Sunday, April 29, 2012

Wages Of Tyrants And Fascistas




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We're at the whim of sullen monsters, churlish agents—provocateurs. We're tazed by charming charlatans, men in black... and crooked Jurors.
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Errant "pundits" give them airtime and the dust is quickly raised! It's soon we're all insensible, standing rigid, stunned—afraid!
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Then, once again, all truth is lost; it wanders in the fray. ...See, once again a fog is loosed in which we're all delayed . ...We once again step backward; we're hamstrung and betrayed while a jealous few make profit... for mistakes that they have made!
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...Though, some *magic* surely lingers from this sullen slight of hand... The *magic* that exists beyond the "science" they "command"?
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The *magic* passed that "two percent"—which changes all the rules!? The *magic* that's not copped to in disgracing low-rent schools. The *magic* that displays itself for free in all our skies; the *magic* that betrays the man and all his skillful lies. The *magic* of autonomy. The *magic* of release! The *magic* of our future yawning vast—without surcease.
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The skeptibunky crowd delights in frauds of "woo-woo" light... which strengthens glib positions of their science and its worshiped might. All is right with them, then; all their castles, built in air—can be left to churlish offspring who are standing, idly, there.
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The "believers," disenfranchised by these skeptibunky boors, look beyond the hopeless pale to a time beyond accord. Sadly, used up in their "reaching" for the "brass ring," they are told, is the object of *true* happiness: a car, a home—some 'fold'...
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UFO's? Then silly, a dangerous kind of thing. You're crazy if you see them. Perceive the change they'd bring!
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Though, change would come... and not all good... Still... good enough I'd think. As it stands we're on a precipice, and we totter on a brink!
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That there's more to mean existence than to toil endlessly? That there's more to simple living than to struggle needlessly? That there's more to life than working so some few can rape the sky just to squander all that largesse on themselves in selfish pride!
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Where's pride in all our USELESS schools? They're designed to keep us stupid! Evil inculcations keep the "masses" starved and toothless!
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The man won't have *sane* birth control when it's EXCESS that's his flavor... his manipulated mechanisms controlling what he favors! See? Then there's clamor for his "pick and choose." He insures the status quo... competition, see, then tows his line? ...Or know a life of woe...
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The man co-ops your hopes and dreams to choose out what he has. He won't be, first, respectful—then he won't care you've been had!
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It's all about "control," you see, and "secrets" KEEP control.  I'd suspect he'll be reluctant... giving up on what he holds. It's why he makes ridiculous all the lights which haunt your skies. Those lights imply that he is passed, his system now deposeddespised.
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So damn you charmless agents, and go to hell (!) provocateurs. Go back, you sullen monsters, to the hells we have endured! Eat *spit* you 'charming' charlatans, crooked jurors, men in black. A little harder now to fool we've found the deck is surly stacked!
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Errant pundits give you air time, so you hoist your own petard. Be careful what you're saying, or get smoked like cheap cigars. Your "ethics" and your "morals" will be held, as well, to YOU... with no more double standards to corrode our will—just truth.








A depression precipitates with the suggestion that it seems too difficult to tell the monsters, charlatans, provocateurs, crooked jurors, and men in black from the genuine illuminati. Indeed, are they even the same...

Finally, I come to the conclusion that the genuine *illuminati* must be very rare, if extant, though all I have to do to be personally convinced of their existence is to look deeply into a clear night sky. Space time and surface area enough for anything provided in that kingdom at hand, eh?

I can't fault the facilitator, the brave individual who provides a forum for the enigmatic questions that, admitted or not, compel each and every one of us. Efficacious facilitators, reader, are people who provide a journalistic treatment of fortean issues, flatly, not found anywhere else in the world of broadcast media. Billy Cox comes to mind.  The others smirk up their landed sleeves, lack the egalitarian stones to ask the tough questions, or openly sneer at what the aforementioned *facilitators* serve up as daily fare.

Frankly, I'd love to be where these people are, doing what they do, seeing what they see ... hearing what they hear, and then I realize that, through them, to a large extent, that is EXACTLY what I'm doing!
I am compelled to a respect and an appreciation for that. One "riding coattails" should respect same.

...If it is subsequently discovered that they're just garden variety sociopaths in a newer fleece selling terror to juice the sales of wind-up radios?

Well, I'll remember _I_ was brave enough to ask, look, and finally, do some critical thinking on my own. I'm not buying in, per say—but I'm reading the hell out of the "anomalous prospectus," as there is SOMETHING going on that is not sold, or copped to in our rigidly controlled and *mainstream* churches, press, schools, or unelected government.

I am "eyes well askance" at all that; I am "arms decidedly akimbo." The mainstream referred to is an ass-licking lapdog to an all too human entity without my best interests at its psychopathic heart.

Astonishingly, without this most minimal respect for lubricating the man's "trickle-up machine," we're expected to otherwise provide maximum respect and regard for same. I suspect the dog will ultimately turn to bite the hand feeding it such disrespectful and unhealthful fare.

Such are wages of Tyrants and fascistas.

Restore John Ford!

Monday, April 16, 2012

...Reproduction's Sad Redoubt...



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Demoted to the status of another mouth to feed, the newborn are a horror and a treat. On the one hand they continue what it was that *something* started; on the other they're a symptom of... disease.  See,  human spawn, if through a filter, are infestation we've contrived.  Exponential accelerations in consumption... not survived.
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On the one hand they're salvation, on the other they detract... from the bounty which humanity has made. On the one hand they are wondrous with potentials of the gods, on the other—tiny devils we've betrayed! Betrayal?  Yes, reflected in our bald hypocrisy.  "Do as I am saying, child... Ignore what you might see."
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Yes?  We nurture infidelity as we disrespect their brains. We ridicule their innocence, and we teach them wrong refrains. We socialize their mindlessness; we inculcate—purport. We'd try and teach 'em "God" in school—despite its bad report.
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We treat them like the children... we invent... but never were; discounting their experience, we distracted and detered! ...We lied suggesting worship for the framers of our systems that exult "elitist gentry" as the cure for human schisms!
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We feed them vague distortions of the truth on UFO's. We obfuscate those issues with a finger in our nose! Pretending we have answers where we, point in fact, have none, we add to their contention that we're finished, pointless—done!
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The kids all know the real deal, and they'll hate us as they can. They resent the pap we've fed... when truth got hard to stand! They hate our lack of courage and the way we rape their planet. They hate our bland coercion and its "reasons," understand it!
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They resent that YOU resent them—where they're not cursed by blame. You envy them their innocence and the fact they've known no shame. You hate them: their reaction to a FLEET of UFO's is to clap their hands in fearless glee and dance up on their toes!
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They hate that they're demoted to "another mouth to feed." They hate you don't fulfill, in them, the honor that they need. They hate you don't believe them, and they hate that you don't care; they hate that you discount their lives as shallow, facile—bare.
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They hate you don't give credit; they hate that you're not "real." It's why they may go crazy, why they drop out ... shoot up ... steal.  They've had the *best* of teachers, right? These young or "dead of brain," no, education is a low-rent field; the profession's warped and stained!
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What's this to do with UFO's? Why... kids aren't trained to "see"!  What we tell them they should look at, we must show could make them free. The way of it must *set them off*, to soar among the clouds, to loose them from our tethers, and to teach them useful doubt.
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If we want them to respect us, we respect them first, in turn! We stop our crass inequity, and we show there's more to learn!
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Do we breed a race of liars to commit continued crime? Do we insist the same mistakes are made another time? Are we the ones—who wallow in our sickness rife with pus—to pretend we're doing right by them... to turn them... into us?
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The child is the father to the man.

Seems a great time to me, a great time in a period of wealth like there has NEVER been—with NO thanks to a rabid "right" celebrating the individual at the expense of the aggregate, or an anarchist "left" persecuting the individual on the stake for the aggregate —...to cop to the new reality. Treat the kids as we would individually be treated ourselves, and discover that with regards to their number and furiously unthinking production of same—less is assuredly more! Lastly, understand that their world is more vital to them than our world. Preforming first impressions won't respect your inability to make a good one. There's no profit in the reflexive ridicule of their nascent and naive inexperience.  To them, passion burns hotter, if not brighter, than your own...

Their world is filled with singular challenges, imminent threats, and anxious priorities we have forgotten as distracted adults.  Evolving Adults aspiring to a certain non-distraction, we discover that even as all things known can be new again, we achieve but a fraction of what first time experiencers experience, or make, their first encounter with their reality.  First encounters with felt presence of the moment.  See, it's up to us to provide the bridge and relevance to them... to our presently very contrived, mal-defined and situational adult reality...

Too, ours is a situation t'would repel them if they only knew, and resent upon finding out!  It would repel us if we remembered... it did me... unencumbered, now, by that cowl of cognitive dissonance self-imposed... or in other words: convenient rationalizations required to buffer us from the truth we deny...

But that's our problem, a problem withering away into the startlingly obvious when confronted at last by the generic, real-time, and non-genuflecting "genuine," eh?  That's where the kids are, eh?  And how can we expect them to reach out willingly to our prosecution of distraction, hypocrisymendaciousnessdissatisfaction, hatredinefficiency, unecessary obsolescence, and even cultural betrayal.  How, indeed.

For the mercurial reader, then, consider this an "absence-of-love" poem in the under-appreciated traditions of one Theodore Sturgeon.  Sire once or not at all... give it back!  Sired, again I ask, do we do our kids a favor to turn them into us?


Restore John Ford!

Sunday, April 01, 2012

...That Thing We Need...

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It's all about our courage, eh? ...Or that lack of same thereof, which festers in frustration and incurs profound disgust?  It portends our total failure to complete that *final* test—to separate the wheat from chaff, to be, perforce, our very best?
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It shows the path to shadow, which is slippery and steep! It casts us in a harrowed plight... provokes in us a fearful sleep.
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No one cops the obvious—we are lacking all control. That we're at the whim of forces far beyond what we are told...
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That our living time is borrowed; that we do not know a thing: that a sword of sullen Damocles, surely, hangs from threadbare string.
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That our science falls afoul with "lights" which pulse through timeless skies. That scientists are cowards at the "feeding trough" contrived?
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That "hard-nosed talk" is easy when you're "safe," remote—detached. See, everything you hold so dear's too quickly gone—too soon dispatched!  You and I are conscious dust, a whiff of cheap cologne, separate and apart we live... "In flight to the 'alone'."
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Go their distance; pay their price; admit, at last, they're not so nice. Proof exists of this contention. We've trod this path, but still worth mention:
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Few will honor John Ford's courage! Ford's in jail, denied—discouraged!
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Johnny Ford is less than free (!); he'd had the guts we fear, you see?
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With wit and grace...and bravery (style!), it's obvious he stayed his mile, going more than half-way—where—he reached out... found you weren't there...
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Contrive your easy, masked belligerence brave enough to act indignant; challenged by my righteous cry, you say "not so," with downcast eyes!
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And I beseech all "honored minds," a shared desire, space, and time. They, the few, who "talk the walk"; eclipse the mass who've "walked the talk." They're the ones to make grand speeches, but act, good friend, like fleas or leeches on a corpse of arcane study, they won't cop—their feet get muddy!
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They're scared of laughter, sneering peers; they won't act out—"They'll think we're queer"!  Remains John Ford for courage shown, where we accept injustice sown.  See, he may be crazy as a loon, driven such by "stooge" and "goon"; but, that won't matter, not a wit, where Ford's betrayed and innocent!
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We keep our distance from his edge which begs (beseeches!); still, we hedge!  I hope untruth's at last supplanted; we're used, betrayed, then disenchanted—lost in murky "might-have-beens" on which we, sadly, must depend.
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It's all about that lack of courage we contend with, I disparage!
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We're the ones to find out why! We're the ones to ask and try!
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We're to LIVE reality! We're to rise up from our knees!!
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We're to question obfuscations! We're to feel new elations!
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We're to live like folk, not fleas! We would have the truth now, please!
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We're the ones to press the issue; we are made of more than tissue!
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We won't crawl upon our knees! We SHALL not live the past's disease.
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We're the ones who look up high, and see the lights which thread our skies! We won't suffer to be teased, hoaxed or played... remotely squeezed. We SHALL protest their disrespect as we protest all lies and threats. We shall FIND out what we PLEASE... concerning truth—the thing we NEED!







Though, leave us not retreat reflexively to those wounded "frowny pouties," pouties facilitating obligatory  cheap-shot recriminations. Let us look, instead, into a MIRROR for the first assumption of blame or the reason for that first "thrown stone."



None of us has the dead lock nut on the aggregate craziness, and one performs a general disservice to suggest that one does. We're grains of sand on a backwater beach with regard to adjacent entelechies and their view of things: a view reflected fractally across a vast range of entelechies, if self-awareness recapitulates the same fractal expression of, seemingly, everything else, anyway! Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny everywhere else, after all... another fractal expression.  Still, one grain of sand on the aforementioned backwater beach only presumes to instruct another, eh?

McKenna nails it. You're your own Guru, or should be.

Any expressed opprobrium, of course, goes for your garden variety Shermer-smirker or hypo-literate, if rabid, faux-skeptical klasskurxian skeptibunky.  These know who they are, don't get it, and don't care.  These can pack sand past a prolapsed pore, eh?

These  personify abject regression, codified their glad repression—abrogated all progression—provide for all our sad depression!

Restore John Ford!