Toe fetish anyone? Only Imelda knows for sure.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Hopeful Research
Rumour has it that a privately funded research foundation is working 24/7 to find an antidote for the inevitable withdrawals that hundreds of thousands of Vancouverites will experience when the faces of Sylvester Stallone, Joan Rivers and Michael Jackson melt. If you are suffering any anxiety or acute fretfulness as to this impending transmogrification, you are advised to appear at midnight and begin the cue at B.C. Place stadium awaiting the coming of Dr Phil on Marshal MacLuhan’s specially designed Lear jet, the arrival of which all and sundry (mostly sundry) will be notified by the appearance of an Oprah blimp rising out of the bowels of the stadium to the celestial sounds of Celine Dion singing “O Magazine Forever.”
But if your situation is urgent and you need immediate attention, the Banner has set up a special hotline: 1.772.388.4072. Got that?
But for the moment it appears that this foggy-headed little town of ours will continue to host these cherished souls of this sacrosanct universe unto itself and members of the common media need not contemplate the dire alternatives at the thought of any such undue evacuations. Besides, the very notion of returning to the reporting of real news is enough to give a man assuaged by the nearness of greatness a serious head-rattle. And the boatload of trillions of dollars this congregation of dazzling stars generates in the world is not to be sneered at, especially by some measly upstart suggesting human values might be at risk. No, no, no. Vancouver’s share of this bounty must not be impinged upon by the egregious grandstanding of an over-forty moralist. Dispatch that uninvited party-crasher back to the streets to be among his own, the burgeoning numbers of homeless and hungry, the mentally ill becoming sicker from massive neglect and the diseased who are at risk of being pulverized by grocery store owners while the cops harangue the homeless in their enforcement of the safe streets law. And who wants to hear from seniors on welfare being criminalized with fraud charges as they accept gifts from their families to make it through another day? Dispatch the silly nuisance of a scribe with all the authority of a Lady Macbeth, “Out damned spot! Out!” Because surely our Vancouver economy must not risk either trickling downward or in any measure flowing haphazardly into the coffers of a socially conscientious society. Especially if such a movement were to offend the sensiblilties of our celebrities.
But if your situation is urgent and you need immediate attention, the Banner has set up a special hotline: 1.772.388.4072. Got that?
But for the moment it appears that this foggy-headed little town of ours will continue to host these cherished souls of this sacrosanct universe unto itself and members of the common media need not contemplate the dire alternatives at the thought of any such undue evacuations. Besides, the very notion of returning to the reporting of real news is enough to give a man assuaged by the nearness of greatness a serious head-rattle. And the boatload of trillions of dollars this congregation of dazzling stars generates in the world is not to be sneered at, especially by some measly upstart suggesting human values might be at risk. No, no, no. Vancouver’s share of this bounty must not be impinged upon by the egregious grandstanding of an over-forty moralist. Dispatch that uninvited party-crasher back to the streets to be among his own, the burgeoning numbers of homeless and hungry, the mentally ill becoming sicker from massive neglect and the diseased who are at risk of being pulverized by grocery store owners while the cops harangue the homeless in their enforcement of the safe streets law. And who wants to hear from seniors on welfare being criminalized with fraud charges as they accept gifts from their families to make it through another day? Dispatch the silly nuisance of a scribe with all the authority of a Lady Macbeth, “Out damned spot! Out!” Because surely our Vancouver economy must not risk either trickling downward or in any measure flowing haphazardly into the coffers of a socially conscientious society. Especially if such a movement were to offend the sensiblilties of our celebrities.
"I'm not conceited..."
How would we survive without the prognostications and utterances of Usher with side glimpses of his six-pack, or could we seriously make it through to dinnertime without knowing that Tom Cruise is kissing up a storm most publicly (and that would be with a woman), or do you really think you could live without the stuff of this dazzler…
“I'm not conceited. Conceit is a fault and I have no faults.” -David Lee Roth
And now that CNN is angling to sweep the tabloid journalism awards this year with stories of unbridled runaways, the day is nigh that stories of aliens camping in your nostrils will be yesterday’s news in a wink as it is sidelined by the one about how all the frogs in the world just became extinct but by lunchtime Madonna will have elbowed that story to the bottom column in favour of her latest CD offering, “Look at me again you covetous philistines.”
For signed editions of my barf bucket, find the donation button and dig deep.
Paul Martin declares 2005
The Year of the Veteran
“I'm not conceited. Conceit is a fault and I have no faults.” -David Lee Roth
And now that CNN is angling to sweep the tabloid journalism awards this year with stories of unbridled runaways, the day is nigh that stories of aliens camping in your nostrils will be yesterday’s news in a wink as it is sidelined by the one about how all the frogs in the world just became extinct but by lunchtime Madonna will have elbowed that story to the bottom column in favour of her latest CD offering, “Look at me again you covetous philistines.”
For signed editions of my barf bucket, find the donation button and dig deep.
Paul Martin declares 2005
The Year of the Veteran
The Real Story of How the Canadian Soldiers Are Treated
The estates of disabled Canadian veterans have been mismanaged for decades and actually extinguished upon their deaths by successive Canadian governments since the first world war.
This longstanding, painful oversight has given rise to a class action law suit representing tens of thousands of disabled Canadian vets and their families. One facet of it dealing with the right of Parliament to change the law affecting compensation for the veterans was dismissed last July 23, 2004, when the nine justices of the Supreme Court of Canada rendered a unanimous decision upholding the right of the government to extinguish the property of vets any time the legislators felt like it. And this was precisely what the Mulroney government did when it slipped in a clause into a complex bit of legislation that obliterated any actions the vets might take after 1990 to have their property and funds returned to them. The seven justices sided with the government’s power to enact such legislation but hinted in its ruling that the legislation itself was not ethical. While acknowledging successive federal governments mismanaged the veterans’ affairs (not paying interest and extinguishing their properties upon death) “the parliament has, by enacting legislation to that effect, made the debt unenforceable.”
It was argued by the lawyers for the disabled vets and their families that the Canadian Bill of Rights should be foremost in protecting the life, liberty and property of all Canadians. To imagine that any government, (corrupt or not) can enact legislation in order to get out of paying a legitimate debt is appalling and an outrage to all vets and their families, if not all right-thinking Canadians.
”When a government sends its youngest, and its bravest into the battlefields of the world to protect the general rights of all Canadians and to stand in harm’s way to protect the Canadian Bill of Rights, then that government and all successive governments should do its utmost to protect those vets returning home mentally disabled or at least not competent to manage their own financial affairs,” stated David Greenaway, lawyer for the veterans.
Successive Canadian governments reaching all the way back to WW1 did exactly the opposite and stole what was rightfully the vet’s property and that of his heirs. And the fact that Jean Chretien pushed this issue all the way to the Supreme Court makes him just as dirty as Mulroney. How can any of these people possibly consider this a victory?
This case is ongoing despite the ruling of the Supreme Court because that ruling applied to only one aspect of the overall case. This month Judge Brockenshire of Windsor, Ontario, will be making a statement as to how much monies are owed the thousands of veterans and their families for these misdeeds of the federal government. It is expected that once again the lawyers for the federal government will appeal any payouts to the disabled veterans or their families while interest has been accruing since December 2004 on a sum of approximately two billion dollars.
This longstanding, painful oversight has given rise to a class action law suit representing tens of thousands of disabled Canadian vets and their families. One facet of it dealing with the right of Parliament to change the law affecting compensation for the veterans was dismissed last July 23, 2004, when the nine justices of the Supreme Court of Canada rendered a unanimous decision upholding the right of the government to extinguish the property of vets any time the legislators felt like it. And this was precisely what the Mulroney government did when it slipped in a clause into a complex bit of legislation that obliterated any actions the vets might take after 1990 to have their property and funds returned to them. The seven justices sided with the government’s power to enact such legislation but hinted in its ruling that the legislation itself was not ethical. While acknowledging successive federal governments mismanaged the veterans’ affairs (not paying interest and extinguishing their properties upon death) “the parliament has, by enacting legislation to that effect, made the debt unenforceable.”
It was argued by the lawyers for the disabled vets and their families that the Canadian Bill of Rights should be foremost in protecting the life, liberty and property of all Canadians. To imagine that any government, (corrupt or not) can enact legislation in order to get out of paying a legitimate debt is appalling and an outrage to all vets and their families, if not all right-thinking Canadians.
”When a government sends its youngest, and its bravest into the battlefields of the world to protect the general rights of all Canadians and to stand in harm’s way to protect the Canadian Bill of Rights, then that government and all successive governments should do its utmost to protect those vets returning home mentally disabled or at least not competent to manage their own financial affairs,” stated David Greenaway, lawyer for the veterans.
Successive Canadian governments reaching all the way back to WW1 did exactly the opposite and stole what was rightfully the vet’s property and that of his heirs. And the fact that Jean Chretien pushed this issue all the way to the Supreme Court makes him just as dirty as Mulroney. How can any of these people possibly consider this a victory?
This case is ongoing despite the ruling of the Supreme Court because that ruling applied to only one aspect of the overall case. This month Judge Brockenshire of Windsor, Ontario, will be making a statement as to how much monies are owed the thousands of veterans and their families for these misdeeds of the federal government. It is expected that once again the lawyers for the federal government will appeal any payouts to the disabled veterans or their families while interest has been accruing since December 2004 on a sum of approximately two billion dollars.
Year of the Veterans cont'd.
Prime Minister Martin has the power to override the Attorney General’s persistent negative litigating and make an honest offer to the veterans and their descendants. He, however, apparently would prefer to fly to Holland to make grand statements of how valuable a contribution our noble veterans made in war times than do the right thing by them and settle this long and shameful lawsuit.
When next you stand solemnly at a Remembrance Day ceremony, remember these disgusting facts.
The Disabling of a Soldier,
The Story of George W. Langen
My father was just 20 when he was hit twice in less than 20 minutes as he and his fellows of the Cape Breton Highlanders attempted to ford a river by Rimini, in Italy, on September 28, in 1944. Their company had been dispatched to take a battalion objective, a truly aggressive and ill-advised action.
We learn the circumstances from a chronicle of the war entitled, The Canadians in Italy.
When next you stand solemnly at a Remembrance Day ceremony, remember these disgusting facts.
The Disabling of a Soldier,
The Story of George W. Langen
My father was just 20 when he was hit twice in less than 20 minutes as he and his fellows of the Cape Breton Highlanders attempted to ford a river by Rimini, in Italy, on September 28, in 1944. Their company had been dispatched to take a battalion objective, a truly aggressive and ill-advised action.
We learn the circumstances from a chronicle of the war entitled, The Canadians in Italy.
Canadians at war, con'td.
“Company A of the cape Breton Highlanders were ‘ordered to secure the bridge at the village of Fiumincino’ near rimini. In the early hours of the 28th, after wading the river, the company was surprised by the tank and infantry fire of the 26 Panzer Division. After the ‘unequal fight’ the enemy withdrew with 53 captives, ‘leaving behind one wounded and nine dead Canadians.’ The one wounded man, left for dead, was George Langen , 20, only one month out of his teens.”
The chronicle concludes, “The failure taught a useful lesson : not again in Italy in the 11th Brigade was a company dispatched to take a battalion objective.”
My dad, Private George Langen, sustained shrapnel wounds across his knees and a severe bullet wound to his right shoulder, just missing an artery. He eventually waded out of the river and found a barn into which he collapsed. He was tended to there by two German soldiers who had surrendered to him, themselves weary of war, and Dad escorted them as his prisoners back to his camp.
After expecting (and willing) to return to the front, he was assigned to guard duty in Ireland. It was decided that he had taken enough damage.
The chronicle concludes, “The failure taught a useful lesson : not again in Italy in the 11th Brigade was a company dispatched to take a battalion objective.”
My dad, Private George Langen, sustained shrapnel wounds across his knees and a severe bullet wound to his right shoulder, just missing an artery. He eventually waded out of the river and found a barn into which he collapsed. He was tended to there by two German soldiers who had surrendered to him, themselves weary of war, and Dad escorted them as his prisoners back to his camp.
After expecting (and willing) to return to the front, he was assigned to guard duty in Ireland. It was decided that he had taken enough damage.
Such a soldier cont'd.
He was to spend the last 18 years of his life in the care of the Veterans’ Affairs during which time his estate was mismanaged and his monies did not accrue interest. He has become somewhat of a poster boy in the media campaign in this lawsuit against the government.
Perhaps that’s where this writer gets his feistiness, being the son of such a soldier.
PANIC IN THE PANDEMIC DEPT.
Dr Michael Osterholm, author and leading infectious disease and bioterrorism expert, warns that an influenza breakout could, apart from draining the global economy, trigger universal panic. “Pandemic influenza has the ability literally bring this world to a halt,” Osterholm said Wednesday. Osterholm emphasizes that any pandemic must be viewed as a global threat, not a regional one, thus treatment and vaccinations must be made available globally. While Canada is well prepared in its own environment for an outbreak, Osterholm believes that we cannot isolate ourselves from the world-wide fallout of a devastated economy. Canada’s health minister has proposed an international conference to address this issue.
It seems our days of isolationism are coming to a close. More and more we will have to behave as though we are all neighbours in the same block and abiding by similar principles of conduct. And given our current state of juvenile behaviour and worship of emptyheadedness and suicide aficionados, and our inclination to mob frenzies, panic would seem to be the inevitable reaction to even a hint of a pandemic.
Perhaps that’s where this writer gets his feistiness, being the son of such a soldier.
PANIC IN THE PANDEMIC DEPT.
Dr Michael Osterholm, author and leading infectious disease and bioterrorism expert, warns that an influenza breakout could, apart from draining the global economy, trigger universal panic. “Pandemic influenza has the ability literally bring this world to a halt,” Osterholm said Wednesday. Osterholm emphasizes that any pandemic must be viewed as a global threat, not a regional one, thus treatment and vaccinations must be made available globally. While Canada is well prepared in its own environment for an outbreak, Osterholm believes that we cannot isolate ourselves from the world-wide fallout of a devastated economy. Canada’s health minister has proposed an international conference to address this issue.
It seems our days of isolationism are coming to a close. More and more we will have to behave as though we are all neighbours in the same block and abiding by similar principles of conduct. And given our current state of juvenile behaviour and worship of emptyheadedness and suicide aficionados, and our inclination to mob frenzies, panic would seem to be the inevitable reaction to even a hint of a pandemic.
Panic cont'd.
And given our very own Dr Daniel Kalla, of the emergency ward of St Paul’s, has just written to worldly acclaim his first novel, entitled Pandemic, this whole idea of a fast-spreading lethal virus seems to be gaining a creepily fast credibility.
When you link our climate of war with our sagging sense of human values, then the spectre of what a pandemic might wrought here in Lotusland takes on truly spooky dimensions. Don’t ask Paris for directions to the exit. Not even her grotesque amount of personal fortune can point the way to clear thinking.
More on
Man Has Always Been Man
Frank J Kenwood signed the following affidavit on November 27, 1948, in Sulphur Springs, Arkansas.
“While I was working the Municipal Electric Plant in Thomas, Oklahoma, in 1912, I came upon a solid chunk of coal which was too large to use. I broke it with a sledge hammer. This iron pot fell from the centre, leaving the impression or mould of the pot in the piece of coal. Jim Stall (an employee of the company) witnessed the breaking of the coal, and saw the pot fall out. I traced the source of the coal and found that it came from Wilburton, Oklahoma mines.” According to Robert O. Fay of the Oklahoma Geological Survey, the Wilburton mine coal is about 312 million years old.
–derived from Hidden History of the Human Race, by Michael Cremo and Richard Thompson.
Assuming for the sake of this commentary that reincarnation is true, then what does it take to emancipate oneself from these return visits? Living by a doctrine? Abiding by a church’s dictates? Individualistic moral living, following one’s own mind and sense of spirituality? Accumulating good deeds like brownie points, as if to bribe heaven’s gatekeeper with brownies but hey, ya never know! Hash brownies have been known to do all manner of havoc.
There is a whole spectrum of fantastic dogmas and goofy ideas about the next life, resurrection or just vaulting into heaven after being a no-harm kinda dude. As to that last mention, I think not. One is not prepared to enjoy the complex and intimate thrills of being near God in a heavenly state by merely being meek and harmless. Rather I would suggest entrance into an intense state of heavenly awareness requires a few more tidbits of something divine being added to our earthly, and oft mediocre selves.
A language perhaps, extreme unctions spoken in light, a speaking which allows continuity might be something to consider as opposed to our usual syllable flinging from impudent lips. Manufacturing words (like lawyers) is not a surefire remedy to opening closed gates. Chance blatherings will not achieve the same effect as Open Sesame did for Ali Baba. The formula is probably more involved than that, otherwise all manner of murderous human detritus might find their way to God’s inner sanctum. Nazi codebreakers, conniving strategists, and perish the thought - Chess players!
(Graphic below by Juan Gris)
When you link our climate of war with our sagging sense of human values, then the spectre of what a pandemic might wrought here in Lotusland takes on truly spooky dimensions. Don’t ask Paris for directions to the exit. Not even her grotesque amount of personal fortune can point the way to clear thinking.
More on
Man Has Always Been Man
Frank J Kenwood signed the following affidavit on November 27, 1948, in Sulphur Springs, Arkansas.
“While I was working the Municipal Electric Plant in Thomas, Oklahoma, in 1912, I came upon a solid chunk of coal which was too large to use. I broke it with a sledge hammer. This iron pot fell from the centre, leaving the impression or mould of the pot in the piece of coal. Jim Stall (an employee of the company) witnessed the breaking of the coal, and saw the pot fall out. I traced the source of the coal and found that it came from Wilburton, Oklahoma mines.” According to Robert O. Fay of the Oklahoma Geological Survey, the Wilburton mine coal is about 312 million years old.
–derived from Hidden History of the Human Race, by Michael Cremo and Richard Thompson.
Assuming for the sake of this commentary that reincarnation is true, then what does it take to emancipate oneself from these return visits? Living by a doctrine? Abiding by a church’s dictates? Individualistic moral living, following one’s own mind and sense of spirituality? Accumulating good deeds like brownie points, as if to bribe heaven’s gatekeeper with brownies but hey, ya never know! Hash brownies have been known to do all manner of havoc.
There is a whole spectrum of fantastic dogmas and goofy ideas about the next life, resurrection or just vaulting into heaven after being a no-harm kinda dude. As to that last mention, I think not. One is not prepared to enjoy the complex and intimate thrills of being near God in a heavenly state by merely being meek and harmless. Rather I would suggest entrance into an intense state of heavenly awareness requires a few more tidbits of something divine being added to our earthly, and oft mediocre selves.
A language perhaps, extreme unctions spoken in light, a speaking which allows continuity might be something to consider as opposed to our usual syllable flinging from impudent lips. Manufacturing words (like lawyers) is not a surefire remedy to opening closed gates. Chance blatherings will not achieve the same effect as Open Sesame did for Ali Baba. The formula is probably more involved than that, otherwise all manner of murderous human detritus might find their way to God’s inner sanctum. Nazi codebreakers, conniving strategists, and perish the thought - Chess players!
(Graphic below by Juan Gris)
Heaven: Getting There
So let’s consider the range of possibilities here for getting our tickets stamped for this eternally fun party we call heaven.
Staying with reincarnation for this issue, I suspect that our lives from one to the next actually have something to do with evolving spiritually. Otherwise, it would all be hopelessly redundant, an inexorable revisiting of futile existences. We have to assume there is a purpose and in that purpose I propose that joy is connected. And the concept of heaven is intended obviously to facilitate that joy. So: life after life, adopting form after form, we may evolve into a greater spiritual being, until perhaps it is clear that any further rebirth in this form is not necessary. But as to what triggers the spiritual evolution we need to contemplate most thoughtfully.
Allow me to expand: By permitting godliness in every human interaction are we not associating ourselves with something divine and by such familiarity are we not preparing ourselves for an esteemed relationship with a constantly divine eminence? By acting charitably with all God’s children are we not perhaps pleasing the creator?
And I slipped in there an assumption by using the word children, I assumed that yes, we are children of the creator, thoughts given into light of the personality of the infinite. So if we are children then we have to consider that God, this sublime personality, is parental. The earth and all of its complex ecosystems and spectacular vistas and myriad scents and mysterious sounds is a kind of House of God, a continuum which permits us steadfast enjoyment were we to permit it, and allow ourselves to be facilitated in it. But for that we would need to be alive.
We are not alive. We pretend existence. That’s why we’re so enamoured of professional pretenders. They make it all look so real, so dramatic. And so we emulate the actors and in our own minds we are stars. But this is folly and pretense. Our spiritual growth is stunted by these illusions of living. Living is what God is doing. And while feeling neglected (I would imagine), nonetheless that source of the eternal streams of life has all the intentions in the world to continue giving life and making the way passable for us, each of us to live.
You can tell you’re not alive by your attention span of life. You can detect that you are checking out while life is proceeding. In this culture, an abbreviated attention span is what is precisely being cultivated. To wit, the flashing commercials. The fast-paced episodic nature of most everything on TV, especially the sitcoms. So when you turn off your awareness, your capacity to absorb reality, where do you imagine the palpable joy is going to be experienced, vicariously through the television actors, or that story they’re telling you is life? No luck there, pal.
When you are unaware not only are you not enjoying, you are not even living. Your spirit has closed down, your eyes glaze over and a sign out front reads, “Nobody home.” Something akin to all those ipod people.
Now what good host would include such a dolt on his invitation list to heaven?
Staying with reincarnation for this issue, I suspect that our lives from one to the next actually have something to do with evolving spiritually. Otherwise, it would all be hopelessly redundant, an inexorable revisiting of futile existences. We have to assume there is a purpose and in that purpose I propose that joy is connected. And the concept of heaven is intended obviously to facilitate that joy. So: life after life, adopting form after form, we may evolve into a greater spiritual being, until perhaps it is clear that any further rebirth in this form is not necessary. But as to what triggers the spiritual evolution we need to contemplate most thoughtfully.
Allow me to expand: By permitting godliness in every human interaction are we not associating ourselves with something divine and by such familiarity are we not preparing ourselves for an esteemed relationship with a constantly divine eminence? By acting charitably with all God’s children are we not perhaps pleasing the creator?
And I slipped in there an assumption by using the word children, I assumed that yes, we are children of the creator, thoughts given into light of the personality of the infinite. So if we are children then we have to consider that God, this sublime personality, is parental. The earth and all of its complex ecosystems and spectacular vistas and myriad scents and mysterious sounds is a kind of House of God, a continuum which permits us steadfast enjoyment were we to permit it, and allow ourselves to be facilitated in it. But for that we would need to be alive.
We are not alive. We pretend existence. That’s why we’re so enamoured of professional pretenders. They make it all look so real, so dramatic. And so we emulate the actors and in our own minds we are stars. But this is folly and pretense. Our spiritual growth is stunted by these illusions of living. Living is what God is doing. And while feeling neglected (I would imagine), nonetheless that source of the eternal streams of life has all the intentions in the world to continue giving life and making the way passable for us, each of us to live.
You can tell you’re not alive by your attention span of life. You can detect that you are checking out while life is proceeding. In this culture, an abbreviated attention span is what is precisely being cultivated. To wit, the flashing commercials. The fast-paced episodic nature of most everything on TV, especially the sitcoms. So when you turn off your awareness, your capacity to absorb reality, where do you imagine the palpable joy is going to be experienced, vicariously through the television actors, or that story they’re telling you is life? No luck there, pal.
When you are unaware not only are you not enjoying, you are not even living. Your spirit has closed down, your eyes glaze over and a sign out front reads, “Nobody home.” Something akin to all those ipod people.
Now what good host would include such a dolt on his invitation list to heaven?
Thoughts of reincarnation cont'd.
When you come to life here on this earth and experience the godliness in all things, in all people, and see your connection to the universe as a form of covenant with God the Parent, and see also that each human being has been given the same equipment with which to know this experience then you are beginning, just beginning to get a glimpse of your own magnificence and where heaven really is after all. Right here on terra firma the way it was given and meant to be enjoyed in all its profound and infinite manifestations.
So are we to evacuate this earth in one great final life of excellence never to have to return to a physical form and suffer the vagaries of a human existence? Not quite. We come back. Spiritually full-bodied and of good memory. And when returning to an enlivened earth with a boundless spiritual bounty affirmed by every other individual of this earth living in concert with the personality of love, then the word 'heaven' will dim in comparison to the reality of the bliss we will all be experiencing for all of time… as there is no time, there never was, just your relationship to the truth and perhaps for you the extreme and intense peace of knowing.
And that, dear fellow human being is our destiny written right there in the sky, as we have no choice ultimately but to acknowledge the Giver, from our perspective here on a spiritualized, revivified earth. But for the moment, the potent earth exists in its state of quiescence, similar to the sleeping princess of our dreams. Its edenic blueprint obscured, we animated corpses currently defiling it at every opportunity.
Only when we relinquish being the director of the movie of our life might we permit a sacred presence. Hearing the unscripted language of that exalted living will be as sensational to our ears as is wild honey to our tongue.
Face to face under this splendrous sun we will find the words to reconcile ourselves to the infinite.
INDIA'S CONCEPT OF GENESIS
This universe existed in the shape of darkness, unperceived, destitute of distinctive marks, unattainable by reasoning, unknowable, wholly immersed, as it were, in deep sleep.
Then the Divine Self-existent, himself indiscernible but making all this, the great elements and the rest, discernible, appeared with irresistible power, dispelling the darkness.
He who can be perceived by the internal organ alone, who is subtle, indiscernible, and eternal, who contains all created beings and is inconceivable, shone forth of his own will.
He, desiring to produce beings of many kinds from his own body, first with a thought created the waters, and placed his seed in them.
That seed became a golden egg, in brilliancy equal to the sun; in that egg he himself was born as Brahma, the progenitor of the whole world...
The Divine One resided in that egg during a whole year, then he himself by his thought divided it into two halves.
And out of those two halves he formed heaven and earth, between them the middle sphere, the eight points of the horizon, and the eternal abode of the waters.
From himself he also drew forth the mind, which is both real and unreal, likewise from the mind ego, which possesses the function of self-consciousness and is lordly.
(The India myth is essentially the same as the stories of Ziusudra, Utnapishtim, and Noah. Like those flood heroes, Manu - the protagonist - receives supernatural help and is saved by remaining in a ship until he is able to tie up on an Indian version of Mount Ararat. This story is told in the Shatapatha-Brahmana)
So are we to evacuate this earth in one great final life of excellence never to have to return to a physical form and suffer the vagaries of a human existence? Not quite. We come back. Spiritually full-bodied and of good memory. And when returning to an enlivened earth with a boundless spiritual bounty affirmed by every other individual of this earth living in concert with the personality of love, then the word 'heaven' will dim in comparison to the reality of the bliss we will all be experiencing for all of time… as there is no time, there never was, just your relationship to the truth and perhaps for you the extreme and intense peace of knowing.
And that, dear fellow human being is our destiny written right there in the sky, as we have no choice ultimately but to acknowledge the Giver, from our perspective here on a spiritualized, revivified earth. But for the moment, the potent earth exists in its state of quiescence, similar to the sleeping princess of our dreams. Its edenic blueprint obscured, we animated corpses currently defiling it at every opportunity.
Only when we relinquish being the director of the movie of our life might we permit a sacred presence. Hearing the unscripted language of that exalted living will be as sensational to our ears as is wild honey to our tongue.
Face to face under this splendrous sun we will find the words to reconcile ourselves to the infinite.
INDIA'S CONCEPT OF GENESIS
This universe existed in the shape of darkness, unperceived, destitute of distinctive marks, unattainable by reasoning, unknowable, wholly immersed, as it were, in deep sleep.
Then the Divine Self-existent, himself indiscernible but making all this, the great elements and the rest, discernible, appeared with irresistible power, dispelling the darkness.
He who can be perceived by the internal organ alone, who is subtle, indiscernible, and eternal, who contains all created beings and is inconceivable, shone forth of his own will.
He, desiring to produce beings of many kinds from his own body, first with a thought created the waters, and placed his seed in them.
That seed became a golden egg, in brilliancy equal to the sun; in that egg he himself was born as Brahma, the progenitor of the whole world...
The Divine One resided in that egg during a whole year, then he himself by his thought divided it into two halves.
And out of those two halves he formed heaven and earth, between them the middle sphere, the eight points of the horizon, and the eternal abode of the waters.
From himself he also drew forth the mind, which is both real and unreal, likewise from the mind ego, which possesses the function of self-consciousness and is lordly.
(The India myth is essentially the same as the stories of Ziusudra, Utnapishtim, and Noah. Like those flood heroes, Manu - the protagonist - receives supernatural help and is saved by remaining in a ship until he is able to tie up on an Indian version of Mount Ararat. This story is told in the Shatapatha-Brahmana)
HORRORSCOPES
With Ms Urble
(Read at your own risk)
ARIES
Don’t rock the boat this week. Someone in the House of Mars forgot to remove the plastic keel and any undue sudden motion will likely find you entangled with an undesirable Libra who will somehow have managed to fasten himself to those long unshorn pubic hairs you’ve been so enamoured of lately. And then Sagittarrius is likely, with its moon in recession this fortnight, covet the action and further encumber your crossing the ellipsis, but all of this can be avoided if you repaint the plastic keel to resemble a passing wind.
TAURUS
There is an immense booger clouding your vision. Blow your horn in the bathroom.
GEMINI
This is an exciting and frustrating time for you. Reading Umberto Eco’s Latin tribute to Tom Cruise’s smoochfest in the theatre, and you know all too well who’s doing the pretending this week, puts you in a cynical mood on Thursday, so sleep in and take care of that frustration. That should set you up nicely for a rousing rendition of The Innate Values of Viagara by the Holy Water. Don’t forget to genuflect upon completion.
CANCER
This is a choice week to exhibit utmost determination about something serious for a change. With Mother’s Day behind you, and your sun in retrograde, tell sissy to look after the plastic keel part while you build an ark for daddy. Ask Leo for help with the cat-skinning.
LEO
As you approach the Ides of May, meditate upon the spent cherry blossoms and descending buds as you realize that all things in this cosmos must in the end transmogrify (just ask Sylvester). To prevent your undoing and any facial downfalls, pray to the new moon on a grassy slope that your wife won’t find that night-thingie until you can get home from work and dissolve it in scorpion’s blood. Ask Rachel for a velvet hand. She’ll know.
VIRGO
I see money on your vertigo. You may want to check your mail for rusty cans from an unbridled runaway. Wear gloves and send a letter of thanks to the editor of Soldier of Fortune. And if you’re still flummoxed about what to wear to the annual office summer bash-up, now you can afford that pipe bomb outfit. You go, guy.
LIBRA
With your crescent moon on the door and the well backing up, this is not a good week for traipsing naked in the dark near anything which may be emitting an untoward scent. Send the dog out first and if she makes it back with something venomous in its mouth you know the coast is clear for those diabolical night games you’ve been lifting from the Joneses. Don’t invite the tricky Macauley.
SCORPIO
If you’re still trying to extricate that fur ball then at least take heed that “All in moderation” was meant for you too. After Tuesday, your moon is in upgrade and you might want to consider a brushcut. Who needs the chewy aggravation anyway?
SAGITTARIUS
You’re having a very productive period. Sometimes quantity matters more than quality. Clear your table for a jinxed jigsaw puzzle and when you’re in the midst of absolute furor, chant the Seven Rings of the Dharmic Rosary. Then gingerly place each puzzle chip into those hash brownies mentioned earlier and send to Leah the Unhelpful. Don’t add Ginger.
CAPRICORN
Now is a good time to impress your boss with your sensitivity and thoughtfulness. Send your swaddling clothes to Sally Anne, then tip off Sagittarius and then vaunt about this deed (discreetly) to the main man. Expect a raise, or at least a Tequila Sunrise with a view.
AQUARIUS
Now that the moon is finally out of the seventh house, it’s long overdue for a spring cleaning. Hire all the contractors before another episode of Desperate Houseboys and wear something supremely evocative when they come a calling. Whips are on sale at Sally Anne.
PISCES
Uranus moves to your sign on Tuesday so ask Wimpy for his secret hot sauce and anything else he might have for those episodic hemorroids. Michael has white gloves. Or borrow some swaddling material from Capricorn.
(Read at your own risk)
ARIES
Don’t rock the boat this week. Someone in the House of Mars forgot to remove the plastic keel and any undue sudden motion will likely find you entangled with an undesirable Libra who will somehow have managed to fasten himself to those long unshorn pubic hairs you’ve been so enamoured of lately. And then Sagittarrius is likely, with its moon in recession this fortnight, covet the action and further encumber your crossing the ellipsis, but all of this can be avoided if you repaint the plastic keel to resemble a passing wind.
TAURUS
There is an immense booger clouding your vision. Blow your horn in the bathroom.
GEMINI
This is an exciting and frustrating time for you. Reading Umberto Eco’s Latin tribute to Tom Cruise’s smoochfest in the theatre, and you know all too well who’s doing the pretending this week, puts you in a cynical mood on Thursday, so sleep in and take care of that frustration. That should set you up nicely for a rousing rendition of The Innate Values of Viagara by the Holy Water. Don’t forget to genuflect upon completion.
CANCER
This is a choice week to exhibit utmost determination about something serious for a change. With Mother’s Day behind you, and your sun in retrograde, tell sissy to look after the plastic keel part while you build an ark for daddy. Ask Leo for help with the cat-skinning.
LEO
As you approach the Ides of May, meditate upon the spent cherry blossoms and descending buds as you realize that all things in this cosmos must in the end transmogrify (just ask Sylvester). To prevent your undoing and any facial downfalls, pray to the new moon on a grassy slope that your wife won’t find that night-thingie until you can get home from work and dissolve it in scorpion’s blood. Ask Rachel for a velvet hand. She’ll know.
VIRGO
I see money on your vertigo. You may want to check your mail for rusty cans from an unbridled runaway. Wear gloves and send a letter of thanks to the editor of Soldier of Fortune. And if you’re still flummoxed about what to wear to the annual office summer bash-up, now you can afford that pipe bomb outfit. You go, guy.
LIBRA
With your crescent moon on the door and the well backing up, this is not a good week for traipsing naked in the dark near anything which may be emitting an untoward scent. Send the dog out first and if she makes it back with something venomous in its mouth you know the coast is clear for those diabolical night games you’ve been lifting from the Joneses. Don’t invite the tricky Macauley.
SCORPIO
If you’re still trying to extricate that fur ball then at least take heed that “All in moderation” was meant for you too. After Tuesday, your moon is in upgrade and you might want to consider a brushcut. Who needs the chewy aggravation anyway?
SAGITTARIUS
You’re having a very productive period. Sometimes quantity matters more than quality. Clear your table for a jinxed jigsaw puzzle and when you’re in the midst of absolute furor, chant the Seven Rings of the Dharmic Rosary. Then gingerly place each puzzle chip into those hash brownies mentioned earlier and send to Leah the Unhelpful. Don’t add Ginger.
CAPRICORN
Now is a good time to impress your boss with your sensitivity and thoughtfulness. Send your swaddling clothes to Sally Anne, then tip off Sagittarius and then vaunt about this deed (discreetly) to the main man. Expect a raise, or at least a Tequila Sunrise with a view.
AQUARIUS
Now that the moon is finally out of the seventh house, it’s long overdue for a spring cleaning. Hire all the contractors before another episode of Desperate Houseboys and wear something supremely evocative when they come a calling. Whips are on sale at Sally Anne.
PISCES
Uranus moves to your sign on Tuesday so ask Wimpy for his secret hot sauce and anything else he might have for those episodic hemorroids. Michael has white gloves. Or borrow some swaddling material from Capricorn.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
A CLIMATE OF WAR
Angry sentiments are being expressed from the Chinese to the Japanese, especially among the youth and supposedly having to do with the atrocious activities of the Japanese soldiers in the Second World War. Japan’s version of the Second World War as outlined in one of its school history books apparently is too soft a retelling and a whitewash of some of its more diabolical war-time deeds.
The Chinese government, conveniently overlooking its own soldiers’ ruthlessness in Tiananmen Square and its generally miserable human rights record involving the imprisoning of people for their political views, is allowing the heat between these two countries to rise ominously and we here in Vancouver are getting a taste of this action. The Japanese Consulate in Vancouver is trading barbs with former city councillor and writer for the Chinese press, Tung Chan.
The Chinese government, conveniently overlooking its own soldiers’ ruthlessness in Tiananmen Square and its generally miserable human rights record involving the imprisoning of people for their political views, is allowing the heat between these two countries to rise ominously and we here in Vancouver are getting a taste of this action. The Japanese Consulate in Vancouver is trading barbs with former city councillor and writer for the Chinese press, Tung Chan.
A Clumsy Ruckus (for now)
This little skirmish has escalated to the point where people of Japanese extraction are being warned to avoid Chinatown. Aside from the negative effect on the flow of the almighty tourist dollars down Chinatown way, this clumsy ruckus has other ramifications when viewed in a larger context. It has to do with Vancouver’s social climate.
There is already tension in this city between the old-guard Canadians who view all immigrants as preferring to remain in a cloistered setting to the benefit of themselves and who could be viewed, rightly or wrongly, as generally apathetic to the history of this land and its culture which has so freely adopted them. Much of what it was meaning to be a Canadian has been arguably attenuated by this massive inpouring of immigrants in the last 20 years, a relatively short period in our history.
As immigrants were allowed to buy their way in (with family in tow) to citizenship with a $250,000 “investment,” a policy popularized under the VanderZalm regime, many Canadians of the lower economic class may have resented this throw-opening of the gates to their country. This resentment still percolates among many as some of the new Canadians, by their disinterest in the nuances of the English culture here and the social problems, may be viewed as thumbing their noses at the less fortunate Canadians by birth.
Indo Canadian and Vietnamese gangs were showing depths of depravity and inclinations for viciousness that long term Vancouverites had seldom been exposed to.
There is already tension in this city between the old-guard Canadians who view all immigrants as preferring to remain in a cloistered setting to the benefit of themselves and who could be viewed, rightly or wrongly, as generally apathetic to the history of this land and its culture which has so freely adopted them. Much of what it was meaning to be a Canadian has been arguably attenuated by this massive inpouring of immigrants in the last 20 years, a relatively short period in our history.
As immigrants were allowed to buy their way in (with family in tow) to citizenship with a $250,000 “investment,” a policy popularized under the VanderZalm regime, many Canadians of the lower economic class may have resented this throw-opening of the gates to their country. This resentment still percolates among many as some of the new Canadians, by their disinterest in the nuances of the English culture here and the social problems, may be viewed as thumbing their noses at the less fortunate Canadians by birth.
Indo Canadian and Vietnamese gangs were showing depths of depravity and inclinations for viciousness that long term Vancouverites had seldom been exposed to.
The Legitimate Rage
Now we read reports this week of the number of homeless people doubling (tripling according to one report) in the last three years. With no changes in sight for welfare eligibility rules which may as well have been scripted by the Offices of Marley and Scrooge in their heyday, and people being hounded off welfare for slim breaches, there is real anger on the street, and sometimes rage. And they have damned good reason for becoming livid. Many of these individuals are becoming mentally ill from the circumstances of destitution. There are no streetworkers (or certainly not enough) to make a dent on this festering social ill. These people are being treated more often as though they are criminals but who ever declared it was a crime to be poor?
The self-serving union administrations (whose executives pay themselves very nearly what corporate executives can expect) are not reaching out to resolve this issue of inequity between the extremely poor and their membership. The attitude clearly resounds, “I’ve got mine and fuck you.” What their membership has got is a siege mentality created on the job site between the ownership/employer and the employees/members. Constant tension per day on the job. The brethren must be feeling righteously thankful for that.
And down on the corner find how the invisible bank policy makers back east are well guarded by their front end people, the tellers, who must enforce creepy policies which manage to find those invisible hands in our pockets for the most miniscule arrangements (i.e. the obscenely exorbitant ATM fees, or the fee for keeping a business account: $5./mo.).
Keep sniffing around our society and find more evidence of a moral malaise so entrenched, so insidious that it becomes impossible not to consider that these fixes are in so deep that any restoration of happy day-to-day living in an innocent state of just comfort is becoming a naïve and dismal fantasy.
The judicial system right here in civilized Canada has become so hugely bureaucratic and heavily lawyered with trillions of words to prevent the flow of justice that any hope of simple resolutions becomes laughable.
A substantial number in our police forces is suffering a kind of resigned depression as they attempt to wade through the paperwork and meander around legal roadblocks to securing or administering justice. Thanks to ‘privacy’ laws and the rights of the individual superceding the rights of our society, we can have no reasonable expectation of getting at the bad guys when we know or suspect with good cause where the evildoing is being done.
It’s exasperating and this current state of affairs is threatening to unravel the whole social weave. And there is no leadership across the board here that seems intent on doing anything real to respond to this emerging and drastic situation. The mayor is very pleased to pose for photographs. He smiles well and is mentioned often in society columns but this human decay is happening on his watch. While his political agenda is pleasingly working out and he repolishes his image ad nauseum, the duty to act and defend the helpless remains his.
The self-serving union administrations (whose executives pay themselves very nearly what corporate executives can expect) are not reaching out to resolve this issue of inequity between the extremely poor and their membership. The attitude clearly resounds, “I’ve got mine and fuck you.” What their membership has got is a siege mentality created on the job site between the ownership/employer and the employees/members. Constant tension per day on the job. The brethren must be feeling righteously thankful for that.
And down on the corner find how the invisible bank policy makers back east are well guarded by their front end people, the tellers, who must enforce creepy policies which manage to find those invisible hands in our pockets for the most miniscule arrangements (i.e. the obscenely exorbitant ATM fees, or the fee for keeping a business account: $5./mo.).
Keep sniffing around our society and find more evidence of a moral malaise so entrenched, so insidious that it becomes impossible not to consider that these fixes are in so deep that any restoration of happy day-to-day living in an innocent state of just comfort is becoming a naïve and dismal fantasy.
The judicial system right here in civilized Canada has become so hugely bureaucratic and heavily lawyered with trillions of words to prevent the flow of justice that any hope of simple resolutions becomes laughable.
A substantial number in our police forces is suffering a kind of resigned depression as they attempt to wade through the paperwork and meander around legal roadblocks to securing or administering justice. Thanks to ‘privacy’ laws and the rights of the individual superceding the rights of our society, we can have no reasonable expectation of getting at the bad guys when we know or suspect with good cause where the evildoing is being done.
It’s exasperating and this current state of affairs is threatening to unravel the whole social weave. And there is no leadership across the board here that seems intent on doing anything real to respond to this emerging and drastic situation. The mayor is very pleased to pose for photographs. He smiles well and is mentioned often in society columns but this human decay is happening on his watch. While his political agenda is pleasingly working out and he repolishes his image ad nauseum, the duty to act and defend the helpless remains his.
Climate of War cont'd.
We know all about the leadership being shown federally and what governing isn’t going on in Ottawa.
And here in this province we are in the throes of an election which will be won again by that conniving man already branded by the American establishment as a criminal, and as his abject neglect of the real issues here affecting so many members of our desperate society continues unabated, some of our more enlightened citizens may see why he needs to be regarded here too as a criminal.
All of these elements, previously perhaps appearing disparate, when viewed in this overall context, contribute to a sickening new reality. Don’t visit Chinatown if you’re Japanese. Don’t badmouth a cop if you’re homeless. Don’t make ten bucks beyond your welfare check unless you want to be criminalized. The banks are stealing your money. Gang members are selling you your groceries (and your children their meth) and the intellectual establishment have raised their white flags in the fight against social injustices. Conversations at parties are all about the value of bigger properties (to house their bigger miseries) and popular television is showing us all about the pleasures of kiddie sex. Don’t tip anything over. Don’t light a match. We’ve got a tinderbox right here in Vancouver.
Out of the detritus of this iconoclasm we are creating a new social mosaic depicting in complex detail a dreadful swamp, uniquely Canadian, and through this sullied, cracked lens we may dimly view the presence of a climate of war.
So, smoke another one.
Do what those really cool guys did back in the sixties, those fabulous furry freak brothers and blow another joint. Except there’s just a little bit of something different in all of that smoke these days. The toxic levels of the THC. Scientists, inhabiting one of the few remaining sane bastions of our society, are informing us that the levels are so high that repeated toking can lead to long term ill effects along the lines of paranoia and impotence. Too cool dude. I can’t get it up and I’m spooked of my little sister. Awesome.
So try some cocaine or methedrine now that you’ve freed yourself from the usual social constraints of having a job or going to school. One little problem: when you get really high and supremely stimulated what exactly do you say?
And here in this province we are in the throes of an election which will be won again by that conniving man already branded by the American establishment as a criminal, and as his abject neglect of the real issues here affecting so many members of our desperate society continues unabated, some of our more enlightened citizens may see why he needs to be regarded here too as a criminal.
All of these elements, previously perhaps appearing disparate, when viewed in this overall context, contribute to a sickening new reality. Don’t visit Chinatown if you’re Japanese. Don’t badmouth a cop if you’re homeless. Don’t make ten bucks beyond your welfare check unless you want to be criminalized. The banks are stealing your money. Gang members are selling you your groceries (and your children their meth) and the intellectual establishment have raised their white flags in the fight against social injustices. Conversations at parties are all about the value of bigger properties (to house their bigger miseries) and popular television is showing us all about the pleasures of kiddie sex. Don’t tip anything over. Don’t light a match. We’ve got a tinderbox right here in Vancouver.
Out of the detritus of this iconoclasm we are creating a new social mosaic depicting in complex detail a dreadful swamp, uniquely Canadian, and through this sullied, cracked lens we may dimly view the presence of a climate of war.
So, smoke another one.
Do what those really cool guys did back in the sixties, those fabulous furry freak brothers and blow another joint. Except there’s just a little bit of something different in all of that smoke these days. The toxic levels of the THC. Scientists, inhabiting one of the few remaining sane bastions of our society, are informing us that the levels are so high that repeated toking can lead to long term ill effects along the lines of paranoia and impotence. Too cool dude. I can’t get it up and I’m spooked of my little sister. Awesome.
So try some cocaine or methedrine now that you’ve freed yourself from the usual social constraints of having a job or going to school. One little problem: when you get really high and supremely stimulated what exactly do you say?
At a Loss for Words
Yours Truly has witnessed on more than one occasion in rural areas the spectacle of teenagers or young adults getting stoned and beginning to yelp and loudly imitate other animal propensities as they attempt to communicate their euphoria, and when that euphoria is rapidly diminishing and the realization that the stone is over and the money is spent is registering on what’s left of their brainpan, the next stuff that manages to emit itself from between their lips usually is somewhere connected to “Let’s do whatever to get more.” It’s the “whatever” part that will likely be eventually preoccupying the local RCMP.
And where does this stuff come from? Just one example: for the last few years, a criminal biker gang (guess who) has been infiltrating rather blithely the West Kootenay dope-growing and distribution operations putting ‘sitters’ in place and while they run the strippers at the bars, and now offer the soft and hard selections of the dope for the ‘recreational users’ they’ve got the mill workers’ paychecks coming and going in one night of frolicking.
The RCMP there, responsible for all criminal activity in that region, can often be found hiding behind bushes around the underposted Columbia Avenue and - despite the arduous baggage of their weaponry - ready to spring into action and hand out speeding tix. Must be part of their training sessions for the Columbine Squat.
Our taxpayers money being well allocated once again.
HUMILIATING THE HOMELESS
Recently a homeless person was featured on a limb of a tree in one of the major dailies here. Does this paper’s editors have nothing better to do with its photographers than to depict this person who is clearly unhappy and then include his name in print in the caption? What on earth was the point except to humiliate the man? Why not depict the leaders and men responsible for all this homelessness and new viciousness we have in this impersonal, sneermeister’s culture? How about an honest picture of Gordo snarling at the destitute?
Add that one to the social mosaic.
THE TEN MILLION YEAR MAN
More on ‘Man has always been man…’
The April 2, 1897 edition of the Daily News of Omaha, Nebraska, carried an article entitled “Carved stone Buried in a Mine’, which described an object from a mine near Webster City, Iowa. The article stated, “While mining coal today in the Lehigh Coal mine, at a depth of 130 feet, one of the miners came upon a piece of rock which puzzles him and he was unable to account for its presence at the bottom of the coal mine. The stone is of a dark grey colour and about two feet long, one foot wide, and four inches in thickness. Over the surface of the stone , which is very hard, lines are drawn at angles forming perfect diamonds. The centre of each diamond is a fairly good face of an old man having a peculiar indentation in the forehead that appears in each of the pictures, all of them being remarkably alike. Of the faces, all but two are looking to the right. How the stone reached its position under the strata of sandstone at a depth of 130 feet is a question the miners are not attempting to answer. Where the stone was found the miners are sure the earth had never before been disturbed.” The Lehigh coal is dated from the Carboniferous period (between 320 and 360 million years ago).
THOSE FLYING MACHINES
In the course of time, there were three basic types of flying machines (aka vimanas). In the age of Treta-yuga, (some 2 million years ago) men were adept in mantras or potent hymns. Thus, the flying machines of that age were powered by human sound and knowledge of mantras. In another ancient age, men had developed considerable knowledge of tantra, or ritual. Thus, the vimanas of the age of Dvapara-yuga were powered by the use of tantric knowledge. In Kali-yuga (our current age), knowledge of both mantra and tantra are deficient. Thus, the vimanas of this age are known as kritaka, artificial or mechanical. In this way, there are three main types of vimanas, Vedic airplanes, according to the characteristics of each yuga.
And where does this stuff come from? Just one example: for the last few years, a criminal biker gang (guess who) has been infiltrating rather blithely the West Kootenay dope-growing and distribution operations putting ‘sitters’ in place and while they run the strippers at the bars, and now offer the soft and hard selections of the dope for the ‘recreational users’ they’ve got the mill workers’ paychecks coming and going in one night of frolicking.
The RCMP there, responsible for all criminal activity in that region, can often be found hiding behind bushes around the underposted Columbia Avenue and - despite the arduous baggage of their weaponry - ready to spring into action and hand out speeding tix. Must be part of their training sessions for the Columbine Squat.
Our taxpayers money being well allocated once again.
HUMILIATING THE HOMELESS
Recently a homeless person was featured on a limb of a tree in one of the major dailies here. Does this paper’s editors have nothing better to do with its photographers than to depict this person who is clearly unhappy and then include his name in print in the caption? What on earth was the point except to humiliate the man? Why not depict the leaders and men responsible for all this homelessness and new viciousness we have in this impersonal, sneermeister’s culture? How about an honest picture of Gordo snarling at the destitute?
Add that one to the social mosaic.
THE TEN MILLION YEAR MAN
More on ‘Man has always been man…’
The April 2, 1897 edition of the Daily News of Omaha, Nebraska, carried an article entitled “Carved stone Buried in a Mine’, which described an object from a mine near Webster City, Iowa. The article stated, “While mining coal today in the Lehigh Coal mine, at a depth of 130 feet, one of the miners came upon a piece of rock which puzzles him and he was unable to account for its presence at the bottom of the coal mine. The stone is of a dark grey colour and about two feet long, one foot wide, and four inches in thickness. Over the surface of the stone , which is very hard, lines are drawn at angles forming perfect diamonds. The centre of each diamond is a fairly good face of an old man having a peculiar indentation in the forehead that appears in each of the pictures, all of them being remarkably alike. Of the faces, all but two are looking to the right. How the stone reached its position under the strata of sandstone at a depth of 130 feet is a question the miners are not attempting to answer. Where the stone was found the miners are sure the earth had never before been disturbed.” The Lehigh coal is dated from the Carboniferous period (between 320 and 360 million years ago).
THOSE FLYING MACHINES
In the course of time, there were three basic types of flying machines (aka vimanas). In the age of Treta-yuga, (some 2 million years ago) men were adept in mantras or potent hymns. Thus, the flying machines of that age were powered by human sound and knowledge of mantras. In another ancient age, men had developed considerable knowledge of tantra, or ritual. Thus, the vimanas of the age of Dvapara-yuga were powered by the use of tantric knowledge. In Kali-yuga (our current age), knowledge of both mantra and tantra are deficient. Thus, the vimanas of this age are known as kritaka, artificial or mechanical. In this way, there are three main types of vimanas, Vedic airplanes, according to the characteristics of each yuga.
Talpade Builds Mercury Vortex Engine
They were very similar in their shapes and construction, and were different only in how they were powered or propelled, which would be by mantras, tantras, or mechanical engines.
The controversial text known as Vimaanika Shastra, said to be by Maharshi Bharadwaja, also describes in detail the construction of what is called the mercury vortex engine. This is no doubt of the same nature as the Vedic Ion engine that is propelled by the use of mercury. Such an engine was built by Shivkar Bapuji Talpade, based on descriptions in the Rig-veda, which he demonstrated in Mumbai (Bombay), India in 1895.
Additional information on the mercury engines used in the vimanas can be found in the ancient Vedic text called the Samarangana Sutradhara. This text also devotes 230 verses to the use of these machines in peace and war. Here is a short part of William Clendenon's translation of the Samarangana Sutradhara from his 1990 book, Mercury, UFO Messenger of the Gods:
"Inside the circular air frame, place the mercury-engine with its electric/ultrasonic mercury boiler at the bottom center. By means of the power latent in the mercury which sets the driving whirlwind in motion, a man sitting inside may travel a great distance in the sky in a most marvelous manner. Four strong mercury containers must be built into the interior structure. When those have been heated by controlled fire from iron containers, the vimana develops thunder-power through the mercury. At once it becomes like a pearl in the sky."
-derived from UFOs and Vimanas by Stephen Knapp
The controversial text known as Vimaanika Shastra, said to be by Maharshi Bharadwaja, also describes in detail the construction of what is called the mercury vortex engine. This is no doubt of the same nature as the Vedic Ion engine that is propelled by the use of mercury. Such an engine was built by Shivkar Bapuji Talpade, based on descriptions in the Rig-veda, which he demonstrated in Mumbai (Bombay), India in 1895.
Additional information on the mercury engines used in the vimanas can be found in the ancient Vedic text called the Samarangana Sutradhara. This text also devotes 230 verses to the use of these machines in peace and war. Here is a short part of William Clendenon's translation of the Samarangana Sutradhara from his 1990 book, Mercury, UFO Messenger of the Gods:
"Inside the circular air frame, place the mercury-engine with its electric/ultrasonic mercury boiler at the bottom center. By means of the power latent in the mercury which sets the driving whirlwind in motion, a man sitting inside may travel a great distance in the sky in a most marvelous manner. Four strong mercury containers must be built into the interior structure. When those have been heated by controlled fire from iron containers, the vimana develops thunder-power through the mercury. At once it becomes like a pearl in the sky."
-derived from UFOs and Vimanas by Stephen Knapp
Vimana Types
The Ramayana describes a Vimana as a double-deck, circular (cylindrical) aircraft with portholes and a dome. It flew with the speed of the wind and gave forth a melodious sound (a humming noise?). Ancient Indian texts on Vimanas are so numerous it would take several books to relate what they have to say. The ancient Indians themselves wrote entire flight manuals on the control of various types of Vimanas, of which there were basically four: the Shakuna Vimana, the Sundara Vimana, the Rukma Vimana and the Tripura Vimana.
Sanskrit texts are filled with references to Gods who fought battles in the sky using Vimanas equipped with weapons as deadly as any we can deploy in these more enlightened times. For example, there is a passage in the Ramayana which reads: The Puspaka car that resembles the Sun and belongs to my brother was brought by the powerful Ravan; that aerial and excellent car going everywhere at will.... that car resembling a bright cloud in the sky.
".. and the King [Rama] got in, and the excellent car at the command of the Raghira, rose up into the higher atmosphere."
In the Mahabharatra, an ancient Indian poem of enormous length, we learn that an individual named Asura Maya had a Vimana measuring twelve cubits in circumference, with four strong wheels.
The poem is a veritable gold mine of information relating to conflicts between gods who settled their differences apparently using weapons as lethal as the ones we are capable of deploying. Apart from 'blazing missiles', the poem records the use of other deadly weapons. 'Indra's Dart' operated via a circular 'reflector'. When switched on, it produced a 'shaft of light' which, when focused on any target, immediately 'consumed it with its power'.
In one particular exchange, the hero, Krishna, is pursuing his enemy, Salva, in the sky, when Salva's Vimana, the Saubha is made invisible in some way. Undeterred, Krishna immediately fires off a special weapon: 'I quickly laid on an arrow, which killed by seeking out sound'.
Many other terrible weapons are described, quite matter of factly, in the Mahabharata, but the most fearsome of all is the one used against the Vrishis.
The narrative records:
Gurkha flying in his swift and powerful Vimana hurled against the three cities of the Vrishis and Andhakas a single projectile charged with all the power of the Universe. An incandescent column of smoke and fire, as brilliant as ten thousands suns, rose in all its splendor. It was the unknown weapon, the Iron Thunderbolt, a gigantic messenger of death which reduced to ashes the entire race of the Vrishnis and Andhakas.
It is important to note, that these kinds of records are not isolated. They can be cross-correlated with similiar reports in other ancient civilizations. The after-affects of this Iron Thunderbolt have an ominously recognizable ring. Apparently, those killed by it were so burnt that their corpses were unidentifiable. The survivors fared little better, as it caused their hair and nails to fall out.
Perhaps the most disturbing and challenging, information about these allegedly mythical Vimanas in the ancient records is that there are some matter-of-fact records, describing how to build one. In their way, the instructions are quite precise.
Sanskrit texts are filled with references to Gods who fought battles in the sky using Vimanas equipped with weapons as deadly as any we can deploy in these more enlightened times. For example, there is a passage in the Ramayana which reads: The Puspaka car that resembles the Sun and belongs to my brother was brought by the powerful Ravan; that aerial and excellent car going everywhere at will.... that car resembling a bright cloud in the sky.
".. and the King [Rama] got in, and the excellent car at the command of the Raghira, rose up into the higher atmosphere."
In the Mahabharatra, an ancient Indian poem of enormous length, we learn that an individual named Asura Maya had a Vimana measuring twelve cubits in circumference, with four strong wheels.
The poem is a veritable gold mine of information relating to conflicts between gods who settled their differences apparently using weapons as lethal as the ones we are capable of deploying. Apart from 'blazing missiles', the poem records the use of other deadly weapons. 'Indra's Dart' operated via a circular 'reflector'. When switched on, it produced a 'shaft of light' which, when focused on any target, immediately 'consumed it with its power'.
In one particular exchange, the hero, Krishna, is pursuing his enemy, Salva, in the sky, when Salva's Vimana, the Saubha is made invisible in some way. Undeterred, Krishna immediately fires off a special weapon: 'I quickly laid on an arrow, which killed by seeking out sound'.
Many other terrible weapons are described, quite matter of factly, in the Mahabharata, but the most fearsome of all is the one used against the Vrishis.
The narrative records:
Gurkha flying in his swift and powerful Vimana hurled against the three cities of the Vrishis and Andhakas a single projectile charged with all the power of the Universe. An incandescent column of smoke and fire, as brilliant as ten thousands suns, rose in all its splendor. It was the unknown weapon, the Iron Thunderbolt, a gigantic messenger of death which reduced to ashes the entire race of the Vrishnis and Andhakas.
It is important to note, that these kinds of records are not isolated. They can be cross-correlated with similiar reports in other ancient civilizations. The after-affects of this Iron Thunderbolt have an ominously recognizable ring. Apparently, those killed by it were so burnt that their corpses were unidentifiable. The survivors fared little better, as it caused their hair and nails to fall out.
Perhaps the most disturbing and challenging, information about these allegedly mythical Vimanas in the ancient records is that there are some matter-of-fact records, describing how to build one. In their way, the instructions are quite precise.
Vimanas cont'd.
In the Sanskrit Samarangana Sutradhara, it is written: Strong and durable must the body of the Vimana be made, like a great flying bird of light material. Inside one must put the mercury engine with its iron heating apparatus underneath. By means of the power latent in the mercury which sets the driving whirlwind in motion, a man sitting inside may travel a great distance in the sky. The movements of the Vimana are such that it can vertically ascend, vertically descend, move slanting forwards and backwards. With the help of the machines human beings can fly in the air and heavenly beings can come down to earth.
The Hakatha (Laws of the Babylonians) states quite unambiguously: The privilege of operating a flying machine is great. The knowledge of flight is among the most ancient of our inheritances. A gift from 'those from upon high'. We received it from them as a means of saving many lives.
More fantastic still is the information given in the ancient Chaldean work, The Sifrala, which contains over one hundred pages of technical details on building a flying machine. It contains words which translate as graphite rod, copper coils, crystal indicator, vibrating spheres, stable angles, etc.
-derived from 'Ancient Indian Aircraft Technology' From The Anti-Gravity Handbook by D. Hatcher Childress
‘There is no time. There never was.”
Many scholars, especially of the Hindu faith, are entirely satisfied that these ancient airplanes existed and the reams of detailed material which refers to their use in war and leisure, and their manner of being constructed is adequate evidence for them to accept that indeed man has visited the skies before this age.
Could it be that there is truly nothing new under the sun as to man’s relationship to the one God and that the individuals of each generation will experience their lives within the context of their culture and as fully as that culture will permit? What we record as history is really just so much marking down the minutiae of our unenlightened lives. It would appear, if you accept the theory that man has always been man, that as a human environment we are stagnating, preoccupied with our efforts to pose as God, or to usurp the personality of the infinite. Could it be that our souls have managed to reappear in an era where spiritual existence is obscured, as we attempt to live under the mudline? Not such an auspicious inheritance.
BUILT FOR JOY
Our human bodies are inclined to facilitate joy and experiencing joy enlivens and heals us. But in this state of constant denial, in this persistent effort to control life and appear greater than others, the individual erodes his faculty for joy.
The Hakatha (Laws of the Babylonians) states quite unambiguously: The privilege of operating a flying machine is great. The knowledge of flight is among the most ancient of our inheritances. A gift from 'those from upon high'. We received it from them as a means of saving many lives.
More fantastic still is the information given in the ancient Chaldean work, The Sifrala, which contains over one hundred pages of technical details on building a flying machine. It contains words which translate as graphite rod, copper coils, crystal indicator, vibrating spheres, stable angles, etc.
-derived from 'Ancient Indian Aircraft Technology' From The Anti-Gravity Handbook by D. Hatcher Childress
‘There is no time. There never was.”
Many scholars, especially of the Hindu faith, are entirely satisfied that these ancient airplanes existed and the reams of detailed material which refers to their use in war and leisure, and their manner of being constructed is adequate evidence for them to accept that indeed man has visited the skies before this age.
Could it be that there is truly nothing new under the sun as to man’s relationship to the one God and that the individuals of each generation will experience their lives within the context of their culture and as fully as that culture will permit? What we record as history is really just so much marking down the minutiae of our unenlightened lives. It would appear, if you accept the theory that man has always been man, that as a human environment we are stagnating, preoccupied with our efforts to pose as God, or to usurp the personality of the infinite. Could it be that our souls have managed to reappear in an era where spiritual existence is obscured, as we attempt to live under the mudline? Not such an auspicious inheritance.
BUILT FOR JOY
Our human bodies are inclined to facilitate joy and experiencing joy enlivens and heals us. But in this state of constant denial, in this persistent effort to control life and appear greater than others, the individual erodes his faculty for joy.
The urge to live cont'd.
Continuity of pleasure would seem to be what people are so desperately seeking yet by their actions and words they chase away this simple prospect. Were it not for the urge to live having been implanted, programmed as it were into each of us, our wiles would quickly bring about our self-destruction. Already we see suicides on the rise and sometimes even appearing as rational acts given the despair of the individual caught up in a culture of grief and misery.
Our media tends to celebrate grief, commemorating at every opportunity mass death and destruction. If stories are not sufficiently rife with misery, violence and aberration then the media seems little interested. What we call “edgy” or “pushing the envelope” has all been done to death a million times before through the ages as people are faced again and again with the same challenge to live with integrity and dignity, especially concerning their intimate and social lifestyles.
The Pharaoh’s eldest son may well have been thrilled with thoughts of kiddie sex as so many are today. Coveting another’s wife isn’t exactly sensational news any more, unique to this age. Hoarding money and accumulating possessions to lord over others is not just yesterday’s news but is ancient and tawdry history. Men pretending to be holier than thou for their own personal purposes is as old as the Atlantean hills. All of our great epic stories have all repeated in one form or another similar human conditions and trials. There is truly nothing new under the sun where the human proposition is concerned.
And that proposition is simple, so obvious that even the least educated among us can catch the drift: know God. This palpably serene state of knowing far surpasses any movie-going experience or the so-called thrill of driving a speedy car, or the pleasure of lounging about your pool fretting to impress others.
But consequent of so many successive generations of nescience, we have created a problem now even with the word “God.” Every culture has produced its holy hierarchies and they have each interpreted God’s will according to their cultures. A simple guide may be found in acknowledging that all science is the discovery of God’s intelligence, all true human joy is the stuff of His intimate body, and all has been designed with beauty for our gratification. His empathy, despite burdensome times of suffering, is real and yet He is not disposed to interfere, as neither would a good father.
These aspects of the giver of the creative design may be identified as comprising a personality; inscrutable and confounding only when we are sucking that mud of our chosen environment, but clearly parental.
If indeed we have been designed for continuous joy, then the designer must have the same wherewithal for enjoyment, and must have a vested interest in our plights and our emancipations, as those emancipations will involve His pleasure. But most busy themselves with ultimate rationales and schemes to put in place which would defy this divine personality, and take charge of the administration of life and love. Just ask the tyrants who would drive people into hunger and despair and who themselves are privately commiserating about their own profound sense of emptiness.
Must millions of wailing generations of lost souls pass before the bounty of the personality of the infinite will finally become as obvious as the radiant sun? The earth itself awaits the return of the footfalls of the emancipated man to reclaim his place in godliness. And a multi-faceted and wondrously complex heaven may exist nowhere else in this vast universe but under this sun of such blinding splendour.
Our media tends to celebrate grief, commemorating at every opportunity mass death and destruction. If stories are not sufficiently rife with misery, violence and aberration then the media seems little interested. What we call “edgy” or “pushing the envelope” has all been done to death a million times before through the ages as people are faced again and again with the same challenge to live with integrity and dignity, especially concerning their intimate and social lifestyles.
The Pharaoh’s eldest son may well have been thrilled with thoughts of kiddie sex as so many are today. Coveting another’s wife isn’t exactly sensational news any more, unique to this age. Hoarding money and accumulating possessions to lord over others is not just yesterday’s news but is ancient and tawdry history. Men pretending to be holier than thou for their own personal purposes is as old as the Atlantean hills. All of our great epic stories have all repeated in one form or another similar human conditions and trials. There is truly nothing new under the sun where the human proposition is concerned.
And that proposition is simple, so obvious that even the least educated among us can catch the drift: know God. This palpably serene state of knowing far surpasses any movie-going experience or the so-called thrill of driving a speedy car, or the pleasure of lounging about your pool fretting to impress others.
But consequent of so many successive generations of nescience, we have created a problem now even with the word “God.” Every culture has produced its holy hierarchies and they have each interpreted God’s will according to their cultures. A simple guide may be found in acknowledging that all science is the discovery of God’s intelligence, all true human joy is the stuff of His intimate body, and all has been designed with beauty for our gratification. His empathy, despite burdensome times of suffering, is real and yet He is not disposed to interfere, as neither would a good father.
These aspects of the giver of the creative design may be identified as comprising a personality; inscrutable and confounding only when we are sucking that mud of our chosen environment, but clearly parental.
If indeed we have been designed for continuous joy, then the designer must have the same wherewithal for enjoyment, and must have a vested interest in our plights and our emancipations, as those emancipations will involve His pleasure. But most busy themselves with ultimate rationales and schemes to put in place which would defy this divine personality, and take charge of the administration of life and love. Just ask the tyrants who would drive people into hunger and despair and who themselves are privately commiserating about their own profound sense of emptiness.
Must millions of wailing generations of lost souls pass before the bounty of the personality of the infinite will finally become as obvious as the radiant sun? The earth itself awaits the return of the footfalls of the emancipated man to reclaim his place in godliness. And a multi-faceted and wondrously complex heaven may exist nowhere else in this vast universe but under this sun of such blinding splendour.
The Language of Eden
(An excerpt from Lightstream. Copyright, 1996, R H Langen, www.lightsreambook.com)
Before the Tower of Babel during the days of Adam’s grandfather, a language was spoken by all of the inhabitants of the garden of earth. It was comprised of words which when used in certain combinations could invoke, call the presence of human spirits… and divine personalities. These statements, while powerful, were spontaneous requiring no rituals or preparation. The force which generated the appearance of these spirits and personalities was love, the blood and body of God.
The gardeners only spoke when necessary and as they were abiding in a climate of love everything they intoned was creative, and visualizing. That which they spoke became visible. That which they heard became visible. That which the Lord of the Garden spoke became a separate Living Entity.
The Lord of the Garden was of an eternal, universal lightstream. Each syllable uttered by the Keeper of the Garden was an explosive act of creation and could with equal force create or devastate the entities within a considerably distant earshot. He was handsome in appearance of luminous face and eyes of the depths of galaxies. His windy words sprinkled seeds and his humanity rendered him as vulnerable as the rest of us; subject to pain, discomfort, the foibles of the body. He was easily humored by children and his entire reason for being was related to the welfare of His Father’s children, the community of mankind, His fellow gardeners. He was the perfect pedigree pruned as it were by God the Father Himself.
When men spoke among each other, it was always necessary to exercise the utmost caution because the fabric or weave of this spiritual substance in which they existed was constantly at risk of being unraveled, by thoughtless action, suspiciousness, undue thinking, malice, competitiveness – all fears, absences of love, areas of shadow.
So vigilance, eternal vigilance was expected of each of these guardians of the Garden. When all were of common will and enjoying the obvious and tangible pleasure of doing the Father’s will, they worked easily in concert and the sound then emanating from the fields, green hills about the meadow and from the ragged mountaintops was the sound of a song, a song of praise and thankfulness. And God the Father Himself, sang in return, harmonizing with His children as the body of love increased in volume and an extreme pleasure beyond the intensity of any prolonged sexual climax was known by every free-willed adult.
Thus when one said “Flower,” a flower somewhere within earshot burst quietly into life. When one called for mother, her individual, loving spirit, her personality, her reality, her face aglow with wisdom, love and life would indeed appear. You could hear her laugh. When one said “Horse” with a will to create, one would appear over the hillside shortly, at one’s service. Man is the Lord of the Garden - the winds, the beasts of earth, sea and sky are at his command. The grasses, forests, and all plants are here at his bidding. Simply reap and tend. Simply enjoy the activity of this reaping and tending. And then multiply this perfect gene many times so beauty and balance in humanity will easily prevail by volume over the asymmetrical and the deformed, prone to iniquity.
That this gardener pruned even his own kind was not subject to false sentimentalities. Man was charged by God to remain perfect even as He is.
The animals were equally subject to this selective process, so after generations, these different varieties, horse, pig, cow, etc. were magnificent; their colors and their musculature of a sublime beauty and there in the perfect, dense environment, robust with life, charged with color, they were stunning in their beauty, delicious in taste: beef, venison, pork, moose and more.
The Garden then offered, as it does yet, a variety of weathers as one traveled north and south and so also existed an endless variety of species. And as one traveled, it was obvious he was of the will of God and so, of course, warmth, trust and joy were automatic, stranger to stranger, place to place.
Before the Tower of Babel during the days of Adam’s grandfather, a language was spoken by all of the inhabitants of the garden of earth. It was comprised of words which when used in certain combinations could invoke, call the presence of human spirits… and divine personalities. These statements, while powerful, were spontaneous requiring no rituals or preparation. The force which generated the appearance of these spirits and personalities was love, the blood and body of God.
The gardeners only spoke when necessary and as they were abiding in a climate of love everything they intoned was creative, and visualizing. That which they spoke became visible. That which they heard became visible. That which the Lord of the Garden spoke became a separate Living Entity.
The Lord of the Garden was of an eternal, universal lightstream. Each syllable uttered by the Keeper of the Garden was an explosive act of creation and could with equal force create or devastate the entities within a considerably distant earshot. He was handsome in appearance of luminous face and eyes of the depths of galaxies. His windy words sprinkled seeds and his humanity rendered him as vulnerable as the rest of us; subject to pain, discomfort, the foibles of the body. He was easily humored by children and his entire reason for being was related to the welfare of His Father’s children, the community of mankind, His fellow gardeners. He was the perfect pedigree pruned as it were by God the Father Himself.
When men spoke among each other, it was always necessary to exercise the utmost caution because the fabric or weave of this spiritual substance in which they existed was constantly at risk of being unraveled, by thoughtless action, suspiciousness, undue thinking, malice, competitiveness – all fears, absences of love, areas of shadow.
So vigilance, eternal vigilance was expected of each of these guardians of the Garden. When all were of common will and enjoying the obvious and tangible pleasure of doing the Father’s will, they worked easily in concert and the sound then emanating from the fields, green hills about the meadow and from the ragged mountaintops was the sound of a song, a song of praise and thankfulness. And God the Father Himself, sang in return, harmonizing with His children as the body of love increased in volume and an extreme pleasure beyond the intensity of any prolonged sexual climax was known by every free-willed adult.
Thus when one said “Flower,” a flower somewhere within earshot burst quietly into life. When one called for mother, her individual, loving spirit, her personality, her reality, her face aglow with wisdom, love and life would indeed appear. You could hear her laugh. When one said “Horse” with a will to create, one would appear over the hillside shortly, at one’s service. Man is the Lord of the Garden - the winds, the beasts of earth, sea and sky are at his command. The grasses, forests, and all plants are here at his bidding. Simply reap and tend. Simply enjoy the activity of this reaping and tending. And then multiply this perfect gene many times so beauty and balance in humanity will easily prevail by volume over the asymmetrical and the deformed, prone to iniquity.
That this gardener pruned even his own kind was not subject to false sentimentalities. Man was charged by God to remain perfect even as He is.
The animals were equally subject to this selective process, so after generations, these different varieties, horse, pig, cow, etc. were magnificent; their colors and their musculature of a sublime beauty and there in the perfect, dense environment, robust with life, charged with color, they were stunning in their beauty, delicious in taste: beef, venison, pork, moose and more.
The Garden then offered, as it does yet, a variety of weathers as one traveled north and south and so also existed an endless variety of species. And as one traveled, it was obvious he was of the will of God and so, of course, warmth, trust and joy were automatic, stranger to stranger, place to place.
Eden cont'd.
Food was plentiful even in the more frosty climates as there was storing of the fruits and vegetables as we have today. Everyone ate. Everyone was sheltered. Everyone was loved. News was interesting to pass on from community to community. The news of births and marriages, buildings of new settlements, the travels and discourses of the tireless Lord, the teachings of the mystics and sages, the educators of the children. There was always news of the kindest sort.
And many occupations to speak of, learn and engage about. Clothes were made for warmth and protection. Beautiful, simple clothes; others slightly more festive in style and color to suit an occasion like birth or harvest time congregations.
These clothes were washed. Foodstuffs were prepared. Spices cultivated and animals butchered. But as to sickness, there was none, with the exception of people who, through their use of their free will opted not to act in concert with the creative will and so their minds and bodies became ill for the separation of their spirit. Eventually, after much painful consternation and despite the occasional tending and care, they would succumb with extreme self-inflicted discomfort.
Those others, those members of the mainstream as it were, would, after a few centuries choose the moment, quite spontaneously, of their physical demise; usually after they felt their progeny were fully equipped and adequately informed to carry on. This changing of form would be invoked with a simple exhalation.
There was no time as each gardener related only to the cycles of the seasons and did not detect an approaching death. Each of the individuals related rather to the ever-evolving truth and to be assisted in this relationship, the Lord spoke.
His words were, as mentioned earlier, creative of human spirit and it was through hearing them and taking their meaning to heart that a man would enjoy growth, the enlargement of his spiritual body, the greater capacity, then, for joy as the ‘sensors’ all about the surface of his spirit body had now increased in number and dimension.
And words among men were also contributive for their clarity and human warmth. The presence of God and growth was as needs be, constantly obvious.
Each man’s gait was a dance, his voice a song, his will a harmonizing note in the symphonic whole.
Argumentative and derisive discourse only existed between those people who, by their own will, had separated themselves from the communities and in finding each other in the forests would compete and live in fear of each other, genuinely paranoid, as they each attempted to prove to the other that he was indeed God or greater than God.
The gardeners always knew the whereabouts of such men as the beasts would evacuate the area alerting the nearest neighborhood by their disconcertedness. These people were free to hide without disturbance.
If one human voice may convey love by its tone and the content or meaning, how unfortunate that it has become unimaginable when ten thousand or ten hundred thousand human voices might convey or contribute to the body of love, a body in such a climate no longer bleeding. And how tragic that it has become unimaginable what that one gardener might be experiencing in this singing garden.
The language of Eden was a song.
No industrialization was necessary so no engines existed. People lived in houses comprised of the raw materials indigenous to their region. Their homes were set at least 30 acres away from each other and usually out of view of the neighbor. There were no fences and certainly no such concept as private property. Children were cared for by every adult, no matter the home. While a house might feature a kitchen, it was ordinary to enjoy communal dining at an expanded premise designed for the dining of 100 or so. So in a ‘community’ of four or five thousand, there might be 40 or 50 such dining halls. For those most distant from the nearest supper house, a horse and carriage might be a preferred means of travel.
Aside from their activities related to physical survival and the rearing of children, there was always the leisure of each other’s company, the inherent and obvious joy of humanity and the Godliness of everything around them.
It was necessary, nonetheless, for a council of elders to gather on the odd occasion to set out for example the whereabouts of a new community region… and plans had to be made for those roles necessary to be performed. Selections were made in love and the work proceeded apace with the natural step.
This physical output assured the continuing aesthetic beauty of the gardener’s physiques and their faces washed in constant love were exquisite.
Children were taught mathematics for example as an aspect of God’s intelligence as in chemistry, biochemistry, the use of herbs and spices, geologic and geographic understandings, etc. but almost no history except of a family sort and a general review of what has kept the Garden growing apace. Philosophy, history, politics, anthropology, archaeology, psychology and all engine-related trades were irrelevant.
Church buildings and rituals related to public worship were entirely useless, rather insane – quite against the natural stream of the celebratory living.
But when the Lord came to speak, there was an exalted tumult in anticipation. The food prepared somewhat especially. The Supping Hall adorned perhaps with candlelight and brassy things, or for an afternoon with a collection of spectacular flowers, their scents tantalizing just perfectly to allure the Lord, enchant Him to stay a little longer.
And during His sojourn and speeches at the hall, the laughter of hundreds could be heard, perhaps even on a fine day as far away as the next hall.
He remembered your name and offered you His hand, His every word near a fondling thing and His will perfectly set in the direction of God the Father’s heart, the center of the ever-expanding universe.
He walked with gravitas in absolutum. His gait nearly a dance, each step a holy syllable. His laughter the chuckling of hidden creeks at springtime and it always seemed a heady gale would precede His actual arrival, with the intensity of a waterfall charging over a precipice.
His stories were culled from visits elsewhere remarking on His encounters with His children. Women found Him the ultimate man; poetic, seemingly romantic, stern at times, musical in manner, authoritative, loving and as dependable as a mighty rock. Men found him congenial like a brother, intimate like a confidant, wholehearted as a friend and as wise as a father. Children found Him playful and wondrous.
He was the one anointed by God to be our way to knowing even God himself. He was of the Holy Root and of His branch shall many new buds yet arise.
And all knew this and so when in the presence of His children, extreme care and respectfulness was exhibited.
And the children themselves would explore the new forest paths each region had developed. New streams discovered and orchards of different kinds of seeds were found rendering unusual varieties of fruits and such. A nut didn’t quite taste the same or the potato yielded a subtle new hint, region per region.
When the Lord visited, people were swimming in love, the climate of goodness so thick.
Hallelujah!
(painting below by Thomas Cole)
And many occupations to speak of, learn and engage about. Clothes were made for warmth and protection. Beautiful, simple clothes; others slightly more festive in style and color to suit an occasion like birth or harvest time congregations.
These clothes were washed. Foodstuffs were prepared. Spices cultivated and animals butchered. But as to sickness, there was none, with the exception of people who, through their use of their free will opted not to act in concert with the creative will and so their minds and bodies became ill for the separation of their spirit. Eventually, after much painful consternation and despite the occasional tending and care, they would succumb with extreme self-inflicted discomfort.
Those others, those members of the mainstream as it were, would, after a few centuries choose the moment, quite spontaneously, of their physical demise; usually after they felt their progeny were fully equipped and adequately informed to carry on. This changing of form would be invoked with a simple exhalation.
There was no time as each gardener related only to the cycles of the seasons and did not detect an approaching death. Each of the individuals related rather to the ever-evolving truth and to be assisted in this relationship, the Lord spoke.
His words were, as mentioned earlier, creative of human spirit and it was through hearing them and taking their meaning to heart that a man would enjoy growth, the enlargement of his spiritual body, the greater capacity, then, for joy as the ‘sensors’ all about the surface of his spirit body had now increased in number and dimension.
And words among men were also contributive for their clarity and human warmth. The presence of God and growth was as needs be, constantly obvious.
Each man’s gait was a dance, his voice a song, his will a harmonizing note in the symphonic whole.
Argumentative and derisive discourse only existed between those people who, by their own will, had separated themselves from the communities and in finding each other in the forests would compete and live in fear of each other, genuinely paranoid, as they each attempted to prove to the other that he was indeed God or greater than God.
The gardeners always knew the whereabouts of such men as the beasts would evacuate the area alerting the nearest neighborhood by their disconcertedness. These people were free to hide without disturbance.
If one human voice may convey love by its tone and the content or meaning, how unfortunate that it has become unimaginable when ten thousand or ten hundred thousand human voices might convey or contribute to the body of love, a body in such a climate no longer bleeding. And how tragic that it has become unimaginable what that one gardener might be experiencing in this singing garden.
The language of Eden was a song.
No industrialization was necessary so no engines existed. People lived in houses comprised of the raw materials indigenous to their region. Their homes were set at least 30 acres away from each other and usually out of view of the neighbor. There were no fences and certainly no such concept as private property. Children were cared for by every adult, no matter the home. While a house might feature a kitchen, it was ordinary to enjoy communal dining at an expanded premise designed for the dining of 100 or so. So in a ‘community’ of four or five thousand, there might be 40 or 50 such dining halls. For those most distant from the nearest supper house, a horse and carriage might be a preferred means of travel.
Aside from their activities related to physical survival and the rearing of children, there was always the leisure of each other’s company, the inherent and obvious joy of humanity and the Godliness of everything around them.
It was necessary, nonetheless, for a council of elders to gather on the odd occasion to set out for example the whereabouts of a new community region… and plans had to be made for those roles necessary to be performed. Selections were made in love and the work proceeded apace with the natural step.
This physical output assured the continuing aesthetic beauty of the gardener’s physiques and their faces washed in constant love were exquisite.
Children were taught mathematics for example as an aspect of God’s intelligence as in chemistry, biochemistry, the use of herbs and spices, geologic and geographic understandings, etc. but almost no history except of a family sort and a general review of what has kept the Garden growing apace. Philosophy, history, politics, anthropology, archaeology, psychology and all engine-related trades were irrelevant.
Church buildings and rituals related to public worship were entirely useless, rather insane – quite against the natural stream of the celebratory living.
But when the Lord came to speak, there was an exalted tumult in anticipation. The food prepared somewhat especially. The Supping Hall adorned perhaps with candlelight and brassy things, or for an afternoon with a collection of spectacular flowers, their scents tantalizing just perfectly to allure the Lord, enchant Him to stay a little longer.
And during His sojourn and speeches at the hall, the laughter of hundreds could be heard, perhaps even on a fine day as far away as the next hall.
He remembered your name and offered you His hand, His every word near a fondling thing and His will perfectly set in the direction of God the Father’s heart, the center of the ever-expanding universe.
He walked with gravitas in absolutum. His gait nearly a dance, each step a holy syllable. His laughter the chuckling of hidden creeks at springtime and it always seemed a heady gale would precede His actual arrival, with the intensity of a waterfall charging over a precipice.
His stories were culled from visits elsewhere remarking on His encounters with His children. Women found Him the ultimate man; poetic, seemingly romantic, stern at times, musical in manner, authoritative, loving and as dependable as a mighty rock. Men found him congenial like a brother, intimate like a confidant, wholehearted as a friend and as wise as a father. Children found Him playful and wondrous.
He was the one anointed by God to be our way to knowing even God himself. He was of the Holy Root and of His branch shall many new buds yet arise.
And all knew this and so when in the presence of His children, extreme care and respectfulness was exhibited.
And the children themselves would explore the new forest paths each region had developed. New streams discovered and orchards of different kinds of seeds were found rendering unusual varieties of fruits and such. A nut didn’t quite taste the same or the potato yielded a subtle new hint, region per region.
When the Lord visited, people were swimming in love, the climate of goodness so thick.
Hallelujah!
(painting below by Thomas Cole)
The Language cont'd.
For one man, one wife was enough. Sex was longer and by far more fulfilling than those hiding in fear. The touch of the tongue on an erogenous zone was accompanied by an exhalation, the breadth and heat of which conveying knowing and driving pleasure. The act of sex was accompanied by holy speech, each syllable and word meaning an ascended step in pleasure, the whole affair driven very carefully toward a simultaneous, long and explosive event such as they each knew life to be. They were with continuity.
When a child was wanted, its gender and time of conception were willed by both man and woman loving in concert. This occasion would, for example, represent a brief stanza in life, in the language of Eden.
While all knew of God and Life, life was adequately diverse and unpredictable as to provide a constant adventure for each individual gardener who at meal times was enthusiastic to share his experiences, even of just the morning.
The spirit of unpredictability imbued every dimension of this garden with apprehension, joyous anticipation. Boredom was simply unheard of, except among the fearful hiding in the forests, losing interest in each other’s claim.
And so language was also unpredictable. It grew and evolved into something more and more crisp, yet lovely in its fullness. While fewer words were becoming necessary, their sounds and meanings grew in dimensions. Man was becoming more Lord-like, more Godly even in his potency. They realized that soon, all physicality may become passé except for those few pretenders convulsing in fear.
There were occasions when a community elder might, even in view of his fellows, ascend, his body transmuting to whole spirit by intoning the ever-evolving Name of God and return again at will so as to continue his contributions to the ever-burgeoning garden; perhaps even some day to have a hand in encouraging the return of the iniquitous, who frighten the beasts.
The individual is a cell in the body of God which when operating fully in concert with all the other operating cells experiences extreme pleasure knowing that it may operate in opposition, as it may desire. This free-willed contribution enhances God’s enjoyment equally.
There are no jobs in Eden. There is activity, which each individual acknowledges as meaningful to his regional community and to the Garden at large and to the body of God. There are no bosses.
But it came to pass that the iniquitous grew in numbers. Their growth in the forest was akin to a cancer and it seemed fearfulness became contagious. Previously noble and heroic gardeners were being infected by fear and began to believe they might be safer joining the bands in the forest.
The garden communities were eventually corrupted by fear.
Thousands of years later, people are genetically disposed to fearfulness and iniquity. The corruption is almost absolute. The gardener’s lifestyle forgotten. Even the garden is obscure almost to the point of invisibility.
Occasionally a young person of noble intent rebels, knowing not to what end, except that he senses something is missing.
The song is lost.
NOTE
Ms Urble is feeling miserable this week. Her stars got misaligned and her celestial neigbour Luna was in her sixth son causing no end of upheavals so with regrets she sends her best wishes to all and promises to be back in good form with Horrorscopes next week, Allah willing.
But in deference to neglected funny bones, here this issue’s remedy, courtesy of Graeme Mackay of the Hamilton Spectator.
When a child was wanted, its gender and time of conception were willed by both man and woman loving in concert. This occasion would, for example, represent a brief stanza in life, in the language of Eden.
While all knew of God and Life, life was adequately diverse and unpredictable as to provide a constant adventure for each individual gardener who at meal times was enthusiastic to share his experiences, even of just the morning.
The spirit of unpredictability imbued every dimension of this garden with apprehension, joyous anticipation. Boredom was simply unheard of, except among the fearful hiding in the forests, losing interest in each other’s claim.
And so language was also unpredictable. It grew and evolved into something more and more crisp, yet lovely in its fullness. While fewer words were becoming necessary, their sounds and meanings grew in dimensions. Man was becoming more Lord-like, more Godly even in his potency. They realized that soon, all physicality may become passé except for those few pretenders convulsing in fear.
There were occasions when a community elder might, even in view of his fellows, ascend, his body transmuting to whole spirit by intoning the ever-evolving Name of God and return again at will so as to continue his contributions to the ever-burgeoning garden; perhaps even some day to have a hand in encouraging the return of the iniquitous, who frighten the beasts.
The individual is a cell in the body of God which when operating fully in concert with all the other operating cells experiences extreme pleasure knowing that it may operate in opposition, as it may desire. This free-willed contribution enhances God’s enjoyment equally.
There are no jobs in Eden. There is activity, which each individual acknowledges as meaningful to his regional community and to the Garden at large and to the body of God. There are no bosses.
But it came to pass that the iniquitous grew in numbers. Their growth in the forest was akin to a cancer and it seemed fearfulness became contagious. Previously noble and heroic gardeners were being infected by fear and began to believe they might be safer joining the bands in the forest.
The garden communities were eventually corrupted by fear.
Thousands of years later, people are genetically disposed to fearfulness and iniquity. The corruption is almost absolute. The gardener’s lifestyle forgotten. Even the garden is obscure almost to the point of invisibility.
Occasionally a young person of noble intent rebels, knowing not to what end, except that he senses something is missing.
The song is lost.
NOTE
Ms Urble is feeling miserable this week. Her stars got misaligned and her celestial neigbour Luna was in her sixth son causing no end of upheavals so with regrets she sends her best wishes to all and promises to be back in good form with Horrorscopes next week, Allah willing.
But in deference to neglected funny bones, here this issue’s remedy, courtesy of Graeme Mackay of the Hamilton Spectator.
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