.
One night, to be sure, I'd have stayed in my dreams! ...Humankind! Living in space, was the theme! In rotating rings from the "soil" of the "belt"... ...an "Eden" constructed... ...an "Eden" I built!
.
These rings are concentric, with a center clear sphere. The gravity there was at zero, you hear?! It is there that the physics is worked out just right and that magic is made! You fly the bright night!
.
With wings made of paper and vibrant with color, you flash in the sunlight, your soul interstellar. By day on the rim mayhap toil and bustle, but at night, you can soar and relax tired muscles.
One night, to be sure, I'd have stayed in my dreams! ...Humankind! Living in space, was the theme! In rotating rings from the "soil" of the "belt"... ...an "Eden" constructed... ...an "Eden" I built!
.
These rings are concentric, with a center clear sphere. The gravity there was at zero, you hear?! It is there that the physics is worked out just right and that magic is made! You fly the bright night!
.
With wings made of paper and vibrant with color, you flash in the sunlight, your soul interstellar. By day on the rim mayhap toil and bustle, but at night, you can soar and relax tired muscles.
.
At night in this city afloat in deep space, as you stare down infinity with the eyes in your face... you wonder on Babel, and God’s suspect plan... ...to strike down our language and so subjugate man.
.
An odd thought to have but a "consciousness" asks it. God disrespects us; he fecklessly tasks us. ...See, where's it writ large that a "God" is extant, apart from the words that propound him, be frank. Faith's not enough where the men make their gods to do their own bidding when men give the nod. And that is the problem. The acts good or sad are ascribed to a godhood nonexistent; that's bad. ...See men perform acts they ascribe to God's will, for better or worse. Not God, it's man's will.
.
By "His" own words, and from His own mouth: we were uppity, ambitious—why, we'd covet his house! We would be as He was, and embrace the all-knowing... ...reaching and striving, and competing and growing!
.
He did something, then, that I must find contemptible. He hammered us "good" for our pride so achievable. He scattered us w i d e in a smear of confusion. ...He would not condone, nor accept, our "intrusion."
.
But, still, here I float, dirty water in space. I pondered God’s motives, and I measured his grace. ...And I know that light’s "constant" is adjusted just so. And the "weak force" is balanced by strong forces... so?
.
God (...cut to the chase!) quietly crafted these constants? Perforce, He's no God of mere "chanted endorsement." God’s mouth watered not, at old Noah’s grand feast? Who was it, then, who ensured our defeat? Where is that God hanging stars in the sky like they're lamps He's contrived... so's to watch sparrows die?
.
...Though, all had passed... and here we sat... abiding endless space? We took the chance, and dove straight *out*—a credit to our race! All white, and so black-purple... All the yellows, and the reds, all the colors of the rainbows—we would fill our skies instead!
.
Then I awoke... ...my eyes were all wet... ...and I lay in my bed... as sad as I get. Gone were the bubbles of humans in space. Gone, the "ring cities" of a proud human race.
.
Instead, again mired in unjust "reality." We're shriveled on winds of their gross bestiality. We wallow confusions of metered distress; We seem to be cursed or at best, then, non-blessed. One waits for the night and the dreams that may come which aspire and uplift beyond gods beyond sum.
At night in this city afloat in deep space, as you stare down infinity with the eyes in your face... you wonder on Babel, and God’s suspect plan... ...to strike down our language and so subjugate man.
.
An odd thought to have but a "consciousness" asks it. God disrespects us; he fecklessly tasks us. ...See, where's it writ large that a "God" is extant, apart from the words that propound him, be frank. Faith's not enough where the men make their gods to do their own bidding when men give the nod. And that is the problem. The acts good or sad are ascribed to a godhood nonexistent; that's bad. ...See men perform acts they ascribe to God's will, for better or worse. Not God, it's man's will.
.
By "His" own words, and from His own mouth: we were uppity, ambitious—why, we'd covet his house! We would be as He was, and embrace the all-knowing... ...reaching and striving, and competing and growing!
.
He did something, then, that I must find contemptible. He hammered us "good" for our pride so achievable. He scattered us w i d e in a smear of confusion. ...He would not condone, nor accept, our "intrusion."
.
But, still, here I float, dirty water in space. I pondered God’s motives, and I measured his grace. ...And I know that light’s "constant" is adjusted just so. And the "weak force" is balanced by strong forces... so?
.
God (...cut to the chase!) quietly crafted these constants? Perforce, He's no God of mere "chanted endorsement." God’s mouth watered not, at old Noah’s grand feast? Who was it, then, who ensured our defeat? Where is that God hanging stars in the sky like they're lamps He's contrived... so's to watch sparrows die?
.
...Though, all had passed... and here we sat... abiding endless space? We took the chance, and dove straight *out*—a credit to our race! All white, and so black-purple... All the yellows, and the reds, all the colors of the rainbows—we would fill our skies instead!
.
Then I awoke... ...my eyes were all wet... ...and I lay in my bed... as sad as I get. Gone were the bubbles of humans in space. Gone, the "ring cities" of a proud human race.
.
Instead, again mired in unjust "reality." We're shriveled on winds of their gross bestiality. We wallow confusions of metered distress; We seem to be cursed or at best, then, non-blessed. One waits for the night and the dreams that may come which aspire and uplift beyond gods beyond sum.
.
lehmberg2002@gmail.com
www.AlienView.net
.
Acts good or bad performed by a man and ascribed to contrived Gods is as disingenuous as it is deconstructive. That's why the good that men do is interred with their bones and their evil lives on and on...
On Dreams.
Heaven is having your own starship, with all that that implies. Mine is as big as Staten Island, lozenge-shaped, and capped on both ends with a clear concave field that could stop neutrinos if it had to! That's dense!
.
The ship's not "mine" really, we're confederates. ...But it tolerates me. It's a living thing, actually, with vast innards of architectural magic, nature parks, lakes and oceans, self-maintaining community, and powerful warp drives... ...ageless multimedia libraries for which an academician might trade his very soul. It is as close as you can get to heaven, still stay in the real world... be in charge of your own will.
.
I wonder, is it ever appropriate to have a bone to pick with God, especially One who lusted at the board of humankind's table when He wasn't lusting after the daughters who served it? Tilt, eh? Sounds like corporate sports on a business trip to me.
.
The ship... Did I tell you that you can live *forever* on it? Too, remember the "Galactic Library." Would you try to know it all?
.
Yeah yeah yeah... derivative. But then everything is. Even... especially, consider, that which would otherwise seem so... "para-typical." With regard to art? It's been said that the good borrow; the great steal...
.
It's all aboil, see, on the surface of the sun of that strange "similarity across scale" the reductionists can't see, and provoked by accelerating futures the rest don't want to see. It remains. We must embrace that future, somehow, if only to accommodate it... perchance to pleasantly surprise it.
lehmberg2002@gmail.com
www.AlienView.net
.
Acts good or bad performed by a man and ascribed to contrived Gods is as disingenuous as it is deconstructive. That's why the good that men do is interred with their bones and their evil lives on and on...On Dreams.
Heaven is having your own starship, with all that that implies. Mine is as big as Staten Island, lozenge-shaped, and capped on both ends with a clear concave field that could stop neutrinos if it had to! That's dense!
.
The ship's not "mine" really, we're confederates. ...But it tolerates me. It's a living thing, actually, with vast innards of architectural magic, nature parks, lakes and oceans, self-maintaining community, and powerful warp drives... ...ageless multimedia libraries for which an academician might trade his very soul. It is as close as you can get to heaven, still stay in the real world... be in charge of your own will.
.
I wonder, is it ever appropriate to have a bone to pick with God, especially One who lusted at the board of humankind's table when He wasn't lusting after the daughters who served it? Tilt, eh? Sounds like corporate sports on a business trip to me.
.
The ship... Did I tell you that you can live *forever* on it? Too, remember the "Galactic Library." Would you try to know it all?
.
Yeah yeah yeah... derivative. But then everything is. Even... especially, consider, that which would otherwise seem so... "para-typical." With regard to art? It's been said that the good borrow; the great steal...
.
It's all aboil, see, on the surface of the sun of that strange "similarity across scale" the reductionists can't see, and provoked by accelerating futures the rest don't want to see. It remains. We must embrace that future, somehow, if only to accommodate it... perchance to pleasantly surprise it.
.
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