TODAY'S RANTLET
God is not dead; He's in a coma—a persistent vegetative state (No, children, that does not mean He lives in Florida). Patriarchal monotheism is the respirator that keeps the Sacred Heart beating and the Holy Spirit breathing. Men (Sorry, ladies, I'm leaving you out) don't need a reason to believe. They don't need reason to believe. They need to believe in order to have a reason—to exist, to justify their existence and their actions. Let me rephrase that. Men don't need a reason; all they need is an excuse. Rape, pillage, and murder go better with God. Now go out and pick some flowers and love one another.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
THE MIRROR HAS BEEN EMPTY FOR TOO LONG
THE SAYINGS OF DR. OMED
Order is sterile. Chaos is fecund. I got my arms up and my knees tucked under the safety bar as the coaster train clanks up the first hill.
The breaking of symmetry, the invariant and unimaginable null, no-thing, or tao raggedly split into 1 and 0, yin and yang, is both genesis and fall, the coming of light and original sin, with pain, toil, suffering and death in its wake-but also joy and insight-is the first creative act of the mind. Truly is the prideful angel of our intellect in its cognitive disobedience called the light-bearer, Lucifer.
The question is (for the moment positing the existence of deity) not whether we have a choice (i.e, free will), but whether or not God has a choice. Cf. Einstein: "God does not throw dice."
There is but one God, and his Name is Legion.
God is not served at this establishment. Do you serve God? Supersized, with a biggie fries and a half gallon soft drink? Or as Jesus Tartare, perhaps with a nice Chianti?
While I enjoy the imagery of the Book of Revelations, I do not interpret it as a guide to history, past or future. When I do meet people who claim to be born again, saved, and what-all Christians, and hear their opinions on such matters, my conclusion has to be that all the best people go to hell.
Re: "all the best people go to hell." I don't believe in Hell, either. All the hell we create around us is self-evident; all the hell we create in the name of God.
And when in Hell is the Rapture going to remove all the revelatin' Christians from the Earth and let all us hopeless sinners get on with our tribulations without these busybodies mucking about in everyone else's beeswax? It's about two millenia late, this Parousia that Paul speaks of. "We shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed..." Ya, right.
A trickster creator seems inherently more believable than a just god, a god of love. That our race commits theodicy with such abandon is the greatest of the Coyote God’s ort ort ort hey moe eye pokes.
"Revealed Truth" is a toxic material. Just say no to "TRUTH." As Bill Burroughs said, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."
The process of evolution, biological or cultural, is not an onward and upward march of progress; it is contingent and value neutral, has no inevitable direction; we assign values and directions to it. As the historian Micheal Wood has said, in fundamental ways we are still stone age people. Still living out the archetypes of the first half million years or so of our specie's existence as stone tool using animals living in small "hunter-gatherer" troops. Nature is essentially female. That is why we call her Mother. The "matriarchy" in our genes generates female archetypes that represent, protect, and promote the biological evolution of the species by Darwinian natural selection. "Male" consciousness and ego rebels against the female surround and overleaps the biological world to dwell in the Lamarckian realm of ideas, propagating memes from mind, that will o'wisp in the wet, cthonian splat of brains, to mind. The archetypes of the "patriarchy" that have driven "civilization" for the past ten thousand years began as an unconscious psy-ops against the domination of the Goddess. I respect and venerate the Goddess, but also value the tools developed by the "patriarchy." Jello Biafra said "If evolution is outlawed, only outlaws will evolve." I'm an outlaw. I choose to evolve. What was your question?
I wonder how you say "We are Devo" in Arabic?
Sometimes it is not hopelessness, but hope that defeats you. The truly hopeless have no fear.
I am not a brave man, I am clinically fear-impaired. As part of my bipolar disorder, I simply do not feel fear in situations in which any sensible person would be terrified or at least a bit nervous. I do not mean I am fear free, I have learned some proper fear over the years, but mostly I feel fear in entirely innocuous and inappropriate situations. The only time I am truly afraid is when something bad is happening, or about to happen, somewhere else to somebody else. I had the fantods about two weeks before the London bombings, but I only knew it was about returning, in a new form, to the barbarism of human sacrifice like the Aztecs cutting the hearts out of thousands of victims to feed their gods. I didn't know the stone knife would rise and be plunged into our hearts so soon again. The suicide bombers have fed their god. Now, in what ritual of death shall we feed our god in return?
Ask not for whom the black helicopters land, they land for thee.
Lex orandi, non lex credenda: Listen up, Pilgrims. Religion is applied ignorance. Righteousness is applied insensitivity. Perfection is a kind of hatred.
Faith in God is heresy. The infinite has no will, no intention, no desire, no thought, no speech, no action—yet there is nothing outside of it. Attributing mind and will to "god," attributing divinity itself, and the name "god" is heresy. Limiting your awe of the infinite by any conception or definition of "god" is spiritual idolatry. Unsheath your soul and cut away the heresy of God's existence.
Melancholy is certainly a much more satisfactory word than depression. Melancholy is what you feel when you have experienced the truth of life, depressed is what you get when you can't face the truth. Melancholy is not debilitating. It impels and informs the act of creation. Out of great sadness melancholic imagination creates great mercies, and gives grace.
Poets, our hearts are full of holes to let the tears run out, so they won't burst.
The last illusion is disillusionment.
I think of regret as a kind of hubris, laying claim to what properly belongs to what I shall refer to for the sake of brevity as "God." Not that I'm necessarily against hubris, it's taken the human race a long way.
Don't you think all kingdoms are first kingdoms of the eye, which always seizes more than it can grasp? Sandcastles, pryamids or hermit's hovel, the ouroboros circles them all. It is not God the Father's house but the eye which has many mansions.
I don't know about you, but I begin to get the wind up when someone starts talking about what poetry really is. Poetry, like life, has no meaning. The poet (from the greek word “maker”) creates meaning. Trivial or profound. Like most everyone else who calls himself a poet (or for that matter the degenerate verseslingers who call themselves “spoken word artists”) I think I'm writing the really real poetry.
In poetry or art I don't think you can say anything more than once, no matter how many times you (or somebody else for that matter) repeats it. Unless you create anew, at least a new tin can tied to the tail of the metaphor, you are merely borrowing a cup of froth from the cataracts of true download, to produce the sort of doggerel any noncognitive plagiarist can excrete.
The discourse of politics and religion demonstrates the mastery of rhetoric over reason; no "scientific" reform of this discourse is possible, nor perhaps desirable. I.e., if you can't take the heat get out of the kitchen.
One hangover from being injected with Baptist memes as a child is that I believe the words really do matter, their content matters, and meaning matters. It's herpes of the mind.
Writing for a blog is the first time in my life I ever thought about having an audience for what I do. I can sort of pretend I'm a very idiosyncratic journalist for the purpose of producing parody and satire and commenting (ranting) on current events, but I can't write poetry or make art that way. For that, I have walk down the dark alleys of my mind praying for a lurking muse to mug me.
The cosmos envelopes us, but goes on without us, in cycles that we cannot change (except in an extremely local way) and have very little or nothing to do with us. We are neither cause nor effect, we are a byproduct, a second order phenomenon. The weather that passes through our souls but for little eddies we make is larger than us.
The Lakota have the word: "Hokahey." This is usually translated as "It is a good day to die." but the literal translation is "Stand fast." The day that we will run is not yet come. Stand fast.
Rule #7: Nobody said it would easy.
That'll do to go on.
Order is sterile. Chaos is fecund. I got my arms up and my knees tucked under the safety bar as the coaster train clanks up the first hill.
The breaking of symmetry, the invariant and unimaginable null, no-thing, or tao raggedly split into 1 and 0, yin and yang, is both genesis and fall, the coming of light and original sin, with pain, toil, suffering and death in its wake-but also joy and insight-is the first creative act of the mind. Truly is the prideful angel of our intellect in its cognitive disobedience called the light-bearer, Lucifer.
The question is (for the moment positing the existence of deity) not whether we have a choice (i.e, free will), but whether or not God has a choice. Cf. Einstein: "God does not throw dice."
There is but one God, and his Name is Legion.
God is not served at this establishment. Do you serve God? Supersized, with a biggie fries and a half gallon soft drink? Or as Jesus Tartare, perhaps with a nice Chianti?
While I enjoy the imagery of the Book of Revelations, I do not interpret it as a guide to history, past or future. When I do meet people who claim to be born again, saved, and what-all Christians, and hear their opinions on such matters, my conclusion has to be that all the best people go to hell.
Re: "all the best people go to hell." I don't believe in Hell, either. All the hell we create around us is self-evident; all the hell we create in the name of God.
And when in Hell is the Rapture going to remove all the revelatin' Christians from the Earth and let all us hopeless sinners get on with our tribulations without these busybodies mucking about in everyone else's beeswax? It's about two millenia late, this Parousia that Paul speaks of. "We shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed..." Ya, right.
A trickster creator seems inherently more believable than a just god, a god of love. That our race commits theodicy with such abandon is the greatest of the Coyote God’s ort ort ort hey moe eye pokes.
"Revealed Truth" is a toxic material. Just say no to "TRUTH." As Bill Burroughs said, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."
The process of evolution, biological or cultural, is not an onward and upward march of progress; it is contingent and value neutral, has no inevitable direction; we assign values and directions to it. As the historian Micheal Wood has said, in fundamental ways we are still stone age people. Still living out the archetypes of the first half million years or so of our specie's existence as stone tool using animals living in small "hunter-gatherer" troops. Nature is essentially female. That is why we call her Mother. The "matriarchy" in our genes generates female archetypes that represent, protect, and promote the biological evolution of the species by Darwinian natural selection. "Male" consciousness and ego rebels against the female surround and overleaps the biological world to dwell in the Lamarckian realm of ideas, propagating memes from mind, that will o'wisp in the wet, cthonian splat of brains, to mind. The archetypes of the "patriarchy" that have driven "civilization" for the past ten thousand years began as an unconscious psy-ops against the domination of the Goddess. I respect and venerate the Goddess, but also value the tools developed by the "patriarchy." Jello Biafra said "If evolution is outlawed, only outlaws will evolve." I'm an outlaw. I choose to evolve. What was your question?
I wonder how you say "We are Devo" in Arabic?
Sometimes it is not hopelessness, but hope that defeats you. The truly hopeless have no fear.
I am not a brave man, I am clinically fear-impaired. As part of my bipolar disorder, I simply do not feel fear in situations in which any sensible person would be terrified or at least a bit nervous. I do not mean I am fear free, I have learned some proper fear over the years, but mostly I feel fear in entirely innocuous and inappropriate situations. The only time I am truly afraid is when something bad is happening, or about to happen, somewhere else to somebody else. I had the fantods about two weeks before the London bombings, but I only knew it was about returning, in a new form, to the barbarism of human sacrifice like the Aztecs cutting the hearts out of thousands of victims to feed their gods. I didn't know the stone knife would rise and be plunged into our hearts so soon again. The suicide bombers have fed their god. Now, in what ritual of death shall we feed our god in return?
Ask not for whom the black helicopters land, they land for thee.
Lex orandi, non lex credenda: Listen up, Pilgrims. Religion is applied ignorance. Righteousness is applied insensitivity. Perfection is a kind of hatred.
Faith in God is heresy. The infinite has no will, no intention, no desire, no thought, no speech, no action—yet there is nothing outside of it. Attributing mind and will to "god," attributing divinity itself, and the name "god" is heresy. Limiting your awe of the infinite by any conception or definition of "god" is spiritual idolatry. Unsheath your soul and cut away the heresy of God's existence.
Melancholy is certainly a much more satisfactory word than depression. Melancholy is what you feel when you have experienced the truth of life, depressed is what you get when you can't face the truth. Melancholy is not debilitating. It impels and informs the act of creation. Out of great sadness melancholic imagination creates great mercies, and gives grace.
Poets, our hearts are full of holes to let the tears run out, so they won't burst.
The last illusion is disillusionment.
I think of regret as a kind of hubris, laying claim to what properly belongs to what I shall refer to for the sake of brevity as "God." Not that I'm necessarily against hubris, it's taken the human race a long way.
Don't you think all kingdoms are first kingdoms of the eye, which always seizes more than it can grasp? Sandcastles, pryamids or hermit's hovel, the ouroboros circles them all. It is not God the Father's house but the eye which has many mansions.
I don't know about you, but I begin to get the wind up when someone starts talking about what poetry really is. Poetry, like life, has no meaning. The poet (from the greek word “maker”) creates meaning. Trivial or profound. Like most everyone else who calls himself a poet (or for that matter the degenerate verseslingers who call themselves “spoken word artists”) I think I'm writing the really real poetry.
In poetry or art I don't think you can say anything more than once, no matter how many times you (or somebody else for that matter) repeats it. Unless you create anew, at least a new tin can tied to the tail of the metaphor, you are merely borrowing a cup of froth from the cataracts of true download, to produce the sort of doggerel any noncognitive plagiarist can excrete.
The discourse of politics and religion demonstrates the mastery of rhetoric over reason; no "scientific" reform of this discourse is possible, nor perhaps desirable. I.e., if you can't take the heat get out of the kitchen.
One hangover from being injected with Baptist memes as a child is that I believe the words really do matter, their content matters, and meaning matters. It's herpes of the mind.
Writing for a blog is the first time in my life I ever thought about having an audience for what I do. I can sort of pretend I'm a very idiosyncratic journalist for the purpose of producing parody and satire and commenting (ranting) on current events, but I can't write poetry or make art that way. For that, I have walk down the dark alleys of my mind praying for a lurking muse to mug me.
The cosmos envelopes us, but goes on without us, in cycles that we cannot change (except in an extremely local way) and have very little or nothing to do with us. We are neither cause nor effect, we are a byproduct, a second order phenomenon. The weather that passes through our souls but for little eddies we make is larger than us.
The Lakota have the word: "Hokahey." This is usually translated as "It is a good day to die." but the literal translation is "Stand fast." The day that we will run is not yet come. Stand fast.
Rule #7: Nobody said it would easy.
That'll do to go on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
