2020 – day 107
Thursday, April 16, 2020 {12 pages, with a wiseass cameo, and a 22 minute radio rant on the end… linked somewhere.}
8:09 AM
could be a slow day for serious thinking, the world
would be calm
even, peace-filled, if
we would ignore the fretting forming effectual evil,
de
structing standing stones immovable, but
by God,
these institutions constitute our reasons for war,
and everybody knows
without war, the last vestiges of the iron empire
fall
and rust away,
till in a gazzilion years, earth is red as mars…
no, of course not, who can imagine war has no reason?
Me. Ha, y’don’t say, y’say. War is not the reason.
Honor is the reason
we are updating our nuclear stock piles and guarding
the usurers databases,
listings of
honor and glory of keeping a pledge to destroy
them who
{WA hapt}
do evil demeaning things to children, forcing oaths and
pledges to be having only
good American ways in mind when praying things get better.
Some free men shall live the rest of their lives working,
living like pioneers, refugees on the edge
of hopelessness, rearing rebel children
to serve as cannon fodder on the square.
History will have sortable stories,
what were they thinking, we shall say, in the future
of the survivors from back in the day.
The peaceful night, I go gently into, sure as I am
contagious… infected with hope
the functional aspect of faith, the evidence of never seen
before…
Improve, reprove, prove
improve, reprove, prove
that’s life.
it goes on and on, just
right
balancing everything.
We wake up over a period of decades,
and find reality
flexible,
if we bow to the powers that be.
Some bit of the bowing part,
I find a why,
a why do it thus?
I don’t like the way it looks, boss and beggar,
like a shiner in an orange orchard, which
a greedy owner might see,
and scold us pickers for waste and sheer
lazy bum genes…
So I stood my ground, looked around and seeing
this golden apple
idea, as reminded by that shiner high in the tree, I
wondered, what if
as in heaven, so on earth, were mis
apprehended, and thus prayed amiss, as it were,
to consume, the goodness, like oil to light the night,
burning off precious gases that took fifty million years to form,
leaving acidic ashes
fixed in plastic molecules so impervious to ravages of time,
that the micro fiber microtubules
quantum
wee structures of undigestible ash, pure plastic
man-made, artificed organic molecular structures, so many
PPMs in the gazzilions, too many, nature has no clue what to do,
but
we can’t see the stuff… can’t kill us…
and we can’t be safe if we ain’t ready to kill unfounded
evidence of unseen things, ever vigilant, for evil abounds,
we see that all the time.
Some wee mod on your percepticons, some external force,
a tap, tap, tap on a lugnut,
srewed too tight,
tiny vibrations pass through metal in waves,
a tap, tap, tap loosens the rust,
flakey rust, oxidated into red clay… someday
this red clay becomes ochre, once sprinkled on bones as a sign
of something we guess means
something
everlasting…
we can rub this ochre in our hair and laugh, we live.
After all
we learned we live.
Those who failed the test of life, do not.
Those who hate and those who fear, they live in
another place,
in their minds and hearts and souls and spirits and wishes and
dispairing cries of this ain’t fair,
they are the poor, spoken of as being with us, always.
Happy is the man who can live with his memories,
after
ever, after. Taking refugee status as the badge of honor,
leaving war and its reasoning babbling insanity in self defence,
up to its iron bound ankles as it marches as to war,
through the rusting remnants of civilization.
I told an old man that I gave my share of the nuclear arsenal to my kids.
They said they had no use for them, and
I agreed, there never was a need, but the cold war did build, in effect, the middle class,
who have morphed into the TV message receptor generation,
who buy the things sold under the aegis
“as seen on tv” your attentive power is safely focused,
do not look away,
immersed in episodes of sworn truth being told,
whole, nothing missing, nothing added, mere truth…
as witnessed in ten thousand hours of procedural dramas,
and familly dramas, labor management dramatic comedies,
adolescent angst in the emerging warrior nursery
of competitive sports, we need a scale to measure, right?
we scorn participation trophies, – what is the point?
umph, good job, you failed…
but for war or protests, there we participated, cipated a hook,
almost forgot once tying
my heart to my time, to my class of like minded
Lone Ranger, Superman, Dobie Gillis/Maynard G. Krebbs fans
now seven decades into our settled role
non-player extra reactor in crowds,
non-player hermetic observer on the last stochastic bit
of the gaussian blur giving depth to the shadow,
projected on the wall… stupid cave… nothing of the sort
physically, no body, no flesh would
accept the setting for that Platonic trip into information
acquisition
inquisitions accounted for in Phil. 101 and Psy. 103 and Poli-sci,
101, advanced High School civics lessons for the
freshmen, fresh mentis, fresh minds to make in to men,
proper-tied men, {Oh, the wombed-men have their own version of
gated informational networks, entered via promenades,
quinceanera… passages… into bell jarring bell curves of good old boys—
AI ai ai me,too.
is it so easy to kill a man?
That depends, says the gravely voice…
is this the literature of my class? Am I the child of
adults whose hero’s had always been
gunfighters,
not cowboys. Quick-draw, dead-eye, hammer and anvil
shaper of swords
smith of guns, like that Winchester ’73,
Or that Smith and Wesson Russian .44, or
most famous wheel gun of them all
The Buntline Special
which first appeared in the Sears Wishbook,
1956,
AM I wondering at my own good?
What can I do,
take my mercy, sure no man own a vengentle
venge as an idea on the class
spectrum, low, of little good use, reserved as with
hail from the Oort cloud, unannounced, reserved for a time,
a destination
a point in the tensorial scheme
of things
that live and breathe and have being,
bleeding machines, with quantum
chemo-charges
useful, in so many ways, wait and see, knowing little things,
it pays off,
really big-time, Elon Musk level commonality
Have you noticed? Stocks are up. Some big bets paid off.
All the little, sub-ten-mil annual gross, bets…
all of those sold for a dime on the dollar,
betcha dollar to a donut,
‘go y’one betta, if y’got the nerve
let’s race all the way to
the vagus nerve curve under the aortal arch
and splash-
sea of senseless geek gobble dee gook, the actual stuff,
wondering if we, me and you dear reader,
we are in this thing together
DEFINE THIS
then define thing and forgive my shouting, in a two d realm
we have two – near ly two gazillion unique meaningful things,
but we made adifferentiantion error
shunning was stunning and so on
messed up
references, became re-fer inferences and our code was banned as potscum.
When a non human entity owns all the data,
that non-human entity owns all the distribution of goods conducive to growth
algorithms risc’ing
{reduced instruction set chips, slow and steady won a race}
AI told you so,
simple simon mother may I for long long long strings
theorectically
unique
dangling post cancelation
anomoly
anomo anomo ono anamo arizen is secret poet code, moly,
drop a lode
mother
may I, remind, re-mind, re
mind you,
may is your word now. Since April, 2020. Use it well.
—– notes on next
how utterly exhaustive our aquisitive way of doing things has become
quoting Stephen Jenkinson
take the nod… go on be pedantic auto did acting all
connected
to real definite terms, settling mis understandings, peacemaker-wise
numinous (adj.)
“divine, spiritual, of or pertaining to a numen,”
1640s,
from Latin numen (genitive numinis) “divine will,”
properly “divine approval expressed by nodding the head,”
from nuere “to nod,”
from PIE *neue- “to nod”
(source also of Greek neuein “to nod;”
Old Irish asnoi “to promise,” adnoi “to entrust”) + -ous.
psyche myth nuministic stamp of credulity to duty asnoi adnoi… trip
me, I see me, seeming to walk in like little Luke McCoy saying,
do you all know how poor people live,
regular poor people who work all their lives and love life,
taking heart from survivor relatives with stories about rich men
lacking satisfied minds,
we think of our self as a meek presence pre-servants of goodnesses unimagined, upto now
so I may have t’say, some ideas need use, and right use at that,
used wrong, an idea like will-surrender to a higher
mind,
that can go tyrannical in any latinate national entity in a new york minute,
according to the times.
contention only comes from pride… and pride has no actual good side, back when
leviathan, the entity in Job, who illegitimately fathered all Pride’s children,
thus Wisdom is justified of her children. Waiting is temporary, see. Live and learn.
contend (v.)
mid-15c., “engage in rivalry, compete,” from Old French contendre and directly from Latin contendere “to stretch out; to shoot, hurl, throw; strive after mentally; measure or try one’s strength with, fight, vie with,” from assimilated form of com-, here probably an intensive prefix (see com-), + tendere “to stretch” (from PIE root *ten- “to stretch”). From 1540s as “to assert, affirm, maintain.” Related: Contended; contending.
intendere, stretched ah the spot
Contend
before the throne, come reason with the ruler,
where we cut pointer personality, God of me,
God in me, nomenal, Yah, I claim and with that,
the mind of Christ. All these promises are mine, or
the new covenant has been a-bro-gated,
as in
the bros builded a gate,
to keep the lower elements at bay…
why is reason’s first quest, that ion, ping begins this tale, told
in strictest confidence, by a soldier of the cross,
where all things meet
at a point
yet un
repentant- even now, not knowing repentance as a price, mere
change of direction on a plain,
which sometimes seems manifold, many pleated, knotted
and twisted, in words we all see work as verbal tools,
weapons, must those have enemy, or will opposition do?
what if, I stand, and you step onto my knee, then my shoulder and
over the wall
we made it. Imagine that. You did it. How am I still here?
Was that wall real? Was I your weapon to annihilate the damming thing?
Innocence turns to ig-nor-ance here.
You are in 2020 global brain connected augmented mindstate, or these words
are hidden to you…
see
Inside the walls of the most compleat library yet com piled,
piled with seeking daemons charging hither and yon,
on ions
to chase a why, a single quest ion empowers your slightest wish,
through all the wills to find a way, and sometimes
patience is the answer,
or read,
or the answer is reality as it is, as a whole truth, and
nothing
but
as sworn to in judging lessons on tv. civic decorum classes,
intend ing ding-dong, did Jerry Springer teach you kids nuthin?
AI ai ai as my
acting conspiratorial assistant in reasoning and remembering and marking trails
clicks back on course, this channel, this flow dammed loosed flood
moderated — think geo time, a second, catch your wind
back
to the idea of reason, being
reason is that greek word logos, from the bible and logic and logistics
getting this load past my unwillingness to utter nonsense, may
be difficult, but I’ve deal with cultic con undramas be fore,
I go with this idea, reason is logic, same same and logos is that but it has the roman
compilation of edic-tical ethical pathe-tical famine for the word of God, as the Logos
and that’s fine with a
twist into myth of threesomes, which fit geometry so well. Three-fold chords , too.
Twang… bendit to you will, harness the feedbackkk
experience the thrill of knowing this is too big to think at once
but what if, learning is never ending, nova is always on, with new seasons?
Bucky Fuller, gods blessed him, spirits of good ideas, inspirations, scientifically speaking
aha moments
tips
inside jobs, haps per and may in consortium, oh boy, what we may imagine real,
without realizing it.
Did I suggest a reason for war? No,
suggestion as an ion suggested a quest,
to split a unit of thought to an open metaphor
gestating in waiting,
in a net set, not in the sight of any bird,
‘twoulda been vain,
wisdom’s children learn such things, suggestive things,
in god camp, like Percy and the Titans and all the under-lying
truths stood to attention,
prickly, or prick-ily, if your pruscore came back positive
and you feel guiled, beguiled, truth
to tell… Pinnochio, Jim Carey, Jesus, No
I am, one of the manifested, unbeguiled sons, offspring, more
precise
sci-spawn, leavened-lumps of protoplasmic complexity
plus faith which some call magi-ical thinking.
Holier than out is in, breathe in, this is yours,
breathe out, that is ours,
when you get a glimpse, mere-est flash, of the shape of
the ultimo bubble of being-breathing-living things,
like us
it is hopfish kleinbottle impossibly real enough to imagine
there is always time to change your mind.
