More than anything else, I have created this site in order to address two questions:

Why do we, collectively, and to a lesser extent, individually, murder and maim each other in so many ways?

What if anything, can be done about that?

Read the “What This Site Is All About” for more information.


As I suppose is the case whenever one might choose to focus on psychosocial spiritual situation, I find myself involved in a number of ongoing events. First, I am having trouble with abdominal cramps, which I presume are spastic bowel syndrome. That’s simply a way of saying that they are primarily an aspect of a sequence of events in the psychosocial spear, and only secondarily an outcome of events that have their primary locus in my body. But what events? So far as I’m able to observe at the present time the cramping becomes more intense whenever I’m upset about anything. If I read an article about the continuing atrocities committed by the United States in various countries around the world, that’s likely to rile up my intestines. If something disturbing happens in the events connected with my family or friends, that also appears to have its effect. In this regard, I seem to be especially vulnerable when I feel that a person is disregarding my boundaries, and threatening to swallow up a significant portion of my time and energy without my permission. In its extreme form I sometimes experience this with WD who tends to treat people as extensions of his own ego. I’m sensitive to any possibility of someone else commandeering my time and talents for their purposes. I don’t want to be annexed.

Trouble getting my printer, my computer, or any of my other electronic devices working properly also seems to take its toll. It’s possible that I’m wrong, but my tentative hypothesis is that I can use the intestinal cramping as a signal of stressful events that I may not be giving enough attention to.

I think the intestinal cramping also seems to be related to the need for touch and physical proximity to other human beings. I would provide an example, but find myself reluctant to do so. Perhaps an honest diary is impossible to write. I mean suppose it should actually be read by somebody. With regard to this I have two primary concerns: one, that I might hurt somebody’s feelings, and two, that I might be too ashamed to describe honestly certain aspects of my experience.

Shame is, of course, with me as with everybody else a major inhibitor with regard to exposing my inner reality. I feel particular shame with regard to anything surrounding the issues of defecation. Even the term that is best used for this function is something of a problem. “Poop” sounds childish. “Shit” sounds a bit crude. And “defecation” sounds clinical a bit pretentious. So do I poop, shit, or defecate? None of the above? Yes, I think that’s it. I do not want people to know that I do anything like that. Ridiculous, of course. Nevertheless I do experience a significant amount of shame with regard to that.

Shame. I guess that’s what I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. It’s because of beginning to write this peculiar diary. Shame about one’s infantile needs, one’s bodily functions, and ones private behaviors – all of that. Notice the use of “one's” rather than “mine.” And the move into abstraction. That will have to do for the moment. Shame of course motivates us to hide, and I think this is the primary reason for the intense loneliness that I believe most people experience most of the time. I don’t think I’m the least bit unique in this regard. This is what I was talking about in the Pinocchio form.


Pinocchio will never be a real boy.

I know that.

He will never eat real crackers and soup.

But it is better that you see only this marionette who

brings to the world the protection of his woodenness.

I cannot put myself at the mercy of your raised eyebrows.

Do not ask it.

For many years I believed I was the only one who

sent whittled wood loosely strung together out

into the world to live by proxy.

Only little by little did I learn that nobody is there---

Nobody at all.

We are all elsewhere.


I have noticed an interesting thing about hiding. Not only do we want to hide from other people because of our shame, but they want us to hide. We are expected to put on our coats and ties, or lipstick or high heels or whatever the current fashion demands – and present ourselves to the world as anything except what we are.

MA did not want to know what my feelings and thoughts about boys what were. Nor does T. Nor did my mother nor does any of my remaining family.

I would not deny that there is a need for some discretion with regard to what we share with whom. An indiscriminate sharing could lead to a lot of hurt feelings. On the other hand I believe we all have the need to physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually touch each other on a regular basis. And shame prevents us. Shame it would seem is the largely unacknowledged engine that structures are interactions and drives the social events that constitute most of our lives.

A second set of events that are center stage in my life concern the publication of the book Social Garbage. Here again we see the dynamic of “we don’t want to know who you are” driving the social and political events. The public does not want to know who “pedophiles” really are. Rather, they want to stare in mock horror at the images they have created in their own minds – or that have been created for them by hateful radical feminists – images that have remarkably little to do with the real world. Social Garbage is already being blocked in at least one prison, and will undoubtedly be blocked in others. There will also be resistance, I think, to people outside the prison system reading this book. And why? Because people don’t want to know. We also see this in “treatment.” In “treatment” the participants in the groups are not askrd about their experiences or what motivates them, or what they actually feel; they are told what their experiences were and are, and what their motivations are. In this sphere we have a special case, at least to some extent. But perhaps is not so special as it might first appear. In general, I believe that people are not only reluctant to let other people know about themselves, but are almost equally resistant to allowing other people to tell them who they are.

How does this fare with the fact that people seem to have an almost insatiable desire to talk about themselves? Am I contradicting myself? Perhaps. But, in general, when people want to talk to others about themselves, they do not want to tell others who they are, but who they want the listener to think they are.

Most social events then consist of false, or at least camouflaging, images that bounce around with each other rather pointlessly, and provide little comfort, real companionship, or edification to anybody.

It seems to me that one of our primary motivations is to not-know. We try to not know ourselves, to not-know others, and to not-know the nature of the world within which we live. As soon as we stop trying to not-know, reality comes flooding in.

I need to put up part of the Monkey Boy story up in the vignette section. It’s very central with regard to who I am. Also the sections on marasmus babies in “Touching” or in “Spitz.”

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