Sunday, November 29, 2009

...Comfortable?

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Are you getting all the answers that you'd like to think you have? Are you comfy where you think you'd like to be? Does a starry, starry sky begin to palpitate your conscience with dishonest guilty feelings you don't need?

Is your horror harsh and angry, are your demons moving closer; do you wallow in your morass... not content? Do you see a lack of fairness with a wrong bunch holding sway? Are you sensing the distention—why all sense has slipped away?

Are you *feeling* global warming, or the contrails in the sky, or the specious social politics, and begin to wonder "why!"?

...Do you wonder at the hatred that has swept through Palestine; are you seeing too much innocence locked in jail doing time?

Do *UFOs* perplex you? Are they "spirit"; are they "craft"?

Was JFK *conspiracy*? Is Sitchin clearly daft?

Do skeptibunkies sing their songs, "denial" and "deceit"? Does the mainstream pule a sneering scowl of arrogant conceit?

...Did saucers fly Rapuzzi's skies and land upon the ground? Did dwarfish beings dismount that craft ... a red glow all around? With greenish skin —black circled eyes— did they shoot him with a ray ... which left him "weak" and "paralyzed," and "almost dead," he'd say?

Are sane folk these "abducted"? Do *they* interact with us? Can folks commune with aliens, and contrive, somehow, a trust?

These questions go unanswered as we snatch away our eyes, refuse to LOOK: investigate, research, or analyze.

Why, all we HAVE are questions that we fear too much to ask! We feel a strained reluctance to what puts us to its task. We clothe ourselves in avarice while we smother our desire, and lie strait faced to children when they ask why we perspire!

We're all about continuance of convenient status quo ... all a *little* psychopathic when betraying children so.  Oh, I won't shine you on that I propose some euphemism! These SLOWLY die, in misery—while *we* just build more prisons!

We ARE waste of strained resources, and we rot in stinking ponds; we blithely dance with devils that we know are baldly wrong. We catalogue our errors in a history of lies, and we're too quick to pick or choose and label our *despised*.

We're petty and convenient, we pretend—avert our gaze! We MAKE the fog so pea-soup thick! We facilitate the haze!

...When most of us know better which would make the matter worse, we proffer commination, and so amplify our curse!

So ARE you *really* comfy that our "comet watching team" won't staff just ONE "McDonalds"? Are you comfy? ...In your dreams!

Think you're safe in YOUR fine house, with YOUR money in the bank, and YOUR beamer almost paid for ... are you really set?  Be frank...

Is the devil tucked behind you? Do you think you know your God?  Do you get the helpless feelings you unfairly wet his rod?

So why the hell's he beat you? Do you really have a clue? Or do you just deceive yourself, and nothing "real" is "true"?

Now we don't look for saucers, but we smirk up gilded sleeves. We won't answer questions which are cures for our disease.

We won't show our world respect. We treat her like a bitch. We don't care who has to pay so some can be so rich. We won't take the higher road and peer into the sky, and glare at the infinity that tasks us! We won't try.

The multi-verse is yawning and would swallow us down whole, yet we snipe at one another, fan a fire—curse and scold!

If a space folk were ADMITTED in any manner, shape, or form—they might as well be really close ... though it complicate our "norm"! We've, ourselves, perceived perhaps, the way that they get ... *here*... There is, perhaps, SOME paucity in our "grasp of physics"—clear?

...But I forget your Aristotle—what we're cursed to carry on. Essentially, that we're alone, that space and time's a wall? That our *supreme* intelligence is the center of its point ... when we're monkey's carnal footballs—our priorities out of joint.

Well, we might not have the center stage! We might not be supreme! We might not have that loving "God's concern for you and me." We might not hold the aces. We might not make the grade. We might be scuttling roaches to such folk as ...MIGHT... be made.

. . . We COULD be squalid vermin to a plethora of beings. Are you comfy with the centric song that we'd contrive to sing?


A decidedly non-friendly place, the multi-verse naturally conspires to mash us, collectively, like a senseless bug. We're the easy targets of cosmic bullets from prions to asteroids. Note, reader, the similarity across scale.

I've heard our ancestors—pushed naked and tool-less ahead of moving walls of ice 2 miles high—didn't drop the ball. They kept fed, nurtured their children, and respected their elders without any of the technologies we take for granted now. What will be our excuse for fumbling after all that preceding "against odds" success?

One good way to ensure a proposed immortality is to seed the asteroid bracelet around our sun with brave humanity! With that cornucopic planetary mass of raw material found in that enigmatic slot between Mars and Jupiter... known for many thousands of years now ...we could put a down payment on a billion years to explore an immortality we could give ourselves.

To stay HERE is to rot, unborn, in the belly of our suffering mother. You choose.

Try to choose before "infanticide" is necessary, eh?

The acceleration continues.  Comfy?

Read on...

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