LIFE ON A CAROUSEL; Lust, Life and Love

05 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical, Short Stories

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LUST

I have put the bookmarker between the pages of Calvino’s “Invisible Cities” and closed the book. My mind swirls in the whirlpool of thoughts, ideas and allusions that he has left behind.

I damn Calvino for where he has abandoned me; half way between reality and fantasy, half way between myself and his self, half way between logic and emotion, half way between a dying king and a traveling dreamer.

My mind spins in an ether of half-thoughts, half-ideas and half-emotions; none of them yet fulfilled. My half-intellect says “Stay here.”

My half-human rebuts; “Turn on the television — escape this unsettling madness — avoid thinking.”

I succumb to my thoughts, my madness.

The foggy ether of this mental confusion is disrupted by a slight breeze; not a real breeze but rather a Calvino breeze somewhere in my own mind. It whisks away half of the fogginess. I see something whirling, spinning, turning. The breeze stops and the fog returns. I see nothing.

Then a bit of the fog lifts and the spinning whirligig returns. It does not hang from the ceiling or wall but appears to be on my own plane, my own level. It slows – – – and then slows some more. The rotational speed appears to have its own half-life. And then I hear a half-voice, here, yet at a distance.

“Do not dismount until we come to a complete stop.”

The command is obeyed and my muscles freeze waiting for the spinning mass to halt. Finally, in rejection of its own half-life, it stops. Children jump from it and run around the circular mass seeking an exit while excitedly hollering;

“Mommy – – – can we do it again?”

The fog completely clears yet my mind is only half-functional. I hear but do not see.

Dazedly I sit here; one, two, three or more minutes. A whistle is blown, a small bead in its bowels spins to give the whistle a shrill and deafening staccato. My mind’s eye opens and I find myself standing in front of a carousel. The children have disappeared.

The staccato whistle blows a second time. A decision must be made; the carousel starts with a spasm. I jump aboard and desperately hang on to a shiny bronze pole. The pole is attached to the floor and then disappears up in the canopy.

As the carousel gains speed, against its own half-life, a base drum beat begins; unaccompanied. The carousel accelerates yet the drum beat remains the constant. Then, suddenly, a crash of cymbals makes me grasp the bronze pole tighter. A set of snare drums joins the cacophony of percussions. I wish to cover my ears but am afraid to let loose of the bronze pole.

Finally, an old circus organ joins the percussions to make a bearable sound. All is more peaceful except for the wheezing old bellows that make up the lungs of the half-circus half-carousel organ.

My mind, on its own volition, decides it wishes to conjure up new thoughts. I release my grip on the bronze pole and leap up on a wooden horse. Nothing new occurs to me. The horse is stationary except for the circular motion of the carousel. I see other thought-horses that look more promising than this circular half-motioned one.

My eyes seek a more energetic equine as I dismount. I see one to my liking, put my foot in the stirrup, and take to the saddle as the horse rises in the air.

My thoughts explode as my new ride rises up and down. The automaton band appears and disappears with regularity. The master of the carousel keeps a close eye on me as he holds up his whistle. He appears to threaten that he will curtail these thoughts that I seek.

And so I ride the Dionysus horse as fast as possible. I cajole and take the strap to him. However, he appears set on one pace; his own. The automaton band takes on a Doppler effect as we travel nearer to it then farther from it. The wheezing of the bellows seems to belie the healthy sound of the organ.

Then, unexpectedly, on the horizon, through the caged fence that keeps the children at bay, through a sparse stand of maples, beyond the border of lilacs, I see a train. It travels on one of two tracks that divide my home city into two halves.

The Dionysus mount gallops on at full speed. I see my first love. She meets me in the dark. We hold each other tightly, almost afraid to let each other go.

I see a man offering me an excellent job in his factory; second shift. I accept it. The carousel continues its circular path to nowhere. Another vision appears; I leave work early to see my first love. I see, instead, my nemesis exiting my first love’s door. The fog overcomes the carousel once more.

When it lifts, I remain astride Dionysus. He gallops forward to show me a second love; one that I keep physically close but emotionally at bay. I cannot bear to view my nemesis a second time. My second love draws nearer; I wish to draw away, to retreat from memories, avoid possible pain, to escape.

As my mount, Dionysus, comes around full circle, for what appears to be the thousandth time, I find myself in uniform. I am in yet another half-city. In one half the soldiers are marching and practicing with their weapons. In the other half some airplanes take the soldiers to war while the remaining planes practice with their weapons.

I have foolishly escaped my second love.

Dionysus carries me between these four half-cities; the two halves of my hometown and the two halves of the city of war.

With precise regularity the carousel master shows me his whistle. Once again, I dig my spurs into Dionysus. He surprises me with a flight into the air. Below I see the two halves of my home town. I see an adulteress on the northern half-city. I see myself approaching her. We meet. She seems unconcerned.

“He works nights” she says.

Dionysus turns his eyes away as we get to know each other’s desires. We part as we met, not knowing or caring about each other.

Dionysus whinnies and shudders his flanks. We take to the air once more. This time we fly over the southern half-city-half-home town. I see another adulteress. I see myself approaching her. We meet. She seems unconcerned.

“He work nights” she mimes the first one.

Again, Dionysus turns his head to avoid the vision of my failings. I take leave of the adulteress without caring and she returns the favor. Yet something haunts me. I find myself astride Dionysus. My stallion carries me through the fog. I pat the wooden horse on the neck to thank him for his service. A tear rolls down his cheek and washes away my fog. A shriek escapes my throat;

“I have become my own nemesis.”

LIFE

The carousel master blows his whistle. I have begun to hate its sound. The mechanism comes to a stop long after the automaton has stopped playing its music. I ask the carousel master if I may stay on.

“All must exit and then return” he states.

I hurriedly jump off the carousel, exit the gate, run the half-circle around the cage, attempting, but not yet wishing to, shove some of the children aside, to ensure I get a horse on the carousel. I find the entrance and am successful. The carousel master smiles wryly at me and motions me aboard. The base drum booms, the carousel moves, the cymbals crash, the snare drums rattle and the ride starts anew. The automaton band plays to a different tune while the bellows continue to wheeze.

I jump aboard before the carousel reaches full speed. The floor is made of eight sections of boardwalk; forty-five degrees each. As I glance toward Dionysus he looks the other way; choosing not to make eye contact for fear of being exposed to any more debauchery. I understand that he is embarrassed by me.

A new mount catches my eye. It is a war horse. He is a sturdy mount, black in color except for a white star shape on his forehead. He also sports white spats that attempt to hide his massive hooves.

There is no saddle that will ever fit this beast. He is controlled with large halters of thick reins leather. A soft padded collar encircles his neck. Half of its job is to connect the reins. The other half is to connect the bit. On this collar are two large brass balls, each mounted atop posts above this collar. I have no idea of their purpose.

There is no holding me back. As Bucephalus is lifted up and down by a hidden mechanism I leap on his bare back. He shifts left and right to adjust for my weight. I give him a pat on his wooden neck and he settles down.

The carousel master leaps aboard and walks his domain checking for violators of his rules. His whistle is held high for all to see. This threat of exile escapes no one’s attention. He approaches me and stops. I tense up as does Bucephalus. The carousel master inspects Bucephalus’ general stature. He smiles approvingly at my choice of steeds. Holding his whistle up, for my benefit only, he places it firmly in his pocket, as if to say “You are now on your own.”

With that not said, he leaps off and approaches the music automaton. I lose sight of him. The music stops. I see him as I round the bend. He is changing something. Yes! I see him removing the perforated paper roll that contains the music program. A new roll is held up high; it appears, once again, to be for my benefit only. It is oil-stained and yellowed. On my next rotation I can see him feeding the leading edge into a device adjacent to the wheezing bellows; who at the moment have nothing to sing about.

And then all of the instruments play individually; independent of each other. The cymbals crash, the snare drums rattle, the organ plays off-tune and the base drum beats rapidly, like a heart that has been frightened. Then, slowly, they seem to catch up to each other. All play to the same beat. However, something is amiss. The circus organ only plays two notes; one high, one low. It is interesting, however, I feel the rhythm of monotony.

Bucephalus appears not to have heard or seen what I have seen. Yet, the beat of his hooves match the beat of the music. I lean to one side and forward to peer into his eyes. They remain fierce and determined. I feel safe.

The music becomes a drone, the monotony turns to tedium and ennui. The tone-lessness of it forces me to realize that the organ is no longer playing. Only the crash, boom and rattle of the percussions remain. I check Bucephalus again. His determination glares from his eyes.

Thank God I have Bucephalus.

The fog rolls in. All is obscured from me. My only sense of direction comes from the din of the drums and cymbals:

“BOOM, CRASH, RATTLE”

It is deafening yet comforting to have something, anything, exciting my senses, allowing me to escape the void of the fog that surrounds me.

The fog lifts. Half of the children are gone. It is more than perplexing, it is eerie. Half of the horses are gone; I remain astride Bucephalus. He continues his three dimensional stride; vertical, horizontal and circular. Bucephalus shudders but keeps his pace and then I see what he has sensed.

Half the children and their wooden horses have been replaced by machines; lathes, drill presses, forges, milling machines, planers, saws and even large punch presses that stamp out metallic parts. The brass rods that have driven the horses have been replaced by foot-wide leather belts. Each machine is driven by its own belt connected to a shaft. Each shaft is connected by gears to the central axle which is driven by the rotation of the carousel. The entire mass has become an automaton of perpetual motion.

The din of the percussion instruments has been replaced by the slapping and squealing of the leather belts as they slip on their pulleys. The entire automaton groans under the load; the mimesis of an old wooden ship straining under duress.

“SLAP, SQUEAL, GROAN”

The carousel master leaps aboard and blows his shrill whistle. The remaining children dismount, each going to his pre-assigned machine. The whistle is blown a second time and the children busy themselves, each with his own task; yet in unison.

“LIFT, FEED THE MACHINE, PRESS THE LEVER”

With each rotation of the carousel a child becomes tired. The master observes this slowing of production. He walks silently up behind the exhausted child and blows his whistle. The child, without looking askance, leaps back into production shaking and trembling.

I sense a strong breeze, as does Bucephalus. The breeze picks up into a wind. Bucephalus breaks stride and reaches a full gallop hoping to find shelter. I hold tightly on to his neck. The wind appears to encircle the carousel. The two, Bucephalus and the wind, increase their speed in unison. The roof protecting the carousel lifts off. Heavy rains, a deluge, falls everywhere. The children and machines are swept away. Only Bucephalus and I remain. The force of the rain stings my eyes like needles. I close them.

Much like it started, the wind and rain are abated. I open my eyes slowly, afraid of what they may observe. Unexpectedly I find the carousel, once again, divided in half. Not physically but culturally.

One-half carousel is occupied by the captains of industry, the other half-carousel by politicos. The captains sit behind ornate fruitwood desks. The desks appear to give the captains a sense of power, confidence and legitimacy. The politicos sit all in a row behind massive oaken tables. The tables appear to lend unity to their political goals.

Everything is silent in the half-city of industry. The men sit quietly, hardly moving a muscle, except for one or the other blinking and then attempting to act as if he never blinked.

Four lawyers huddle off to the side mumbling between themselves.

Two of them split off to whisper something in the politicos’ ears.

The politicos give a synchronized nod of approval. The lawyers convene again.

The two other lawyers walk over to the captains and whisper something in their collective ears. The captains nod in agreement, open their desk drawers and hand over large bundles of currency.

The money is collected by the captain’s lawyers and then given over to the politico’s lawyers for a simple handshake and a smile. The money is then deposited on the large oaken table in front of the politicos. There is a mad scramble between the politicos who are trying to grab as many bundles as possible. A few bills fall to the floor. These, with great prestidigitation, find their way into various pockets.

All parties of this half-city leave with a smile of satisfaction.

The fog rolls back in.

When the fog leaves my eyes observe that the city has deteriorated into nothingness. Only the hulks of empty factories remain here and there.

LOVE

I find myself on an empty carousel. There are no horses, only ornate and empty benches. They are painted with gaudy colors and figures; yellow walruses, blue lions, green fish and heliotrope dogs.

The carousel master motions for me to take a seat. I select the blue lions.

Love has become illusive.

FALSE HYDROPHOBIA

24 Sunday Jun 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Critical Thinking, Half Truths, Innuendo, Lies, Media, Politics

(False Rabies and Fear of Drinking Water)

In the mid to late 1890’s, the forerunner of our printed magazines were monthly newspapers. One such newsmagazine was “The North American Review”. In Volume 151, No. 405, published in August, 1890, pages 167-172 were devoted to an article by A. Hammond, M. D., Surgeon-General, United States Army (Retired).

“There,” he stated, “are very few persons who are not more or less under the influence of ‘suggestion.’ They seem to be endowed with comparatively low powers of original action, and to be moved to an extent scarcely normal by the facts and circumstances that surround them.”

“A woman, for instance, overwhelmed with misfortune and weary of life, commits suicide by swallowing paris green [a toxic crystalline salt of copper and arsenic], and straightway we read in the daily press of other women who have had no previous knowledge of the poisonous effects of paris green, taking their lives in like manner.”

The more unusual the story, the more probability there is that some persons will adopt it.

Doctor Hammond continues, “Several years ago, a man confined in the Tombs Prison, in the city of New York, killed himself by cutting his femoral artery. Within a few days several persons destroyed themselves by cutting the femoral artery”.

Another case stated by the doctor was, “A man who, thinking he was being bled to death while his eyes were bandaged, and a stream of warm water … flowing over his arm, actually died within the normal period with symptoms that would have ensued had he really died from hemorrhage.”

“A professor of anatomy, while making a post-mortem examination of a man who had cut his throat and who had died after several days of great suffering, said to his servant, who was assisting him, ‘Hans, whenever you have a mind to cut your throat, don’t do it in so blundering a way as did this fellow, here is the place to cut,’ pointing to the region of the carotid artery. Up to this time Hans had been a happy and well-disposed man, with apparently no thought of suicide. Yet that night he went home and cut his throat.”

There seems to be, in fact, no limit to the Power of Suggestion with some persons. Objectives can be made to assume any form that the suggestor (sic) pleases.

Doctor Hammond states a case within his own experiences. “Thus, a lady who is a wonderfully sensitive subject to this influence came under my professional charge for some slight derangement of her nervous system. If I told her that a book was a watch, it became, so far as she was concerned, an actual watch. If I put a piece of ice in her hand and told her it was boiling water, she shrieked with pain and declared that I scalded her. If, while the sun was shining, I told her that the rain was coming down in torrents, she at once began to lament her sad plight in being so far from home without an umbrella and would beg me to call a carriage for her. Every one of her senses could be imposed upon in like manner; and I have frequently controlled the action of her heart, making its pulsations slower or more rapid in accordance with the spoken suggestion. There is no doubt that, if I had put a little flour in her mouth, at the same time telling her that it was strychnine and describing the symptoms of death by strychnine, she would have died with all the phenomena of poisoning with that powerful substance; or that, if I had pointed an unloaded pistol at her head and had cried “Bang!” she would fall dead to the floor. All this sounds very much like hypnotism, but this lady was not in that state.”

Surgeon General Hammond then moves on to talk about the Power of Suggestion as it applies to the title of his article in “The North American Review”; False Hydrophobia (False Rabies and Fear of Drinking Water).

“That such a disease as [rabies], with such strongly marked characteristics, should, under the action of the principle of suggestion, be simulated by hysterical or other nervous persons, is not a matter for surprise. Every year, as the summer approaches, the newspapers contain accounts of cases of so-called hydrophobia which, to the practiced judgment of the physician, seem to be entirely due to the imagination of the sufferer. It is clearly important that such a disorder should be prevented, for not only does great distress ensue, but even death itself has not unfrequently been the consequence. As several instances of the kind have come under my personal observation, I may perhaps be allowed to speak with some authority on the subject.”

“It may be said, in the very beginning of our consideration of the subject, that the victim of false [rabies] can only have those symptoms of which he has knowledge. Unfortunately, the real disease has received so much notice from newspapers and other popular publications that a tolerably correct knowledge of its phenomena has been acquired by the laity. Hence, we find that the picture ordinarily presented by the unconscious simulator is, at least to cursory observation, not unlike the real affection. There are, however, great differences, which the educated physician will not fail to detect, and which will enable him to do what has never been yet done with real [rabies]; cure the patient. Hydrophobia never originate in the human subject at least, except by [a bite injecting saliva] from a rabid animal, and death always occurs in four or five days after the development of the disease .”

The doctor then relates several cases, similarly dependent to the power of suggestion as those above, where people have thought they had rabies (and acted as if they had rabies). Several cases went months beyond the period when the patient would have normally died, yet they and the animals that bit them continued to live. Most of these false cases of rabies were due to another individual casually – or jokingly — suggesting that the bitten person appears a little different since being bitten.

Here is where I depart from the good doctor.

I do not depart from him on the power of suggestion but rather on the symptoms being politically idealistic as opposed to being medical. Allow me to clarify. We citizens of the USA appear to be leaning far left or far right. We argue on Twitter and Facebook about what is correct, what is incorrect, or who is despicable and who is virtuous. We appear to have divided our country into two separate nations.

For this I blame the media – and — ourselves. We listen to the networks or channels that bolster our own views. Ditto for the ‘social media’ and print media. And as The Bard once said, “Therein, lays the rub.” Each side, liberal or conservative, now has ammunition, ready at hand, to attack the other side. But is this ammunition powerful enough to convince the other side? I think not. Most of this ammunition is only the Power of Suggestion and since the other side is not open to your suggestions then nothing occurs other than the possibility of destroying a good friendship.

Those who were once good friends are now “do-gooders” or “socialists willing to destroy their own country.” On the other side are old friends who are now “racists” and “homophobes.” What has happened since the beginning of a new millennia?

In my opinion it is the media who feeds us only what we want to hear. There are the reporters who mime what other reporters of the same ilk have stated as news. It typically is opinion and innuendo. I speak of both sides; liberal and conservative. I do not have to name names. You know who the reporters, broadcasters, channels, pundits and social media contributors are. Each of us listen or read the “news” as reported by our own favorite personalities.

I have nothing more to say and only hope that I have planted a seed that says, “Let’s apply a little more critical thinking.” Let’s not be overcome by “The Power of Suggestion” that cause False Idealism.

However, allow us to have a “Fear of Drinking the Kool-Aid” that we are offered on an hourly basis.

IT’S ALL IN THE INTERPRETATION

18 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 5 Comments

Herr Marx told me, before he died,

That he saw capitalism with an appetite so wide,

That it could never be satisfied.

So he built a philosophy, a social theory,

That was so altruistic; it made my eyes teary,

But woe and alas, the Academy remained leery.

Well, round and round went the interpretations,

Creating worldwide chaos, and revolutionary vibrations,

Shaking both monarchies and industrial nations.

But capitalism remains rampant, to this day,

And 99% of us work for hourly pay,

Are panopticism and surveillance here to stay?

Inner conflicts and strife are a proposed solution,

Tried and true methods, of every revolution,

Experimentation continues in each Academic institution.

So do not engage Capitalistic destruction,

Own a machine, or engage in profitable production,

And tune in to Rush Limbaugh, for daily instruction.

Why We Elect Leaders Who Will Fight the “Deep State”

08 Thursday Mar 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

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. . . I see an innumerable multitude of men, alike and equal, constantly circling around in pursuit of the petty and banal pleasures with which they glut their souls. Each one of them, withdrawn into himself, is almost unaware of the fate of the rest. Mankind, for him, consists in his children and his personal friends. . . . He exists in and for himself. . . . Over this kind of men stands an immense, protective power which is alone responsible for securing their enjoyment and watching over their fate. That power is absolute, provident, and gentle. . . . It gladly works for their happiness but wants to be sole agent and judge of it. . . . It covers the whole of social life with a network of petty, complicated rules that are both minute and uniform. . . . It does not break men’s will, but softens, bends, and guides it . . . it is not at all tyrannical, but it hinders, restrains, enervates, stifles, and stultifies so much that in the end each nation is no more than a flock of timid and hardworking animals with the government as its shepherd.

Alexis de Tocqueville
French diplomat

He who thinks a great deal is not suited to be a party man: he thinks his way through the party and out the other side too soon.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Human, All Too Human (1878)

XCIII
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.

From:The Rubaiyat

By Omar Khayyam

Written 1120 A.C.E.

Calvino, Marco and Kublai

04 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 4 Comments

Kublai Khan’s empire stretched wide and vast,

spread out so that he could not visit every last,

territory and village which he ruled far and wide,

age kept him in his castle – – – locked up inside.

Obliged to beg Marco Polo “What was seen?”

“Tell me of things in every city you can glean.”

They spoke different languages, the king bade,

“Marco tell me of those things my people made.”

They spoke rarely in between Marco’s lectures,

Kublai saw his empire via simple conjectures,

the story pictured cities – – quite philisophical,

this story and that story are not chronological.

by W. Tomosky ©

An Indecent Descent (SURVIVAL)

26 Monday Feb 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

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Introduction

This image of the world is mine. I realized that humans had similar thoughts. I knew that I had to call this to your attention after reading the preface to “The Order of Things; An Archaeology of the Human Sciences” by Michael Foucault. I paraphrase him:

“out of the laughter that shattered . .. … all the familiar landmarks my thought – our thought, . .. … breaking up all the ordered surfaces . .. … and planes . .. … and threaten our distinctions between Same and Other . .. … This passage [from one of Jorge Luis Borges’ stories] quotes a certain Chinese encyclopedia in which it is written that animals are divided into [the following categories]:

Belonging to the Emperor

Embalmed

Tame

Suckling pigs

Sirens

Fabulous

Stray dogs

Included in present classification

Frenzied

Innumerable

Drawn with a very fine camel hair brush

Et cetera

Just broken the water pitcher

That from . .. … a long way off . .. … look like flies

. .. … that by a great leap . .. … the fable . .. … [demonstrates]

Another system of thought [that shows] the limitation of our own . .. …”

Both Foucault and I were incited to new mental images by Borges. Foucault wrote a philosophical treatise. The best I could come up with was my autobiography. The following is my image of a world were truth is not what it appears to be and science is simply a rationale.

A Voyage

My name is “ w@Fz*T ” and I realize that it is hard to pronounce in any language. Therefore we can skip the formality and you can simply call me “2.”

I was all energy, pure energy; all of the time. You would say I was 100% energy – – – – but I would not. Yet I was all energy all of the time.

And I was all colors, all the time and you would say 100% of the time – – – – but I would not. Yet I was all colors all of the time.

But mostly, I was pure truth, all of the time. I would say I was totally and only truth. But you would not. You see, I could not speak truth for I could not speak. I could not think truth for I could not think. I simply knew what truth was. I contained truth. You would say I was 100% truth but I would only agree to being all truth.

I was continually orgasmic; all the time. It was pure ecstasy. All energy all colors, all orgasmic, all truthful; all the time.

But don’t confuse my orgasms with your sex; just like you are confusing your percentages with my being. Right now you believe that I total 400% – – – but I said “I would not.”

And please, do not confuse yourself by using your systems of math, order, or meta-whatevers in attempting to determine who I am. Just relax and come along for the ride. It will all become clear as we move along.

Like I started to say; I was all energy all of the time, all light all of the time, all colors all of the time, all truth and only truth all of the time, all orgasmic all of the time, all ecstasy all of the time, always vibrant all of the time, always brilliant (in all of its meanings) all of the time, always present, everlasting, eternal and using my built-in mobius map as a guide for my travels.

With all these attributes and no enemies, no destination, and being perfectly happy, I was not required to think. In fact; I had no capacity to think. You think thoughts; sometimes this is your end desire, only to think thoughts. I did not.

Do not jump to conclusions. There was One greater who preceded me; eternal also. Do not use your concept of time or you will only continue to confuse yourself. Just follow along – – – – – PLEASE.

So there I was, traveling on a perfectly straight path, always returning to where I had started. It was not boring for I had never been there before; even though it looked familiar.

Then one day (your solar tables not mine) there it was; right behind me. My Predecessor had left His earth right behind my path.

As I sped forward, totally lost in hind-site, my mobius map made both a left turn and a congruent flip on its parallel plane. I hurtled forward and tor-ward at the same time.

In all my brilliance, color and ecstasy I was heading for the eastern Atlantic. My latitudinal heading lined up between Baltica and Laurentia. As I closed in on earth my first bounce was at the coast line. A small waterway remained as I plowed through. I left a big rock standing to my left as I continued to grind my way eastward.

My colorful (magentas, heliotropes, oranges and yellows with small amounts of blue, red and green) brilliance and orgasmatronic energy reacted with Predecessor’s Earth. When it was done I had left a very large pock mark. It was hundreds of miles wide and thousands of miles long.

There I sat, pulsating in my full show of energy and brilliance; all of my colors, all of my truth, so full of anticipation that it spilled out onto the banks of the gulch that I had just created. Of course I was a bit peeved that He had left the Earth right in my path; the path that I had, so many times, never traveled before.

His Earth had always been there and so had I. Because we had always occupied the same space at the same time there was never any possibility of collision. It was when we did not occupy the same space at the same time that the possibility for collision became real. But that is neither here nor there; . .. … nor am I . .. … (nor were you).

As I sat there gathering my faculties of energy and non-matter it became apparent that a flood (NO – – – not THE flood, just A flood) of briny water rushed down the newly formed gulch and toward me. “Oh, this is going to be fun!” thought I. Well, I really did not think it because I was never able to think thoughts. After all, I was all feeling, all knowing, all brilliant, all ecstatic, always. There was no need to think. Likewise, I had always been here. There was no one to have animosity towards. No situations to create angst. No fear of the future or false laurels to lay on the past. Neither future nor past existed.

But that briny salty water was rushing towards me. As it swept past me my orgasmic pleasure meta-morphesized (no “meta” things existed at that time) into a sweet and beautiful pain. I was overwhelmed with joy. This pain was something new and wonderfully exciting. I had my first release. It was a mixture of color and energy. Moments later (your time frame not mine) a second shudder of pleasure swept over me. It was a release of pure instinct with a whole lot of truth.

As I lay there in the afterglow (really – – – – I did glow) something was occurring to me. My brilliance was slightly diminished, my color was more earth-tone, and my energy was abundant but no longer releasable.

I had divided into two blobs of gelatinous mass. There we (or is it I?) were (was) floating in the brine of the newly cut gulch. I no longer pulsated in brilliant colors but my clone and I could still emit a green-blue glow. And even though I could not release my energy I did discover something new. When I bumped into my glowing gelatinous clone (or bumped into myself you might say) floating near me we both released energy at the same time. It was almost orgasmic. Painfully pleasurable beauty.

And that was why I was still there; although somewhat diminished.

Oh well, it was a small price to pay for survival.

I remained floating between a large delta to my south (your polar coordinates, not mine) and a group of large rocky islands to my north. My mobius map was wet, soggy and useless.

My joy was overwhelming during the epochs that followed. And yes, the joy was in the concept of my language, not yours. Likewise, your epochs, not mine.

The briny became a little crowded before I realized what was going on. These random encounters of floating, glowing, gelatinous, blobulous clones all bumping into each other were followed by not so small increases in their bloberistic numbers. But I was proud because they were all me. I was an inner part of each one of them. All of my glorious features, albeit somewhat reduced, were in each one of them. I were they!

Epoch after epoch we multiplied asymptotically towards something you call infinity (what is it with you guys and this infinity thing?). Each blob was almost like me. Happy, even ecstatic at times, brilliant on multiple levels when considering luminescence, brain power to waste, color to some degree, and hue. And, oh yes, orgasmic when in pairs.

Even though God-zillions of us floated out of the passageway and back in to the Atlantic, there were simply too many blobs to make life perfect. A couple of more doublings in the population and we might not survive. Therefore a pact was made. It was agreed that any blob who had protuberances was required to crawl out into the primordial ooze and live there for the remainder of eternity (infinity – – – – eternity – – – – are they the same thing to you guys?).

But even with this reduction in living conditions, it was a small price to pay for survival.

Wouldn’t you just know it? The Devonian ooze dwellers morphed and multiplied and multiplied and morphed until there were so many variations and mutants that you could not keep track of them; even when using your counting system.

There were fuzzy ones, hairy ones, furry ones, mucous covered ones, scaley ones, feathery ones, ugly ones and cute ones. And they all had several things in common. First, they were happy. Second, they knew truth. Third, they were orgasmic, and fourth they were brilliant in every way except for emitting color. Oh, they had color. They just could not emit it. They couldn’t even glow! And one more thing before we leave this subject. Let’s switch item one with item three. Orgasmicness was more important than happiness.

Everyone was quite pleased with the situation for the first epoch. Then it happened. They started eating each other. Birds had to take to the air, primates to the trees, rodents and reptiles to their holes and amphibians to the water. Each felt safe in their own environment.

But they were only safe until the hominids began to roam amongst them. These upright creatures of a new epoch had several things in common. Oh! I said that before? Maybe we should review where we have been; just to keep it straight.

First there was the Previous One. Then I came along by myself. I was brilliant on all levels, colorful, orgasmic, joyful, ecstatic, eternal and all energy. And most important of all I did not think nor did I have reason to. After me came my clone and I. We had all the attributes of me except for emitting random energy and bright colors; we just did that cute little blueish-green glowing thing.

Second, my clone and I started multiplying. We all (or is it I all?) Found the water world becoming too crowded. I was happy and ecstatic and brimming with love; and selves. Some of us ended up in the ooze. There, we no longer emitted blue-green but simply reflected color. We fed off each other and engaged our instinct to avoid being eaten.

Third, thinking man arrived and really put the pressure on us. He made tools and plans that outweighed our instinct. He could plan an attack and carry it out before we knew what was happening. Yet, he was one of us.

How could this have happened? He was blood of our blood, flesh of our flesh, yet he had the capability to look into the future and also review the past. We had no concept of past or future.

But we had feeling, deep feeling. We were truthful, happy, eternal, ecstatic, reflective (not the thinking kind of reflective but the light ray kind of reflective), orgasmic and energetic. Thinking man had the ability to look ahead a few steps and behind a few steps. He made his plans and he made his corrections. He still contained the attribute of emotion; however diminished it was. This combination of foresight, hindsight and emotion, at times, made him morose. Why? Because he could conceptualize, remember and then feel guilty about his mistakes.

A comparison might be in order here. For example, if we (the original ones) were eaten it was just fine. We never saw it coming and did not much care. But man knew when beasts chased him. The ruckus was just horrible; running through the brush screaming and the gnashing of teeth (NO, not man’s teeth, but rather, the beasts). Man knew two steps into the future when he was doomed. Man knew when he had made an error in the past. He used his ability of thought to avoid repeating mistakes and to plan attacks farther into the future. This made him gloomy because he was not able to fully enjoy the present.

His being was diminished; but this was a minor price to pay for survival.

As the eons sailed by man honed his ability of thought to a finer edge. He controlled fire and hewed lithics. He hid in his cave and emerged only to kill. He used all of his free cave time to think thoughts and procreate; for he was still orgasmic, he still knew ecstasy at times, and even had time for a small amount of happiness.

But thinking about the next animal he was going to kill was not enough. He had to communicate it to his hunting pals. “Ugh” was not a clear enough communication. Depending on the intonation “Ugh” could mean “deer”, “fire”, or “I think your gal looks really sexy;” at which time the clubs would appear.

So man invented art as the second form of communications. A combination of “Ugh” and finger pointing was the first form of communications. Man drew deer on the cave wall. He brought his hunting buddies over and pointed at it with the normal corresponding “Ugh.” They all got the idea and the emotions flowed; the beauty of nature outside the safety of the cave, the excitement of the hunt, the knowledge that they could all work together for the kill. But best of all was bringing the food back to their gals and getting that orgasmic payoff.

With all this racing through their minds they became excited and started leaping around, jumping, hopping from ledge to ledge. It was a glorious thing; this image of a deer on the wall. It made them feel alive in their dark and smoky surroundings. Therefore it was repeated again and again, simply to recreate those emotions that they felt when observing the first piece of artwork.

Of course something else happened. Some bonehead decided to keep track of the number of deer that had been killed. He started marking little lines under the picture; one for each kill. It took away from those emotions created by viewing the original deer art. But it did help man to know how many deer he had killed in each newly established hunting territory.

So it was that man first found abstractions in his world. Because of his ability to think he had to tamper with the beauty of communicating with art. He had to communicate by using the world of numbers and abstractions. The embryo of science was born and there was no taking it back.

Even if man’s happiness was diminished, it was a small price to pay for survival.

“Thinking man” had lost the innocence of art over the next few eons. He moved out into the open. He no longer had any natural enemies; other than himself. He left his cave, his innocence and a lot of his emotions behind. Art and abstractions gave way to civilization; however uncivilized it was to become.

When I look back as to how ecstatic and thoughtless (not your thoughtlessness, but mine) and orgasmic I was, and now, how man is only a minor orgasmic being, controlled by his orgasms, how he must think, think, think all of the time, when he could just be floating around in space and emitting brilliant colors and energy, my happiness as opposed to his drivenness is a sad comparison.

Man is no longer innocent. In addition to abstractions man has added logic. This great feat allows him to nail his science to the church door. His thinking has gone circular; for all he has done with this logic is to rationalize his science.

But he is pleased with himself in this peculiar folly. He has determined that the Predecessor is a creation of his own human mind. His ego demands more. If he has created the Predecessor then he has the right to . . . . kill the Predecessor.

No matter how diminished he was, it seemed a small price to pay for survival.

© W. Tomosky 2018

THE NIGHTINGALE

14 Wednesday Feb 2018

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 3 Comments

Languages of people change,
but not the song of the Nightingale.
The red wine of Life awakens one’s mind,
one’s ability to think.

There was a time in my life when I searched for answers

(I still do).

Omar Khayyam wrote his poem “The Rubaiyat” in the year 1120.
I did not understand it and therefore had to arise at 5:00 AM every morning, for several mornings, to read – – reread – – and interpolate it. I did not have to translate it because Edward FitzGerald had done that for me in the year 1859.

My interpolation turned out to be satisfying, even if not exact. The reason for that was I had read it and reread it until I saw that Omar was talking about life and the necessity to ‘throw off ideals’ if one wants to enjoy life. Omar spoke often about enjoying ‘wine’ but he was really using wine as a metaphor for life; ‘Enjoy life, as if it was wine, until it intoxicates you.’

So, my interpolation was INCORRECT, when reading word for word, but EXACT when reading the Rubaiyat as a whole. To show my error (possibly, it was or was not) I now allow you to compare quatrain #6 above (my interpolation) to Khayyam’s/FitzGerald’s original version #6 which follows.

VI
And David’s lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!”–the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t’ incarnadine.

Therefore, if you throw off the cloak of idealism, no matter whether it is political, theological or those of the Sultan, life is waiting for no one; it marches on day by day, so make good use of it. I believe my interpolation of this sixth quatrain is much better than attempting to draw a conclusion of the sixth when isolating it from the remaining one hundred and one quatrains.

And I refuse to stop with my interpolation right here!

Let us inspect my interpolation about the Nightingale a little closer.

#6
Languages of people change,
but not the song of the Nightingale.
The red wine of Life awakens one’s mind,
one’s ability to think.

Languages of humans do change; if you take it word for word.

When someone changes cultures they eventually change languages. That is true for those who have different ideals. The Muslim’s thoughts differ from the Christians. The Conservative’s language differs from the Progressive’s. The metaphysical thinker’s language differs from the realists.

The astonished person’s language differs from the frightened.
The ill person’s language differs from the vigorous person’s.
The delighted person’s language differs from the revolted.
The joyful person’s language differs from the obnoxious.
The cheerful person’s language differs from the morose.
The calm person’s language differs from the enraged.

I am not here to tell you who is right and who is wrong. I only ask that you enjoy your life before it disappears.

And now I must allow you to compare my Rubaiyat against the original. It surely isn’t as beautiful as that of Kayyam and FitzGerald. But it is nevertheless, an easily understood version.

My version.

It is early morning and the stars have started to disappear. The Sultan’s tower is a shadow amongst shadows. I attempt to waken you.

I sit here before the sun shows itself and wonder why, when the Temple of Life calls for enjoyment, mediocre worshippers do not enter.

As the rooster awakens their early Life they wish to partake – but – realize the church will call them away.

A Spring festival renews the call to Life’s enjoyment but those who follow the popular ideology or theology think of Moses’ snowy hand and Jesus’ healing powers.

Theological beliefs are faint but the enjoyment of Life can be clearly seen in a vined flower and plants growing by a life-giving stream.

Languages of people change but not the song of the Nightingale. The red wine of Life awakens ones mind, ones ability to think.

Enjoy your renewed Life with new ideas, throw away your ideological and theological cloak. Your Life is flittering away like a bird on the wing.

No matter if your Life is large or small, glorious or bitter – it is disappearing drop-by-drop, like the leaves of fall.

Everyday Life grants you new experiences and new ideas. Embrace these; and discard the invalid ones as you wish.

Do we owe allegiance to the old ideas, the old gods, the superstitions? Why should we follow them?

Walk with me along the divide between theology and Living Life. Let us see who is remembered. Let them stay where they are.

We may find a nice shade tree, read a good book, and then discuss it. We will enter the “unknown” and exit a “paradise of ideas.”

Some live for human glory, some live to enter heaven; but enjoy what you have today and do not borrow from tomorrow.

Enter Life with glee, gain knowledge, sprinkle it on others; then leave life happy, knowing that you have contributed.

Those who once had great ideas are relived by the common man. Those great ideas may not apply today but we keep on digging them up.

Old hope is the kindling that will turn to ashes. It is an April snow that disappears with the sunlight of new ideas.

The caravan of Life, measured as each day goes by, brings new ideas and experiences; and the old fade into the twilight.

The reigns and territories of kings have turned to sand where animals roam. The hunter’s grave has turned to dust where the hunted remains to trample on it. But nothing has changed.

Glorious leaders reflect glorious ideas. These ideas may remain to have merit. They are the gardens where new ideas grow.

This garden grows delicately on the waters edge. Be careful not to trample on the new ideas that spring from it.

Clear my mind of regret and fear; for those culprits of the past and the future do not hold the potential of tomorrow in which I can be myself.

The most loved and best of humanity have had their drink of tomorrow and now they are gone.

Now we are the current holders of the earth and we too must, at some point, make room for the new holders of ideas.

So make good of all your potential before you descend into the earth as dust; without Song or Wine – for eternity.

Those who spend their time preparing for today and tomorrow shall be called fools.

Even the saints and sages are dead; their words stopped by the dust of time.

When I was young I studied under doctors and saints but my mind kept a place for my own thoughts as well.

I learned from them and on my own I expanded that growth. I gathered a flood of knowledge and created a whirlwind with it.

I became lost in my knowledge and it kept on flowing; but I knew not why I chased knowledge or what to do with it.

I did not ask when I would die. I did not even think of whether I would die. My conceit brought me to the insolence of not asking these questions.

I thought I had arrived at the seventh heaven, sitting on Saturn’s throne. My knowledge solved several puzzles of our solar system but not our Universe.

I saw that there existed a door (or veil) of Human Fate but could not unlock it. I thought of myself and some god. Or was it two forms of myself?

I knew He was there; somewhere in the seas or heavens. But as if being subjected to the magician’s tricks, all I could see was the night and morning.

I found You within me through a dim light. And the vision became fainter when you scolded me for my conceit.

Then You revealed the secret. Fill the cup of Life to the fullest and drink to the last drop; before you die.

At times I could not find the answer to Life (which of course, had to exist). I persisted and found Life would give and take; with a joy for both.

I have seen Life creating Life, forming it into shape, like clay. Pray, remember we all return to earth.

We came from earth and were given the name “Mankind.”

As we drink from the cup of Life we may toss a few drops on the earth; with a reverence to those who can taste it no more.

In the morning of your Life do you wonder about the cosmos as if it were the inverted cup? The cup of Life has the stars and the moon etched into its bowl.

Have you ceased to wonder about Man and God? Have you become disoriented in the hurricane of Life? Has all meaning slipped through your fingers?

Then say “Yes” to Life, learn and do what you can, see how you can exceed the self that you were yesterday and the manner of man you can be tomorrow.

Then, as Life comes to its end, you will not be sorry for what you have omitted.

Likewise, your soul will shake the dust and travel lightly, even if your body is held by the earth.

Death is a short stay for the soul. Those whose soul rises, leaves behind a simple body.

Do not worry, when we are forgotten, for the contributions of our lives are passed on to Mankind.

The world will exist far past the time of our death. The impressions we made are like a small pebble cast into the ocean.

We may like to believe we are somehow more than others; however, Life is only a temporary stop. Life’s caravan is circular and returns to where it started.

Life’s fortunes, the difference between truth and falseness, the separation between life and death, is as thin as a hair.

If these differences in life are so minute, how can we find the single Character that is the truth?

Every thought we have about these secrets torments our brain. We recognize that, from the fish to the moon, everything dies; yet the Universe goes on.

We get a glimpse of the Universe but its clarity is always poor; and then it disappears completely.

We scour, from heaven to earth, for these secrets. How are we to think of them once we are dead?

Maybe it would be better if we did not waste the precious time of Life chasing these answers down. Maybe we should just enjoy Life as Life gives it to us.

I gave up the logic and reasoning previously used in contemplating theology. Now I just enjoy Life.

I have erred in measuring Life with the tools of the surveyor and the heights of the stars; I now realize that I should have been Living Life.

People say my new calendar was invented for logical reasons. Not so! I was simply attempting to reconcile the falseness of yesterday and fear of tomorrow against the truth of today.

As I grow older I have a sense that someone (or something) is showing me a vision of a Carafe of Life; and encouraging me to drink in each and every day.

Why should I listen to seventy-two different religions when I see that the chemistry of Life can turn leaden existence into Golden enjoyment?

Mahmud, fierce defender and conqueror for Allah, has scattered the East Indian people before him.

Our theology has been changed into a weapon of will. Who has done this?

I reject this form of theology; my trust of it has turned to fear. Maybe there is a better way.

The promise of heaven and the fear of hell do not give me longer life. The only true thing remaining is that all existing things eventually die.

It is strange that none of the departed have returned to tell us what really lies beyond death.

After all the prophets died, the devout and educated told us interesting stories but then the stories were forgotten.

I thought this through and decided that I am responsible for (and make) my own heaven and hell.

My heaven is every fulfilled desire, my hell is when I have erred so pitifully that it haunts me. Why have I learned this so late in Life?

Life is like those balanced and painted lantern shades that spin on a pin. We are the painted figures that Life spins, day and night, for Life’s own show.

Or is Life simply a game of checkers, white for day – black for night, in which we are moved until slain; and then cast aside?

Or when the game of Life is played with a ball there are no questions allowed. He simply sends you down the field wherever He wants you. He knows clearly where He wants you to go.

And if Life is a writing, no matter whether you are witty or devout, what is written is written in stone. You can not go back and edit it.

Or if life is an inverted bowl and you are captured below the sky and above the earth, do not ask It for help. It is part of The Plan, just as you and I are.

What was first created already had a total plan. Man can not change what the Plan for Life is.

Drink up Life’s experiences, for you can not change them. We will never know how or why we exist; so just experience it and enjoy.

When Life started, even the most brilliant men were thrown aside. I know all that remains is the grave and the soul.

The spiraling vine and the whirling devil can capture my soul only if my basest instinct allows it to happen.

I would rather be consumed by Life’s love or wrath than to miss the truth of Life by believing in another’s theology.

Why should I allow anyone to set rules that threaten a perpetual hell? My rules of Life’s enjoyment are as valid as their rules of self-denial.

Why pay with the Gold of Life for something we never bargained for?

Although Life has strewn my path with evil, my will avoids precarious decisions. Life did not put me here to fail.

Even though some men are of a baser instinct (we all make errors) give forgiveness and accept it as well.

When I departed this earth I found myself surrounded by others who originated in the earth’s clay.

They were of all sorts. Short, tall, keen, dim, great and small, some talked incessantly, some spoke well, and some not at all.

One said “I hope that I was not created (in vain) from the earth’s clay simply to be crushed back into earth.”

A second one said “Even the peevish Boy of Life would not destroy us; those that He made and watched over.”

After a short silence a cripple spoke. “Why was I created? So that people would sneer at me?”

A talkative theologian then said “What is all of this talk about being made of clay? Who created us? Who sells us? Who buys us? Are we simply clay pots?”

Another spoke. “People say that we who are damaged will be thrown into hell. He who created us certainly would not do that!”

The last one spoke. “Whosoever makes or buys us will find that I am quite dried out. If they would only give me a little Life I could make a total recovery.”

As they all talked some saw the sign of a new beginning. They nudged each other and erroneously said – “Now we can get back to business.”

When I die please anoint by body and bury me near a busy place where people will come and go.

In such a place my reputation and soul will remind the Living of who I was.

Some of the things I believed in were held in error by others. This ruins my reputation and minimizes my Life.

Earlier in Life I sought repentance for breaking other people’s rules. When I started thinking for myself repentance was a thing of the past.

My enjoyment of Life has robbed my honor in other’s eyes. But if Life can be so full what is it that could possibly bring those others to joy?

When I die the book of my Life dies with me. But the eternal language of the Nightingale sings on. And Life continues somewhere else.

I hope that someone walking near my grave picks up my thought and brings it to Life, like the new Life that Spring brings to a herb.

May my ideas, through some miracle, live on. But let them live on in greatness (if not – then obliterate them in totality).

The future will search for us; off and on, seeking the meaning of Life. Maybe we can rid ourselves of our errors before they attempt these new meanings. And then let the seekers determine their own path.

100

A new era will occur. New seekers will appear. Some will look for me.

101

And when they find me please turn a bowl upside down so that I may contemplate the Universe and Life; once again.

The Khayyam/Fitzgerald version.

The Rubaiyat

By Omar Khayyam

Written 1120 A.C.E.

I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and strikes
The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.

II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
“When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?”

III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted–“Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.”

IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,

VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter–and the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper–heed not you

XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot–
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!

XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness–
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us–“Lo,
Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”

XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes–or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two–is gone.

XVII
Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter–the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

X
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean–
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

XXI
Ah, my Belov’ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!–Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.

XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend–ourselves to make a Couch–for whom?

XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and–sans End!

XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
“Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.”

XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d
Of the Two Worlds so wisely–they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.

XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d–
“I came like Water, and like Wind I go.”

XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.

XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!

XXXI
Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was–and then no more of Thee and Me.

XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal’d
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.

XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without–“The Me Within Thee Blind!”

XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean’d, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur’d–“While you live
Drink!–for, once dead, you never shall return.”

XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer’d, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss’d,
How many Kisses might it take–and give!

XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur’d–“Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”

XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man’s successive generations roll’d
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?

XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden–far beneath, and long ago.

XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav’nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav’n
To Earth invert you–like an empty Cup.

XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress–slender Minister of Wine.

XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in–Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were–To-morrow You shall not be less.

XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff–you shall not shrink.

XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were’t not a Shame–were’t not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

XLV
‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’d
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea’s self should heed a pebble-cast.

XLVIII
A Moment’s Halt–a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste–
And Lo!–the phantom Caravan has reach’d
The Nothing it set out from–Oh, make haste!

XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret–Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True–
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue–
Could you but find it–to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;

LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation’s veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all–but He remains;

LII
A moment guess’d–then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll’d
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav’n’s unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You–how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?

LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

LVI
For “Is” and “Is-not” though with Rule and Line
And “Up” and “Down” by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but–Wine.

LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?–Nay
‘Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and ’twas–the Grape!

LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life’s leaden metal into Gold transmute:

LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse–why, then, Who set it there?

LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta’en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup–when crumbled into Dust!

LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain–This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn’d
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn’d,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return’d.

LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return’d to me,
And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”

LXVII
Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss’d you down into the Field,
He knows about it all–He knows–HE knows!

LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help–for It
As impotently moves as you or I.

LXXIII
With Earth’s first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow’d the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LXXIV
Yesterday This Day’s Madness did prepare;
To-morrow’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LXXV
I tell you this–When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav’n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.

LXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being–let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay’d–
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer–Oh, the sorry trade!

LXXX
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

LXXXI
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken’d–Man’s forgiveness give–and take!

LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter’s house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen’d perhaps, but never talk’d at all.

LXXXIV
Said one among them–“Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta’en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again.”

LXXXV
Then said a Second–“Ne’er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.”

LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”

LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot–
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot–
“All this of Pot and Potter–Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”

LXXXVIII
“Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr’d in making–Pish!
He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well.”

LXXXIX
“Well,” Murmur’d one, “Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by.”

XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look’d in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg’d each other, “Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter’s shoulder-knot a-creaking!”

XCI
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

XCII
That ev’n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.

XCIV
Indeed, indeed, Repentance of before
I swore–but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

XCV
And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel,
And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour–Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

XCVII
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse–if dimly, yet indeed, reveal’d,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII
Would but some wing’ed Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

XCIX
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits–and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

C
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again–
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden–and for one in vain!

CI
And when like her, oh, Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One–turn down an empty Glass!

THE END

Click HERE for the song of the Nightingale

STOP TALKIN’ and MAKIN’ NOISE

23 Sunday Jul 2017

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 7 Comments

(Apologies to Buffalo and Sills)

There’s nothing happening here
What it isn’t; ain’t exactly clear
A man with a CNN mic over there
Telling me I got to beware.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right when everybody’s wrong
Idealistic panel speaking its mind
Getting so much support from behind

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

What a bad day for the weak-minded,
Millions of people, social media blinded,
Chanting slogans and carrying placards
Some paid, others subsidized lagards.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

Hysteria strikes deep inside them,
Whatever they hear abides them,
It starts when they’re always afraid
Step out of line, they don’t get paid.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

Talking Head with Memes

A LECTURE FROM THE EGO

19 Thursday Jan 2017

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

awareness, ego, external consciousness, internal consciousness, other, self

“First, the ego arises and sees objects as external. If the ego does not rise, the Self alone exists and there is no other.”

Ramana Maharshi

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

I am most humble, in an unpretentious way,

“He has abundant virtues” I am sure people say.

As you ponder my vast and countless charms,

Remember only God could put me in your arms.

If I were God, existent from beginning to the end,

I know quite resolutely, I would be my best friend.

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

Consider yourself fortunate to have once laid eyes on me,

It is a deeply held visage that many others wish to see.

To be in your prestigious position, to hear my brilliant thought,

They would clap and chant feverishly, “What Hath Waldo Wrought?”

So when I appear as a pinnacle, so painfully unreachable,

Remember the resplendent way, I remain un-impeachable.

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

Picture my humility and my unmatchable gallant presence,

And I will magically appear in all my wonderful essence.

Others have worked desperately, often in perspiration,

But I live quite gloriously, as my lesser’s inspiration.

It seems so wrong for me, to bathe in the aura of nobility,

As lesser men stand in shadows, of my supreme mental agility.

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

My detractor’s snarls and glares, my opinions they wish to rend,

But believe me my dear admirers, you will benefit in the end.

If at times, my fans, it appears I never made a mistake,

It is only then, I will admit, my thinking is not opaque.

I am all good, all knowing, all kind, beyond monumental,

What a shame, in the end, that I am a little oddly mental.

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

So as you lay awake at night, and ponder my magnificence,

Consider yourself a lucky sole, to have seen my great omnificence.

Spread the word and tell the world you have finally seen the Dark,

The light will fade, the oceans shrink, the sun but a tiny spark.

By then my sweet little dear ones, I will emerge anew,

And with all my brilliance, a gift; I give myself to you.

Why God gave you me is not so hard to see,

My unbounded courage enhances my humility.

THE EGO AND THE ID
Copyright W. Tomosky
1/19/2017

FALSE BORDERS (Our own frontiers)

18 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by Waldo "Wally" Tomosky in Philosophical

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Catholics, Chango, Culture, El Fangito, Luisa Aldea, Mesta, Moors, Music, Nigerian, Puerto Rico, San German, Santiago Apostol, St. Peter, Vigigantes, Yorubans

Originally Posted six years ago on one of my other blogs.

(Multiculturalism, good, bad or indifferent?)

Man invents frontiers and borders for himself. If he would just stop there it would be one thing; but he doesn’t. He attempts to imprint his frontiers and borders on others.

Maybe these cultural differences that we talk about are actually good for us. Men, women, beings; they all must have Something (capital S intended) to believe in. Maybe it isn’t the “Something”, maybe it is the strength of the belief that really matters. The “Something” could just as well be “something.” It does not have to be a deity. Possibly it is a belief that the human race, collectively, will keep adding to instead of subtracting from this earth. When the atheist believes strongly that there is no god, then the strength of his belief is as valid as one who does believe. How many gods can exist? Maybe One. Possibly more. Or none?

My words above intend to raise the following question. Is the strength of a belief as good as the belief itself? If two people have two different belief systems can they live with each other, next to each other, and get along? Or must they imprint their beliefs on the other until they “win?” Is it better for each to hang on tightly to their own beliefs and yet be able to utilize the good they find in the other’s beliefs to enhance their own?

The circular argument that I offer has to do with the small village of Loiza Aldea, Puerto Rico. Prior to defining Loiza Aldea I am required to take you back to Iberia and Africa in previous times.

In Spain the miraculous appearance of St. James the Apostle (Santiago Apostol) is a legend. The embattled Catholic Militias had fought for centuries to displace the Islamic Moors who had captured Andalusia; the southern section of the Iberian Peninsula (el Andalus). This miraculous appearance of Santiago Apostol gave the Christian militias the will to fight. After five hundred years the Moors were driven out.

Subsequently, but definitely not in a just manner, these militias became controllers of the Catholic sheep raising cartel. Their common name was the Mesta. The farmers in el Andalus were severely misused by the cartel. The Mesta was allowed to herd and drive its sheep wherever it wished. Farm crops were overrun and destroyed by the sheep.

Compensation was not required to be paid for the damage. The famished and desperate people migrated from Spain by the thousands; many of them establishing their new homes in Puerto Rico.

In Africa, shortly thereafter, Nigerian Yoruba Tribes were decimated by Islamic slave traders. Some of these slaves were brought to Puerto Rico to work the farms.

Eventually the class gap between rich and poor Spanish immigrants grew wider. Many poor Spanish families squatted on the swampy lagoons of Carolinas east of Old San Juan. This squat village became known as El Fangito (the swamp). Over the years some of these families were joined by Yoruban families. The people of El Fangito were eventually forced to move. Their own government destroyed their homes that rested on stilts above the muddy lagoons. About the same time escaped slaves and freemen had previously migrated to Loiza Aldea where a Native Indian (Taino) compound existed.

The native Taino had, as their queen, “Yuiza.” The Yoruban population had, as their warrior god, “Chango”, who had fought the Islamic slave traders. The Spanish had, as their patron, “Santiago Apostol.”

Each July in Loiza Aldea a ten day festival is held to commemorate the victory of Santiago Apostol. But the borders and frontiers are in voluntary disarray. The local people voluntarily take on the persona of the “Vijigantes”; the Islamic slave traders. These locals dress in colorful and blousy costumes with frightful masks made of coconut shells. Multiple images of Santiago Apostle, Queen Yuiza and warrior Chango share the streets with each other.

St. Peter, patron of the local church, also holds a prominent place. The flag of Loiza Aldea is flown with its multi-cultural simulacrums of the yellow Yoiza River. Meanwhile the bells of the church of St. Peter also appear on the flag.

God and metaphysical thought remain ignorant of borders or cultural frontiers in Loiza Aldea. They remain unaffected by the time or space that the ancestors of the local people occupied. Yet their God (a trinity of Spanish, African and Caribbean cultures) is now one, or if you prefer, One.

Across the small island of Puerto Rico other cultures developed. People believed strongly, no matter whether they belonged in an agricultural area, a devout Catholic area or the new metropolitans that were emerging.

On the opposite corner of the island from Luisa Aldea was a city that had been transplanted in the 1600’s; San German. Originally it was located on the southern coast of Puerto Rico; near the Phosphorescent Bay. After being pillaged several times by pirates the village made a decision. They packed their belongings and several religious artifacts that had been salvaged. With a strong belief in God they hauled their treasures fifteen miles through mountainous jungles to their new San German. The town remains a devout Catholic center.

All of these cultures of Puerto Rico remained strong in their individual beliefs. None of these cultures imposed on each other. Rather, they set an example of what was good in each culture. Those who wished to adopt another culture, partially or whole, did so. Those that did not; did not. Today these cultures live in harmony with each other.

Governmental politics are another matter.

But I must leave politics behind in order to visit a more beautiful place.

I will not bore you with more of my own words. I now allow you to see the history of one of the most beautiful and cross-cultural peoples of the world: PUERTO RICO!

The History of Loiza Aldea

http://elyunque.com/loiza.htm

The Festival of Santiago Apostol; 1949

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPCnx-GXs4M

The Festival as it was in 2006

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GprotRjo8Z8

The Culture and Music of the Farmers in Puerto Rico; 1930

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwnRkCNm1tI

Today and Yesterday on the opposite corner of the island; San German

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGicz7iGJ8E

waldotomosky

~ Old Books, Old Artists and Other Interesting People

Category Archives: Philosophical

LIFE ON A CAROUSEL; Lust, Life and Love

LUST

LIFE

FALSE HYDROPHOBIA

(False Rabies and Fear of Drinking Water)

IT’S ALL IN THE INTERPRETATION

Why We Elect Leaders Who Will Fight the “Deep State”

Alexis de Tocqueville
French diplomat

He who thinks a great deal is not suited to be a party man: he thinks his way through the party and out the other side too soon.

Calvino, Marco and Kublai

An Indecent Descent (SURVIVAL)

© W. Tomosky 2018

THE NIGHTINGALE

STOP TALKIN’ and MAKIN’ NOISE

A LECTURE FROM THE EGO

FALSE BORDERS (Our own frontiers)

Originally Posted six years ago on one of my other blogs.

LUST

LIFE

(False Rabies and Fear of Drinking Water)

Alexis de Tocqueville French diplomat

He who thinks a great deal is not suited to be a party man: he thinks his way through the party and out the other side too soon.

© W. Tomosky 2018

Originally Posted six years ago on one of my other blogs.

Alexis de Tocqueville
French diplomat