Racist potpourri, but not the kind they can smoke.

My finding myself, my life--one protracted act of vandalism wrested upon the world, the countenance of the thoroughfare, as honest as Kevin farting, as honest as Joey running out of gas on the way to second shift at Popeye's--as honest as a broken appendage, the pain and ache reminding you, little friend, tis horrifyingly real.

They were showing the effects of drugs on the body and the perception, in proportion to the effects of reaming one's anus with prison sex; I thought that a frighteningly honest tact on the part of the evangelists, perhaps even too honest.  "My wife is a prophet, too."  Still not convinced.

I was taking to a guru in the pre-dawn, caffeinated beverage, virgin ass cheeks pulsating at the sage words--why, I bet Erin couldn't work up the gumption for such, and who else, but to do things like shooting off the cuff, and no, I was looking for her on GPS, but sitting, virgin sphincter in a sphere of absolute protection, like a "pocketwatch enveloped in cotton", such that I could write an encyclopedia about even deciding to peruse the philosophy, "Ipkiss's Razor", rather than even broaching the surface like dragonfly on the surface of Walden Pond.

Talking Joseph and democracy, Erin has dickfist, save for utter race to ruin, and ruin in a racial lens, burning too much gas, par for the course, of course, and the other side, with the mystery oil baron deals, and so forth, raking the Democrats over the coals, and this mystical word democracy the bureaucrats and their entourage browbeats with that word, "democracy"; they've worked at it, the Trump news hours and all, pulling us away from other important matters, while the Trump support staff gets Jesus financially when its time to pay the bills, and only then, in the final two weeks, "we've suddenly become fiscally responsible", they say, black and purple rubberized dildoes wobbling above their heads, in the air, with a kind of pride that only the unrecoverably stupid can pull-off to effect.

She leaves Coop a great bowl of nothing in the way of an "opening act", feigning honestly a sub-term course in Government, or, if Trump did something illegal AGAIN, a course maybe in American Government, and I begin to wonder if she actually buys her own consumer goods, like the Democrats, losing absolutely any identification with the shrinking middle class, and the fact that the middle class hates the democrats is perhaps good enough reason to destroy them and put all the middlers into hopeless debt, buying expensive Asian cellphones that pay a dividend to the top 5 percent of the California democrat elite.

Russia watches and laughs, mayhap, and I change the channel and get on about my business, my watches and notions and all sorts of other things.  I buy a 1.25 pack of baseball cards in hope of getting a 17 dollar card that I can flip on Ebay, and I watch them contort too; and we all spiral into a fractalized chaos with the bullhorn of democrat talking points going on, and I'm just waiting for Taylor Swift to split the audience by talking politics: as I advised the staff at my church, that talking politics usually means you lose about half your crowd, "they're for the ni**ers" and all that, and the good old boys--and beyond that, the only real cowboy I ever knew had big mean dogs and donkeys, too, mules.

He was unashamedly gay for his mules.

I reminded me of Clint Eastwood's film, "Flags of our Fathers", where the night lasts a might too long between the assembled marines, and the nonesuch comes forth without even the dignity of a distinguishing light, such that, "any port in a storm", even Natalie Portman, pin-stuck, pinioned to the eastern soil like a starfish, the dim barkspangle of assblood, a tick of it, bought with a tremendous effort of flapping the skin about, and Clint, like he told, we was winning the war, and you look around the Pacific theater, and they're didn't seem to be many ni**ers at all.

"Straight Out Of Black Folks In The Pacific Theater".

"You people need to hit the beach."  Lol.  "You people?!?".

Unless you count Charles Bronson.

Chaos Theory and Conflict Theory, reconfigurations and jitterbugs in the alignments, and me just sitting there thinking they don't even care in the long run, as Sahdguru says, "you're not spinning the world; why constipate yourself?"

I have a dang to give, I suppose, as perhaps a curse on my soul.

a jaunt, Athenadorus regarding it in his own way.

A strange tickle, at my neck, as I walked.  I looked back and saw Athenadorus had taken refuge in the warmth and odour of my footsteps.

I walked on, feeling the flit of the thigh, the motion excreted mostly by the calves;  I had the sky snd trees to entertain me, like a troupe of players on the round, the sky clearing of fogclouds and a breeze whispering among the leaves.

I wondered of Athenadorus, careful and modest in habit, if he would see an approaching vehicle and safely flee; I passed that thought as I took to the rise beyond tge crook, thinking at once to stop at the farmer's heirloom grape.

But I ignored the burning of the lower legs and pushed on, the grade increased, the incline hard and indifferent to my torturing my calves.  I walked almost headlong on the slope, and a yard began to unfurl, a stately old fence, then a vinyl thing, well tended lawn, magnolias, and i could see the intersection, that purely honest and unforgiving stopping place, damp clay comingbinto view more and more: the steep banking of ditches on the knoll.

As i turned i poured the scene into mind, washing in the surrounding, and then surveying for Athenadorus, too much a homebody and saint to have followed, the stoic pet loving enough to perch in my footprints, but yet much too philosophically set into the stone of personality to ever wander  from home, the grand feeding place.

Athenadorus the, back at the place, curled due to the downcast temperatures, set to watch my return, in the chance I would walk into the yard with food.

two birds on a line.

Two birds were perched on a telephone wire, busily eating worms, when one bird said to the other, "isnt there more to life than this."

"This?  What do you mean?"

"We're just sitting here eating worms.  I mean, isnt there more to life than only this?"

"I feel like the answer to life, our reason for existing, has something to do with eating worms."

Parallel Lives: the broken and unbroken line.

The broken line and the unbroken line, amazingly can be said to have lived the same existence, certainly in the same universe, yet they appear differently than one another.  I observe the uneven wear in my pair of shoes, how one deviates sideways, and the other doesnt.

The lines travel, from an indistinct starting point, to a terminus, so distant seemingly that we would dare say "infinity!", but as some mathematicians say, some infinities are not truly limitless, and as such with the life of boyh the broken and unbroken line.

The broken line deviates itself into almost nothingness, and traverses obstacles.  And in our dullness, there is a spark of hope from the whetstone when yhe line re-emerges somewhere straight ahead in the distance, that Prodigal.

Meanwhile, the other line is both a standard and comparatively superlative, and though we attach these traits in mind, we may be lead to ignore the unbroken line, and cast our fascinations on its downcast feral twin.

We urge on, maybe, the walt whitman's among us cheering for the broken line to form itself anew and conquest eternity itself;  meanwhile Oprah has a tv special hour long interview with the unbroken line--Gail King might even claim to share emails with the unbroken line, while the broken line depends on "government assistance".

big goals, little goals, and success comes from lifestyle.

So you make a huge ambituous goal, and after the initial enthusiasm wears off, it begins to seem impossible, unlikely, and like too much effort.  Such is the expression "pie in the sky", referring to usually a dreamlike ambition that seems quite improbable.

But what if you broke a huge goal into smaller pieces?  We live that way: hours add to form days, days form weeks, weeks form months, and then years.

So they say, a lot of great goals require a daily effort to grow and improve, whether its life, "wellness", or even learning a foreign language.  But think of bodybuilders and fashion models.  We can all wish for their aesthetic, their appeal, but only daily work can bring such results.

In my own time, i create an overall fitness goal.  I then place a goal for the year, to be evaluated on december 31.  But then their are months, weeks, and days.  I look at it every day, and sometimes from hour to hour.

Hours makes days, and days make weeks.  Enough of these stringed together create an overall successful campaign towards a goal.

Not daily wishing, but putting in the work.  Oh the fitness stars are amazing, but i have a much lower fitness level and couldnt hope to indulge in their workouts, nor could i hope for their results without the effort.

How to grow huge muscles if one doesnt like strength training?  Or cultivate a gorgeous tan without sitting in the hot sun?

None of these things are simply handed to people, but with the ease of presentation, we could easily be lulled into thinking we can have the results too easily.

We make a daily goal then, with additional weekly benchmarks, and we press firm on the hours when we feel up to it, or when our schedules allow:  there is no better way.

Its a lifestyle that achieves that goal, not a wish.  If you can sustain the lifestyle, then the goal is apt to come to you, but otherwise, can you make a more modest goal? Can you set reasonable benchmarks?

Cashapp cashtag $origen1979

"Where is God?" redux and addenda: Hume and Spinoza/

So I had wrote a devotional piece entitled "Where is God?".  In that piece, I postulate that God is basically in an around everything, by virtue of it being said that He knows all: in other words, the two conditions amount to basically the same omnipotence, whether He is or isn't in everything.

So here I go reading Hume, and he's pulling apart everything we think we know, poking doubt holes in the veracity of our thoughts, our senses, and saying that in the end we meet uncertainty in the form of confusion which begets indifference.

And he mentions God.

He says that Spinoza and Theologians would point out that God is in everything, that everything is a piece or component of God.  

Mind, I'm mildly educated in Theology, serving some eighteen months at a Bible Institute.

So I guess I'm partly in the camp of Spinoza and the Theologians, pointing to God, not as impossible or improbable, not as silent and unapproachable, or unproven, but certainly as very real and substantial as our natural world as we see it.

And asked to prove God, I would point to Hume's skepticism, and demand of them to disprove God, or conversely, prove anything about the natural world.

 

Productivity: simplified goals and at least one lesson learned from the prior week.

There are people that stick to those short lists.  "Five priorities".  "Top Three Goals."

The trick is to devote the majority of your work to those few goals, nevermind smaller less significant tasks, but the most important, going after those from the start.

Any smaller item then, would service the larger item, or, in other words, support that larger goal, such as making ancillary calls or emails, fetching supplies and so forth.

But another big technique is to make a statement of at least one lesson learned from the prior week.  Do this between Saturday afternoon and start of business Monday morning.

One lesson.

If you pull one lesson from the prior week, then the prior week was in no way wasted. 

In that respect, one can claim or believe in some way, they have learned and improved over a period of time.

Write it down: that lesson learned.  Make a note of it, lest it get lost in the daily grind.

They say some of the most successful people in the world get up really early in the morning.  During that time, some read books, podcasts, audiobooks, consume news.  And some make their lists.

Make your list.

Mark down that lesson learned from the past week.

Cashapp cashtag $origen1979

quantum entanglement and the analog computer of the mind: a thought.

The brain, as a weird flesh analog computer, frustrates science.

As it is known, the computer system as we know it is modeled in general after the layout of the mind.  With processing and memory separate, and so forth.

However, each little piece of the nerves of the mind contain a wealth of dedicated connections to other nerves.  What really frustrates science is that so much of that is used at any given time, and, having converted biochemical into pure electricity, we find that the brain usually only vaguely sips at its power supply, unlike the IBM Personal Computer that was inspired by the brain.........

Not just a maze of nerves, but a maze of interconnections is the brain, its a wonder, in the indeterminate haze of meshwork nerve connections, that so many don't overlap and intermingle unintentionally: or do they?  Is such interconnection quite the stuff of life?  The source of odd associations in thought and memory.

This is the "quantum entanglement" of the mind: the seemingly unintended interconnection and interaction between various sections of the mind......

Deity and the Tao, and how odd it sounds explaining to the non contemplative.

So, in the indeterminate fog between heart and mind lies the Tao, and the Tao is basically an expression not of doubt, but an expression of God.

Follow me on this.

God is not "indefinite", for whatever the word connotates, indefinite, for that seems to imply limitation, but more aptly defying human understanding, at the absolute infinite best, most wise, most connected and so forth.  Think of this indefinite quality as an infinity, a superlative that we can point to, but in no way define.

A however vague perception of God, with a complete lack of apprehending a qualification or quantification is the Tao, that foggy concept that we can give a name, but not totally grasp: we can point in its general direction, we can say what it is not, but that's as far as our definitions find purchase.

We only approach this through a synthesis, a process, the faculty of the emotional sensibility and actual sensory input, along with all the benefit of our experience, along with the rational mind: a heart and mind process.  Kant's synthesis of induction and deduction thoughts both readily apparent, and thoughts we come to after some deliberation.

Deliberation on God, the synthetic process of "heart and mind" then, is what so many call "contemplation"; I had a rumination in a doctor's office just yesterday about this, about God and threads that hold us all together.  The doctor admitted confusion at my statement, and in that, I thought maybe I had not been clear enough in my words, that it was my fault.

Consider I was expressing something of the Tao, something that perturbs understanding, and give me the benefit of not, upon an improvised prompt, explaining the ties that bind life and reality all together.  No one has ever crossed this threshold, be it a philosopher, theologian, or preacher.

 

Aquinas and apologetics and spiritual fathers. On challenging atheists to disprove God.

I was listening to a thing about Aquinas, the first article in the Summa, on proofs of God, with argument, counter-argument, and a proposed resolution.  Rather, I think I would start challenging the doubters to disprove God, for my Theology is strong; He has done and continues to do, to work, to move, in and out of our persons for the good of all, not just one: and the apologist point that "i have good plans for you", and then with catastrophe try God's love on them.

I would challenge them to affect a counter to God, if they disbelieve.

My own spiritual father suffered the death of a daughter, in the bloom of her life, the girl well-loved certainly, and the family wounded, but strong, came back together mostly.

The fate of his daughter gave the Christian testimony of my spiritual father a gravity, a hard pull.  I observed of what remained, they were examples, and mostly doing well, trying well, living well, and loving well.

Such that one event pulls some more than a dozen people into a better life.  What then is that one event, when so much good results?

I noted of my own, watching the Prime Movers disappear, the Greatest Generation, and active and generative among the others disappear, does it not kick us in our complacency and call us to better?

Well some of us.  

Maybe the others just morn the past.

Its like staying awake in the night, and missing the morning for something that no longer exists.  Why, we can only make do with what we have, and we are afforded few enough opportunities to reach past our own spot at the dinner table, are we not?

Not life, as the Bible says, but Life more abundantly.

The tao of stars and blank space.

All the stars of the sky: the penumbra, such that the blackness of the void is accentuated by punctuations, that the brightness makes the darkness seem all the more important, and conversely, the darkness gives importance and solemnity to the light.

Such as smiling on a morning, in the beautiful illuminating sunlight.  Without the preceding darkness, the light has no sweetness, and then also, factored-in, what is to come.

Dissipations and random usurpings and so forth, having it and on of things, people, and those people's things, such that, as it is, using is less sweet when that is the mean or mode, and charity is less sweet when it is the only way.

Such is the tao, the contrasts and the definition laying like fog in the middle; that too, definition, such as muscular definition, and fog, that which is without definition, lie in harmony, and somewhere in between, we sense, but cannot put the words the Tao, the truth.

It is not on the ground.

It is not up the mountain.

Along the way, however, you will sense it and agree, without being able to put it into words.

Somewhere in the universe so vast, there might be a speculum or caliper that could probe the truth and put it to a term that has definition, but would we recognize it?  Would we protest that it was yet something else, and the measurement itself must be wrong?  Demonize the measuring committee of scientists?

 

The "Wayne Lee Ray" Theorem.

It was a regional thing, an observation by a pundit.  "It's always someone like that--one of those, a Wayne, Lee, or Ray, or combination of all three."  The baddies on the news, that is, the assassins, mass-murderers and other that seem to go on to infamy, a "Wayne Lee Ray", a three-named angry little Napoleon that reaches out in dissipation, hoping for a moment of fame, infamy, or even satisfaction by doing something remarkable in the common discourse, such as an assassination of a famous person or something else that pockmarks history.

The theorem was postulated by a radio personality(WBT in Charlotte), a libertarian that had a popular radio spot only on one station.  He seemed a free thinker, but also conscious to some extent of shocking people; he hanged up the phone several times on the Charlotte Motor Speedway owner, for the sake of a point, and to seemingly maintain a veneer of integrity in disagreeing a point.

A commercial for a Hyundai dealership, he did; so he was not without means or pull, and the big station had a good talk radio market share before the syndicated boys came for his time slot, a dunderheaded Limbaugh clone lined-up to complain their way into the top slot.

"Train-wreck tv" by the admission of FNC on-air people, the litany of complaints that pass for entertainment, and the endless pandering to one sliver of the demographic: who they think cares, but then, you pander to the people that draw advertisers, and people the spend money draw advertisers.  Its such to wonder that people consuming that sort of media spend money at all, besides stockpiling silver or something, something suitably fearmongering and counter-culture, busy not doing that "in a small town".

"Its always one of those guys: Wayne, Lee, or Ray."  Three names, triple the dissipation, call him what his momma and grandmomma called him, get WBTV to interview the parents.

I remember another trope of personifying cars, such that, "an SUV injured a man", and so forth, the endless quest for the bleed that leads, for what sells, and here I am, but ten fingers and impetus towards telling you what-for.

Erin's drug-addicted lover, a keiler without a victim, having not decided which Hill to die on, but putting a pretty good quick burn to his own reserves, and making his life an epic poem dedicated to dissipation.

doubt and context in philosophy: on reading a doubting utilitarian.

Endeavor I to carve my own peculiar, distinctive, fingerprint-specific notch on this brave new future?

Being in nature, part of the natural world, as stated earlier, how then is anything whatsoever that we do, in any fashion, particularly un-natural?

Ripping the context out of facts and perceptions, this Utilitarian thing I'm reading saps all meaning out of everything, such as the Big Lebowski quote, where he says, "that's just your opinion, man".

Its the subjective, epistemology, the small internal world of someone manifesting as the truth of reality; we are fortunate that few of such people write our texts, and they are usually confined to networks on the Meta platform, where they live that great egoist daydream, masturbating the lobes of their own minds, gently, sweetly, and the rest of us stare in abject disbelief.

But even disbelief is an epistemology, and the meme fireballer is the modern beat-writer, the contrarian of the edge, Dank, as it were.

How do we ever get through with zero belief?  Is it all using things as a means to an end, and without belief?  Are we swinging randomly?

Have I seen my own mark on this cube of thought and not recognized it for what it is?

Is it motivation or is it holding you back? On pain, motivation, and some good and evil in the mix.

He was brow-beating himself, almost even taken to pistol-whipping his own self, all over past mistakes and missed opportunities--chances he threw in the dumper.  Finally, in abject fatigue, numbed by that, he began to sing "Let It Be".  He let it just be, as it was, without clarification, quantification, or any kind of qualification, just sitting, in its own sour putrefying dust cloud.

It was Captain James Tiberius Kirk that said he would be know good as a person if some telepath magically removed his past, his source of emotional pain; he would be no good because that stuff drove him, pushed him to succeed in the more advanced portion of his life.  "I need my pain", he said.

And then he successfully completed a mission, facing down an ultra-powerful entity in what may have been the center of the universe.

With his pain.

It was stuntifying at all, but a source of energy and positive motivation, unlike some who sit at the television hating the world; or by that token, sit at the world, and hate the television, like Laura and Shawn-baun, dejectedly, but energetically pushing their own Pullman car ever forward into a dark environ that they also already dislike, their own self-made futures, the prognostication that they themselves scrawled on themselves like Pagan tattoos.

Conversely, so many would rather give themselves electrical shocks than sit with their own thoughts; myself, iced coffee in hand, welcome the opportunity so oft, not to electrocute myself, but to indulge a thought.

Prince Prospero, looking remarkably like Vincent Price, had turned away from his own thoughts and sought after something much more, something of some Creator entity.  He abducted a peasant girl, and the men closest to her in life, and Prince Prospero watched her in the bathtub, musing that "she had never known sin" and he promised his glaring half-wit counterparts that he would show the girl some sin, in fact, and it was a horror thing, not with chainsaws and rusted blades, or nefarious ghosts, but just a local dignitary of a bad turn of mind, seeking to corrupt a innocent young woman, who also happened to be gorgeous.

His evil thoughts and intentions were as much the sharp knife of the unstoppable keiler that would come for the girl; his own cold fingers etched a promise of something that would not be as easy as just being killed.

So, on a dual track, philosophically, he looked into things, some evil, some..... something of touching the Creator.  And he would elapse his own course, either discovering something of a nefariously indulgent spiritualism, or dying with teeth bared after having had a life of some rather expensive dissipations with the niceties of others being so far corrupted and turned into pure victimhood.

"It was a two-tiered agenda".

It was just the old, eins zwei, polit, zei, football with plenty of balls, but no feet to speak of, beggars at the table, and the subsequent rooms, ended by the black room into which precious few were admitted, where the clock stood on midnight.  Purple, Yellow, Orange.....  Red for the little peasant girl and Consumption, Consumption coming to have a go at all who had not proper sanitation and so forth, the daemon Tuberculosis hanging like a death fog over all, and as was said, and encapsulated from the short story to the Roger Corman film, "the Red Death held sway over all".

My question: should your life story be that you had a rough time, that held on so many years?  Should an early pockmark be the defining moment?  Or are those defining moments yet to come?  If you held the past, is it helping at all, or does it need to be, just like some burning wreckage, let adrift on its own, without taking down the entire ship of spirit?

Can we philosophically look into things, the natural things or even the spiritual things, while, on that dual-track, also divest into seeking the Creator?