During the 60’s and 70’s of the Last Century (LC) of our time, I argued for substantive policy changes to banking and agriculture based on what I understood to be a Jeffersonian People’s Democracy (JPD) point of view. I believe my definition would be a homey fit with Berry, Hartmann, and Jones as well. Without a doubt the cashing in of the American heritage represented by such ideals and ideas, as once I held to insist on the First Earth Day, has proceeded at a Terrence McKenna pace of acceleration ever since. Today I speculated on the depths of my thinking that had brought me an instant vision at the $1 store of motherhood as a space craft entry vehicle for DNA substructures destined for the meat mill in ever more Satanic-Loki-Kalian digestion; for what? to achieve perfections only possible with random acts of God and Nature? My fellow sentient reading creatures of the Beast, we have a theater of human and natural change going on like never before written regardless of what passage somebody tries to correlate to a book. I am at a loss to provide a meaningful quote other than to go throw an I Ching and read you what it says. I’ll leave that to you. It seems I’m going to never get back those splendid plump organically grown grapefruit like Lee’s Fruit used to ship me. Kunstler and Baker want me to believe the end of car culture is here, hear? At least I’m momentarily bunking up near a rail line with former station cutoffs that could be activated again. The locals with vision are talking about a loop to include the West bank of the Connecticut River. My housemate swears, the Zetas never lie, say it doesn’t matter anyway because when Planet X goes by, glug, glug, glug, rip, roar and duck! How do I quote intellectually into the black waters of hopelessness pegged to “we don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control…” One of the gorgeous examples of the DNA matrix delivered by Mother craft that was sparked into existence to the now I can justifiably call My Child (MC), has the “Battle of Evermore” beginning riff ‘tooed to his arm. The footnote is the Minotaur on the opposite shoulder. Celtic Woad!
4:44,PM, the train rolls by, blowing out the crossings as it goes. How many a day LC? The units are rolling along about 60 mph, beaver ponds either side, they don’t mind.
Death to JPD.
Taking care of 2 DNA dynamos during the ’70’s and ’80’s demanded a life without streets. No protests to make time for, no clubs to visit for fun–they all turned sour and to an old investigator of the attacks against JPD, the Reagan years looked like a good time to regroup my senses, soberfy my life, and walk my talk as much as possible. The blessings of success stayed right with me until AIG fried and the California housing rush was over. In my rehabilitative efforts as spawned in Massachusetts, my positive constructed profit-making machine was turned off by somebody else, and no one has told me there is a place to put back to service my career long accumulation of geometricism. My son says try building a speculative duck boat, my friend Peter says no one hunts around here anymore due to sympathy for the poor animals. I freely admit my complicity with the predatory agents of interest. I have always provided the service of contractor knowing full well I rode somewhere between banker and property owner. One of my first questions is about who issues the checks and what is their expected time-table. My value was delivering without the owner needing to be a construction engineer or a host of supplemental journeymen and tied to a project they knew little or nothing about. I am an accomplished geometrist faithful to my DNA and training. Usually I find those prospects who believe, “how hard can it be?”, when they call and say something like, “the builder who worked here before…” One thing I am sure of, there is gladness in my body for the 21 years of sobriety since my last drink on the night of July 6, 1989. I consider it one of my most successful revolutionary acts. Since I have accepted a personal magic path of “Make Me an Instrument of Thy Will,” I need not worry about my path, Higher Power as they say, certainly some cherished sacredness has been stolen with the war against JPD. All American Indians know what I mean.
Are we a future as ants or bees? People 100 years ago launched the New World Order. They had just crowned their creations with knowledge of bees and ants so to speak. The order of the world has changed since then, and if you take the time to watch Thunderbolts of the Gods, the movie, cosmology is changing as you read and I type. On top of which, Cosmythology has shown to be more and more correct about events as they are keyed to the stars and “Uriel’s Machine,” archaic human’s understanding of the sun, moon, stars, planets, and cosmic events unknowable by ordinary human exploration, is recorded in rock monuments worldwide as we scientifically verify and comprehend the advanced nature of their thinking. I have no doubt the huge Buddha statues blown up by Afghan Taliban ignoramuses, destroyed a rock site with elaborate calculations evident; messages for the future from metrologists of the past. Now that “King Tut,” has yielded DNA pointing to Western European decent, it becomes easier to understand many former myths as now becoming oral histories coded to the cosmos, even unto Tut’s father Akhenaten, who ruled under a “One True God,” philosophy. Maybe the owner of that 17 year Pharaonic dynasty was Kukulcan of the Maya. How could any of you call me negative when I can study, plan, and calculate the angles of the future in the web in the face of what Baker calls inevitable “Despair?”
Ms. Baker writes:
Citizens of industrial civilization have attempted for centuries to fill the void by cherishing the delusions of unlimited growth, unbridled progress, the acquisition of material wealth, the sanctity of the family, the piety of organized religion, the status of obtaining advanced degrees, and of course, the use of substances to obviate or medicate the sensation of emptiness. http://carolynbaker.net/content/view/1704/1/
I have found a fun activity in letting go of world pain scenarios. I see them as paintings of America’s Civil War. I’ve seen some vivid representations of the carnage. I have a family that used to talk about their connection to relatives who stood this or that ground here and there about Saratoga for the American Revolution. A more recent family member was involved with the United States Army and shot cannon rounds into co-ordinate in Vietnam. Actually someone else on his team did the shooting, he did the “fire!” part. I’ve lived with the driving hegemons of the society depicted above and can witness that they haven’t given up yet. They do not believe they are delusional when faced with limits of growth as Baker would categorize. They believe the growth is possible in all situations by reframing the personal attitude toward perceptions. Our human family does not talk about the negative effects of our increasing growth, not because we are in denial of the void and despair, but because we want the good parts. My personal example is high-speed boats. I can conceive of a high-speed boat experience by wind or electric motor, but there is some magic music of the spheres in a V-eight 400 cubic inch engine or two. For me the “inboard” experience is total, being able to feel the life of the boat in which I have become cyborged. Alas! Socially created poverty has limited my personal growth and no boat is in my yard other than a canoe. I am grateful to have a canoe, as it increases growth potential.
Somewhere in the depths of this muck we won’t face: banksters who pay armies; religions who want to be races; sensitive minded people taking antidepressants to join the psychopaths in feeling freedom from the actions of personal responsibility; control freaks scaring people at every turn; Mohawk mothers’ milk contaminated grossly by fire retardants down wind from Government Motors plant which puts the same retardant in every car Ms. Baker and Mr. Kunstler ever drove. Growth will come unlimited as it always does, but my dear fellows, so does pruning. I fed the deer some bean sprouts on the wild side where they live, so that my other rows would be left for me. There is an unlimited amount of growth potential in ways we can grow food in places it has never before grown as there are as many growth potentials in spiritual attitudes that we don’t need tractors to feed ourselves and a speck of dirt under the fingernail can be a reinvented paradigm. Those in most danger of falling head first into a useless void are those who have danced the Pollyanna positivist dance. You’ll get no comfort here if down to the Lodges of Despair and Destruction you must go. That’s not to say I’m looking for the down elevator. No, I fancy myself a realist, which means I attempt to find what is real to me (see Don Ruiz and the Four Agreements). This is when the Secret admirers need to step up to the realist plate and find us an unlimited growth potential clean up agent for oil gushers a mile down that makes the whales sing the ocean is a reborn song. For me, the most important news story was the whales singing the death song of the ocean, and the Northlander American Indians who translated. The Hegemons point out oil has seeped into nature on its own.
The Mill of Hamlet
wobbling its way around an electric fireball sending forth a stream of magnetically charged particles,
shakes our world from core to skin, a drama in making or one we will just begin.
There is unlimited growth of trash as long as there are un limit able people. We are cosmic dust mites commanded not by our naturally compassionate loving natures that coo coo at little babies in wonder of it all, but by self-centered focus mandated by a “True Living Master,” of another story (see Don Ruiz, The Four Agreements). Once the clever and the psychopathic connived and otherwise overall conned the lovingness into following blindly, they gave themselves a mythos in the Pied Piper come to steal your children. American Indians can put some realism in your life if you ask about being ripped from family at an early age. What makes you so sure it can’t happen to you? Ms. Baker further shares her story:
When the people, things, and activities that have provided meaning for them throughout their lives no longer exist, we are likely to witness madness and suicide on an unprecedented scale. I state this, dear reader, not to incite fear, but to prepare us for a milieu of chaos resulting from a pandemic of meaninglessness as nearly all of that which has provided meaning for so many is swept away. http://carolynbaker.net/content/view/1704/1/
Here I am again at the point: If all 2012 brought to me by January 2013 was Serenity, that would be enough. If I am still an agricultural worker, it is a natural diminishing and adjustment of the ego, luckily–as I suspect Ms. Baker’s preparation for meaninglessness–I don’t have to adjust from an occupation as a collegiate Professor or from a position Director of Advertising. Constant change is the daily bread of design/build General of contracts.
I’m looking forward to my news interview in 2048. Why loose meaning? Serenity is here, now, rest there. I am here because I am. Work to know God was what was expected of me; I have worked to know. The language is confounded, the Tower was torn down. Pruning comes unlimited, see the path of Andrew and Katrina, the Demi Gods of Hurricanos. Paul Stamens turns oil sludge into useful soil using mushroom mycelium. There really are unlimited potentialities, it is the needle’s hole through which our minds need to evolve so that once squeezed to ultimate stupidity, we might see with new eyes, hear with new ears, feel the thunder of an ancient message of a wobbling sphere under the command of the cathode sun. Or would it be anode? Choice is a three-part process and must be illuminated by the moon, which is to say, all ideas need to be slept on. Choice is in Stamens mycelium as is death in Josie Wales pistols. You want a top running story on choice and holes in the middle of seafood’s nursery for the world, check out “Sacrificing Your Health to the Oil Volcano,” if you like to muck about in meaninglessness and despair.
Me, back to the story about the Civil War and how my ancestor survived. “Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe — and to love you…” Bee Gees, and I am grateful, I am a geometrist so what’s the new angle?