Tim Barrus

THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR TIMIDITY

Dirt Bike Town is a novel of a road trip. There are no roads. Set in the future, humanity is slipping away. Dope Wars and the grey old men cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again. This is the road trip that redefines what we think of as culture. -- tim barrus

The New York Times is a Piece of Shit

I am a communist. Let me add a couple of things Jamal so effectively articulated. New York Times writers have been told to use the term -- President -- or the last name of the deviant, a capitulation. When institutions do that, it's to try and hold the line at let's just use resistance as little fan sign we wave about. Jamal is right, and he has written the truth of it. I have been screaming for years that the deviant wants to kill us all. It doesn't matter what I scream or say or do cartwheels to have a voice. But I am thrown off the roof.

Not so fast. You are too timid. Clutch your pearls, democrats. You might take my voice away, but I'm still here, Missy Moderator. Moderators don't know jack shit about life. Real Life. Blood in the streets. You have blacklisted me. Jamal paints a bigger picture. The deviant wants to kill you. NYT refuses to believe it. As soon as we begin to create groups of resistance, all the old alliances of the rich come into view. High powered ivy-league aristocratic males make plays to take over the group. We throw them into the street.

A silence falls upon the group when I talk about how children are going to die. My suggestion is a naked die in. Corpses in a big pile. Add some dead children. Corpses. Corpses. Clutch you pearls, NYT. Faint dead away. How do you cover the resistance when you can't get in. Protest signs. One word. Rapist. He is putting his little dick in your asshole, and he is raping you. And you love it. But don't call it rape.

I have been dealing with this publication every day for a decade. What I hate about them is that they demand we write in the style they think they invented.

In fact, the style was was created in the 19th Century. I can mimic that dead body of a style, but why should I. To what extent to we give them what they want, a complete whoredom, or I can get around them by making sure what I am writing is something like: We don't want it but we want it. Okay, but tone it down.

I have spies.

They know this. They know I have written this book. This morning NYT blew up in my face. I push them too hard. Columnists are allowed to say things about issues we Little People are not allowed to employ.

I call the deviant the deviant. They have little temper tantrums over what you call the deviant. I was using the term -- Deviant Rapist -- and the New York Times clutches it's pearls and fainted. This is a doomed relationship. I am becoming less and less willing to dumb down anything I write.

Not even for them. Why. Would I do that.

It always comes down to people. These people share the same traits. They are:

Superior. Dominating. Imperious. Patronizing. Often inaccurate. Pontifical. And conceited. -- tim barrus

I am a communist. Every single time I sit down to write, both the left Speech Police, and the right Speech Police come into the view finder. I'm nobody. I'm autistic so the Constitution doesn't mean me. Where do I submit. My work. The word submit has grave overtones. Out of all the amendments, the first one is the one. Who is to decide who can speak what, write what, film what. A beginning, a middle, and an end. The Feds are reading comments. If you can possibly imagine. Actually, AI is scanning comments for them. Meanwhile, the New York Times is reading its own blacklist. That struts and frets its time across the stage. They learn to look for names, not content. People on the bad list like me are not allowed to have ideas. We Will Tape Your Mouth Shut is not limited to a single regime.

Where will the dead go. Government kicks in. They decide. After they consult the tech. I was a newspaper reporter. A murder I was covering attracted the FBI like crows. Whole town went silent. People were afraid. Of the government. And the Murderer. Pick one. Language is important. Rape is a bad word. Deviant is worse. We live in a culture of rape. It's not novel. To live in a swirling mass of deviance seems a little dark even to people who know that darkness well. When your baby begins to talk, your entire house will change its shape. When I was with Act Up, all that symbolism, such as the die in. Everyone hits the ground. I predict corpses on federal steps. Those photos will be speech, too.

WHAT IS A NAKED DIE IN -- tim barrus

Lay down on the ground. Play dead. Be nude. Start to slowly move your body on the ground. Like snakes. Intertwine. Touch. Move on.

You are playing dead. Media arrives. Cops arrive. They cuff you. It hurts a lot. They are going to pick you up and drag your naked body into a paddy wagon or a bus. You will be booked. You will be locked up for hours that turn into days. It's a sacrifice. It's a sacrifice Normal People do not not make. You will be released but not if you do not make bail. Judges are always harsh.

You will get bruised, cut, and dragging you on concrete will shred your skin. Resist. Be dead. Resist.

They have a problem.

Yer naked.

It means they have to touch you and even with the gloves, they’d rather not. Those photographs of cocks and balls and pussy and tits being manhandled lead to some amazing photography. It looks quite violent. You can later bring charges against cops for sexual mauling.

You will be arrested. You will be humiliated. It will be a show of force.

They will make a great show of power (it’s a dick thing) with guns and rifles pointed at you. Trust me, they’re loaded. Start singing.

They have another problem. You have no ID. This will piss them off and they will scream blood into your face.

This is the toughest nut to crack. Here goes: Instead of engaging them with talk, develop echolalia. Say nothing but what they say, and keep doing it to the bitter end.

“What is your name.”

“Are you fucking with me.”

They often bring attack dogs. Do NOT look the dog in the eye. Dogs will escalate. They have another problem. Photographs of dogs licking pussy has a community by the eggs. They’re not cheap anymore.

You will have a record for the rest of your life.

Most people think this is too extreme. Especially the naked part.

When hunger creeps up on you, you will not think that.

When a pandemic hits you in the face, and the meds are in China, you will not think like that.

When you develop AIDS, you won’t think that.

When the army starts shooting people, you won’t think that.

When naked bodies are replaced by naked corpses left on court house steps, you won’t think that. Ross Douthat has looked into the abyss. He finds hope. He holds to the power of prediction. Boxes. You can cherry-pick among the boxes and line them up chronologically, he can then predict the Deviant's next move.

Anything you say, Ross.

I, too, want to see the magic rabbit, and the magic hat. There is no time, you must resist now because when the army hits your suburban street, you all will be claiming you didn't know it would be this bad. But are you willing to kill when the Deviant says: They resisted me. Execute them. This is stupid stuff he said before, people. This piece represents the power of talking points. The Deviant wants us to use talking points to gloss over, deflect that he has declared war on America, and Ross is saying it's not that bad. Ross, where do you live.

It won't be bad, and here's my truth, and I, Ross, can prove it just like I can prove the Bible is based on truth. I want to fantasize a die in of naked bodies resembling corpses and choreographed to move like hunger. Hunger, Ross. Hunger. Hunger is just the beginning. No one has changed the water into wine. HIV antiretrovirals are made in China, and the price has doubled.

UPDATE: This morning, the Chinese have listed these meds that they used to sell around the world, but now they are keeping them in China. It's a death sentence.

Who has a hundred dollars for a pill. Americans will die and soon. China makes cardiology meds. Fat old white men will hurt. Then, they will die. Disease. Food rots in grocery stores. Talk to Argentina. Naked die ins invade Iowa. The old county steps need Act Up. Utah. Idaho. Louisiana. Mississippi. Ohio. Georgia. Oklahoma. Arizona. Highways. Photos. We will contact media just before we get there with the bodies.

NAKED CORPSES ON FEDERAL STEPS: tim barrus

I am writing a book about naked corpses being dumped on federal steps. It is a wild collection. It's fiction because fiction has a voice more far-reaching than the superficial Schott Foundation (we should all happily work together). The first short story: CORPSES SPEAK. Does anyone remember Act Up. Beware of the educational institutions. They are all saying the same thing. Be happy. No balls whatsoever. Education has failed us. You are going to see thousands of articles about how we can achieve our goals. This stuff is a pornography. You will not find serious people in education. The wimp bucket. Their leadership is wearing diapers. We used to talk the same language. Why aren't they comprehending.

Because they are the entrenched elite. It's about the money. And the jobs. Now is the time to shake the ground. Why don't we all just have a nice committee meeting with donuts. I am so disappointed by Schott. They are not going to save education. Get out of your fucking lazy ass offices and hit the street. Everyone has the same protest sign. With one word: RAPIST.

But no. These are the people who will choose not to resist. Cheeriness makes my skin crawl. I will finish "Corpses Speak" tomorrow. I will post it here. It begins with pulling naked corpses out of a pickup truck and lugging them up federal steps. Fictions are so my thing. Tomorrow. tim barrus

WE WILL TAPE YOUR MOUTH SHUT

Tim Barrus

Perfume and ammonia. We arrived at the coroner’s death lab (I do not know what else to call it) at midnight sharp.

I never know how much of this stuff I should share. Skirting Language Cops is fucking frowned upon. Everyone will want you in the middle, go read a book, there is no middle, anymore than there is a center to the universe. It’s basic physics. The universe is mainly no there there. Those stainless steel file cabinets where they roll and squeak the dead out. Not unlike the sound of a herd of cattle rattle down the plank. This is where they go in the refrigerator of time. I saw no name tags. A deal’s a deal. The art of subterfuge.

Subterfuge is pussy.

Dragging naked corpses up concrete steps was not subterfuge.

No more HIV research, and the manufacturing end of it is outside of Shanghai. One hundred American dollars per pill. No health care.

We changed into our hazmat suits in the van that had pulled up so recognition would be at best obliterated. At worst, not obliterated.

This was before facial recognition.

Back then, a lot of people would be stunned. They know who you are. Get over it. The nakedness of the corpses dehumanized times ten. Their chalk bodies of the exorcist. It deeply bothered me.

What deeply bothers me more is indifference. They want to kill us. Make no bones about it. Unleash disease. Unleash the banks. Unleash the thieves with their golden cups to take a piss in. Pissing on us is what they always do. Dog for dog. A mountain of their bones.

We were the ones who moved mountains.

Not them.

I told you time does not follow the school rules. You can’t go back to school. You can’t go back in time. It would be like trying to trap a neutrino.

Who is standing up.

Very few. Very few.

Since I’m dying anyway, a die would be fun. One might mistake one for the other. Perfume and ammonia.

We brought the corpses. — tim barrus

I am a communist. The Deviant will kill us all. I am sick and tired of having to climb up to rooftops to yell: Act Up. You will easily find information detailing personalities who commit rape. Rape is not sex, but the rapist hides behind the illusion that sex is intimately involved. Rape is about power. When someone powerful grabs you by the genitals, that's power, too. Anyone who attacked me like that would not be on this earth. The New York Times will not allow my voice. Censorship. Clear and simple.

The Language Police at the NYT is all powerful. That is why there is a monotone. Cherry-picking. They feel they are protecting you when, in fact, they are solidifying power. Since I can't publish anything here, I slip it into my next book. Censorship is when the censor hits delete when they see a name that is on the list. This is patently absurd and beneath contempt. What are they so afraid of. Language tools will see you erased. Brick walls and class barriers. They can dish it out, but they can't take it. We will tape your mouth shut. The rapist has blown your government up and he will do it again. You allow it. Your passivity is uncivil.

Your demonstrations amuse him. Antiretrovirals are made in China. $100 dollars a pill. Love the ad where three black guys are waiting at a bus stop. This is abuse, too. Let's get some corpses and have a die in on federal steps. Americans are a joke. Act up, America. But no. You can't even express your voice because you have none. tim barrus

I am a communist. As a writer who has written books like "Genocide," I am intensely familiar with pushback and resistance. It is too late for you. Pattern. Playbook. Barbarism. Americans pray at the feet of authority. Americans pray because beyond one word, and that one word is -- duh -- they're clueless. I have been taught to always look for the language that gets spit out of their gut. Americans leave their bubbles for a moment and wag their fingers. Get over it. Powerlessness. The Rapist wants to kill all of you. And me. But you still refuse to believe that. He's going to kill you and your children. Make your protest sign one word: RAPIST. He will have a cow. What more do you need. Meds are made in China. HIV meds are made in China. Cardiology gets its drugs from China. Let us pretend that China wants to yank our chain. Let's pretend that China jacks up prices to the point people are dying. We are there. Do you remember Act Up. What about acting up again where we’re ready to leave corpses on the steps of federal buildings. Resist. Make noise. Act Up. I want that photography in your indifferent faces. In your house. The little moral moderators have blacklisted me. For being too strong. They have made me stronger and stronger as I have made my mission in my life to fucking oppose them at every step. My next book is called -- "We Will Tape Your Mouth Shut” -- and I will be using this comment in my book. We are back to the dead left on federal steps. Moderators shudder. Bunch of pussies.

IF YOU ARE A PHOTOGRAPHER OR A WRITER YOU STAND TO LOSE A LOT. IT'S COMING FOR US. IT'S WHETHER THE LESS THAN COURAGEOUS COUCH WARRIORS WITH THEIR BIG DADDY GUNS AND BEER GUTS CAN TAKE THE HEAT.

Each post will have an intro to show the reader what has led us here, and why am I commenting on it. All graphics are by me. I am a journalist reporting on my collection of comments, and at no time am I using copy or art or direct material that belong to the New York Times. As a reporter I am allowed to report on my own posts. It is not unlike columnists interviewing a column. The New York Times has given me a platform to make comments about comments. I own all the writing (below). There is a part 2 to We Will Tape Your Mouth Shut.

http: //tim-barrus.format.com/12606367-incendiary-comments

Letting Them Go -- tim barrus

Obviously, I had to get my children out of America.

I cannot tell you where they are. My kids and I connect every day. The smallest one cries easily. Jonah can walk now. Andre will push him in a wheelchair through airports when the walk becomes too much.

Jonah says the word home over and over.

“Who is the Rapist, Jonah.”

“A bad man.”

“Yes. Good boy remembers.”

“He will rape us?”

“Yes. He will rape you.”

“He will kill us?”

“Yes. He will kill all of us. You had to leave. You are not on vacation. You had to get away from the Rapist.”

“I have pills.”

"Remember your pills. Can you breathe."

“I take pills.”

“You have to take your pills.”

“Dad, he’s crying again. I’m so tired of the crying.”

“You have to help your brother. You are in charge now.”

“The lady on the plane was nice.”

“Andre, she’s paid to be nice. Did you feel safe.”

“No. Dad, he’s coming to rape us.”

“I know. He’s coming to get all of us. We have to be ready to fight.”

“We’re kids, Dad.”

Now Andre is crying.

No public school. No records. Home schooling. I have put together an entire team.

No doctors. No cops. No identifications. Even the passports are fucking fake. I have a lot of friends. I am told it is impossible to be off the grid.

This is an Internet wives tale. You can get off the grid. But you have to do it super smart. You have to be smarter than the Rapist.

“Dad, I don’t want him to rape me.”

“I don’t want him to rape you either, but there it is.”

“Are you coming over here, Dad.”

“Not for a while. I have to stay and fight the rapist.”

“Dad, what is rape.”

“It’s when someone goes inside you, your rectum, Andre, and he cums in you. It will hurt you really bad.”

“Why.”

“He’s sick and so is America.”

“I don’t like FaceTime.”

“Why.”

“Because you are pretending, dad. You are pretending you are with us! I’m sick of it!”

“Someone has to stand up and fight the Rapist.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means Act Up.”

An adult face pops into view. No names. “Tim, you have to stop these calls. Jonah is hitting everyone with his little fist. I don’t like it.”

“Go chill. I can get Craig over there if that would help.”

“They want to come home.”

“There is no safe way they can be in this country. It will destroy them. It will eat them alive. I promise you, it will get better.”

“I believe it. But they are in pain.”

“Jonah says he is taking his pills.”

“Jonah lies. He’s been screaming about the medication.”

“I’m sending you a big box of them. Don’t ask. You do not want to know. Look for 2 boxes with big Teddy Bears. Open them up.”

“Jonah had an asthma attack this morning. We have the meds, and we used them. He’s okay. But don’t leave me with no medication.”

“I will e you when I know where the Teddies are.”

“When are you coming over here.”

“I have tons to do.”

“That’s not good enough, Tim. Not good enough. You are their rock. You are their rock.”

“It isn’t safe here.”

“I know that. They’re safe for now.”

Safe for now is about as good as it gets.

I was desperate to get my kids out of America. Then, I did it. It was a big bone to bite. I trust their caretakers. We FaceTime every night. And we weep. There is just no fucking way I am going to allow a rapist to rule my children. The Rapist is going to get a lot of pushback. Tonight we are making signs for upcoming protests. The signs say one word, and only one word: RAPIST.

The New York Times Has a Blacklist

I have published an article there about my investigation of the conditions migrants workers live in. They gave my first book a rave. They gave my second book one sentence: "We have never read a book quite like this."

Perhaps you should read more books.

They object to my calling the Rapist a Rapist.

I will never, ever humanize it. I call a spade a spade. Comments are hieroglyphics. They will tell you more than one story at a time. They speak to what is behind a story.

Comments are one way to take the cultural temperature. Journalists everywhere are blindsided. Comments tell us stories about ourselves. Comments are a record. An archive. Comments tell a vast audience about where you live in your head, your inner dialogues. How you live. And what you live for. Comments are like popcorn. They land all over the place. I would argue that there is a place for that, too.

The New York Times cherry picks. They want the same voice, and the same voice, and the same voice because they claim they have their own style and it is foolish to even try to talk to them about how their style is their grandfather's paper by the fire with the dog. Almost pastoral. An illusion. I have been a newspaper reporter. I wrote about drought in the American West. We were calling climate change, climate change was happening years ago. King Rapist claims climate change is a hoax.

There is no way I will be ruled by a psychotic Rapist.

Now, he is raping everyone. I will forgo the list. I refuse to validate him.

I will resist. I am resisting now.

***

I am a communist. I have read this elsewhere. Same talk. This, too, shall pass. But pass into what. Not democracy. The government is a corpse. I scream about all this mean stuff but I am powerless. No one listens. You are thinking: I'm not powerless. Yes, you are. All of this stuff about loss is ruminating. I see it differently because I'm autistic. I see it within the context of rape. Am I allowed to say rape in NYT. No. "We will tape your mouth shut." There is a paradigm for that. Rape is not sex. Rape is about personal agency and power. Rape is an extraordinary violence. I will never use its name again. The goal of the Rapist is to destroy your very core.

I do not care if he is right a zillion times. But we cannot see the rapist as normal because the Rapist is far, far from normal. He's deviant. He's evil. He is not human. Like us, right. And I could care less if you will not believe it. New York Times folks call him Mister President. Oh, we are just honoring the office. Blah. Blah. Blah. You are surrendering. You are validating. You have no understanding of how the Rapist is raping us all. By bowing before the Rapist as Mister President, you are feeding the Rapist recognition he is one of us. Out here in humanity. He is not us.

A psychotic personality has no us. Paranoia begets revenge. Americans love revenge. It is a paranoid society. I call a spade, a spade. You call it President. It's not a homo sapiens. No light gets in. Everything is dark.