Sunday, March 31, 2013

...Almost...

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You could saunter song-filled hallways as the visuals wrapped around you [9]. Poems whispered from the portraits you might pass [1]. You could step-off from the edge and fall through space to sighing fountains [10]. You could hear transcendent music. T'was a gas!
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It was "candy for the eye" attached to verse you'd never seen, but hard to keep your "bearings" on the way. One way trips all seem so final as you clicked "fluorescent signs," and the way-back's hard to find, I'm pleased to say.
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You'd wander in cool gardens that you only dream about [7], or fly to real castles in the sky [5]! You'd float along, astonished, while the pictures curled and danced; you'd "warp" to other places if you tried!
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You'd almost smell the greenness of the lushly crafted leaves as they moved around in winds you'd almost feel. You'd almost taste the flowers that were growing 'round low bushes which were almost... like they may as well be real [3].
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It's more valid than some golf course that you over-fertilize, and so poison all the wildlife downstream! Rather, satisfy an urge to get away from all that hassle, for awhile, and just wander in your dreams.
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Jump through *holes* in space to see its alternate dimension, and then walk, amazed—if gob-smacked—by the sight. Visit links you've "clicked" on for a different kind of view, and be thankful for the conscience you don't fight...
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And, yes, you may be lucky if I poke you in the eye, or I *scare* you with the stories I can tell. The fact they MAY be real is a fact you might consider... if you freak and go all purple—mad as hell!  I'm cast "the piano player," and I'm honest with myself and expressions bubbled from me just provide my mental health.
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Remember a proportion of your rage may coincide with assertions that one's grossly incorrect. I'm right? It makes you angry; you lose your bearings—and your focus—so descend to crass attacks ... and disrespect!  Then you obviate the circumspect and fail on your merits, pontificate your party line: a parody of parrots.
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...I wander halls and parapets of faery-castles built [6]... with this: the smallest gesture and a nod! See, "convenience" is no virtue when enjoyed by just the *few*, so I'll build the odd reality... that must query Christian gods...  ...rake this "muck" (it is deserved) on "shiny shoes" of *greater* persons... who would sooner shut me up, or put me out.  Elitists have their way; they write the rules; they ARE foreclosure; they are sum and tat and total, and they SHALL NOT go without!
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Stand atop a soap-box—never put there for your use—but to vent a righteous spleen 'bout what you'd feel. ...I can take it or can leave it, but I'm better for the hearing, and the same must go for you, so... that's the deal.  ...Though, there's something in the "seeing" and the "hearing" what is there; it runs a different groove and must preclude the rut now fared...
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Care to hear a sunrise? Then a visit to my "grotto" was the coolest place you'd ever think to be. You'd run and spread your arms to "warp" or "fly" but "cleave the heavens" that were spreading wide like curtains, yes... You're free!
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Build your own and we'd be neighbors—an idea marketplace, where the usual laws of physics shan't apply. Unhindered by the *rules* you're—freely—thinking on your own, and then thinking for yourself the reasons "why."
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Don't believe the priests and kings—who bother and distract you—with convenient rules they've made... to stay on top. Learn to take your counsel from the mirror of your life—then learn to wonder why; then, learn to cop!
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...And this, "a tiny plot" of all the places you can wander that provide their own *distraction*, I admit. But who is making money when you cash out "buying in," and begin to see who profits most by... it.
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Come on in and talk, leave a message, walk the walk, and we'll share out all the things that we have found. Come and look and you might find: it's your culture strikes you blind, and the teachings that you've scorned?  They're more profound.


alienview@roadrunner.com
http://www.alienview.net/
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"Culture is not your friend." -- Terence McKenna

"Dreamland,"—an expression of a virtual universe that Terence McKenna would have walked into and never come out of—on the other hand, was as real as you wanted it to be, linked to anywhere, and it did it "right now," in real time... even last century.  Additionally, it was going to get a lot better—a LOT better...

Ultimately, you can own a little piece of this virtual paradise! Don't buy a few packs of coffin nails, some Hagen Daz (to provide the required fundage)—take a chance. Buy in. But come to wander the environs for free, that’s as free as it needs to get, and as good as it got...

Got?  Yes...

See, I discovered real estate in cyberspace is every bit as ephemeral as real estate in actuality... it's just a lot less expensive.  See, things get less expensive when made only of photons and electrons. Only, it hurts no less when it's taken from you, earth-quaked, or otherwise blown up. ...But sabotage?

See, and paying for the privilege, I worked for years building a huge virtual cyber-park where one could walk or fly in a construction not beholden to the usual physics, ya know. Space, Time, and Surface area, to a degree, became a place to show your art when it wasn't being art itself. It was gallery and school and community, too.

Then, the tragic result of a transfer of ownership of the aforementioned "universe," the whole of my acreage of "Experiential Park" was moved, abruptly, to another spot in a new virtual universe. This rendered all of my  relevantly cross-connecting teleportation coordinates false, useless, and meaningless.

There were many hundreds of those coordinates, into the teens of hundreds. All are Required and Key for accurate pin-point teleportation providing for ease of movment.  All of them were now delivering the participant, not to other examples of 3D art and immersion in it but to a flat green "obliviate," presently, where those constructions should be.

A lot of the magic of the place... just went away, reader.  A little like a defaced painting...

I started to go back through those errors and correcting them, but what would I do if I was unceremoniously moved again! I understood then.  Where is the confidence laboriously correcting, and for many hours, what can be erased so effortlessly in seconds by errant, arbitrary, and thoughtlessly unilateral and artless philistines.  Harsh... but damn!

A shadow of that world remains, though, and is assess-able still. It's wander-able and there is plenty of stuff to see, only, stay out of the water, away from fountains, named transporters, and shunts. They don't do what they once did; gone's the magic there... once.  Now, you are inexplicably transported to oblivion.

Additionally disconecting, the code and software used to gain admittance to this world was sold to a third party... in Germany... so the interface is now in German. Ouch. Another hurdle. I've asked the new owners to put me in the "new world" where I was in the "old world." Pick one set of coordinates in my world, place my corresponding construction at that coordinate, line up north and south... ...and all my coordinates work anew!

It is not permitted.

I've been to every spot in the new world where my constructions should be... it is nothing but nothing. There's nothing there. I could be there. But no. So know, you know?  No?

Sincerely, you used to be able to go to some pretty neat places—a parapet where you can stand with friends and watch ... too many UFOs careen around in front of you [Picture #8]... for instance. The whole park was a gallery and an expression of art, itself.

You can just wander around in it is all, wander around and talk to other people in real time. ...And verily... While you're "there"... are you not "there"?

Terrence McKenna talked about virtual reality extensively.Ralph Abraham and Rupert Sheldrake back him up in finite if informative "Trialogues" (sic).  I know what I'm doing would have knocked his sox off. Search ITune podcasts for Lorenzo's "Psychedelic Salon"...

Graham Hancock alludes to it. Daniel Pinchbeck sails fretfully on its surface, and I aspire to illustrate it. Perception is the reality, and that is not bad news.

See, aspiration can be composed of photons and electrons more economically and expansively than it can be made of platinum and diamonds, eh? Or wood and concrete. Or—well... anything you could care to name.

Verilyburied deeply in McKenna's cold-soaked moonlet of Neptune at near absolute zero one could download themselves, their friends, and their loved ones into a grown quartz crystal a foot across and live in a manner that suited them for all time, 'real' as one wanted to be, in a virtual universe as palpable as the one strategically and profitably retreated from, eh? What else is required for existence, after all but the perception of existence?

Perception is all that is required for "reality." Indeed, we could all be in a virtual universe right now and not remotely know it...

Restore John Ford!

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Sunday, March 17, 2013

Kings/Priests ... Jesters/Clowns

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There's not enough time to accomplish our will; why, by a factor of five we but take more time, still! So, forget any ending that isn't your own; it's the ride that's important... that's what we are shown.
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See, time has an essence that is fractal it seems; it's running out fast or interminable, see?  They're no absolutes; time is hoary and relative: gone quick as that flash... or has lasting imperative.
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Absolute values?  ...A path to extinction where "values" are measured with clueless distinction... Where sentience is hated as if "from the devil"?  Celebrate ignorance, but get out your shovel.  There is a price paid  pursuing stupidity.  Especially along with excessive cupidity.
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So, what do we "pack" in scant moments and hours... if not filling lives with such truths as empower?  A hard row to hoe... that considered above... Where you are excluded when push comes to shove... much we might treasure and value retreats, and is lost, or it fades; it's presumed incomplete.
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What have we gained but to stack our "possessions"? What do we pile but death in concession?
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...And with what are we left but the gods of the *man* to complicate faith that we shan't understand? What do we have but corroded philosophy... spewed by elitists who're fraught with hypocrisy.
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*Kings* (and their priests) hide their smirks behind hands which are richly appointed as they wave dark commands; see, we are mere pawns in their struggle for power, yes, stolen from those who must heat all our water!
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...And, who are these persons from whom we draw heat? Well, all are forlorn folk who won't make the peak!  These are the ones who're left at the gate... who're shut out of doors to discover their fate!
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Where is the justice in truth not forthcoming? Where do the psychopaths actually hide? Where will the fairness begin its glad drumming too faint, but yet heard, in a truth to surprise?
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When will the Earth, then, begin her renewal? When will the great be concerned for the small? When will good answers provoke the best question that's answered in TURN minus spin, dodge, or stall!
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Where do we start to respect individuals? When do we pay off despicable loans? Why won't we turn from our sad acquisitions, and tear dark *pretenders* from scurrilous thrones?
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When do we pay down our perilous debt? When do we clean up the mess that we've kept? When do we stop all the meanness we make, and feel compassion now earnestly faked?
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Why do the saucers continue to plague us? Why are they seen in our day and night skies? Why do they tease us (or shame us!) with sightings so damned inconclusive—I'd want to know why!
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And it's not just a murmur of pique from some whacko; my interest's sane, they are citedthey're shared! The challenges challenged remain SO unchallenged; there's an ominous silence, and we should beware!
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Issues have answers that we're not receiving. We're too distracted with the things we can buy. Stuff that is wasteful, cross purposed, and hateful is what is served up—so abusively—why?

With a grasp that is firm on the ring in your nose, they are not chained by the rules they impose! Lords of *their* manors, ordained by *their* gods, you step off and fetch it when they give the nod!
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Forget contributions that you have been making to nebulous groups who persue the hard sell: churches and other glibclosedinstitutions who skim from the top all the life-blood themselves!
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What are you now but a cog in their wheel, and fretting through days with your nights so unreal—tossing and turning and feeling the dread of the earthquakes and windstorms to vex you ahead.
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Tell me I'm crazy, a certified loony to have studied the things that I do—as I have. Tell me the saucers that show up (so plainly) will only show up in a "head" that's gone "bad."
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Call me a whacko—bereft of my senses. Assign me a spot far away in the fringes. Dismiss me as "woo-woo", bricks shy of your *load*. A conspiracy nut you engage just to goad...
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...But answer my questions, address my concerns, and put out this fire that rages and burns! Give me the facts, *sir*, though heaven's brought down; revealed: kings and their priests... become jesters and clowns!





A corrosive if consequential coterie of non-context clowns will have a bonny day with this—no doubt. These aforementioned are clowns so predictably circumspect as to avoid, and assiduously: that the issues raised above are evidence of psychopaths from the middle ages made real in the early Twenty-first Century.  Dispassionate Thugs brought up to date.

See, they employ the same arguments and attitudes as the corporate sharks of old, these enduring misanthropes, laughing at the homeless and cheering Sarah Palin as, together, they celebrate the rape of the planet—pretending they're alone and unobserved as far as their predator eyes can see. They begin to feel a hot foul breath on their scented, if unclean, necks, I suspect.

See, given that technology provides for a decided lack of a requirement for a fat population's standing in as grease for the cruel gears of the top tier's 20%, the plan, if you didn't know, is to murder the bottom 80% of the human population... 2%, then, riding pretty high and everybody else, or 18%, just an employee.  These privileged murderers would live forever on the erased hopes and shattered dreams of persons destroyed... ...as they always have... reader, as they always have.

Now Daniel Pinchbeck, illustrated in a somewhat recent verbal dust-up with Whitley Strieber, would accuse me of "working to manifest" the preceding into the universe, provoking it and therefore facilitating it—willing it to being, invoking the genocidal reality into actuality... ...but screw that.  Searching _my_ conscience I suspect the universe has already had that idea, has prosecuted it for eons if not all along, and that Strieber and myself are merely humble observers of it...inconsequent reporters of same. Be that as it may, no apologies here. ...Seems what's obvious was obvious after all.

C'mon, all these very diverse and asymptotic—heaven reaching!—graph-lines can't ALL be wrong! The future accelerates towards us as a concrescence looms. What else explains this perceivable quickening?

Moreover, why do you figure we should be held above the fates meted out to the other species with whom we share the bio-drome. Especially when you have an appreciation for how many times that has occurred right here on the planet in a demonstrable way ... Occurred?  ...Mass extinction.  67 Million years ago the Earth endured a punch that "nothing bigger than than a chicken" walked away from.  The Earth's endured even greater oblivion.

Why would we be absolved? More to the point, a specific kind of intelligence, one entirely sane, would dictate that it was a tool to be used... a eugenics to be employed. That's happened before, too.

Restore John Ford!

Sunday, March 03, 2013

Process Due

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I spread my arms, beseech the sky, and wonder why we even try to elevate our species' place if much we touch is soon disgraced.  We've potential we've ignored; we fall short, I'd bet?  Deplored.  
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Deplored by whom, one's quick to ask... to take us smartly to the task... of what and who and where and why as few inspect accusing skies..
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...And what of saucers flying there... perhaps with *people* filled—mon frère? Perhaps we're under observation, taken for an infestation! Waiting for some swift correction from those *persons* "passed detection"?
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We don't know! The best response! Yet, we're in—unearned—pride ensconced. Bad enough—won't you agree—that one's compelled to calloused knee!
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We aren't careful in the void; we won't make a sentient choice. Hearing what we want to hear, we're wasteful as regards what's dear:  ...Life and children we respect, so give them more than sad neglect.  Be our planet's steward—friend—and not a life-force we offend!
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Are we wasteful... loathsome beings with nothing but our gall and spleen... to keep us from complete disaster—groveling for some gloating master?
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These *leaders* will short-change your schooling, contrive it to be harsh and grueling. School so bad it hurts the soul, so, to it, you are loath to go. See, there they keep you stupid, friend, to reproduce what they contend... is *best* for hapless feebs and peeps... alive to keep THEM warm, you see?
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Keep art and music out of schools?  Then, sing the new tea-bagger's blues as soulless drudges leave those halls to empty lives devoid—appalled. Art and Music elevates... provoking questions changing fate, and we find out what's planned for us: our trust betrayed... psychotic thugs...
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Muzak's soothing what you think, but then we smell its fishy stink. Music is constructive feeling; it's art at best and THEN we're dealing! Save a buck on art and music—lose your soul, I think, abusing—all that you might somehow be... if you should KEEP your sanity!
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Once in school, a teacher's paid: teach damaged kids a damaged trade—standard English, small respect, some life beyond that child's neglect. Teaching nothing as it happens, they just suit sad circumstances...  They're among our disrespected, with some malice they're objected, paid small pittance, little mind, and no respect one comes to find.
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Their public school's a shell shocked hole: no programs, futures, books or soul! We've no money we could spend... providing what this needs to mend?  "School" is so much bilious crap.  We just don't care and that's a fact.
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...A few more teachers, good surroundings—make the learning valued, charming. Perchance to make kids LOVE their school? Have them grasp this golden rule? Make their learning real enough to TRULY make them better off!
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Pull them from their squalid holes, give them chances yours would know; too, empty prisons you have made to counter disrespects now paid!  You know, that mechanism you maintain to keep REAL slavery legal bane!
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I know there's more than what we see: a quantum relativity! A marriage of the macro space with causal subatomic grace! Tiny strings in humming loops to vibrate out our hand-held truths... in ways we can't perceive at all... from space and time and MORE this calls.
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I contest our frame of reference.  Aristotle's lost my deference. We don't hold a "center spot! To think we should? Hubristic rot!
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See, we are still conflicted by... those "crystal spheres" old Greeks contrive!
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Aristotle WAS quite wrong, but Christian churches played along. They would keep the lie alive, that they the chosen, favoredthrived! That they should wear creation's crown, and not be labeled as its clown. That they were always God's proud chosen, *masters* of all space emboldened... in all their faith or shallow dreams that they're not—at the LAST—obscene.
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Saucers flit and dance or flicker as our sordid games got sicker; we don't ask ourselves the questions curing, likely, mad obsessions...
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People suffer every day so others can pretend they're prey... while sitting in the tallest cotton with souls corrupted—grace forgotten!
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People starve, and rot or stink while others sip exotic drinks. People fret in misery, but faithful, kiss their rosaries...
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Trained to put their faith in God, these folks presume they need his nod... to ask, at last, the honest questions—real answers—sans rejection!  Though they're remiss if they believe untested faith provides relief, a life has value if examined... reconsidered... then re-examined!
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Some of us ARE good as gold! Some of us are hard and cold. Most are kept in shifting shadows, ignorant, misguided—callow.
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These, the ones who do the work, are kept in debt like foolish jerks, so some can have their crystal fixtures, autumn homes—expensive pictures...
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This "attitude," so mis-configured, serves us up our dung, I figure...
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Those on "top" would stay the same, and *write* their rules—insure the game. They would stay their harmful course so unconcerned—without remorse... blithely building "grand estates" which sprawl behind their iron gates.  Outside the gates it's hand to mouth and mortgages are headed south.  Health insurance is denied; the working poor are criminalized.  The gulf between them getting wider, elites contrive like cunning spiders...
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We aremerelybugs to them; we work and bleed as they condemn.  We lubricate their grand existence... in—unbalanced—coexistence as they mock our harsh travail that they've imposed and where we flail...
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Plus they keep the secrets, plainly—clasp them to their breasts insanely. They won't give us what we need, as we are here to work and breed to make more hands for them to use, souls that they corrupt, abuse...
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...And still our questions raise soiled hands, beseech the heavens as they stand... and ask, "please, what is going on..." ...as we're used up or preyed upon.


alienview@roadrunner.com
www.AlienView.net



Restore John Ford... read on.