http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/08/washington/08inquiry.html?_r=1&ref=world&oref=slogin
I have said it and thought it many times: The hypocrisy of these people. When will the ignorant Christians open their eyes to realize that Republican values do not conform with Christianity?! Or maybe that is not it, maybe it is something more essential. It is Republicans that tend to go to war, that prefer war over diplomacy, that have no qualms in fighting against a system of basic welfare in favor of corporate profit, that discriminate against homosexuals as if they were not human. Republicans who every Sunday go to church to praise the lord. Republicans who love to preach the word of god and like to place their god in the forefront of world cultures. They fail to understand that they themselves have placed christ as a god, have taken a man and made him divine, have placed their hopes and faith in that man god; that man, who among his deeds, befriended the lepers and the whores, broke the law by working on the Sabbath in order to feed the people, preached the kind of love that is reflected in the meaning of agape- the selfless love, the kind of love by which you forgive your enemies, by which you place the other cheek when they hit you, beat your one cheek. They are hypocrits, this Republican Christians, supporting war and vengeance, prideful, dishonest, greedy Republicans. They should not call themselves Christian, if they will rely on the Old Testament for their truth. Out with the old, in with the New. Else, call yourself a Jew. It is only until the Gospel, until the breakaway from the Jewish Law of the O.T., that we begin to see the titled Christians. But now, 1,980 years after, we see the resurgence of the Torah as the dictating text for Christian thought, the leading source for mores and world perception. The ignorant, blind, Christian Republicans source of knowledge and choice.
Do not call yourself a Christian and a Republican. As long as Republican values equate close-minded, out-dated Calvinistic + Barbaric notions and Christians seek Republicanism as the political representation of their values and mores they CANNOT call themselves Christians, but rather "Christians" or simply "Hypocrits."
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
The shadows are beacons of optimism.
I sometimes wondered, when I pondered upon shadows when thinking of the atomic arrangements of those objects that make us believe in reality, that when a shadow affected an object, it somehow somewhat changed that object's atomic arrangement. Say, it made it a different object from what it was before the shadow was projected upon it.
And so my scientific friend says it does. And it is clever the way he says it does. The shadows, you see, are a product of the game between photons and dimensions. In a two dimensional world, there would be no shadow, but there would only be height and length, no depth, no surface except one upon which light, or photons, could be projected upon.
With the addition of depth, in its play with time, we find the basic elements of reality. We find reality as we know it, life as we know it, its rocks and its plants and its people. A basic thought: Without light, there is no photosynthesis. Without photosynthesis, there is no oxygen. Without oxygen, there is no life. Just carbon, carbon, carbon.
Shadows are the product of three dimension intruding upon the path of photons. Photons are the bearers of life. To recognize -emphasis on recognition- a shadow from surrounding objects, means somewhere somehow photons are impacting 3-d surfaces. When these surfaces are plants, the result is photosynthesis, oxygen, life, and its shadows.
I sometimes wondered, when I pondered upon shadows when thinking of the atomic arrangements of those objects that make us believe in reality, that when a shadow affected an object, it somehow somewhat changed that object's atomic arrangement. Say, it made it a different object from what it was before the shadow was projected upon it.
And so my scientific friend says it does. And it is clever the way he says it does. The shadows, you see, are a product of the game between photons and dimensions. In a two dimensional world, there would be no shadow, but there would only be height and length, no depth, no surface except one upon which light, or photons, could be projected upon.
With the addition of depth, in its play with time, we find the basic elements of reality. We find reality as we know it, life as we know it, its rocks and its plants and its people. A basic thought: Without light, there is no photosynthesis. Without photosynthesis, there is no oxygen. Without oxygen, there is no life. Just carbon, carbon, carbon.
Shadows are the product of three dimension intruding upon the path of photons. Photons are the bearers of life. To recognize -emphasis on recognition- a shadow from surrounding objects, means somewhere somehow photons are impacting 3-d surfaces. When these surfaces are plants, the result is photosynthesis, oxygen, life, and its shadows.
Friday, September 19, 2008
meditations 9/19/08
I took a cantaloupe and split it in half. I ate that half with a spoon. The fruit was delicious; the seeds plentiful; I left the seeds in the empty fruit shell, and covered them with dirt. I placed the pot out on the front garden, to settle under the sun and rain. Within days, little green things began to sprout.
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That man was a mystery. Everything he did was mysterious. He would come home and throw himself on the floor. He would stare at you with his pale eyes and skin from the depths of darkness. Who knows what thoughts occurred in that mind of his. He sometimes howled and sometimes yelped without reason; and in conversation would blurp out facts on some erotic practices conducted by some isolated ethnic cultures. I always thought it was the way the man made his women. He was a mysterious man, after all.
In fact, the word ‘mysterious’ was bestowed upon him by someone else. I told him one afternoon, as he lay sprawled out on the front stairs. He didn’t care whether there was dirt, cigarette ashes, and possibly spit on the ground on which he lay. He was mysterious you see, and I told him how someone had said precisely that about him, about how he was ‘mysterious.’
Naturally, he asked me who said it. And I, the clever beast, said,” That, too, my friend, is a mystery…”
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By the time the lizard hit 15 it didn’t speak to its mother. Sunken in the slivery strings of drug addiction, the silent mourning gulps of alcoholism, the heavy smoke of misbehavior, the deviation, the perpetration, the insolent derision and contempt with which he viewed the state of affairs, the apathy, the antipathy, the anarchy of his actions; all that, consequently, had opened a gap so wide between himself and his mother the lizard no longer spoke to his mother, by the age of 15.
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Take some flour, as much flour as you want, then add a proportional amount of baking powder and salt. You got your grain and your rising agent. Use some oil for the shortening, so that the flour, wet, does not stick to your hands nor the surface on which you bake it, and also so it holds all the contents of the mix together. Add some water. Mix. Add some more water. Mix. Mix until you have bound all the flour in the bowl into a ball. Then add a little more water and knead. If you add too much water, to the point when the dough is sticky, then you can either add more flour or knead it until the moisture has dissipated or evaporated. If the right amount of water has been used, where only a little sticks but the rest can be manipulated, then knead, knead, knead until you know that all the contents of the mix have been mixed together and proportionally in all its parts. Any bit of flour that is left unknead will attack you after it has been baked. It will be like the cocoa powder than didn’t quite mix into the hot milk. You have to therefore knead, twist, cut, punch, knead, twist, cut, punch, cut, stretch, knead, twist, press, pull, press, crush, twist, knead, punch, ever so much, until it has all been mixed proportionally into a beautiful, moist little ball. Then punch it some more till flat, and bake.
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That man was a mystery. Everything he did was mysterious. He would come home and throw himself on the floor. He would stare at you with his pale eyes and skin from the depths of darkness. Who knows what thoughts occurred in that mind of his. He sometimes howled and sometimes yelped without reason; and in conversation would blurp out facts on some erotic practices conducted by some isolated ethnic cultures. I always thought it was the way the man made his women. He was a mysterious man, after all.
In fact, the word ‘mysterious’ was bestowed upon him by someone else. I told him one afternoon, as he lay sprawled out on the front stairs. He didn’t care whether there was dirt, cigarette ashes, and possibly spit on the ground on which he lay. He was mysterious you see, and I told him how someone had said precisely that about him, about how he was ‘mysterious.’
Naturally, he asked me who said it. And I, the clever beast, said,” That, too, my friend, is a mystery…”
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By the time the lizard hit 15 it didn’t speak to its mother. Sunken in the slivery strings of drug addiction, the silent mourning gulps of alcoholism, the heavy smoke of misbehavior, the deviation, the perpetration, the insolent derision and contempt with which he viewed the state of affairs, the apathy, the antipathy, the anarchy of his actions; all that, consequently, had opened a gap so wide between himself and his mother the lizard no longer spoke to his mother, by the age of 15.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Take some flour, as much flour as you want, then add a proportional amount of baking powder and salt. You got your grain and your rising agent. Use some oil for the shortening, so that the flour, wet, does not stick to your hands nor the surface on which you bake it, and also so it holds all the contents of the mix together. Add some water. Mix. Add some more water. Mix. Mix until you have bound all the flour in the bowl into a ball. Then add a little more water and knead. If you add too much water, to the point when the dough is sticky, then you can either add more flour or knead it until the moisture has dissipated or evaporated. If the right amount of water has been used, where only a little sticks but the rest can be manipulated, then knead, knead, knead until you know that all the contents of the mix have been mixed together and proportionally in all its parts. Any bit of flour that is left unknead will attack you after it has been baked. It will be like the cocoa powder than didn’t quite mix into the hot milk. You have to therefore knead, twist, cut, punch, knead, twist, cut, punch, cut, stretch, knead, twist, press, pull, press, crush, twist, knead, punch, ever so much, until it has all been mixed proportionally into a beautiful, moist little ball. Then punch it some more till flat, and bake.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Migration
The bird flew fairly low in the sky. Its song was weak and muffled in the cold, grey tree. It looked thin, haggard, and lost, as if it had taken a greyhound bus to a different town than expected; as if its instincts were somewhat off-kilter and its fate therefore out of balance.
The bird was red with bright, black shining eyes. Each eye seemed enveloped in a tear; tears that never fell from the eye. The bird looked haggard, weak, and cold chanting softly to the burning wind, hanging on to the branch with little claws that gripped with its last strength.
"Poor cardinal..." I thought, as I observed it from the foot of the tree. It peered at me from the depth of its avian soul. It seemed to ask me to retrieve it and store it in an empty shoe box to the warmth of my room, or basement. In my own eyes I answered that I had no box to place it in, and no food to feed it, and that my roommates might or might not enjoy the sight of a cardinal. Perhaps if you had been a chickadee… I told it with my eyes.
I remembered my errand and walked away from the sad sight of the lost cardinal. I left it to its fate in that cold, grey winter afternoon. By the evening I had forgotten about it. We had Cornish hens for dinner, which I ate down to the bone without question nor regret. The taste did nothing to allude the memory of the forgotten bird...
The following week, I walked the same route of the previous week. I ran the same errand from before which carried me next to the selfsame tree. The branch on which the cardinal once stood was now empty, but the day remained cold and the wind strong and merciless.
I looked around on the ground to see if I could find its fragile little body. I found nothing but the wet grass where it would had fallen had it fallen. I continued the errand, keeping the bird in mind. To my surprise, a small cardinal lay a few yards from the tree, along the trail. It had no feathers. Ants had supped off its tender skin and beady eyes. The bones appeared dusty and trampled.
The sight inspired but a single thought: "Wherever it migrated this time, even if lost, would have much better weather..."
The bird was red with bright, black shining eyes. Each eye seemed enveloped in a tear; tears that never fell from the eye. The bird looked haggard, weak, and cold chanting softly to the burning wind, hanging on to the branch with little claws that gripped with its last strength.
"Poor cardinal..." I thought, as I observed it from the foot of the tree. It peered at me from the depth of its avian soul. It seemed to ask me to retrieve it and store it in an empty shoe box to the warmth of my room, or basement. In my own eyes I answered that I had no box to place it in, and no food to feed it, and that my roommates might or might not enjoy the sight of a cardinal. Perhaps if you had been a chickadee… I told it with my eyes.
I remembered my errand and walked away from the sad sight of the lost cardinal. I left it to its fate in that cold, grey winter afternoon. By the evening I had forgotten about it. We had Cornish hens for dinner, which I ate down to the bone without question nor regret. The taste did nothing to allude the memory of the forgotten bird...
The following week, I walked the same route of the previous week. I ran the same errand from before which carried me next to the selfsame tree. The branch on which the cardinal once stood was now empty, but the day remained cold and the wind strong and merciless.
I looked around on the ground to see if I could find its fragile little body. I found nothing but the wet grass where it would had fallen had it fallen. I continued the errand, keeping the bird in mind. To my surprise, a small cardinal lay a few yards from the tree, along the trail. It had no feathers. Ants had supped off its tender skin and beady eyes. The bones appeared dusty and trampled.
The sight inspired but a single thought: "Wherever it migrated this time, even if lost, would have much better weather..."
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
IN a Depression, the majority suffer. One would (or wouldn't) like to think everyone suffers. One would think that everyone suffers equally. But nothing, absolutely nothing, is done equally in this world. The development of civilizations has never favored equality, and it seemed only later, after the Revolutions, that the world equality>egality>egalite', began to sprout in certain places. They like to think the Greeks and the Romans lived a true democracy, where everyone was equal. Notice, however, that Ovid's amatory poems describe the mind of a man very much in touch with his carnal desires, such as today. I do not bring this without connection. It has always been this way: we have never all been focused on the same things. Money, or a form of survival, has always been a concern of humans, but the ways to acquire have never been the same. The distribution of ideas has never been the same. Some first knew how to produce and trade and sell and price and buy and invest and all these matters while others focused on the carnal or the spiritual. Some with great ideas, perhaps even ridiculous ideas, such as the pet rock, saw once the earnings of their mind.
I hate to think that no one who has much money deserves to have it taken away or stolen from them. On the contrary, I believe that one earns what one works for. There is a moment, however, when I believe the quantity of property possessed by a single man outnumbers the survival limit for several lives, nay, many many many lives. It transcends the idea that this money is being saved for the individual's children, for it could persist for several generations without seeing loss. I do not know precisely of who I speak with this amount of power, but I am sure as I breath that there that person exists.
Do the immensely rich suffer in time of Depression. Does their fortune ever approximate relative poverty? My question, in a time of depression, is WHERE IS THE MONEY? Has the world been conformed of so many people that the distribution of wealth has left all with a meager quantity? Nay, the development of society has never been equal...
In the 1930's, did the few merely enclose themselves in their castles while the majority perished? If the majority perished, would the few be happy? The few could perhaps hire enough to sustain a society of their own, but these lesser humans working for them, what benefit can they derive from the wealth? Who do they find to serve them, to cultivate the food for them while they cultivate the others' food?
I hate to think that no one who has much money deserves to have it taken away or stolen from them. On the contrary, I believe that one earns what one works for. There is a moment, however, when I believe the quantity of property possessed by a single man outnumbers the survival limit for several lives, nay, many many many lives. It transcends the idea that this money is being saved for the individual's children, for it could persist for several generations without seeing loss. I do not know precisely of who I speak with this amount of power, but I am sure as I breath that there that person exists.
Do the immensely rich suffer in time of Depression. Does their fortune ever approximate relative poverty? My question, in a time of depression, is WHERE IS THE MONEY? Has the world been conformed of so many people that the distribution of wealth has left all with a meager quantity? Nay, the development of society has never been equal...
In the 1930's, did the few merely enclose themselves in their castles while the majority perished? If the majority perished, would the few be happy? The few could perhaps hire enough to sustain a society of their own, but these lesser humans working for them, what benefit can they derive from the wealth? Who do they find to serve them, to cultivate the food for them while they cultivate the others' food?
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