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...

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Aristotle As Prufrock





Once again I make refrains on Aristotle's crass remains, which would RETURN those crystal spheres enclosing our most strident fears. And all to fool... convince... ourselves that we must hold the highest ground of grace and strong integrity — "creation's crown"! Hypocrisy...

TAKE ARISTOTLE AT HIS WORD, as churches did—Aquinas hard—and push your woman to your heel; put her through your strange ordeal. Make her work the lion's share, but work for less—or be contraire—to OWN a hundredth for her toils as she reduces, makes, and boils.

Take dominion of your Earth, and treat her like the bitch you've cursed; beat her if she won't conform to arbitrary wills and norms. Throw your filth across her ground and foul her face but scar, confound ... too, mess with normal weather patterns—raging storms to flood and flatten ... then drop that polar shelf of ice and raise your wave of flood and fright? Scouring Earth from pole to pole, a cleansing facial harsh and cold!

Depending on a moon, they say, or "just so far from solar rays"; seasons placid, and "predictable," water, heat, and food — some victual. All of this must come together, blessed by God and *his* trite measure, plus some luck to mix right in—to make some spark for *smarter men*.

Likely, "RARE!" they have construed! "We're alone," these BALLYHOO (!), then, hustle back to do their "work"... ...sullenly, so less alert!

UFO's are scorned, ignored, or shut behind their screens and doors, so we can say that SCIENCE shows that their "concern" is predisposed.

"What we want's a waste of time," they're quick to say from strident shrines, though we have paid, and dearly too, for what they hold from me and you.

Locked beyond the common pale (and stuffed to tunnel, boom, and rail) there exists the covert record: secrets kept, purloined ... collected. Secrets signal strident change, and who gets hurt, friend; who gets blamed.

Power settles with new will, and change is rampant. Take your fill! This may be what's kept from us ... that *they* lose power, might, and thrust ... that we could be as them, to find ... that we're contrived, unbrave ... confined.

Meanwhile, we're a laugh (God's treasure?), that we INSIST we use OUR measure... holding to our hubris, meanly, so we can coddle fear obscenely. We would dote on Aristotle, sucking on his drying nipple, living at the charmless center he contrived to suit HIS temper, made SPECIAL when he's alone —to be God's favorite in His home—a "crowning jewel in cosmic crowns" of "loving gods"... ...with angry frowns?

We'd give space folk motivation? We'd tell 'em how to DO their mission ... paint their feelings, points of view, tell them how they'd pick and choose?

Then we'd dictate *understanding*, argue *physics* notwithstanding, tell them what their form should be, and how they'd speak like you and me? What a crock, hubristic wrong, we use to sing our centric song...

We'd dictate what we wished was true, forgetting what we always knew, that what we *know* is likely wrong ... that we might sing more humble songs.

We do these things, retreat from grace, and wallow in a pride disgraced! We forget the time and distance ... expanding as we speak ... for instance. We avoid the misty blackness, elude the depths that lead to vastness, retreating to our shallow minds ... in ignorance's grasp confined!

We doom OURSELVES to crass perdition. We MAKE confusion indecision. We won't see the bigger picture, look beyond a narrow stricture, or fund the courage we would need to validate our break-neck speed! We don't look into the sky, except to plant the reason why that puts us at the *point* of *things* — the universe revolves and swings ... around *mankind* so proud and haughty, but like J. Prufrock? A little dotty.

...And like a Prufrock, our Aristotle... ...figures in to "short" and "throttle", forcing us, yes, to a center we CONTRIVE, so are embittered.

We won't know what futures bring if we insist and falsely sing the jaundiced praises of a hubris ... we've contrived to bathe and soothe us.

We don't make consistent rules, we shortchange all our children's schools by feeding pap, a tasteless gruel that rots the gut and fouls the stool.

We won't make a lasting peace, we'll struggle where we're challenged least, and let the BIG chance slip away if we allow this glad decay!

Fail not to search your sky for that which they'd let slip on by. Challenge ALL your institutions, hold them close to constitutions. There is stuff they won't explain, and this is why one MUST complain!

Believing you're alone's un-brave, and makes you just a *tool* ... a slave. A larger fire only shows there're shadows still... ...but so it goes. You're obliged to make that light, though shadows rule, regardless. Right?