Tag Archives: observing

Listening in Time

(short story,  by Sha’Tara)

“I know you are keen, and willing.  Good traits in a researcher.  But you are missing the key ingredients.  You must sit quietly, by yourself, for hours, maybe days, and listen in time.  Listen to the voices of the dead, and the pre-incarnate.  They are in the voices of “others” and in the sounds of the earth: the wind, the cracking soil, the moving grains of sand, the patter of the rain on scrabbly hard-pan soil.  They come on the heat waves.  Sometimes they get playful and paint mirages which tell stories from within your own heart and soul which your tired and bleary eyes will translate into images of desires.  

If you do not learn to listen, all you will accomplish in these places as you sift through dirt and rubble is collect garbage.  It will be recognizable as works of the people but it will reveal no stories, no myths, no history.  These you will have to create from your own imagination and trust me on this, it will not be the same stories as what was, even if the entire world should buy your interpretations.  Honest archaeologists are a rare breed but there is nothing written, either in this desert or in mountains, that says you can not be one of that small group.  When you teach yourself the secret of time listening the people who made and used the objects you unearth, they will tell you their stories.  Some will seem strange and some will be, to your modern understanding, quite unbelievable, but just listen.  It is not your call to re-interpret the lives of others according to your current knowledge: that is sacrilege.  Let the ghosts speak; let them tell their story, and accept it at face value.  It may be that they lie to you, but let it be: do not add insult to injury by adding to the lies.  After all, as you will discover in time, all of your history is lies.  There is no truth to be found on this world, or in this universe.  We know, we’ve been looking for millions of your years and there is no such chimera.”

I was young then, and I’d been experimenting with the local flora under the auspices of a would-be witch doctor who called himself George but whose real name was an unpronounceable Mexican word that sounded like apple-cotle or aptly cotli.  This particular drug induced “time dreams” he had told me, and… “You should only smoke a small amount at sunset.  Sit against a rock, or a tree if you can find one, and set your mind free to roam.  Do not try anything, just let it all go.  It is the time of the spirits and sometimes one of them will notice you and approach you with a story, or some advice.  Just listen and do not try to make any judgment about what you hear, or think you hear.  Put your own thoughts aside and just absorb.” 

I smoked slowly, not eagerly, trying to practice “wisdom” in my folly.  How long I sat against the rock that dug into my back, feeling the sand getting cold beneath me, I don’t know.  Darkness came and the sky exploded with myriads of pin-points of lights: star, planets, meteors, even satellites and flashing lights of planes.  Time passed and I no longer felt the cold, nor the loneliness or that deep fear of the dark unknown.  I “slept” with eyes open, hearing and learning to listen.  I heard small animals squeaking to one-another, some unrecognizable insects repeating endless calls; owls, even one loud shriek of what could only be some wild cat, cougar perhaps.  It didn’t matter.

It seemed as if I’d become a part of the landscape, an extension of the rock I leaned against.  I felt a deep well-being; a thoroughly unfamiliar certainty.  I was “here” and “here” was where I belonged.  This was “home” like nothing had ever been.  “Here I sit, and here I remain,” I thought, against all common sense.  I felt the cold, hunger and thirst but it did not matter to this “me” that was being absorbed by the land, the air, the sky, the universe, the cosmos.  In that time I was no longer a body-centered, or physical being.  I was a member of the cosmic races, with a part of me resting upon a planet called earth – a very small, very strange planet. 

That’s when the voice came to my mind; when I heard the words I quoted above. 

I have been digging up history in this part of the world for almost fifty years now.  I’ve become old and bent.  My skin is like that of a lizard, dry and scaly, with brown spots.  I’ve loved being naked in the sun and it has left its marks on my body but I don’t care.  He was my lover and I cherish his touch still.  I haven’t become famous.  No best seller came from my notes; no following.  People came here to dig with me, and left to seek fame and fortune.  Some managed it, returning to tell me about it.  Some even provided funds so I could remain here, on my wind-swept plateaus digging up ghost stories; me, the crazy Canadian who should have been more at home on the snowy wilds of northern Canada, than here. 

To the local people, I am “loca perdida” or the crazy one, though many come just to be with me, or to listen to my stories.  They come to get me sometimes, either with a jeep, or even a donkey, and take me to a village feast so they can hear some of my stories about their ancient peoples.  They seem to have no difficulty believing me, and I have wondered about that.  Do they also listen in time? They “pay” me in food, or in new blankets for my tents or shelters.  Good people, all of them.  I’ve always felt safe here; not sure I could have managed that in cities where people crowd unhappily together, hardly ever getting to know each other though rubbing shoulders every day.  How sad is that life, I think.

Here I remain.  Here I belong for my body’s time being.  Here I taught myself to listen in time and it is here that I will die so another archaeologist, another time listener, can find bits and pieces of my presence in this place and unearth my own story – a story that will have meaning only to her and the few who carry our vision of living in time.  

How I wish I could express, in words, how blessed my life has been and how much I look forward to new digs out there in the stars, knowing that when I sit down and look up I will see more stars.

How does a Thing Become “a” Precious?

            [thoughts from  ~burning woman~  ]

…  and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:
as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious
—Lisel Mueller, from “In Passing,” Alive Together: New and Selected Poems. (LSU Press; First Edition edition October 1, 1996)

          A thing can be longed for, can be thought of as precious, but until it is lived for; deeply sacrificed for; even bled for (or killed for) and finally apparently hopelessly lost, that thing can never be accurately described as truly precious: it remains an illusion, a story in a book of fiction.  However good the fiction is, it is still fiction.  The book isn’t purchased, it isn’t owned, it is merely borrowed from a library. It hasn’t cost anything that is irreplaceable: I think that’s the key here.  

          In J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” and continuing in “The Lord of the Ring” there appears a character called Gollum.  Gollum possesses a ring which he calls his “Precious” and is driven mad by it.  Gollum’s ring was indeed his precious because he had paid a great and terrible price to attain it.  Back in the ancient days when he was still a normal being he was called Smeagol and he had an inseparable friend, Deagol.  It was Deagol who found the ring at the bottom of the river Anduin, but when Smeagol saw the ring his desire to possess it exceeded all bounds.  Deagol wouldn’t give up the ring, so Smeagol killed him for it.  Many long years later, the outcast Smeagol, now known as Gollum, lost his “Precious” to Bilbo Baggins, the Hobbit.  Then did the ring truly become Gollum’s precious – he dedicated his life to finding the ring and getting his revenge on “the nasty Hobbit Baggins.”  In the end as we know, Gollum died with the ring: they both fell in the fire of Mount Doom. 

    How many of life’s offerings can we call precious?  Of all the obvious: air, water and land from which we draw our sustenance and cannot live without: precious?  Not according to my observations of how man treats his natural environment – definitely not his “Precious” is it. What about people relationships?  I suppose for the few, some relationships become precious as they are engaged, then irretrievably and inconsolably lost.  But for most?  Generally speaking relationships come and go, most easily replaceable.  The gregarious Earthian prefers its creature comforts of body and mind to the pining and the dying for, that puts the meaning of precious in a relationship. This is especially true of today’s consumer “throw away” society.  Most relationships are cheap and easily replaced. 

    I’m obviously fishing in deep waters here: what comes up from the deep?  I’ll tell you: the unexpected; the frightening; the dreadful and also the ineffable that literally takes our breath away so that when it disappears we long for its return to the point that we are willing to die to find it again.  I’m talking about the things that lurk in the depths of the Cosmos; that sing and dance and call beyond our memories, our experiences, our survival instincts and all our paraphernalia of security or ecstatic expectation.  Beyond the symbolism of religion, the greatest works of the mystics and even the best efforts of the poets.

    Nothing can keep us safe from what shows up to become something truly precious.  For to be precious it must be of a nature capable of taking over both mind and heart, all of one’s life, and can never be owned or controlled.  Once one has engaged one’s Precious, one’s life is forfeit.  It belongs to its Precious. 

    According to ancient wisdom, there can only be one Precious in one’s life. “No-one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.”  After many long years of thinking it was irretrievably lost to me, I found my Precious, or rather it found me.  Well, perhaps to be fair to both, we met half-way and recognized each other.  Following that meeting, there was a test of my commitment: it called for my life and I in a gesture of genuine forfeiture, gave it.  That it gave me my life back, if for a time, only lengthened the period of testing – it did not conclude it.  It will be my “master” until I die, and beyond, for my Precious is of a nature that does not die and it is now as much a part of me as I am of it. We are inseparable.  Just to make sure I am not misunderstood here, I am not talking about another human being, or other “being” such as a god or “saviour” in a romantic or agape-love type of relationship.  Nothing so common: this isn’t about love.  Repeat: this has nothing to do with love.

    As I was writing this and thinking about the truth of it, I was wondering how many people have a working relationship with their Precious; how many are even aware that such a state of mind is desirable for life to make sense; how many are aware that without a commitment to one’s Precious, one is left helplessly open to being consumed by some force or other with which it has the relationship of a slave; of a believer in wizardry. 

    The force or forces one responds to when not committed to one life-linked “Master” or “Precious” would say in so many words, “The purpose of our relationship is on a need to know basis, and you don’t need to know.  Just follow any of the approved paths the rest are on.  Believe and don’t step out of those paths.  The outcome isn’t for you to know, just to worry about.” 

    And that worry becomes fear, fear becomes anger, anger becomes hate and the rest is history, or as some like to say, His story.

{Your head’s like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune’s all we are.” — Grant Morrison, The Invisibles, Vol. 1: Say You Want a Revolution. (Vertigo June 1, 1996) }

 

The Power Pizza has Three Slices (however you slice it)

                   [thoughts from    ~burning woman~    by Sha’Tara]

I felt the need to write a follow-up to the essay, “How far back must we go?”  So here’s a bit of an explanation and fill-in using the Earth world view I was taught to see by “the Teachers” some years back.  Having no argument with their explanations, I present that world view here as my own which of course it now is. 

The forces of mind control and repetitive actions due to programming, come in threes.  I first clued into this from my doctrine-heavy Christian upbringing in which the three main Powers were a godhead of a father, a son and a holy spirit.  This is dogma and must be believed in when one is confirmed in the Catholic Church.  There are little variations to this dogma in any other Christian cult.  It’s the basis for the whole faith.  This awareness explains why Christianity was able to grow so rapidly into a world-dominating religion and remains the leading force of religious power even today.  Remove one or two of these “persons” from Christianity and the house of cards collapses into meaninglessness, much as Islam is currently experiencing – they don’t have a Trinitarian god.  Keep this in mind: Power comes in threes.    

This isn’t about religion.  This is about daily Earthian reality and how it all works.  Basically, all of earth people’s lives are circumscribed by faith.  You have to believe “in” certain dogmas (in science and economics they’re called “theories”) for the System to work – and by that I don’t mean it must make sense, it does not, never did, never will – but it certainly works well, just as well as did the Spanish inquisition.  There is purpose behind it all, and that purpose is the exercise of Power Over.  The less the number of power holders and the greater the number of oppressed, the more Power accumulates to the holders of it.  No elitist power, from the would-be gods down through the hierarchy, is ever manufactured.  All of it is forcefully extracted from billions of victims and slaves of the Power Holders. 

How do they do this?  How do they steal your power?  Through lies, disinformation and the blatant, deliberate spreading of fear, which leads to mindless hate, which leads to wars and genocide.  I just watched “High Plains Drifter” with Clint Eastwood.  An old story of greed, violence and retribution.  Basic story: “The Stranger” who never gives his name rides into the town of Lago as a drifter.  Challenged, he shoots three gunmen and is hired to protect the townspeople from three other gunmen due to be released from jail and certain to come calling for being railroaded by the town’s leaders.  Unbeknownst to the leaders, “The Stranger” is in town to avenge the killing of an honest sheriff by the entire town in cahoots with a mining outfit stealing gold from protected government land (a reservation?).  To achieve his ends, “The Stranger” proceeds to sow dissension, suspicion, fear and hate among the townspeople who are all guilty of collusion in the death of their sheriff.  In the end, the town is destroyed, its leaders killed and the three gunmen who had been hired to kill the sheriff are killed by “The Stranger”.  Then he rides out of town, mission accomplished. 

We like these kinds of simplistic stories where the lone “good guy” wins against impossible odds, and the villains are exposed, jailed or killed.  But that is not what happens on earth, quite the opposite.  We slave for the villains; we support them, raise statues to them, give them peace prizes, name towns, universities, streets after them.  We vote them into office so they can further oppress and kill us with endless wars, meaningless labour, manufactured poverty, denial of basic justice and health care.  And we give them all our money and more because we fear each other more than we hate them. This we know.  Yet we cannot, ever, escape this destiny of subservience.  If we get to hate them enough to overthrow them we immediately replace them with characters of the same mindset or even worse. 

I said the forces of oppression come in threes.  These are what I call the gods: Religion, the State and Money.  Childishly simplistic concepts that shouldn’t ever see the light of day outside a sand box or playpen.  Yet they rule the world (and much more!) and are never seen for what they are.  And what keeps them in power?  Three other very basic concepts: faith, hope and love.  These are even presented as virtues in the Christian New Testament: 1Co. 13:13 “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”  Indeed, you could attach faith to Religion; hope to the State apparatus; love to Money: three for three.  An ever winning combination for the Powers.

How desperately Earthians need to believe such things are true by simple description.  Yet the same people do everything in their power to deny every assertion ever made about love particularly.  How many people stop dead in their tracks and ask themselves this honest question: why doesn’t love work?  No one, because the answer would be devastating.  Love’s power is to destroy what faith and hope pretend to build up.  Yes, I say pretend, because they too are lies.  They uphold a triumvirate of endless, circular oppression.  Faith says, believe it even when every common sense in your mind says it’s a lie.  Hope then says, stick with this belief and things will work out for the good in the end.  Love says, if it feels good do it.  Don’t think about it.  Don’t reason it.  Just do it.  That could be the perfect motto for “free enterprise” capitalism.

A brief side trip with love.  In a small US town (Wichita Falls, Texas) earlier this month a 20 year old man kills a 13 year old girl he was obsessively “in love with” by shooting her 14 times.  Ain’t love grand.  Going back a few millennia, for God, love meant wiping out all sentient air-breathing living creatures on an entire world… “Ge. 6:7 So the LORD said, “I will wipe mankind, whom I have created, from the face of the earth — men and animals, and creatures that move along the ground, and birds of the air — for I am grieved that I have made them.”  I know others who love the world as much as God does.  Monsanto comes to mind… in fact the whole military industrial complex just loves the world to bits, literally, with its chemicals, cluster bombs and nukes. 

Anyone with a grain of common sense and an iota of knowledge of history would be able to see through these forces of oppression.  But of course the Powers don’t allow people to draw such a conclusion.  There is a powerful programming at work that maintains a permanent delusion that says change comes from switching allegiance between the Powers.  For a time, Religion rules the world.  Then the State rules.  When both have demonstrated their utter corruption, Money comes to the fore and forces all and sundry to worship at its altars.  Bankers and “business” now rule the world and push for globalism through oppression and bloodshed so they can gain ever more power.  Now you can see what corruption actually is, but it’s too late to save your civilization.  When the last head of the triumvirate of power loses it as we are experiencing now, that is the end of the civilization the gods raised, murdered with and finally plundered to the bare bones.    

Now some people are beginning to clue in that Money in the guise of capitalism is just another corrupt Power.  But what do they talk about as a replacement?  As a counter force?  Some speak of people coming together under a “loving” deity, let’s call her “Gaia” or some such nice motherly name, and some continue to believe that Government can be cleansed of its corruption, can rein in the power of Money and bring some kind of justice and peace to the world.  And for some, Money will solve everything, it just needs to be applied in the right places.  Never mind that these ideas have never worked.  Never mind that it’s impossible to rid any Power of its internal rot.  Logic and common sense do not rule here: faith, hope and love do.  And there are only three possible choices that people as collectives can pick from: Religion, Government or Money.  The Power Pizza has three slices.  These may vary in size but there is, and can only be, but three slices.  And, according to the status quo (which public education reinforces so everybody will believe this) nothing of consequence exists outside the outer circumference of the Power Pizza.

Behold your gods, O Earth!  

The Sea

                a short story – by Sha’Tara

His greatest remembered impression was of the sea, how it fascinated him. It was not only alive, but relative to the rest of his world, very big. It was always there and it had moods so deep, his heart was always touched by them: moods that frightened him when he stood on the rocky shore and it trembled as waves many times his height would rush at him raging, then sweep back hungrily sucking every loose particle of matter they could grasp; moods that calmed him when a silver moon rose slowly, painting a shimmering trail of soft-hued light over the waters of a windless night.

The sea had many other moods, not nearly as extreme in either terror or beauty, but moods he could identify with. He would strip and dive off a smoothly rounded stone and float among the debris, pretending to be but another piece of half-life the sea had found and tucked between her breasts to be put to sleep by the rising and falling of her tidal breath. He loved her deep laughter as she chased herself through crevices among the stones.

Yes, he loved the sea more than anything else he had discovered on his world. And he wondered why. What was it about the sea that attracted him so, even, and perhaps especially, in her madness? Who was the sea? He knew if he could answer that, he’d know who he was.

He wasn’t the only one who liked the sea. Many came, for as many reasons. They sat on the sand, swam in the cove, or took small crafts out when the weather was calm. He remembered once, asking another much like himself, what brought him to the sea.   “My parents.” was the reply. “No, I mean, what brings you here?” “I told you.” “But, what do you like about it?” “I like watching other people, especially the girls sunbathing or swimming.   I like looking for stuff in tidal pools; throwing sand at the anemones. And I like swimming when the water’s warm enough.”

He opened his mouth about to rephrase his question, then stopped, realizing he was not going to get the answer he was looking for. He wanted to ask, “What calls you here?” but understood intuitively the other had not been called. What he felt for the sea, these others did not feel. They came to get, and to take. He was alone on this shore. Only he could hear the music of the great oceans all the way around his world.   Only he could hear sea birds who glided far away from land, for months on end, crying, calling to one another.   Only he could hear the whales telling their sad story. For they too had found they were alone and the sea could not protect nor save them.

For a new sea had come forth and was covering his world. This was not a sea that gave life. It was full of feet that trampled everything; full of hands that grasped, choked and killed; full of mouths that ate and ate but were never sated. The pieces of this sea looked like him and he would wonder at times if he was of the same material, but when he saw the mouths open and eating their own children, he knew then it wasn’t so.

He knew the history of this new sea. It had begun as an accidental intrusion in a very recent past, had grown into an invasion and become a cancer, a destructive force without any sense of purpose. Nothing of his world was safe from the greedy motions of this chaotic mass. Not even the mass itself, for he saw it had no mind of its own, yet moved as if it was the only legitimate force on his world. It mindlessly absorbed everything it came in contact with, including parts of itself.

As he sat by the sea, he noticed the stars gradually fading from his sight. Less and less of them could be seen. They weren’t being extinguished, he knew that. But they were using the sad blanket of effluents created by the cancerous sea to hide their faces from his world. Even the greatest stars, with memories that spanned billions of years, would no longer look upon his world.

He noticed the songs of the deep changing year by year. The whales’ mourning was ending. The great birds no longer flew over the tossing waves for too many had died. And the stories brought forth from the oceans spoke of death; of rivers of poisonous waters draining from the lands, or oozing from broken ships. And the sea spoke of sands red with blood, of raging fires and billowing black smoke… and sometimes the fires burned over the skin of the sea and he felt her pain and it was his pain.

“What should I do?” he wondered. “What can I do? I have the language of the ancient sea, but not of this new sea. I do not feel its rhythm. I cannot enter into its moods, for they are savage, always at odds with one-another.   I belong to the old way, yet have the form of the new. Why?   Where are those like me? Are they all gone now? Am I the last? Or am I the first?”

The old sea, his mother, rose from her bed and extending a giant arm to his perch, swept him within herself and holding him firmly, cradled him to sleep.  

In the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave

                [a short story by   ~burning woman~   ]

“Don’t mince words: come right out and tell us!”  There is much anger in those voices, but more, it is a challenge, a challenge to back up my words; to prove myself.  Funny part is, that’s the very last thing I want to be able to do, but “they” don’t get it.  How many times do I have to say it: “I don’t want to be right.  But you have to prove me wrong!”

But instead, they shuffle back onto the porch of the old honky-tonk  – well, so to speak – and with hands in pockets, slouch forward, looking down at me standing in the mud of the partially thawed parking lot.  The garish red neon sign casts its bloody glow upon the surface between pickup trucks; bits of frozen soil reflect the light like rubies.  Thousands of fake rubies on top of ruts, a dozen rubes glaring from the porch.  Angry, upset, confused – dangerous in their abject destitution, desperate to strike out at anything that creates an unaccustomed chafing.

Of course the “argument” had been political.  Did I start it?  I don’t know, I may have mentioned the fact that international treaties were responsible for over half of these people being unemployed and having to supplement their welfare stamps with illegal activities, selling pot and hooch and their women, while those who work garner such pitiable wages from the mining corporations they can never, ever hope to make any of the endless ends meet. 

The sad thing is, there’s a tradition of this sort of thing here, long before the great depression of the 1930’s even.  Beating the “revenuers” and their women and children, is more than tradition or a way of life, it’s how these people measure their independence and freedom, even if on the long run the law wins and all of them have served, or will serve, long prison sentences.  The sad thing is, the women and the children play this game too, having no idea how to change the system of abject oppression they have to survive within and struggle under; having no idea there could even be a different kind of way. 

So there they stand, promoters of drugs, booze, prostitution, managing a prison designed by their elites, a self-serving dystopia maintained through a totally dysfunctional society feeding upon itself in an ever-shrinking loop.  Observe with me: through the open doors of the metal-clad rickety building, behind the bar is the country’s flag.  Of course.  And the money enriching the tills says, “In God we Trust.”  And every time a cash register rings its bell an angel gets its wings, isn’t that right?  

I see these things as a matter of course ‘cause in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is a visionary.  I see these people, staring at me, daring me, itching for a fight out here, in the mud of the parking lot.  And these men are proud!  Tell them their pride is the final nail in their dying world’s coffin and they will tear you to shreds.

So, friend, do as I do.  I lift up both arms, open my hands wide and wish them all a good night, walking slowly backward to my truck.  But when I finally get in the cab, lock the door and put my hands on the steering wheel, I notice they’re shaking.  I won’t deny it, I’m scared half to death as I drive away slowly, carefully and as quietly as the beast will let me, expecting headlights to flare up behind me and start following.  The parking lot remains dark.

You, sitting here in the bouncing cab, secure in your seat belt and staring at the winding road bordered by snaggy, leafless bushes, after witnessing the above, remember this: if you think you have some wisdom to impart to this world, be very circumspect because sharing wisdom to the average Earthian is casting pearls before swine.  Do not think that teaching wisdom is worth the price of martyrdom.  A society such as this cannot raise martyrs, your death would only serve as bloody entertainment to supplement its meager fare of pleasures and feed its desperate lusts.    

 

Balance and Harmony

 [observations from   ~burning woman~   ]

Quotes:  “You are not entitled to your opinion. You are entitled to your informed opinion. No one is entitled to be ignorant.” —                Harlan Ellison

“To put everything in balance is good, to put everything in harmony is better.” ― Victor Hugo

Quotes are good to attract attention to an idea but beyond that they really mean nothing, having necessarily been taken out of context, and what matters is the context, not the quote. 

Having said that, and following my two quotes (and you can go ahead and say, or think, they are meaningless) I wish to say this:  in a lifetime of observation of how Earthian society goes about furthering and plundering itself, I notice that all of it is based on misinformation, disinformation, belief systems based on faith or theories, none of which can be proven as being fact.  One thing I found to be true of Earthian society: nothing about it is true.   

The motions of society are like a dull over-salted sea putrid with dead and dying growth, growth that exists only to further more growth without any desire to change or better itself.  The sluggish waves pile up more flotsam and jetsam upon the shores of the world’s “great” centers of civilization, burying them under thickening mantles of propaganda and lies, the stench of corruption rising like a festering, disease-filled steam over the earth, gradually rising up the sides of remaining mountains, and covering the poles, their pristine snows and glaciers melting and crumbling, their fetid waters flowing inexorably to be absorbed by the dying sea. 

Let me then give some context to the first quote:  you are not entitled to your opinion.  You are entitled to an informed opinion, if you must have one.  No one is entitled to be ignorant.  Sadly, that is obviously not how Earthians reason.  In fact, following the recent spate of election rhetoric down south it’s obvious that ignorance is held in very high regard; a necessary factor in claiming the highest seat of power in the land. 

How did Earthian society become so devastatingly ignorant that it is able and quite willing to destroy itself by destroying its living ecosystem and maybe its home world for no valid reason?  Well, it’s called entitlement.  That doesn’t apply only to the rich, but to every sector of society.  The rich, predictably, never have enough because the more they have of their own manufactured and artificial “richness” – the more they realize how ephemeral and baseless their accumulated false wealth is.  What they chased is now chasing them and they have to get more in order to stave off the inevitable: that unavoidable collapse each generation of entitled elite hopes will not catch up to them. 

And the poor, what about the poor?  Their excuse for contributing to the demise of the planet is economic survival by having lots and lots of “kids” for support in their old age.  They need income, so killing the last elephant, or lion, or taking the last tree, the last ‘whatever,’ or serving the chemical monsters of the age by using deadly chemicals on crops for growth and protection from insect infestations is all legitimate.  After all, aren’t we all entitled to the good life, however we may find it?  If not the good life, at the very least some type of survival.  Does the long term cost matter?  Not when the immediate is so immediate.  Not when food has to be put on the table today… Not when money is needed to satisfy some addiction to drugs or alcohol. 

Rich or poor, it’s all the same.  No one but the rare few understands the need to take responsibility for the whole, and of those who actually do, all is lost when they turn their heads to the past, or the existing structure and think to tinker with it and make it change course a half-degree here, a quarter-degree there in the hope that the ship of state will avoid the string of deadly breakers they can hear in the dark; breakers that will rend and crush the hull of the ship and send it to the abyss.  But the problem is, the structures of the past have so rusted that the tiller does not respond any longer, and the ship will not be turned.  Nor is there enough power left in the engines to slow it down: entropy has set in.  Stand and watch… Listen to the billions of passengers in the hold begging for a bowl of soup, the millions in the lounges drinking and laughing, and the million more  curious with their cell phones on the upper decks clicking in the darkness for a sharper image of a deadly breaker to send to “friends” in the lower decks. “Hey look, that’s what a live mushroom cloud looks like!”

The second quote by Victor Hugo: to put everything in balance is good; to put everything in harmony is better.  That’s a good thought.  You see, with tremendous effort and much sacrifice, using a planet-friendly technology some kind of balance could possibly be gained.  Personally I do not believe man still has that option but if one believes in miracles… OK, we get rid of “polluting” fuels and replace them with wind/solar/geothermal energy.  Great costs, great upsets, great and sore trials, running and running before the flood.  We achieve a shaky temporary balance and we keep up the pressure for change and we hold back the tide.  Balance.  Good. 

We have balance, but do we have harmony?  We’ve replaced a kind of polluting energy with a less polluting one and the cities still function, though millions have died by now, deprived of cheaper, more accessible fuels.  What we haven’t done is bring in harmony.  We haven’t eliminated over population.  Nor racism.  Nor misogyny.  Nor economic disparity.  Nor poverty.  Nor slavery.  Nor the strangleholds of Religion, the State or Money.  The old gods still rule.  The wars are still going on and the “great economies” are still based on oppression and killing.  We haven’t achieved harmony and therefore our balancing act is essentially a wasted effort.  We delayed the inevitable downfall of society and the death of billions by a few decades, perhaps a couple of centuries but we haven’t solved any of man’s innate problems. 

What did we miss?

 

What it means to be an Individual – essay

 

[thoughts from  ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

What are the 4 most dangerous words ever voiced at a corporate board meeting?  You’ve probably heard it many times.  It’s, “I have an idea!”

Why are those words dangerous?  Whatever the idea may be, that’s not the danger.  The danger is that the words expose the thinking of an individual, and an individual in today’s world is THE ENEMY.  “No, you, as an individual, cannot have an idea.  You cannot have an opinion unless it’s already part of the consensus.  We have the idea and we supply the opinion – we being the Power of Religion, Politics or Money, pick one, pick all three, there are no individuals anywhere within those hallowed halls, only zombies, ghosts, skeletons and puppets.

But what if you insist on being “an individual” and you know your ideas are as valid as consensual ideas?  Then you leave the board room.  You leave the collective.  You stop believing that power is in numbers and you walk alone.  The problem I see is that, while many people really believe that walking alone is best, they can’t make up their minds whether they should always walk alone, or just sometimes.  This brings me to the subject of voting. 

Prime example is the current political farce being entertained down south.  You have a duopoly with two miscreants running for the highest office in the land.  Yes, there are alternatives, like the Greens or Libertarians but everybody is pre-wired and brainwashed to believe that no matter how many people turn on the duopoly and vote for the alternative, they can never “win.”  So they bleat their discontent and dutifully vote for one of two morally and psychologically bankrupt puppets of the status quo when either choice is a disaster in the making, guaranteed.  The point, says the programming, is that you have to “win; you have to get that gold medal.  It doesn’t matter that all around you is abject poverty and complete social chaos and it’s going to get worse: this is the Olympfix and you are there to win the gold, not to worry about social, environmental or economic conditions.  You can take care of that in a fifteen minute acceptance speech but to get that chance you have to win – at any cost.”

“If you don’t vote, don’t complain later” is the common “wisdom” but I beg to differ.  If I don’t vote for a George Bush and the sick psychopath engineers a war that kills hundreds of thousands of innocent unarmed civilians, and I don’t support it, I’m the one who’s got something to complain about.  I’m the one who abstained, in conscience, from supporting the status quo.  I’m also the one intelligent, and observant enough to know that however I vote within the status quo, the results will be more of what I’d want less of, and vice-versa.  The collective under any banner is a herd of blind sheep.

As an individual however, I never have to win anything.  I am complete in myself and I sustain myself with my own thoughts, by my own philosophy and I prove myself by my words and my acts.  I speak, and I act; I live and I die, without belonging; without a pre-written speech; without funding from some charitable organization; without sponsors or supporters. 

A free individual feels no need to become a leader or even a way shower.  She needs no one to push her on, or to praise her.  If she is reviled, she won’t care about that either because, as I said above, her words and her acts are who she is, not opinions or brainwashing.

If I lived across the line, would I vote?  The answer is an unequivocal “no.”  Voting is for sheep, for people, or sheeple, who have yet to learn to reason the simplest concepts for themselves; who have yet to awaken themselves to the delusion that is their collective (un)reality.