Now that Robin is -- apparently -- no longer a licensed psychotherapist, she's spending a bit less time distance-diagnosing President Obama with severe mental illnesses and speculating that his "narcissistic personality disorder" may have been triggered by a blow to the head like movie amnesia, and more time reflecting on the formative (and uniformly traumatic) events in her life. Like that one time she saw Rosemary's Baby:
This week, she once again uses her clinical skills to connect with her readers, by reminding us of that universal tendency of 4th graders to obsess over their own mortality.
I saw the movie sometime after it came out, though I was only a teenager. I can’t imagine how shocked I must have been.(To which commenter Chris Vosburg, who has corresponded with Robin, helpfully replied: "Well, Robin, you could ask someone who was there at the time, I guess, like, oh, I dunno, YOUR FUCKING SELF?")
This week, she once again uses her clinical skills to connect with her readers, by reminding us of that universal tendency of 4th graders to obsess over their own mortality.
Obama and the Meaning of Life
When I was a young girl, I would often lie awake at night and ask myself what was the meaning of life. Why was I here? What was this strange existence all about?This is a right of passage most girls of Robin's generation went through, usually after hearing the Burt Bacharach-Hal David song "Alfie (What's it all about?)," from the 1966 film starring Michael Caine.
These questions usually triggered feelings of panic.
You know why elementary school boys find little girls icky? Because they burst into tears whenever you punch them in the arm or suggest their existence is a random spark in a vast and meaningless void, a cosmic accident which is all too quickly remedied by the icy embrace of Oblivion.
In fact, I remember when my sister was little, there were months when she would only play with one doll: Malibu Barbie's pal, Existential Crisis Midge, who never left the Dream House, and would just sit around the finished basement in her sweatpants, taping Brother Theodore segments off Letterman.
And if you're wondering about the asterisk on "ruby," the footnote reads: "*Thanks to readers for the correction."
As you may recall, American Thinker got tired of moderating comments on Robin's posts -- or rather, the person assigned the task found Robin herself insufferable and possibly, fictional -- so now you have to follow a link to her personal blog and leave your comments there. (Incidentally, Robin reacted to the whole comment moderation kerfuffle the same way she reports reacting when the light bulb burned out in her Easy Bake Oven and she concluded that God is Dead):
(I assume this is either a joke about the bankruptcy of alternative energy company Solyndra, or else the commenter believes photo-voltaic cells are actually occult objects designed to collect some form of ancient, extra-dimensional eldritch power that is beyond human ken.)
Anyway, back to her search through the cut-out bin of the cosmos for that one Monty Python DVD...
In fact, I remember when my sister was little, there were months when she would only play with one doll: Malibu Barbie's pal, Existential Crisis Midge, who never left the Dream House, and would just sit around the finished basement in her sweatpants, taping Brother Theodore segments off Letterman.
Of course, I had absolutely no idea what was the meaning of life -- and I had no one to ask. No matter how much I wracked my young brain for an answer, I hadn't a clue.It's true, adults are often useless when a 7-year old girl in a party frock demands they furnish a rational counter-argument to nihilism. And our school books weren't much better; I recall being even more confused about the possibility of authentic morality after reading that one story where Tom, Betty, Susan, and their dog Flip go to the sea shore, and Tom impulsively shoots an Arab on the beach.
As I grew up, I found some soft spirituality, in the form of Buddhism and Sufism. I loved to read the Sufi poems -- I still do; I feel comforted by the poets' adoration of God. Buddhism also gave me a road to dealing with suffering, as well as some vague notions about what life was all about (as in, being awakened to the "truth," whatever that means).And what was this world-tipping event which shattered Robin's spiritual contentment? Spoiler alert: It was Obama's election.
But it's been only in the last couple of years of my life that I finally have a clearer idea of why we are here, and what this wondrous and brutal existence is all about. It took my whole world being tossed around like a pair of dice three years ago, and then thrown out there in a completely new configuration. Somehow, for reasons I'll never know, everything looks different.
And now I finally have some answers, because they are all contained in a book I'd never even seen before, called the Bible.Along with her childlike dread of the abyss, Robin also suffered from a lifelong fear of opening nightstand drawers in hotels.
Just like Dorothy in the Land of Oz and her ruby* slippers, the hidden jewel was there all along. I was just kept away from seeing it by a culture that detests and fears anything having to do with God.And just like Dorothy, all Robin had to do to possess this jewel was to kill a witch, as both the Bible ("Do not suffer a sorceress to live" -- Exodus 22:18) and L. Frank Baum recommend.
And if you're wondering about the asterisk on "ruby," the footnote reads: "*Thanks to readers for the correction."
As you may recall, American Thinker got tired of moderating comments on Robin's posts -- or rather, the person assigned the task found Robin herself insufferable and possibly, fictional -- so now you have to follow a link to her personal blog and leave your comments there. (Incidentally, Robin reacted to the whole comment moderation kerfuffle the same way she reports reacting when the light bulb burned out in her Easy Bake Oven and she concluded that God is Dead):
We all go through it: the harsh wake-up call that things aren’t as they appear to be. [...] Just this week, I’ve been dealing with people undermining me whom I thought I could trust.Anyway, so I clicked over to Robin's blog to see what the correction was, wondering if she confused the book's Silver Shoes with the movie's Ruby Slippers. Nope. She thought Dorothy was tromping around Oz in sensible Emerald Brogues.
As a recovering liberal, I’ve had the shock of a lifetime learning that many of the threats to our country come from within. [...]
With the sabotage going on in my life, last night I couldn’t sleep a wink. I lay in bed disturbed, thinking of these people who want to harm me.
Commenter: Sorry, Robin. Your editor has let you down again. “Dorothy in the Land of Oz and her emerald slippers.” They were ruby slippers.
Robin: You would be a great editor yourself! There was something about emeralds in Oz, wasn’t there? Maybe I’m thinking of the Yellow Brick Road (LOL). Of course, it’s been a while since I saw the movie!
Another Commenter: The Emerald City, where the wizard lived. It’s kind of ironic that the city with the fraud-wizard was green, isn’t it? (;-})
(I assume this is either a joke about the bankruptcy of alternative energy company Solyndra, or else the commenter believes photo-voltaic cells are actually occult objects designed to collect some form of ancient, extra-dimensional eldritch power that is beyond human ken.)
Robin again: Thank you! The emerald city, the ruby slippers, and the yellow brick road — so much like the magical world we live in, if people would only look!...at the screen! Where the movie is showing! And then, maybe, retain some of its more famous, iconic, and culturally inescapable elements!
For people to look in the eyes of a newborn baby and think humans are some cosmic mistake . . . has to be one of the greatest delusions of life.So while admittedly getting a few of the minor details wrong, Robin clearly grasped that the main point of this 1939 MGM classic was to serve as a singing and dancing rebuke of Darwinism.
Anyway, back to her search through the cut-out bin of the cosmos for that one Monty Python DVD...
I asked a friend the other day how often he ponders the meaning of life. He is a brainy Ph.D. who immerses himself each week in heady tomes. To my surprise, he answered, "Never."Because he correctly and instantly divined that any other answer could be interpreted as a willingness to hold a conversation with Robin. He is brainy!
I see the doom and gloom around me in the vacant faces of all the lost souls. They have no idea what is going on -- not just with their idol, Obama, but with this whole strange existence.I agree there are many reasons to be sad nowadays, but this is a recurring theme in Robin's writing: the light goes out of a child's eyes every time Robin walks into the room; people shoot her hateful or lesbian-filled looks; or step on an insect just to make her frozen yogurt turn to ash in her mouth. So before I accept that this localized malaise is a reaction to Obama's fall from godhood and not Robin's presence, I think we're going to need a control group.
A minority of them are starting to wake up politically, to realize that Obama is no savior of the oppressed. Instead, he's simply a puppet doing the bidding of people like Ayers, Soros, the SEIU, and God knows who else. Rather than transforming this country into a utopia, he's helping to make it a nightmare that no one can wake up out of.Fortunately, what with a Universe devoid of meaning, and all the comment moderators undermining and sabotaging us, everybody is lying awake at night, winkless and unable to get down into the nightmare-filled sleep from which they fail to wake up out of.
Just to clarify things: it's Obama who's putting a sledgehammer to the economy; it's Obama who is aiding and abetting the uprisings in the Middle East; it's Obama who is sending out the signal that it's open season on Whitey. Not George and not Dick Cheney, but Obama, Obama, Obama.For those who doubt Robin's political science bona fides, I should point out that she holds the Fulbright-Jan Brady Distinguished Chair in Pat Buchanan Studies at George Washington Glass University.
We fight each other because we are pawns in a spiritual battle between good and evil. The most important decision of our lives is which side we are on. Will we choose God or evil? It's as simple as this.Do pawns get to choose? Traditionally, they haven't had have much of a voice in where the giant hand moves them, nor do I remember the start of a match ever being delayed because some of the white pawns decided to switch sides.
If we choose God, this involves more apparent sacrifice, e.g. no more whoring around, tormenting conservatives, or, in general, being Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. But the rewards are so enormous that we, as humans, have not even an inkling of our great fortune.You know me, I hate to be argumentative, but before this pawn gives up blogging, I'd like Robin to furnish a link to the chapter and verse in the Bible which proclaims that "tormenting conservatives by disagreeing with them is a sin on a par with soliciting a prostitute for diaper play".
Around where I live, most people have chosen to turn their backs on the only Force that will give them real hope, not the manufactured kind.They're just mad that George Lucas keeps fucking with the original movies.
Not coincidentally, I see mostly empty or frightened or angry faces around me.Yeah, I know we've covered this, but I'm really going to have to insist that you hide in the bushes with a pair of binoculars and then report on bystanders' facial expressions.
And yet, the answer is so simple and accessible -- and it's been there all along, just waiting for them to open their eyes and look. They can do this at any time...just like the metaphorical Dorothy in the Land of Oz. They simply need to ask with all of their heart and all of their soul to go home again.Just click their cubic zirconium Crocs together three times.