Thirsty Ghosts (Kill Bill, Vol. 3)

By Nathan Payne | pablosmoglives | 4 May 2024


"Hungry ghost is a term in Buddhism, and Chinese traditional
religion, representing beings who are driven by intense
emotional needs in an animalistic way."
Wikipedia

 

There's a scene in Kill Bill, Vol. 3 in which Bill wakes up from his own assassination, to find himself miraculously dead, but still alive.  The self-righteous would-be "Bride" who spent her youth alongside him, training to be a sicario, but who shuns her own responsibility for this decision when she gets pregnant by blaming Bill for putting "her" child in a dangerous situation, decides to become a massive hypocrite by getting a public abortion with the full support of a celebrated, white-knighting film director.  The person she chooses to abort, of course, is Bill.  The evil, white male ringleader everyone is supposed to hate, for reasons that exist just off-screen, where nobody can see them.  Because she is an obsolete archetype of a spoiled, self-righteous hypocrite, the act of spreading her legs has miraculously absolved the "Bride" of all responsibility for any consequences that may arise from doing so.  In the Bride's obsolete, dying world, moral culpability is a one-way street for other people.

Or so she thinks.

The director is brilliant enough that people who are aware of this transparent, dated flaw, are able to actually look past it, and still appreciate Kill Bill for the masterpiece it is.  No small feat, in an era of unplanned obsolescence, in which the woke ideology has decimated the edgy relevance of vast swaths of a formerly vibrant and interesting culture like a nuclear blast, rendering entire populations either dead or obsolete.  Radioactive, to be sure.

But what happened to Bill?

Bill, of course, became Alejandro from Sicario.  A thirsty ghost who is way beyond MGTOW, and who laughs at those who still try to find meaning in pagan traditions of any stripe, whether Eastern, Latin American, or wherever.  After staring face-down into the depths of hell itself, Bill now knows that "Chinese traditional religion" is as quick a path to perdition as self-righteous gringo materialism, and that any ghosts who are still alive enough to still believe themselves to be "hungry," and who are still driven by "intense emotional needs," are still anchored to the world.  The world is their favorite pair of concrete boots, strapped to the anchor which will soon be thrown into the lake of fire.  The ocean of everlasting torment into which the hungry ghosts will sink like so many pieces of smoldering, smug, self-righteous sulfur.

 

"I didn't know ghosts got thirsty."
Sicario

 

Far more deadly are the thirsty ghosts, the disenfranchised survivors of the nuclear blast who are way beyond (or nowhere near) the luxury of hunger, and who only want a glass of water.  Hunger is for rich kids, people who abort members of their own family, or who would trade in MLK for George Floyd.  Miles Davis for Kanye West.  Amy Winehouse for Taylor Swift.  Rights and mutual respect for men in women's locker rooms and drag queen grooming hour.

The list goes on.

 

“The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity;
but a wounded spirit who can bear?”
Proverbs 18:14

 

Hungry ghosts are still fat enough to perceive it as negative, but it is not for their benefit I'm writing this.  The hungry ghosts will tell you that faith in the world is well-spent, and that other people are NOT time-release rats, whose sense of feigned mutual respect and faux civility is held together by nothing more than our shared S.O.L., which is popular shorthand for Standard of Living.  Because they believe that the best way to transcend our inherent spiritual flaws is to deny them, and because they "don't need to be forgiven of anything," the hungry ghosts are being groomed like children for the fascist, last-days antichrist army.  Before it's all said and done, they will "make the world a better place" one last time, ravening after their rapacious appetites with their antifreeze smiles horrifically intact.

They aren't gonna make it.

But if you find yourself dying of thirst in a translucent state, barely alive and believing in nothing, take heart.  It is for us that Christ came to die; though of course He died for everyone, it is those of us who don't even have an appetite for the world anymore, who still stand a chance.  I'm not going to repeat myself; I already wrote about it in the article A Tragic Heart, but it doesn't take much to put me in war mode.  Always defensive, and never aggressive, let it be understood.  I'm not interested in conquest.  But don't underestimate my lack of faith in all the glib, happy things you take so easily for granted, many of which I have never experienced.  I'm genuinely unsure what it's okay for me to talk about; suffice it to say, I'm a wreck, and have been for decades.  Things have improved on the surface, but the thirsty ghost dies hard.  The translucent sicario floats through the streets of this town like a dust cloud, with one foot in the next world, waiting to be set free.  I can't wait to get out of here, but unlike the "Bride," I'm not going to deny that if I were to recklessly tempt death, the consequences would be far worse than anything I'm experiencing now.  I'm not my own god, and in fact I'm horrified that I'm not even a good servant of the God from Whom I beg forgiveness and mercy every day.  Even the Mexicans know I'm a wreck.  They know I'm alone.  They may not understand the reasons I'm here, but they can see them.  It's obvious.  I might not be a great Christian witness, but when I gave them all Spanish Chick tracts, none of them were interested anyway.  I talk about God when I can.  The opportunity doesn't present itself often.  But they shake my hand with obvious heartfelt friendliness when I see them in the tienda, and even the warring factions among them both refer to me as "amigo," when they see me on the street.  I've seen them come almost to blows, over personal contentions that clearly go way back.  Both sides even began to apologize for letting me see it, when I saw them both later, but I shut them down in a friendly way, "No te preocupe.  Don't worry about it.  It's none of my business."  I just appreciate the fact that they're peaceful, and friendly, to me.  It's more than I'm used to.  Gringoland abused and neglected me greatly.  I used to be a hungry ghost about it, but I don't want what they're selling anymore anyway.  Like Bill fell flat on his face after trying to reason with the walking moral contradiction that killed him, and woke up later in the form of Alejandro, no longer hungry (or even alive at all), I'm not even here.  It's why I'm here.  I'm not here anyway, so what difference does it make?  All I want is to go home.

 

“And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he
that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he
that believeth on me shall never thirst.”
John 6:35

 

There's a war on for your soul.  The hungry ghosts will eat themselves to stay alive, they will consume their own souls to secure the concrete boots on their feet, ensuring their demise.  Their S.O.L. is sealed, in an envelope of fire.

But for the tragic hearts among us, there is hope.  If that's you, take heart.  The book of Proverbs says that a wounded spirit is unbearable; ignore all the people with lofty, self-inflated spirits who tell you that it isn't.  They wouldn't know a wounded spirit if it bled out in their lap, flailing uncontrollably.  Their condescending invalidation will come back to haunt them soon.  Probably in the form of an impossible appetite that will never be filled.  Don't waste your time telling them to go to hell.  They're in the antechambers, already.  It's a bad thing, not to be celebrated or even wished for.  To revel in their demise is a great sin.  But to curse them is redundant.

Take up arms instead, against the hollow tornado tearing through your soul.  Whatever form those arms may take.  Physical weapons, probably not.  Supplications to the Lord Jesus Christ under a waterfall of tears, more likely.  He's coming soon to take us home.  In fact He called me back down to Mexico, instead of staying up in Gringoland, where my ghostly appetites perhaps would be tempted to linger at the buffet of worldly enticements.  I've lost my appetite for such things.  I'm now a thirsty ghost, instead.  According to The Book, there is a fountain of living waters, from which only ghosts can drink.  I say to remind myself, for my own benefit.  I'm not writing this for you.  The act of writing is me shoveling dirt out of my own grave, lifting the parched, thirsty ghost up from my own corpse, and finding my way to John 4:14.  It has been for a long, long time.  I need to hear it.

Don't you?

 

“But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give
him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall
give him shall be in him a well of water 
springing up into everlasting life.”
John 4:14

 

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Postscript

I disagree with the idea that "death is a natural part of life," as expressed in the first few minutes of this video, but it's not the point of the video.  This guy has a lot of wisdom, and it's LIBERATING BEYOND WORDS to learn that "Anything we put above Him, He will not suffer us to have it, because He loves us...  His heart is set on bringing you all the way back home."

All the way back home.  Home.  All the way back.  Remove all targets?

Count me in.

Whether "death is not a part of life," or not.  Death is not a part of life.  It's the opposite of life.

It's death!

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Nathan Payne
Nathan Payne

I am a songwriter and bandleader who travels the world in search of the golden ticket. http://www.pablosmoglives.com


pablosmoglives
pablosmoglives

Replacing my blog at http://pablosmoglives.wordpress.com

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