some writings by   Terry Hulsey
         
 
Harley goes fishing...
...diversified with boggles
Published essays:
At Lew Rockwell
   A Libertarian in China • September 15, 2005
   Enjoying the Bourgeois Western • November 4, 2005
   Literacy As a State Commodity • December 1, 2005
   Chairman Mao: The Success of Myth • April 25, 2007
   Quo vadis, domine? • February 25, 2008
   Your Congressman, Shaper of Souls • March 6, 2010
   What Is To Be Done? • October 30, 2010
   Ron Paul, After the Convention • March 24, 2012
   Instituting Meritocracy After the Collapse of Democracy in America • September 28, 2012

Elsewhere
   How the Libertarian Party Will Come to Power • September 3, 2009
   The Sentiment We Breathe • August 26, 2010
   Ultimate Self-Ownership • January 31, 2011 [at defunct Untimely Meditations]
   USO – A personal favorite: Quirky, impossible to speed read, convoluted –
   a gnarled bois d'arc meant for the backs of the opinion-mongers.

   Marx Was Right • April 4, 2011 [at defunct Untimely Meditations]
   Heaven: Careful What You Wish For • April 29, 2011 [at defunct Untimely Meditations]

Unpublished essays:
The Senselessness of 'Voluntaryism'
For the New Chinese Intellectual
An Amendment to Save the Republic
The 28th Amendment
Catholic Architectonics
Review of Twelve Delusions of Our Time
The Sunlit World of Dr. Schoeck
George Washington, Meet Jay Leno
The Roots of PC on Campus

Kannitverstan:
Gefisch
1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10 
11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20 
21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29 
Our Bargain

Forgotten is that long past ancestor
Who made the bargain that seals up our curse:
To trade the here and now for that great prize,
The awful lizard’s Cain’s mark, consciousness.

And what is gained? We drop our buckets deep
Into the black and echoing gone-by,
Hoping to drink of its experience.
And hoisting up we find, like Roman forks
Of gold our affluence has poisoned all
With words, words, words, self-justifying words.

For that too-solid future, palpable
As donkey’s carrots or the fox’s grapes,
We find ourselves merely sand-blind Magoos,
Building a Grand Canyon rope bridge, each new
Plank placed with magic knowing, where we step
Assured that it will materialize.

– Until one day it doesn’t. And we plummet,
Gesticulating, looking up and clawing
At no one, nothing, but a summer azure,
Nonplussed somehow that it was all illusion.

T.H., 17 March 2013


The Art of Dying