Signing off - My Last Blog Post | Nicky Hager; Heather Du Plessis-Allan; Deborah Hill-Cone; Giovanni Tiso - Individualism & the Tyranny of Each Other.

The secret of being a bore is to tell everything – Voltaire.

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



Sadly the huge welfare states we've emoted through the voting booth foster a crippling dependency by subsidising (allowing) dreadful life-long choices which have destroyed family ties and, upon that, community. If Progressives had been correct, the growth of welfare states would have led to cohesive society and community; but the opposite has happened. I cringe when I see deluded, albeit well-intentioned, people blame the increasing atomisation of society on neoliberal (a term that has no meaningful meaning) individualism, when the reality is the opposite: big brother states that sacrifice individuals to a welfare system which destroys relationships between individuals, starting with familial bonds of love and affection. And then destroys economies. - Me.

[Trigger warning: when reading the below, you are not in a safe place, and for any of us, least of all myself.

I have no judgement about this, my final post, so have decided to follow the example of one of my heroes and simply Deborah-Hill-Cone it by publishing anyway. Noting Deborah gets a small honourable mention in my closing list, with other notables and mentors, and she earned hero status by one trait: honesty - to thine own self be true. That'll feed the haters from the get-go ;)

The Giovanni Tiso post this refers to, initially, is now several weeks old as I pondered posting this at all. Starting as a simple retort to Tiso, you'll note this morphs into a post that isn't about him, but rather is my summary of individualism, then, unexpectedly - because it was news to me also - my sign off. I've worked myself into a hole. 

When I say this is my summary of individualism I mean, of course, this post is all about me: it's flawed, a little bit pompous in one part - pomp on principle, though - it's empathetic (or I would wish it so), it bears a message for the nation of Japan, it's hopefully entertaining, a bit lost and worried - don't read overly much into that - and it was written wine in hand to record the death of a life-long aspiration I had, and how I yet sucked that up, as you do, to find purpose still, and a future in which I want my time back from living too long in this virtual space (that, and I'm merely repeating myself every post anyway).

It's a long post - get over it. I've never pandered to airhead generation text, and as we adults know, it's always more satisfying to go for the long root.

Albeit, I know some few grokked my lengthy, rambling prose over time, many didn't, so if you want to prematurely read to the why of this being my last post, you’ll have to scroll down to the final one third and past my wise words in between: read from the paragraph before the heading This Is The Why of My Final Post – The Death Reported Herein. 

Noting this post's end is almost unrelated to the start, although thematically tied in parts, and there is a dithering in between about the transition I can't be bothered to fix. And though the start is in a dismal mood I'm over, there's more fun toward the end. It lightens up. 

This final post is not a flouncing, it's a celebration.]

* * *

I’m not obsessed with Giovanni Tiso, as I’ve seen some tweet (Philip), I’m only obsessed with myself these days, so to members of the Left, don’t go fantasising please. Giovanni's ideas - I'm sure the man himself is personable enough - merely happen to be a great example of how the West fell, his ideology stinking up the place where free lives once may have had a chance to dwell.

Those who’ve been reading me a while will understand I’m not too concerned with erudition in my blog these days, I once was; this has become, for the remainder of time I can be bothered with it, merely the spew upchucked as my mind meets reality. So, below, allow me to fetch a stick, and grope my way around in the vomit a bit. As far as bothering with this blog, that may be approaching an end; my self-obsession is reaching boredom as I try to get over myself, and the most serious crime, I’m not wholly having fun, and the world of late has become dour enough. I’m being truthful there, about self-obsession; all bloggers must be a little bit the narcissist to think anyone will be interested in their words. For me words won’t stop if I stop the blog, they’ll simply turn back to my diary, and fiction, where they were safer anyway.

… For the record, one thing I have been rigourous of in every post here is intellectual honesty, although I’ve been pondering the word bombastic a lot lately.

Fuck’s sake – apologies Mrs H, who hates a foul mouth - but I do go on …so to the point.

Giovanni has pointed out another of my obsessions. He published this great post I have no disagreement with. Giovanni has the ability to produce some fine published works if he got off his arse and stopped trying to get every announcer banned from the radio. To waste talent is some sort of crime, so I hope one day he can get over himself (too). He has reconstructed what it would have felt like for Nicky Hager and his family as the police raided their home. We all know the story. Note Libertarians, as a rule, don’t like Nicky, but he’s a stirrer of those in authority, centre Left and centre Right – we don’t have representation outside the tyranny of the centre - so I like him. We wouldn’t agree on a hell of a lot, but respect.

(For those who seem to think it denigrates Nicky that he publishes his exposes before general elections to boost his sales, grow up for fucks sake; he has to maximise his income as best he can so he can finance his next investigation, just as we all live. It’s a capitalistic impulse he has I heart him for.)

When you start applying your imagination to the mechanics of the police searching through your undie drawer, you realise it doesn’t require imagination. It’s the thuggishness of the shock and awe powers the State has given itself, visiting you at home and examining your genitals. It’s brutish; it’s an invasion of your inner life; it’s the blackness humans are too capable of because we continue to think we have a right telling peaceful people how to live their goddamned lives.

And so to my first comment to Giovanni’s post. This is the second time I have sought to point him to the sickly smell of his contradiction.

‘Great piece: I agree with every word of it. But to keep making my point - from time to time :) - this happens daily to the self-employed. It's called a tax audit. IRD have more powers than the police. I would love to see Left recognise this invasive cost of the tax surveillance state as a start to entente in the civilised society we all want.

More power to Hager seeking justice. He's one of the good ones.’

And it was all good to there. We could have been said, despite history, to be getting along urbanely. Or the alternate view which is more the truth; Giovanni ignored my initial comment. Regardless, it then went wrong. I continued reading the comments on how invasive, and dire, this raid was, something must be done about police powers. And I was heartened:

I'm heartened [see, said I was] by above comments. So everyone here wants to do away with the autocratic state, starting of course with the tax take of the tax surveillance state?

[Aside: These are words I’ve been using a lot lately: respect, heart, chill, jaded.]

Sorry. At this point Giovanni thought the discourse was taking him off course:

Mark, [first name basis – this is called irony] I'm going to take a dim view of your repeated attempts to derail the discussion and make it about your personal obsession with the IRD. Fair warning.

Yes Dad. Although it’s a tricky word that; fair. Giovanni states he doesn’t read my blog: admittedly I can’t understand self-denial on that scale, but it’s a pity, for if he did, I’d recommend he read that link on what people mean tossing that word, fair, around like confetti.

Back to the point … [struggle, struggle, umpf.]

I’m 50, and in the process of manumissioning slowly out of the day job (it’s become a vampire draining my will to live). Fortunately at this wise age I’ve become long accustomed to being a bit of an arse, a tit even, so of course I had to respond on the importance of my point. I penned something like the below – I can’t write it word for word, because from this stage Giovanni deleted my posts, as was his right to do, albeit as the Left love to rewrite history.

I said in my first deleted post that Nicky Hager’s house was his place of work, and as such the IRD could have conducted the same brutal search the police did – and have done many times – only, the IRD, unlike the police, wouldn’t have needed to get a warrant. More; unlike Nicky’s current legal actions against his treatment at the hands of the police, he would have had no judicial protest against IRD: none is allowed. There is no judicial review possible of IRD’s actions.

[Update: on 17 December, long after this post first written, the raid on Nicky has been found to be illegal; the police warrant was invalid. Good on you Nicky for holding police to account].

It gets worse than this.

I also pointed out that together with Judith Collins’ Anti-Money Laundering and Countering Financing of Terrorism monstrosity - an Act of societal sabotage that turns solely on identity of we citizens, and being able to search, sight, and tag us for future reference – that the government have via tax and finance law total immersion surveillance of every individual now: there’s nothing they can’t find about what you own (where you live, et al), or what you do, including the intimate details of your life when auditees are forced to hand over their inner lives in the form of annotated bank statements, statements of interest, all of their hard disks and storage devices, to a complete stranger in a government department. This is my point. I can tell what undies you wear from looking at your undies drawer: however, with four years of your bank statements and your computer hard disks there’s surprisingly little left I can’t tell you about your life. The police are going through the bric-a-brac, the IRD auditor is sifting through the contents of your mind.

Imagine your inner life exposed to a total stranger of state, against your wishes, on pain of punishment. My inner life couldn’t stand up to that, and wouldn’t.

Getting this yet?

And this complete invasion of our inner lives, before we even consider that unlike a murderer, a [trigger warning for the weak of mind who live in safe places] rapist, or a Nicky, whom the state must prove guilty on whatever the alleged crime, in your tax life the burden of proof is reversed and the individual is at the disadvantage of having to prove their innocence instead. Plus there is no right to remain silent. And this not because you're a threat to anybody; but only to take your property from you. That switching of the burden of proof, and no right to shut the fuck up, being the denouement of the two foundation stones of Western jurisprudence (read freedom) that fourth wave feminism – that identity politick abomination which has destroyed a classical liberal feminism vis a vis individualism – now seeks to turn against men, period.

But to Giovanni this is an inconvenient truth he wants no part of. So instead of acknowledging the thug state with its brutal fist holding the reins of each of our lives in the ‘fair’ dystopia he would force me live, yet another iteration of the snitch society, he instead, like the Left throughout history, chooses to turn a blind eye to it. His nirvana requires the content of my wallet via the tax take. No; worse. His first instinct is to expunge it from view. It’s so boring this shit, the willful turning of your face from Truth, it’s the history of Left politics: Stalin just got carried away and got Communism a bit wrong, the errors notable horrifically in the body count; Venezuela  hasn’t quite got socialism right yet, to the extent they can’t coordinate a supply of toilet paper; and  the Soviets ended up Gulags and poverty, their lives staked out on the vicious desks of bureaucracy, but they just needed more time to get socialism right.

I don’t think so.

Although Giovanni’s an intelligent man. Yes, by deleting my comments, and all Left blogs do that – can’t think of one that doesn’t – but there’s a cleverer deceit and misdirection in his patronising a-snide that I’m a little bit obsessed with IRD.

No. I’ve said - I’m only obsessed with me. This shit’s not difficult. I’m obsessed with my privacy and my right to be left alone. Which means I’m obsessed with yours also. It’s the mantra on the panel to the right of this blog:

Civilisation is a movement toward privacy, an Orwellian surveillance state the opposite, and tax legislation, especially tax administration, has become the legislation and administration of surveillance and authoritarian rule, in contravention of the rule of law, and common decency.

 IR

If the Founding Fathers could see how freedom is bound, again, under the iron fist of our taxing authorities; New Zealand's IRD, America's IRS, UK's HMRC, a secret police operating in every country, there would be a Western Spring.

And this obnoxious abuse of state power is becoming too commonplace, as Heather Du Plessis-Allan found this week when police raided her home in their investigation of her investigation of New Zealand’s gun laws where she illegally purchased a firearm for current affairs program Story. Retired District Court Judge Roy Wade penned his repugnance on Du Plessis-Allan’s raid to Police Commissioner Mike Bush, and his words double for every raid, as well as every IRD audit, for whether it’s a police officer or IRD, there’s no difference here; both activities – not forgetting IRD can raid without warrant as part of an audit - are the acknowledgement the state owns us, and is free to rifle through the most intimate parts of our lives; that we are all living the lives of others:

Today, I saw that your officers thought it prudent to search the home of a reputable journalist who did nothing more than expose the hopeless inadequacies of our gun laws.

Search warrants are inherently obtrusive: how would any one of your staff (or you, for that matter) like to be subjected to seeing their most intimate belongings and documents poured over by total strangers for no reason at all?

If your officers did really need a handwriting sample (which I very much doubt, given that she always acknowledged being the author of the form in question), why not simply ask for one? Was it simply to try and humiliate her?

[Snip]

The NZ Police do themselves great harm by their insensitive treatment of the citizens of this country.

I disagree with that final sentence. It’s the citizens who are done great harm by this treatment of them from a rampant state, period. Good on you for this Judge Roy Wade, but in that indirection you demonstrate just how far the state is rampant, because it came natural for you to put the state first, not the individual the state is there to serve.

But as Giovanni’s post, and his slavish devotion to his delete button show, double standards rule, and not just by him and the Left; this current National government has turned itself into yet another statist nightmare which continues to piss away the freedom won through the West’s Enlightenment, from which humans learned to question and parry every self-appointed authority, and trap us again in the prison of each other’s minds.

This is all unacceptable to me. This social contract is nothing but a leash around my neck with a tax inspector, riot shielded policeman, and every variety of privacy busting spook, killjoy, prosecutor, busy-body slouching bureaucratic beast and social justice thug on the other end, all of them chanting their hollowed out ideology that politicians have their self-interest in check and are sane on matters politick, that crusading celebrities have a clue what they’re talking about, that the state must provide healthcare, the state must issue the money supply, the state must educate our children in the ways of the state, the state must redistribute private property to rid the state of inequality, the state must think for us, the state must wipe our arse for us, that individuals are imbeciles not capable of looking after themselves thus we must have forced on us the welfare state, that you must wear that dour suit to work, don’t eat that, don’t drink that between nine and five, don't smoke that or you'll be put away for five … and all the rest of it. Offensive rot from that communist toady before communism, Rousseau, and his idiot mate Kant (who in person was a prick who often left his friends in the lurch). Tyranny is always a package deal; there’s no such thing as a little bit of freedom. We’re a free society or not; and we’re not.

And one individual saying I didn’t vote for this, that none of this bullshit is acceptable to me, and that I do no harm so leave me alone, is enough to evidence the crime. The tyranny of state.

I think I’m done. For those individuals who understand the importance of your freedom, I urge you please to write submissions for the euthanasia select committee currently sitting. Submissions close February 1.

Lovely and remote here in the Sounds. After I pen my submission, I feel like shoving a machine gun nest at the gate and going all survivalist - albeit with better toilets and a cinema room – and disappearing. If the police are reading this – as IRD do – just joking; I won't abide a gun in the house, I hate the damned things, so I won't be mounting one at the gate.

Um. Damn. I really might be signing off, other than perhaps posting my euthanasia submission when penned. Certainly no more posts before Christmas, so I don’t need to tell ya you’re all gonna live once, its horrifically short, a lifetime, please enjoy it. And Christmas goodwill to all, even you, Giovanni, you bombastic prick.

This Is The Why of My Final Post – The Death Reported Herein.

Written a couple of days after the above.

Putting one word after another is a peculiar, revealing process. This post started as a simple retort, before ending up my last post - this is my last post - and any who have read closely will have suspected that Giovanni's politick isn’t the only corpse stinking up the place in this piece.

Don’t panic, I would be embarrassed if this final post dipped into melodrama; the death is purely figurative and will affect no one here other than yours truly. I wrote in this post last year, the post which explains why I started this blog, I was afraid on the matter of my creative writing that my 25 year professional waste of time known as a career had waylaid my ambitions too far. It has. I will never stop my creative writing, it is meaning on a level I can’t write well enough to explain enough, but I no longer have the time required to learn the craft part of writing to a level I will be satisfied with: the death permeating this last post, and the reason for it, is my aspiration to be a published author with a (pompous I know) important work. I’ve realised, this month, this week, whatevers, by osmosis, that isn’t going to happen.

I know this won’t happen because I can now, only now, stand the squidgeon required outside myself, reading my 133,000 word newly completed novel, to understand how it fails, on legal grounds, yes, but worse, aesthetic, and that I’ll never write well enough for me to want to see myself in print. I don’t care what people think of me, but I can be embarrassed for myself. There is a New Zealand author I have great respect for who this last year was a little foolish, I think, in letting such a novel into the world. I have an income that gives me the luxury of being more prudent.

Most reading this post won’t understand the nature of the death. Think of it this way. If you were able to convince a Christian of the Truth, that there was no God, then the void created in their core, pretty much sums it up, I think. This is not hyperbole: I have carried this aspiration as my raison d'état all my adult life, it was always the 'hope' that carried me, so the loss is an uncomfortable empty space to get used to going into the future. It’s new territory, a little frightening, frankly. Despite the relief of letting it all go.

… With that said, I’m soon off to the beach with my watering can. Who knows, if you’re unlucky enough, perhaps someday I might find my mojo washed up again, tangled in the driftwood, and choose to pick it back up. But I doubt it.

Before I go; this 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 (which is where that dreadful death cult of the moment has gone so wrong, as has every collectivist movement and identity politick).

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, null-minded 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 - as is the motto of a man I consider a mentor, (refer my closing recommendations), '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.

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

This is the only selfie I’ve ever taken – hence ham fisted, sorry – it will be the only one ever published. (And yeah, I'm wishing I'd cleaned up the bathroom a bit - I can't be bothered doing it over).

For some ludicrous reason the hope I derived from putting one word after another on the page has got me to the setting of a 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, and the death reported, that 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 close cropped beard. 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.

Giovanni has a close cropped grey beard like mine. Other than genitals, we have nothing else in common.

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. Not even Giovanni.

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. Forever and ever, fuck you - goodwill to all kind, etc, etc, but seriously, fuck you.

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. When you try and reduce me to my – excuse the language – cock, ignoring the mind attached to it, then you end with a silly little vicious arse like this woman, who has a post permanently up to the effect I'm a misogynist because - wait for it - I chipped a single tweet into her timeline, to someone I knew, on Twitter - remember, social media, where we have conversations with one another - which is apparently male privilege (FOR FUCKS SAKE); and the people who trampled over Roger Sutton’s personality until he had to admit himself for reprogramming, literally, not figuratively, just like The Clockwork Orange, just like room 101 in Orwell’s 1984. These identity politick fools - female and male - obviously have never looked up the meaning of misogyny - read to the end of this post: you think I'm a misogynist? 

Don’t. Do. That. Awful. Shit.

Um. No. I’m not finished.

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

Allow me to leave my blog with some final random pearls of wisdom learned over fifty years.

Some of this is deep shit. Some of this shallow shite. That’s life.

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: 

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 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.

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.'

This is my pro-euthanasia submission made to the Health Select Committee. You may want to read it.

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.

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 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 every fucking 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;

[Perhaps if the urge takes me the odd time, and I feel the world needs a post from me, good old Peter might spare me an inch or two on his blog, because I can't flounce now, then come back again. That would be embarrassing.]

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;

Finally, a man who might class me a useful idiot these days, in some respects, but I’ll always consider him my mentor in all things freedom, the inimitable Lindsay Perigo’s Solo.

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.