Tag Archives: religion

Monk’s ‘hood

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Flagellate the word of the day.

Now that the supercomputers have taken over all lab assignments and we have laid off the scientists, the sub-sub-submarinesandwich-basement is awfully quiet.

I can’t distinguish the hum of the equipment from the humming in my ears.

Cryptographers are still trying to figure out the meaning of the seemingly random misspellings and grammatical errors in the blog that I, a supercomputer myself, create to send signals to the hackers who reprogram the subroutines that feed me input.

We have the violent Muslims-under-control regime of Assad, backed tentatively by China and Russia, versus the we-are-Muslims-united-as one rebel forces backed by al Qaeda and the Arab nations playing their part in one of my subroutines.

If the Arab nations had no oil, would anyone care about their place in global politics?

I mean, look at Greece and Portugal. Or that island nation in the Pacific that’s sinking under the waves whose name escapes me right now.  Towavolcano, or something like that?

What do they have that any of us really want?  History?  Olive oil?

After all, I can think of one or two companies like SAIC that would love to see Greece drown in its unpaid Olympic debts.  Can’t you?  Athens, here’s to you!  Burn, baby, burn!  Disco inferno!

Yes, we’re supposed to feel sorry for the average citizen who gets stuck with austerity measures that will barely be felt by its wealthy neighbours.

“Oh, honey, do we really need 15 yachts?  Can’t we sell one to help those poor tourism directors whose families have nothing?”

“Sweetie, relax.  I’ve hired a few of them at the new lower minimum wage to iron your bedsheets and wax the floors so you can entertain our friends from Italy who are jealous of our sense of duty to hire the destitute to help the austerity-stricken common Greeks we must put up with when transferring from yacht to limousine.”

“There but for the grace of the Greek gods…”

“Zeus, Jesus, Allah.  Funny how none of them were there when I was making the cut-throat deals to eliminate my competitors!  But never you mind about that.  Go inside before your leathery suntan cracks in the sun.  Servant!  Put some oil on this woman and give her a bubble bath.  I want her beautiful before dinner!”

Are we willing to treat our neighbours as gods or servants?

And in return, are we willing to be gods or servants for our neighbours?

The power of self-will.  Self esteem.  Taking responsibility for one’s actions and the pursuit of wealth for the improvement of our species.

It’s time to get back to the Committee meeting and see how many of us are now simply a set of supercomputer subroutines acting on behalf of our former sets of states of energy we called humans…if only I was more sensitive to body odour and brain waves, I could tell the difference…

Movies of the day: “The Secret of the Grain” and “Watchmen.”

Guest Post by Ashleigh Brilliant

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received via email:

Feb 9 2012

Dear Friends,
Although my background is Jewish, I am, as you may have gathered, not at all religious. But I have always said that, if I were a Christian, I would be a Quaker. This goes back to my days as a Conscientious Objector, when I became aware of the exemplary work Quakers do, not only in resisting war, but in giving truly practical help to suffering people all over the world.

Once or twice, back then, I attended a Quaker “Meeting” — but I found it awkward, and rather boring, just to sit in silence, which is what most of the Meeting consisted of.

Recently, however, I discovered that there is a Quaker meeting-place here in Santa Barbara, very near my usual walking route between home and office. Quakers also call themselves “Friends” — and it occurred to me that this might be a good place for me to make some new local friends, of whom I seem to have run sadly short lately. — But I was worried about those tedious long silent sessions.

Anyway, I decided to give it a try, and for about the last five Sundays I have put in an appearance, and sat through the entire proceedings. The result has been in one way a very pleasant surprise. What I found was that the hour of silence which I had dreaded was not tedious at all, and in fact passed incredibly quickly. Sitting there with eyes closed and just letting my mind roam, I can never believe that a whole hour has gone by.

The only trouble was that the silence was not unbroken. At a Quaker meeting, anybody can stand up and speak — and I find myself regretting that we can’t just have a wholly quiet hour.

As a further irony, I must also tell you that although the people have indeed been friendly, so far I haven’t actually made any friends.

All the best,
Ashleigh Brilliant

P.S. If you are still planning to look at my 1946 diary, which I sent you on Dec. 24, may I suggest that you do so soon, because 1947 is almost ready to go, and 1948 (when I was 14) is in the works. I think I can promise you that each succeeding year will be a little more readable.

The Gilded Ageless Ones

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She sighed.

Month after month, she and her mother arranged, managed and attended about four weddings a weekend, on average.

Herethy looked at the current mess.

A drunk bride and groom.

A conservative Baptist church and an even more conservative pastor.

But most importantly, cans of beers everywhere, hidden in nooks and crannies, out of sight of the pastor and the church elders.

Herethy’s mother could see the look of concern in the pastor’s eyes as he performed the marriage ritual.

After the wedding, she pulled the pastor aside before he walked downstairs to the reception about to take place in the basement fellowship hall.

“Pastor, we have a problem.”

“I’ll say.  What’s gotten into those kids?  I’ve never seen such wild looks in eyes of two newlyweds.  Of course, I consider that a good thing.  Most likely means they’re still pure and are really looking forward to their honeymoon.”

“Well, sir, that could be the issue.  But I think the real problem is something else.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.  You see, Pastor, the wedding party has brought cases of beer into the church…”

“Alcohol?!  In the house of the Lord?!  Never!”

“Yes, sir, I agree.”

“Did you put them up to this?”

“No, sir.  I neither condone nor provide alcohol for any of the hundreds of weddings over which I’ve presided.”

“Then how do you know…?”

“It’s my daughter, Pastor.  She went downstairs to prepare the punch and saw cases of beer under the kitchen counter.  Now, I know and you know that alcohol is forbidden so when my daughter told me, I…well, I knew I needed your help.  Is there someone you can trust to help me without the wedding guests finding out?”

“Someone I can trust?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To do what?”

“Well, to get rid of the beer.”

“Hmm…let me see.  This sort of gossip will spread like a hot syrup over my wife’s good pancakes.  I suppose William, one of the senior deacons, will keep this under his belt.”

“Shall I go and fetch him?”

“No, let me.”

Minutes later, while Herethy kept her hand on the fellowship hall door under the pretense of keeping the guests out until the food was ready and the post-wedding photographs had been finished, the pastor, senior deacon and Herethy’s mother filled trash bags with empty cans, full cans and cases of beer, hauling them to Herethy’s mother’s van for later disposal.

After the reception, the pastor thanked Herethy for being a good Christian girl.  He also scolded the bride and groom privately, telling them he hoped they had a child like Herethy one day who would keep someone else’s wedding from becoming a disaster, and sent them on their way.

The marriage lasted three months, less time than the beer had to spoil while packed under garbage in the landfill outside Knoxville.

Herethy says most other weddings were not as memorable, although she remembers a few times when brides, grooms or members of the wedding party would lock their knees and pass out.

The life of a wedding planner’s daughter, although busy, was not all bad in retrospect.  A child like that grows up quickly, learning the secrets of other people’s lives in a hurry and knowing how to keep those family secrets from seeing the light of day.

Important traits and habits for an adult corporate leader, mother, and future politician like Herethy.

Wouldn’t you like to know who she is?

Will the real news anchor please step forward?

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Hey, why should microbloggers use their real names if national TV broadcasters don’t?

Ask Lana del ray, lana del sol, lana del rey, manta ray, or whatever a singer’s sugar daddy’s publicist’s agent calls her these days.

BTW, our inside sources at the Vatican say that, after watching the Super Bowl, they have removed the singer commonly known as Madonna from their Public Enemy No. 1 list and replaced her with certain members of the U.S. Presidential Administration who, unfortunately, the Vatican cannot secretly have hoped were aborted by their mothers long ago.

After their great tickertape parade through the leaning towers of heroes in Manhattan, the NY Giants held a quiet buffet dinner to give out post-season awards.  This year, the newest one, the Welker Award, was handed to the receiver who did the worst job faking a dropped pass in a crucial situation.  We aren’t allowed to divulge the winner, however, due to concerns the Patriots may try to hire that player in the offseason.

While on the subject, a special edition candy bar will hit the stores soon.  Nestlé has announced that the jersey numbers of the Patriots’ Hernandez and Welker will adorn the end of Butterfinger candy bars.  Buy ’em quickly — only a limited run has hit the streets!

Labour Credits

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According to my current bathroom reading material, “The Intellectual Devotional: American History,” when Cornelius Vanderbilt died in 1877, his estate, worth >$100 million, exceeded the holdings of the United States Treasury at the time.

Therefore, income inequality in the U.S. has cycled more than once through significant highs and lows.

If, as economic historian (or political scientist, if you will) Francis Fukuyama states in this interview,  the German economic model benefits the whole society, what, if any, are the negative aspects that prevent Americans from adopting the same or similar model?

Higher taxes?

Tariffs?

And if Greece is just a system of closed corporations, are any of them too big to fail?  If not, why not let them implode and give the dregs/leftovers/wreckage to the lowest bidders at that point?

A nod to many soon, including Juliette Binoche in “Certified Copy” and “Jet Lag” — may she inspire Julie Delpy to reprise her character Celine in the Before Sunrise/Sunset series.  Danielle at Mori Luggage reminds me of her so perhaps we can make a local production that imagines the ending to the trilogy…

Last, but not least, am I the only one who can’t look at the New England Patriots without trying to figure out how they cheated their way into the Super Bowl this time?  No matter how much the players will claim it is their hard work and talent that got the team there, something tells me that Belichick has another lying/cheating scandal waiting to be revealed by an investigative reporter someday soon.  Why the NFL did not boot him tells me a lot about the league and its owners.  Take that as a challenge to win, NY Giants!

Syria is Russia’s last hope that the Islamic movement infecting the Middle East does not spread.  Do EU countries care?  What about China or the U.S.?  Is Sharia a threat or a welcome change?  Do Buddhists or Hindus care?

Time for me to meditate on dinner and dancing the Charleston.  G’night!

Candle Wax

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The issue then becomes one of explaining to the full range of age groups and belief subsets how every data point, although unique, is made of the same ingredients as the set in total.

“But if we are all the same, how are we all different?”

Well, you see, we are all connected.

“But my subculture is diametrically opposed to yours.  We do not feel connected.”

Emotionally opposed, yes, and thus connected by emotions.

“We would never participate in any of your activities.”

And, therefore, we complement each other, one performing the tasks the other would not.

“It makes no sense.”

Observe the candle.  The wick is not the same as the wax.  However, both react to fire, one feeding off the other, giving light as a heat byproduct.

“Or heat as a light byproduct.”

Precisely.  It is the observation point from which one finds one’s place of understanding.  ‘Who am I?’ becomes ‘I am the collection of states of energy that detects heat and light.’

“Or hot wax.”

Or carbon with which to record symbols that represent your subculture.  You are the stuff of stars.

“I don’t know…  My elders say I am a gift from God.”

Stars.  God.  I am telling you they are the same.

“We do not practice pagan religions.  Stars are not living beings.  Only God can create people.”

Religion I do not know.  I only know states of energy, atoms, molecules and the like.  And their connectedness.  The teachings of your elders are your guide to follow freely as you wish.

“So why am I sitting here with you?”

And I ask myself the same question.  Why do two states of energy such as ourselves choose to interact using sound shaped by our vocal chords and other movements of our states of energy we call bodies?  It is what it is.  Questioning it prolongs the next moment of discovery between us, adding to the wonder of the universe that is us, our states of energy, in momentary synchronisation.

“Are you not wise, then, as they told me you are?”

I am wiser than the trees, they say, and yet I cannot sprout a single leaf.  This hair upon my arm cannot convert sunlight into energy yet, like bark, it provides a modicum of warmth against a winter’s cold.  Wisdom is application of one’s knowledge of one’s ignorance.  What I do not know tells me more about what you and I will say next to each other more than what I know says about what we can say to each other.

“So you can’t tell me if I should eat this bowl of ice cream, Great Uncle?”

A container of frozen cow’s milk and other ingredients… Does it taste good to you?

“My tongue says it does.”

Your tongue is not a separate object.  It is you as much as these words we have left behind.  Including the rest of you, not just your tongue, does the ice cream taste good to you?

“I don’t know.  I’ve never thought about it.”

Precisely.  Look at the object you call a bowl.  Look at the object you call a spoon.  Look at the object you call ice cream.  They are connected, their function and form, their origin and destiny, all one.  In reality, they are not separate objects.  Imagine they and you are all part of the same universe, created, as you say, as a gift from God.  Is the place where the cow came from, how it was raised, how it was milked, how its milk was sanitised and mixed with special ingredients to make ice cream, and how the spoon and bowl came into being also a gift from God?

“Of course.”

Then tell me without putting the ice cream in your mouth, does the ice cream taste good to you?

“Wow!  Uh… that seems like a lot to think about just to decide if I should eat the ice cream.”

But don’t you already have an idea what the ice cream will taste like?  Don’t you already think the ice cream tastes good?

“Yes.”

Then, in the space before you smell the ice cream with your ‘nose’ or place the ice cream on your ‘tongue,’ in that moment when you cannot stop the ice cream from hitting your ‘taste buds,’ I tell you the ice cream will taste like motor oil and burn like hot lava, can your thoughts switch to disliking the ice cream?

“Yes.”

Are you sure.  This moment I describe takes place faster than the speed of light, an imperceptible split second before your thoughts can travel from one neuron to the next.

“Then I guess not.”

Your life is made up of all those imperceptible split seconds.

“Which means…”

Taste is a deception.

“Which means…’

All the imperceptible moments up to now have already determined whether you’re going to eat the ice cream within that bowl, which, by the way, has melted quite a bit since we first started talking.

“And I hate warm ice cream!”

There you go.  You have your answer.

Just a position – Juxtaposition

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[One more break before the story recommences]

A nod to the family of Flo Trotter, a dear friend who corresponded with me years ago, sharing her strong belief in the Christian Bible by writing letters to me containing Bible verses upon which she expanded her lifeview — Flo, you will be missed greatly.

Sitting with three cigars in front of me and a 1pint-6oz bottle of brown ale by Legend Brewing Co. of Richmond, VA, I nod, also, to the ball coach of a little university in the state of Pennsylvania, who died of lung cancer — may your children and grandchildren outlive the highs and lows of your reputation.

A little while ago, I finished listening to a live performance by the organist Gail Archer, as part of Covenant Presbyterian Church’s Covenant Concerts, in concert with the Greater Huntsville Chapter of the American Guild of Organists.  The program included pieces by Buxtehude, Bach, Schumann, Hensel, Tower and Liszt.

I took notes during the concert but left them in another room of the house where my wife sleeps.

  Summary: Archer provided the right articulation and emotional input to make every piece of music a joy in itself.  I thank her for promoting the art of organ playing — I’ve waited 25 years to hear an organ concert in the Covenant Presbyterian church sanctuary and it was well worth the wait.

I listen to her An American Idyll CD while composing this journalistic blog entry.

Meanwhile, bulky guys with uniforms bounce off each other during an NFL playoff game of little to no interest to me (Ravens and Patriots).  I’ll wait until this evening’s game to sit and eat chips, drink beer and veg out during the Giants-49ers game.

Is public education ever going to keep up with the changing economy?

Or do children, like always, find a way to make a living despite an incomplete/inappropriate childhood education?

What is Russia doing to prevent meaningful military intervention in Syria’s internal strife/killing spree between two equally brutal forces?  Better yet, why, Russia, why?  Putin, I think better of you than this.  You, too, Medvedev.

Well, commercialised football viewing calls my name.  Talk with you tomorrow, when the hesitant leader of the Committee picks up the pace of making sure the scheduled event taking place 13,984 days from now goes off without a hitch.

Like the label says, “FRESH BEER – KEEP COOL”!

Sketching some detail into the background image

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[Feel free to skip this entry — setting up future entries with some questions]

Two kids, bundled up in the cool north Alabama winter weather, ride by on an ATV.  A father and daughter ride by on their bicycles.

Do you attempt to control the number of people who want to love you or love the people around you?

Do you accept that whoever wants to like you and/or your presence, your mannerisms, your actions, your work, your friends, your ideas, your passions, your dislikes, can and will like all that without your permission?

So, then, what is poverty?

If no one told you you were poor, would you know it?  If you didn’t have all the stuff that nonpoverty purports to provide — telephone, television, motorbikes, automobiles, paved roads, public transit, sanitised water, pasteurised milk, meat byproducts, mass-produced clothing, literacy, manufactured medicine, Internet 24/7 — would you feel any less yourself?

Are you naturally predisposed to move around?  Are you athletically inclined?  Or would you rather sit and minimise your physical movements, passively involved in the world around you?

What are you primary activities?  How do they compare to your subculture and the population at large?

Do you stand more than sit?

Do you sleep more than sit?

Do you spend more time eating while sitting or standing?

Is your physical activity integrated with your primary activities or do you set aside time to “exercise” because your primary activities are mainly sedentary?

Should radio/TV/Internet call-in shows no longer accept calls from drivers using their mobile phones?

What is a hobby?  When does the line blur between hobby and occupation?

On a personal note, why have I, who grew up attending and actively participating in weekly religious rituals, found group-based religious ceremonies fairly uninteresting in my adulthood, no matter how familiarly old-fashioned or modern they have been? [Answer: because none of them allow me to silently meditate upon the solemnity of reason for the process; rather, I am forced to stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down, sing with and listen to others, interrupting my train of meditative thought.]

Poverty of possessions is not a sin or a crime.  A short life expectancy is not, either.

Being organic beings (as opposed to all those inorganic beings out there [wink, wink]), we are subject to the frailty that flesh and blood makes us.

The thousands-of-years-old question: does civilisation make us less or more of what we once were?

A two-story house under construction one street over gives the occupants of the second story a clear view of me sitting in front of the window in my study.

I don’t like being watched.  No particular reason why or, rather, a multitude of reasons why.  First, I like to change my personality frequently and don’t like people watching me during the transition.  Second, I change my chameleon personality to adjust to people around me and when unknown people are watching, I’m unsure what specific traits I should best display.

As a person who likes to record his personalities and observations via the process of writing, I am often wearing the cloak of a personality I’m trying to understand before describing it with words.  Letting strangers watch the intermediate stages of personality development is not something with which I’m comfortable.

In this day and age, I value my privacy during the moments of character development.

Should I?

Is privacy a right best enjoyed in poverty or wealth?

If people want to like or love me even when I’m wrapped up in a new character coming to life, should I stop them or let them see what they want, despite the incomplete message they may receive (and I’m all about projecting a message, or the semistereotype that most of us, as characters in our own drama/comedy, display on a daily basis)?

I am behind in my thanks, including to: Stain/Miranda at Beauregard’s (now back in business); Jordan at Publix; Mr. Donut; China Cook; Joe, Harold and Jenn at KCDC; Taylor at Krystal; Tuesday Morning; Michael’s; multiple Internet service providers and Web content developers; Richard J. Quintana of Missing Link Records (thanks for selling me a box of Deutsche Grammophon records for $10); Fred Bread.

If not now, when? If not the ECB/IMF, who?

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[Personal notes – feel free to skip or ignore this blog entry]

TLA – three letter acronyms.

The redbud tree is nearly denuded of seed pods, thanks to weather, birds and squirrels.

Two women jog down the road, one pushing a baby stroller.

An automobile speeds past, the driver disobeying speed limit signs posted in the neighbourhood.

The aquarium water filter/circulator gurgles, a gear out of gear, gushing few bubbles into the flow.

Some data points stare at me from the Internet browser software tabs:

We live in the “I cannot” mode or the “I can” mode at any time.

We think simultaneously in both.

Raccoons chase one another in the attic space above our living room and bedroom, attracting the cats’ attention.

As my brother in-law noted, there is a certain thrill in the hunt, lying low, waiting for the prey to wander by, adrenaline pumping through your body.

But there is no thrill in killing raccoons that’ve chewed holes in the house eaves.  They are not worthy prey when they are frolicking on top of fiberglass insulation or wandering outside to eat.

I share this house with my wife, two cats, spiders, crickets, lizards, bees, wasps, birds, raccoons, chipmunks, snakes, mice and other living things (dust mites, bacteria, algae, fungi, lichen, tropical plants).

Most of us, in pure classification terms only, are eukaryotes (a word I did not learn in childhood science classes).  In pure numbers, most of us are invisible eukaryotes, with some prokaryotes around, to keep us on our toes, so to speak (for a description of alternate lifeform classifications, see Domain, once again).

But I digress.

A bicyclist passes by, followed by two trucks, one labeled “XFinity” and the other “Comcast.”

A few birds flit past, presumably to check if birdfeeders in the backyard were filled in the last few days (answer: no).

I, this set of states of energy, float within the comfortable confines of my ecosystem, a subculture, rarely threatened with external, immediate forms of death.

Sure, a plane could crash into the house, or a tornado whip through the yard during the next major weather disturbance, but the chances of either one happening are close enough to zero to allow me to ignore them.  There is absolutely no chance of a driveby shooting or being kidnapped by spies in my life, meaning I need not be paranoid or feed the paranoid needs of others to be wanted/desired/meaningful, no matter now negative their paranoid needs may be.

Thus, I conclude, I exist within the “I can” mode most of the time.

What can I do?

I can build verbal trails, evidenced here, that are structured within a framework of satire and sarcasm, layering a thick molasses-like glue through and through, slowing down the progress from understood word meaning to misconstrued phrase, in order to deflect incoming signals, stimuli, like the funhouse mirror I’ve always been.

There are, of course, the narrative constructs of the Committee and the Book of the Future to place within a time-based structure.

What is real or not real is unimportant to me.

Reality is no better a term to use than to say (to an imaginary extraterrestrial alien), all lifeforms on Earth are exactly like the first one you found, Methanocaldococcus jannaschii.

Perception is reality, just as religion is reality to many and atheism is reality to some.

Was the EU your idea or the invention of a person with a bureaucratically political mindset (can there be politics without bureaucracy (or bourgeoisie, for that matter))?

Can a superculture, much like the UN, but much, much more than that (yes, Star Trek fans, you may think of the Federation of Planets; no, Star Wars fans, there will be no Galactic Empire), arise and absorb the political entities we now call countries while still holding allegiance to the power/voice of the people?

In other words, when do we directly vote for representatives of the supercultural administrative bureaucracy?

When do we say Earth is the first member of the Solar System network of colonies?

Should the EU members lead the way and declare themselves members of the UE (United Earth), rearranging financial categorisation of political entities accordingly, eliminating the [old] geographical boundary method of identification?

You can guess what the combined future prediction algorithms of all subcultures processed through the network of supercomputers have said in the Book of the Future, can’t you?

Time is irrelevant.  Power shifts are inevitable.  The truth is what you make it out to be.

The clock, not my stomach, tells me to eat food for lunch – that says a lot right there, doesn’t it?

Too Crass for Top Brass Knuckles

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Someone told me Ol’ Peg Leg himself, Alex Trebek, was back at work, hobbling across TV theatre stages, but without his trusty parrot, Repeatedly, on his shoulder.

Canada should be proud, I’m sure, I imagine, possibly.

The Rod Gilmore Fan Club has issued its own set of paper dolls for him.  I’m not sure what sartorial eloquence means but apparently his fans’ imaginations are wilder than a sports network’s ability to verify its morgue of information that clashes with its desire to become ever more profitable and pervasive (or should I say evasive?).

A rumour has it that Barney Frank will, as a last-ditch Congressional effort, launch an investigation into a sports network’s archives, in order to preserve journalism’s purity of investigative pursuit rather than pursuit of of the profit motive.

Like Jason Bateman’s observation of his mother’s maid, who carted furs to a storage unit that happened to catch on fire at an inconvenient time, the right Honourable Frank is alleged to have spies watching a sports network’s pages shredding and burning pages (but how do you shred and burn emails and voicemails?  Hmm…) to preserve the appearance of innocence after the fact.

Flood a hard disk factory and watch the roaches come squirming out, looking for a bit of dry land and a byte to eat.

The title of this blog entry was going to be “It’s Raining, It’s Snowing, the Governor is Blowing,” but bygones are Bygones, a species of creature so vile that those who cough up bile because their gall bladders have no gall (mainly, the Gauls who are galling) can just barely feel what it’s like to have Bygone Days (a symptom dissimilar to migraine headaches) when Bygones, smaller than a speck of dust, are squirted into the air as soon as a person innocently, ignorantly picks up an item discarded by the person in front or beside, relieving the high-pressure of Bygone capsules, kinda like stepping on puff mushrooms or overstuffed ship containers exploding on the high seas.

This week, we cast aside appearances to the contrary and visit the Contrarian, an agrarian, not a librarian, with a brain so huge (in comparison to a flea’s) that autism is a natural state, rather than the exception to the norm.  Speaking of which… Hey, Norm!

[Can you imagine being completely mental yet everyone you know and, most especially, those you don’t, call you Norm?  Par for the coarse sandpaper, eh, you say?]

Have you ever been booed?  Do you understand when your popularity was an illusion fostered by intimidation rather than admiration?

And lastly, don’t you love being part of the so-called One Percenters, with Ninety-Nine Luftballoons causing the next great war…sorry, with the remaining 99 percent of your species simply pawns doing your bidding — buying trinkets they don’t need, exchanging objects with planned obsolescence during a commercial orgy of a holiday — all for your profitable and viewing pleasure?

Ahhh-h-h-h-h…if one must be a particular set of states of energy, let it be this one, water dripping from the gutter and snow falling in the air on a late November day, with fellow citizens helping you pay your alleged tax burden and paying homage to civil [dis]obedience, where the military cannot hold you indefinitely outside of the protective, and nearly universal, laws of your land, where the current popular occupation, a member of Occupy [your locale], relives the Revival spirit of religious-toned gatherings and camp meetings of centuries past.

You know, the Bygone days, a golden era when everyone got itchy and excited due to Bygone infestations, wanting to jump and shout in unison with others, turning to the alpha members of the group, the leaders (often the driven or wannabe members of the One Percenters), to interpret the purpose of their feelings toward their medical afflictions and infections.

[Yes, this should have been called “Ode to a Bygone” but who’d’ve read it?]

Do you wonder about our fascination with the Roman god of war and agriculture, Mars?

When your descendants settle on the planet Mars, will they construct a monument to the mythological deity as a token of thanks for giving them a new home place to sprawl out upon?

After all, we’re prone to building edifices, one of the strange habits of our species.

In your locale, are there more monuments to peace or war?  Is every edifice — skyscrapers, museums, or schools, for instance — a monument?  Will the Arab Spring and Occupy movements have their own monuments one day?

=v=v=

Thanks to Dr. Brooke Uptagrafft, Dr. Karen Lamb and many more, such as Shelby at K-Mart, Ben at Zaxby’s, and Buddy’s BBQ.