Wednesday, August 15, 2018

...Not Space Farce...


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Is it Earth-like in space as I travel vast distances? Can I breathe the Earth's sweetness in transit twixt stars? Can I live in a "can" that retreats from the sun, or in rings that we built from the moons around Mars?

The answer is yes, is my own learned opinion. The answer is yes, in all ways, shapes, and forms. The answer is yes; even frat boys are grudging, as they plan their dark business in churches and dorms.

We could push to light speed, or real close to it anyway... We could slow elapsed time to a glacial-like crawl. We could do in a moment what the eons were taking, and we'd seed our environs with life, after all.

It's all in the living the joys of continuance. It's all in a place you can stand safe, and watch. It's finding and knowing, and beating the nightmare that nibbles at your nether-mind, then bites you on your haunch!



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What's passed grows small in a rear view glass,
 retreating with the sun.
See, all you need is with you in your city on the run.
Not running from some consequence, 
or running on the lam,
but running to a future where one gives a tinker's damn.


This city's where you're living, then. 
Its travel spans the stars.
The Earth is carried with you; 
Earth you've coaxed to live in jars.
All the people you have with you, 
that you'll ever see again,
'cause time erased those left behind like, 
indeed, they'd never been.


...But... ten thousand years still passed on Earth, 
and these had found some way (!)
to obviate realities that we endure today!
Less is more, they had discovered, 
and could travel in a *wink*
what our ship in space had traveled, then, 
in all that time—just think!


...They meet you at your journey's end; 
they visit on the way.
They upgrade all your hardware, 
but they never judge or weigh.
They don't peer down their noses… 
don't insist upon new prayers.
It's rather like you meet nice folks 
while climbing cosmic stairs!


...You can go or you can stay
you can have it either way,
either one has heaven's promise—the attraction!
No one "pays," so you can "play"; 
you make it work; you save the day!
But for you? ...Why, living grace in satisfaction.

Return then to your night of dreams where, 
nestled in the stars
are the fruits these satisfactions can provide...
...in rocks from Mars!
I metaphor ideas, 
we then take our precious breath,
and we live among our stars to cheat 
a grinning, leering death.



Though, you won't be engaging your garden variety cosmic brotherhood... friends and neighbors, while hapless children starve anywhere in complacent aggregate neglect right here at home.  We have to earn more passage than that.


Wednesday, August 08, 2018

Graspers And Gaslighters

Where can a self-styled gold standard like our intrepid "Gene Steinberg" incur such a wholly justified wrath and enmity from the rational reasonable among us? Persons the likes of Tim Binnall and Jack Brewer, for example. Men of differing varieties of sobriety (so providing a certain depth of field)... these demonstrate a singular, "...had enough," compelling their outraged and well-cited content, of needs and requirements, yea and verily... I've personal insight, myself.  

Gene (send-me-cash-my-wife's-gums-are-bleeding-and-I-gots-da-t'aint rot) Steinberg is in messy, forget sad, decline, and it's not a pretty picture. I would find him wholly—if pathetically—ignorable but that he continues to personally vex, revolt, annoy, and aggravate me... 

It's the unjustified hubris, I think. Gold Standard my old and wattled ass. 

Verily, he tasks me; tasks me even when he is not impinging on my expectation to a free expression.  No, I do not remotely exaggerate.

Once upon a time long passed, out of the Paracastian murk of his tepid web presence, and like the thick rolling stench from an untidy paranormal graveyard sieved and titrated for its contemptable content grist... not grasping that relevance never actually aspired to... (...a transparent result, I remind the reader, of serious—albeit self-facilitated—blows to his ufological street cred, reputation, and approaching need for legacy vis a vis the compelling Rainey/Woods controversy!)... he reaches out with this pompous little note to me—in full damage control, I suspect, and attempting, in full gaslight mode, to manage one of his many provoked if well-cultivated antagonists, me:

  
Tell you what, let's clear the air, since I don't know you and, clearly, you don't know me.

 I'm happy to apologize for reporting you to your ISP. I was pissed off at the insults, period.

 I'm even happy to let you join our forums, but no personal attacks.

 The ball is in your court.

 Peace,
Gene=

Apart from the fact I'd rather spend the night in hog swill than join his toxic little forum (an ironic "personal attack's" murder of fanboy crows...) every line of the above, I submit, has to be a reflection of the most extreme use of cognitive disassociation and insentient pompousness... as can be available to mortal man and then ladled out to his serfs or hangers-on benignly and in all condescension! Bailiff! Gag me with a shock-rod!

Great suffering and most baragrugous ZOT!!!   

I begin to suspect—which I had expected all along—that he was entirely apart from what was really going on as regards the fall-out of his misogynistic initiative, his gossipy coven of cyberstalking lickspittles and fluffers! A Trumpian narcissist? I digress...

I wrote back that his offer was utterly unsatisfactory. I said"No, You 'Net-ball' Mr. Steinberg... twice on your side of the net to double-fault.  [I thought that was clever] Moreover, Sir, I don't make 'personal attacks.'  I observe.  Yeah, I'll pop a literary cap in a deserving ass.  Conscience sometimes demands it.  Zero apologies here." I'm in the fall of my winter, agewise, and that's how we roll.

He responds:

Then feel free to "observe."
 I look forward to your participation. Just keep it civil.
 Peace,
Gene

What?!  Really?  How astoundingly oblivious! 

What a brilliant example of "out of touch" faculty and repressed crumbling air-castle in a last-legs food processor ready to puke!  I'm stunned to clenched astonishment, actually! Remember, his was the dearth of sense, fairness, and sensibility... at the start, if for all his patronizing officiousness, now. I won't be criticised for pointing that out. I won't be remotely patronized.

I respond that, as per expected par he, one, misses the point and the broad side of the communicational barn by the obligatory parsec, two, has provided me much too little, much too late with regard to faux-collegiality forced by public censure or a then angered mob (Gene had to do more walk-backing, I seem to recollect), and, three, that he has only succeeded in irritating me further.  

You see, I'd already seen the e-mail to another where he refers to me as a "bomb thrower."  I resent that.  I eschew uncivilized bombs to roll in hot with righteous thirty-mm cannon and hell-fire missiles.  I fight the called-for fight, close, and you know who's shooting at you.

Finally, a portrait of abject disingenuousness, he concludes:


Which is, of course, what you're doing. You don't know me, yet you continue to attack. I gave you your chance.


Goodbye.
Gene Steinberg=


Yeah, Steiny... I know ye! Fuck you.

..Didn't respond to that last one, eh, reader?  The last time I switched his flaccid, sway-backed, and irrelevant ass out of my E-mail coral he, an ironic and unrepentant spammer beggaring measure, as Binnall and Brewer observe... pulled obvious institutional strings to have me thrown off the internet!!! Nobody can just "reach out" and have you unplugged from the web! He did,  howsomever. What was up with that...

That's right. Complete removal from the world wide web for three whole, decidedly dark, days... good thing I didn't get my phone that way.

All this pales to insignificance compared with what he facilitated for Rainey/Woods vis a vis supports for "this" and slanders for "that." ...Then he'd trot out another plea for cash to round out his hypocrisy as is abundantly noted... this writer would rather send money to Ted Cruz or Pee-pee Dondi.

Wait... no... not even in jest. Between the three, Steiny gets my money.

Closing, I'm sure our intellectually felching Mr. Steinberg has no problem with me sharing this "private" mail... see, he does it himself, to suit his very self-interested ends... All.  The.  Time. His "bomb-thrower" allusion to me, for example...

Please demand that I prove that, Mr. Steinberg. In other news, is Ms woods writing a book regarding her, trials, travails, and tribulations regarding et sig all? I don't know...

"I see... [writing] people..."

She's certainly subsequent to abundant subject matter. I say true. I'd be hard-pressed not to write it... were it me.

Steinberg Transporto Caveo
Steinberg Sender Beware.

Read on.

Sunday, August 05, 2018

...Not Watching The Sky...


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...Not a new story that just came to me, as I sit on hard chairs, and I read I'm not free. These are charges of thievery, graft, and corruption ... the right writes their *writ*, and assures our dysfunction!

They're less than contrite with us; they destroy hapless families; they rob and they maim helpless folks—sheer insanity! This nation we love, in surreal dissolution, it is fraught with cold terrors at our top institutions!

Constitutions, as writ, are spat upon jokes to be used and abused, silken ropes around throats? They are tools of the mighty to be used when they're necessary... when convenient, or useful, or expediently arbitrary?

They're to hide flying lights moving low on horizons who have "lights" of their own far beyond my describing! They are playing with secrets that spawn all the craziness... you'd refute if you knew it... ...and that's why they're betraying us!

Now most will not care in their drive to live lives that they work pretty hard for... ...but may learn to despise. We are ruled by the hatreds gladly fanned in our "churches" ... we are scared and upset, and our fear is discursive.

We look at the "few," but we're told we see many.  Distracted—bedeviled, we're shorted our pennies. The *right* won't help out when it comes to the sharing; though their mansions are built by the ones who starve... ...staring!

As we pray for our *gub'ment*, say, to "run off them faggots," but want its retreat when we'd spawn our detritus! Imposing our will when it complements business, but betraying the trust when we're called to be generous!

As they mask and they hide their fine mess of choice secrets, the watchers continue to tease and entreat us. ...But at the whim of that... "man"... to be born, work, and die ... we're *secure* in our rut, so, not watching the sky...



The man — all the while laughing, and having fun at your expense—able to "play" because you "pay"—knowing you're a fool (and worse), so programming your children not to be the leaders in the "new century." He'll play bait and switch with all manner of anomaly. He'll drag you back and forth across the line of credulity so hard and so often that you doubt the validity of your own reality, reality as smeared as that aforementioned line...

The knowing, finally, is a foundation that won't shift beneath your feet. You look up with a hard new eye, see the unending expanse of the misty *always was*—and ask the question, …not why, but, "When"!

When will you have the pitching deck secure beneath your feet, and a real "star to steer by"? It's then you'll have your "why."