This image is from an old encyclopedia. Or maybe I should say: Here are some flowers that I clipped for you.
Gene pools… Survival… To reproduce oneself without recourse to sexual congress… Disease… Boundaries and change… Rules of law… Physics… Personality and godhead…
Join the dance called finance. The economy is like a ballet. Manmade rules of motion. It’s only a system, a procedure. Like a drawing. It’s a way that things keep moving. For nothing. (Hence rousing.) What reason would you postulate instead of nothing? I say it’s meaningless, and that’s why hedge fund managers are Dada. But are they against the real dadas? I say that the urge to freeze change is the only problem. Everything should be discarded.
Mentioning cast or crew from the dustbin of lucre makes me think of Blake’s Urizen. The urge to seize everything, to control. This in turn makes me think of the concept of a horizon, not just because it sounds like the name of Blake’s poetical character: No matter how much wealth one is able to amass, there will always exist what lies beyond one’s reach. This reminds me of some lines from Tennyson’s Ulysses:
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
So much of life consists of one’s attitude toward that “untravell’d world.” Do you love it or hate it? Not that you have to feel precisely one way or the other – mental proclivities need not resemble binary switches. But certain souls tend to loathe newness, as opposed to others who thrill to it. And the former are bad and the latter are good; that’s my judgment. (Thank your stars I’m not the only GOD.)
If you could judge the whole world, would you do so? I would not. Yet I don’t assert this out of humility. I’m more conceited than our nation’s shadow-commander, whoever she happens to be at present. But as much as I am attracted to the notion of opining, I am repelled by…
I would not want to dip my ideas in concrete. That’s what I mean.
On second thought, however, I would gladly judge my creation. I’d reward all the parts of the picture that look how I wanted them to look; then I’d go seek and find all of the parts of the picture that defied my artistic intention, and I would ask them: Why did you stray from my good plan, my superior concept, my vision of paradise? And they’d answer: Your doctrines and covenants would have made the painting bad. And so I’d step back and take another long, hard look at the canvas; then I’d face my critics and say: By golly, you’re right.
But enough of this unexpected agreement. Let’s end with something dismal.
My sweetheart and I awoke complaining about cults this morning, because we both hate our upbringing. We agreed that every human is born helpless: even the strongest of us suffers an hour of weakness following traversal of the matrix. And in that vulnerable zone, one’s caretakers can afflict one with any belief, tick, or habit of thought…
Would it be better if death were easier or harder? I’m not sure about that. Sometimes I lean to this side of the reflection – the airy half of consciousness’s cosmos, as opposed to the oceanic (the lighter side versus the heavy and deep; comedy over tragedy – for our cosmos is a binary switch). Being someone who’s experienced, how do you answer: Is death manageable? I assume that some of the deceased might lean the other way. The trick is…
I was going to say that “dead” is defined as “wholly separated from life” and yet the only way that living beings can receive messages from those who have passed on is by way of one of uncanniness’s ambassadors, therefore the wisdom of semi-born folk is suspect; but then I realized that this is not a dilemma. As it is written: There will never be any more heaven or hell than there is now.