundle of vocal cords
Sighing your name
Burning up at the edges
My blood screaming red
Splash it over the bed sheets
Metaphorically
Don’t kill the mood
Twist the sheets between my fists and feel more battleground than body
Anatomy more forgiving than the trenches
Your hands find my heart and my tongue finds your name
Like a grenade
—  Why are we at war

The end is a lot less climatic than prophets had determined it to be. It came slowly. You think the wage gap widened in a day? No, it took years, decades - the chasm growing, deep enough that any attempts to cross it were suicidal at best. Bodies tumbled into the chasm —— some in despair, some in hope, an unchanging outcome. Sometimes kids peered down, nudging each other with conspiratorial whispers: Don’t be chicken, I heard a friend of a friend made it to the other side.

Each crossing story more embellished than the last. Many, many decades ago when the gap had been a small crack on the pavement it had made sense to accuse those on the wrong side of wanting to stay there. Of making that choice. That thought, at least, had never changed. And so the world ended with a slowly encroaching chasm and little ceremony.

The horsemen, however, did come into this world in a split instance — their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water. Their limbs of shadow and sinews spilling awkward across stretches of ground; they pulled themselves together slowly, scrapping each limb against the asphalt, and leaving an inky trail behind. Their eyes glued shut by eons of stardust; they come from being infinity to breakable vessels.

In four corners of the world they awake to eat ash and death.

I.

He crouches, spreads his fingers over the trembling ground and feels the thin layer of dirt that is neither soil nor dust, but made of the exhaust fumes of cars and the burnt particles of rubber. He fashions himself a crown of fingers and hands, weaved together before rigor mortis sets in.

His bow of ligament and bone: he rather likes it.

II.

She spreads her fingers to shield her face from the burning sun. Napalm covers the fields at her feet —— a moment ago her skin was singing with the fire(it has gone silent, a chord struck, and spiralling into dissonance). Objects become weapons in her hands: she can swing a straw and watch men drown in their blood.

Her sword is a metal rusted pipe: all that was left behind in that field.

III.

He scratches his fingers against the wall as retches his last meal along the side of a petrol station, the asphalt oily with tire marks and vomit. No one stops to ask if he’s okay, people scurry past as if he’s invisible; paper thin and made of bird bones as he slips inside the restaurant once more.

His scale is made of chicken bones: spitting the leftovers on the floor.


IV.

Death is death is death, and he has always been here among the bodies and the ashes and the mortality of it all; he is sick with conquest, famished for war; they portray him with a scythe but it is all in the curve of his hand —— from thumb to index, he flicks them together.

Ignites a spark.

—— Horsemen & Archangels [You don’t need a weapon when you’re born one] || Eliot C. ©
Psycho Pass Movie Prologue

[…though men were perched upon living stilts which keep on growing, reaching the height of church-towers, until walking becomes difficult and dangerous…]*

 

 

Year 2116

 

A man laid on the stone pavement. His body hidden behind a corner of a ruin. The tropic sunrays were strong; through his western clothes, he could feel the burning heat. However, this helplessness like he had already given up to the heat and the cold, hadn’t subsided during his wander overseas. The smell of heated weeds and stones filled up his nostrils, the man breathed in deeply.

On the hilltop, religious ruins built of flat big heaped up stones. A half destroyed column caught in many battles and a statue exposed their pitiful figure like a cheese chewed by rats. Fine friezes of a sculptural relief on a wall had been spared but the original shape, mostly pierced by many bullet holes, hadn’t been preserved.

Here and there, red hibiscus flowers bloomed from cracks in the stone pavement. Pale red petals, like they had grown sucking blood, were swaying in the wind.

The name of the man laid down was Kougami Shinya.

A detective who had killed a man and fled from Japan.

….Did I killed a man?

If someone had told him so, that’s how Kougami would have argued.

I have only fulfilled my duty. A detective’s job is not to judge people. And yet, what if an evil that can’t be judged by the law exists? A detective’s job isn’t also deal with evil to make up for the law’s flaws?  

So Kougami deemed, and brought things to conclusion pulling the trigger.

Wandering overseas, he had reforged himself and now, Kougami was in SEAUn. With the world entered in an era of chaos, even if some nations had tried to get away with a reorganization, finally they were a mosaic of failed dictatorships and civil wars. In this country, Kougami had been taking part to the guerilla battles of the democratization movement as a military adviser.

“….they’ve come”

The man standing next to Kougami was Sem, the leader of guerrilla.

He hadn’t asked about his past but, from the traces of wounds and his custom to the fights, Kougami conjectured if afterall he wasn’t an ex-military.

On the top of the small hill, behind the stone ruins, Kougami and Sem had prepared a spot to watch and wait for a chance to shoot.

Taking in Sem’s words, Kougami took a look into the distance.

Chuan Han’s governative troops were coming.

A long civil war had been raging in the Southeast Asia Union. But the situation had a deep change. Chuan Han, who had been no more than a leader of a military cast, joined forces with Japanese Government, the Sybil System. The measure of the crime coefficients… the edification of the maritime special ward Shambala Float, that he’d been entrusted to administrate from Japan.

…..what’s happening?

 

Caught between the opposition force and the nations, in a short time Chuan Han had completed all the arrangements. And then, a unit of drones provided by the Japanese government began the massacre under the pretext of maintaining public order.

At that time, Kougami Shinya had already taken part to the guerrilla fight and was trying to overthrow Chuan Han’s strong-arm methods.

….Chuan Han is a dictator. Existence is utterly incompatible with the japanese government way, in other words the Sybil System. The governmental forces will collapse from the inside….that was Kougami and Sem’s prediction.

However, that didn’t happen. Shambala float was going well in trial operations, and if one had said say that chairman Han was compliant to Japanese government, he would have described well Sian government situation.

Then, the anti governative troops were being killed like insects.

 

A column of governative troops was passing through the country road. Military vehicles for troops transport, an armored car used by the commander, and a Ganesh….a tank made in Japan with many robotic arms. An entire armored squadron. If they had let them go, in the guerrilla camp it would have been another massacre.

That’s why they had to settle it there.

Carrying an assault rifle on his shoulder, Sem set up the spotting scope. That scope had a laser apparatus for distance measurement and an anemometer. An anti-material rifle was standing on its legs in front of Kougami. Ready to fire in a prone stance, Kougami introduced a sharp huge bullet in the open fire chamber.

[…….]

When Kougami looked into the scope, computer graphics and a variety of informations were displayed. The image of a shooting correction device synchronized with the laser apparatus for distance measurement. A cursor was floating on the position of the estimated projectile impact.

The column of governative troops vehicles was approaching the scope centre.

The distance was 600 meters.

“The wind direction’s changed”, sharply said Sem.

This time he was Kougami’s spotter.

The spotter had the role of sniper’s assistant.

In case of carrying out long range shots with a big rifle, using a scope, the scale factor necessarily increased but this lead to a narrow field of vision. The spotter followed that.

He assisted with the trajectory computation and observed the impact.

Since the screen shook in the moment the rifle fires, the great advantage was having someone other than the main marksman to observe the impact.

“The wind has started blowing from 3 o’clock direction. Just a few minutes ago it was the opposite”

“Even if the wind is changing, it doesn’t reflect in the shooting correction device….."   Kougami said in a low voice.

 "Am I wrong?"  Sem said.

"No, you’re not. It’s the shooting device who’s failing……”

“Damn it. Anyway it’s an equipment of so many decades ago”

“Let’s fix it”

Kougami turned off the shooting correction device. The computer graphics disappeared from the scope and the usual reticle switched to a mil-dot*.

[…..]

On the portable terminal on his wrist, a hologram was displayed. It was the trajectory computing graphic of the anti-material rifle Kougami was using.

Peering into that graphic, Sem said.

“5 clicks to the right”

“Roger”

Said so, Kougami with careful hands clicked on the windage* knob on the side of the scope.

“Can I go?”

“I’ve already added the spin drift to the wind force….] said Sem.

” The angle also is such that has not much influence on the impact. No problem!“

Kougami placed his fingers on the trigger.

Thanks to the shooting practice gained, he aimed without even a closed eye. Only real snipers aimed with both eyes open.

Aiming to the troop-transport vehicle at the head of the column, he shot.

Blowing a tire, he stopped the movement.

"Hit” Sem confirmed the impact.

…..and now the next one.

Breaking the front axle, he prevented the forward movement of the column.

As next target, he aimed at the end of the column. The second shoot went to the tire of the armored car.

By doing so, he had blocked the road in front and behind and now, he was free to aim to the favorite target.

This time the favorite target was—–napalm ammunitions prepared for the roads of this country zone.

Fire bombs in which a thickener was added to a high performance combustion agent.

Kougami charged an incendiary oil bomb into the anti-material rifle and launched it.

It raised a great explosion. Also the antitank mines laid around detonated, creating a chain. Beautiful fireworks bloomed from the ground.

Flames dancing together with a bursting of destructive power.

“Let’s change place” said Sem.

“Yes”

With a temperature over 1000°C, napalm ammunitions kept burning for about 10 minutes. In what kind of tanks with robotics arm there weren’t internal precision equipments. Behind a curtain of black smoke and flames, with a twitch, the Ganesh silhouette crumbled falling in pieces.

 

NOTES TO TRANSLATION:

 

*This first sentence is taken from the book “Time regained” by Marcel Proust. Proust style is rather complex and elaborated, so I didn’t translate it by myself. I searched for an official English version.

*Mil-dot or mil dot reticle: a mean of determining distances to targets, establishing leads for moving targets, and for alternate aiming points for windage and elevation holds

*Windage: The point or degree at which the wind gauge or sight of a rifle or gun must be set to compensate for the effect of the wind.

 Thanks for reading

*sitting in her rocking chair on the front porch sipping tea, the lights of hell reflected in the darkness of my eyes as the Harry Potter fandom ignites with the promise of the phoenix but burns like napalm*

This takes me back…gather round children, let me tell you about a place where the wars were many and no-one won. It was the year 2001, Live Journal was entering the start of it’s decline…

XMA feelings - Alex edition

One day I’m going to write an epic post-XMA fic where I get to explore all of the various relationships between the cast (I have a lot of thoughts about Storm and Erik bonding, and the kidlets being in awe of Raven, and Charles and Erik coming to terms with one another, and Jean and Charles dealing with the mental fallout of their mind-battle, etc etc etc), but for now, here is a rambling thing about Alex (and Darwin) that probably makes no sense and is full of feelings, because I’m in denial and refuse to believe that either of them are dead (They’re not dead, right guys? RIGHT? HAHAHA….HA..)

***

Alex had experienced fire before.

All his life there had been a flame in his chest, a molten fist curled directly within the heart of him. When he was thirteen it erupted in a surge of grief and incomprehensible anger, obliterating the office walls of the social worker who told him his parents were dead.

The fire burned through him, lighting his veins, radiating from his skin like nuclear holocaust.  He carried it with him just below the surface, waiting each day for it to burst forward, an animal tearing its way through the bone and muscle of his chest, melting his lungs and heart into ash.

Keep reading

3

I leave you tonight with some history. A famous Time photo from the Vietnam war of children running from a napalm attack. The nude girl is the most famous, she was simply known as Napalm Girl. The second photo is of the Vietnamese film crew interviewing her as a person seams to be attending to her burns. The white areas on her back a peeled off skin. And lastly  Kim Phuc now, you can see the results of the napalm burns. She does an occasional tour to speak of her experiences.

2

We kept mostly to ourselves, at first. ‘Til the food ran out. We started going out on runs–a few of us at a time. We’d see people who needed help, barely holding on. But, we were barely holding on ourselves. There came a time where I couldn’t look away, anymore. Found this…kid. Napalm burns in his clothes…skin. Dawn said we couldn’t spare the resources. So, we struck a deal. I’d use what I could to heal him and he’d compensate us for those resources with service. And now…

Watching Alone again.

The walker Beth shoots at the beginning was definitely a turned cop from GMH. He has a 9mm with a belt on as well as what looks like it could be the undershirt of a cop uniform.

The funeral home is too clean. That’s all Dawn right there.

Hanson is definitely the one on display.

And the other two downstairs. One with what looks like napalm burns on his face. They definitely both look like they could have been cops.


The dog going to the door reminds me of something I’ve heard the Taliban do. They send a dog to try and make nice with soldiers. They want to count, see how many there are. Distract them.

I think the dog was meant to be a distraction all along.

The cops from GMH were watching all along.

There is still stuff that needs to be explained.

Not sure what; but this isn’t over.

Phan Thi Kim Phuc - The girl from the famous photograph by Nick Ut (Huỳnh Công Út) taken during the Vietman war.

Her village had been occupied by North Vietnamese forces and as she was fleeing from it her group was mistaken for a group of soldiers and attacked by South Vietnamese forces.

The napalm from the bomb burned 30% of her body, mainly her back, neck and left arm. She tore of her burnig clothes and was photographed as she was running down the street naked.

She was taken to the hospital by the photographer himself and was able to return home only after 2 years of therapy and surgery.

She was then used for propaganda purposes by the communist government, but was eventually able to continue her studies in medicine in Cuba where she met her future husband.

While returning from their honeymoon in Russia they got of the plane during a refueling stop in Canada and asked for political asylum.

In 1997 she passed the Canadian Citizenship Test and is since a Canadian citizen. She and her husband have two sons - Thomas, born in 1994 and Stephen, born in 1997. She is also an UNESCO Goodwill Ambassador, was awarded several honorary degrees and founded the Kim Phuc Foundation, helping child victims of war.

anonymous asked:

Why exactly do you hate Banksy? I don't know much about him, just what I've seen of Dismaland and some graffiti.

Banksy’s work is watered-down faux “activism” that does nothing to benefit the people hurt under the oppressive systems he pretends to be critiquing. His art is the same messages over and over again, brow-beaten, tired, and already apparent to pretty much everyone in the world with an internet connection and a link to cable news.

We don’t need Banksy to tell us about how kids in Africa are starving, or that cameras watch our every move, or that the government is unsustainable. We know already. Everything Banksy creates revolves around the “wake up sheeple” aesthetic that most people grow out of after their 15th birthday, and is nothing more than poorly conceived shock art that he thinks makes us go “oh, god, McDonald’s has so much money and we’re all slaves to capitalism!”, when in reality all it makes us do is sigh and roll our eyes because Banksy makes millions of dollars off the system he bitches and moans about, yet he still claims to be a rebellious street artist.

All I get from Banksy is that he wants everyone to live in a whiny dystopia where we either cry at security cameras or bow down pitifully to idols of our own creation, because capitalism is bad! We’ve created a miserable existence for ourselves! Wake up people! I, Banksy, a man with the collective depth of a single dewdrop on a leaf blade, will open your eyes by drawing a picture of Ronald McDonald and Mickey Mouse holding hands with a napalm burn victim, and then spend a shitload on a fake Disney theme park to REALLY hammer that point home, because that money couldn’t have gone to any other cause.

Banksy is boring, Banksy is exhausting, Banksy profits off images of children dying he has cherry-picked to be as “eye-opening” as possible, Banksy condemns childhood escapism and whimsy because he had fun once, and apparently it was awful.

And you know what, his compositions suck too.

the artist became a poet in a fire
burning a hundred canvases in kerosene
telling the responding firefighters
“I didn’t know how to make napalm”

after the obvious burns healed (almost
before the writing) the interviews began
“Each picture is worth a thousand words,”
the artist said, scars twisting into something
as the interviewers stared. “I couldn’t live
anymore with what those words were saying.”

“And you think poetry will be easier?”
one finally asked and the artist stared down
at their hands. “I don’t know,” they said,
“I don’t know,” and everyone waited, some
in silence, for the news story to come when
the artist turned poet cut their hands off
and settled for stories only a tongue could tell.