COP15: Disdain for the Tree of Life

It was an article in The Copenhagen Post which first perked my interest in the big Un's Climate Change Conference (COP15).

When I see Beauty and merry-making banned I get suspicious. When I see the spirit of Puritanism and Piety rising like an angry flood across the green land and seeping like an acid beneath the doors of homes and hearts my senses quicken and a stiff ridge rises along the trunk of my spine, traveling the branches of my brain.

"[Christmas] is a religious holiday that has no place at a United Nations function, according to the Foreign Ministry's Svend Olling...." ("Christmas trees banned for climate summit," The Copenhagen Post, 4 Dec. 2009).

"'We have to remember that this is a UN conference and, as the centre then becomes UN territory, there can be no Christmas trees in the decor, because the UN wishes to maintain neutrality,' said Olling" ("Christmas trees").


Jadis, Scrooge, the Grinch, and Puritans don't like Christmas trees either. They prefer cold stone, frozen streams, continual Fimbulvetr, and never having to see evergreen life which defies winter's breath. They are afraid of Spring's warm breath; and large powerful men with wise white beards who keep lists, wear royal crimson, and bring gifts and drop coal upon those who need warming of their constricted hearts. They are afraid of an old one-eyed man sustained upon wine with his eight-legged steed, or his modern team of eight leaping and jingling reindeer.

COP15 claims to be a religious neutral zone, but the banning of decorated and glowing evergreens and observance of Christmas is a highly religious and fanatical act. The hatred of Christmas is rarely an atheist hatred, but always a religious fanatic hatred.


COP15 has very effectively displayed a fear, not only of The Great Flood, but also of The Live Tree. Within the Great White Stone Circle ("No Man's Land") there is barely a live twig across the desert. The few trees are in winter's sleep, and those planted previous to the great gathering are looked upon as inferior due to the fact that they were planted in a time when man believed nature had a pattern and could be guided by pattern.


The dislike of The Live Tree is also evident in the little movie produced for the opening ceremony, "Please help the world," in which the child instinctively clings to the lone and dead tree for protection from The Great Flood swirling beneath her.


The child-actor knows to cling to the tree, knows it should represent shelter from the storm, but in a windswept world where one has lost their Faith (the teddy bear) to the gaping chasm, and The Live Tree is reduced to a skeleton of dry kindling, there is no savior, no refuge from the storm. There is only crucifixion.

The world of COP15 is not one of benevolence or of hope, but of apocalypse, fear, and dark ignorance. It is a world of Deep Ecology, the deep ecology of hell and its laughing lies.

The world will look and feel exactly as the landscaping and the film depict it if the Frost Giants of Copenhagen have their way. They are pulling our tails.

Rather than pushing against the weight of the good people of the world, trying to get them into the dark barn, they are pulling tails with fear in order to get us to pull away from the discomfort and into the barn -- the very place we don't want to go.

The Live Tree represents all that this new group of religious fanatics cannot stand: Life, Knowledge, Protection, Birth, Connection to Heaven, Connection to Hell, Sacrifice, and Resurrection.


The Live Tree, the Christmas Tree is one of the most universal, most religiously neutral symbols inherited by man. Coupled with fire or light it is even more universal. COP15 wants this and ALL myth, ALL religions of the past desiccated. The only way to achieve this goal of obliterating these inherited "religious" symbols is to obliterate the blood in which these beliefs are stored.

Those who believe they will gain profit or save the earth by signing to the treaty will be signing in blood -- the blood of innocents, the blood of the children in their country.

Those who refrain their hand from signing the treaty will be those who have tasted of the fruit of knowledge, who desire the fruit of life, who hold to the ties of the wise elders, the courage of mythic heroes, and the divine patterns instilled in the earth upon which they know and love. Those who do not sign will stand with solid faces against the storm and they will shelter under The Great Tree. Those who do not sign will be like living trees spreading their branches over the children of their land.


images from top to bottom: Jesse Tree, Saint-Quentin Basilica, Aisne, France;
Woman With Flowers, Iran; Olive Tree; Flag of Iroquois Confederacy; detail of Crucifixion, Antonello da Messina; Yggdrasil, Oluf Olufsen Bagge, Prose Edda (1847); Happy Christmas, Viggo Johansen

COP15: Primordial Flood Fear

Those gathered in Denmark for the COP15 are displaying an inordinate fear of water and an unhealthy dislike of foliage and fire.

Perhaps, the Danes have an ingrained fear of water due to their age-old battle against it. They've been holding it back for centuries, building dykes and draining it with their spectacular windmills. It's in their blood. Tulip speculating is in their blood too, and we remember that with sidewise fondness and bywords of derision.

The dark and damp depths of the Great Flood run strong throughout COP15. It is a bit wet and wintery in Copenhagen this time of year. The duck ponds in the Great White Circle around Bella Center welcome with more water as the delegates enter.

Then there is the horror flick "Please help the world," in which the children flee from the rain storm into the dark confines of their tall and aesthetically devoid apartments where the rain looms against the windows as they watch televisions which show the horrors of global warming. Then, after an evening of healthy fear from the screen get tucked in for a nightmare.

And again, that nasty water appears. The little girl clings to a dead tree (again, that dislike of healthy trees) while the water rages inland and beneath her little feet.

Then, there are the displays of melting glaciers and the talk of rising sea levels. Yet in all this fear of water and cold grayness, there seems to be no light or fire. How can the water be rising if there is no light, warmth, or fire? Where is the sun in this land? Perhaps, the sun must be avoided because it would bring up the idea that there are other causes of global warming outside of mankind.

And fire, it must not be spoken of amongst those of cold heart. They may melt. Fire is absolute and dangerous. It warms and brightens. Fire takes the edge off of damp souls and warms us enough to be limber for love and joy.

COP15 is a grand display of those afraid of the dark and cold, the flood and the reasons for it hidden in the shadows of their nightmares, haunting them, becoming larger than life. The Flood, a deep memory, something to face, something to overcome.

Until those gathered at COP15 can grasp the branches of a live tree, find a tall mountain, and grasp more securely to their old faith and fidelity they will not survive the watery apocalypse they so fear. Nor will they survive the fiery one they dare not speak of.

And for, heaven's sake when will the preachers of the world stop using children as an emotional vehicle? When will we grow up?

image: Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt

The Breathe of Life

And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being (Genesis 2:7)

And this is the moment carbon dioxide (CO2) is first expelled into the perfect earth, the moment the glaciers begin melting and polar bears begin floating on stray islands of ice.

There is a bit of folk wisdom that says talking to a plant will make it grow faster. Most likely, it is not so much the vibrations of speech which the plant loves, but the breathe which contains CO2, not to mention one who talks to a plant is also attentive to its needs.

But it has been agreed upon by supposedly educated and well-meaning adults in positions of power that CO2 is now a toxin which must be condemned.

It is difficult for me to comprehend the logic. How is it that the world must unite to protect plant and animal life from irresponsible human encroachment and use, but also claim that the very thing plants rely on for energy is now dangerous?

If plants do not get enough light, water, or CO2 they don't grow. And if plants don't grow animals die. Polar bears will die without herbivores to chew on, not to mention that plants expel oxygen as a "waste" product, which is what humans and animals breathe.

Is it possible that what is really meant by lowering CO2 emissions is the death of all that breathes?

There does seem to be an arrogance forming in the ponds of "No Man's Land," in the Great White Circle around Bella Center in Copenhagen where the big UN is meeting for the Climate Change Conference (COP15).

It seems, judging from the three plastic-lined ponds in the Great White Circle of rocks, rocks, and more rocks at Bella Center's entrance that the breathe of life will only be blowing upon the pond that symbolizes those chosen few meeting inside and the air they will be huffing.

There are three lonely ponds erected in the landscape. One pond is full of water and leaves which are in various stages of decay, which most likely represents the humous pile of history and lives used as compost for the great one's gardens.

There is another plastic-lined pool which has a cloud made of 1800 metres of recycled water spewing forth into it. This represents the daily Dane (Flemming Rafn Thomsen, Head of Design, SLA).

And then there is the special pond, full of white chalk stones, which will be the one that catches the wind, the spirit of inspiration, causing its surface to froth, and turn "milky."

I suppose, that those not part of the compost pond may be symbolized by the Great White Circle of rocks.

It is not clear as to how those gathered at COP15 will get the breathe of life/inspiration blown upon them if no religion is allowed. Perhaps, there is a new pantheon of gods being developed, from which the breathe will be gotten. Perhaps, they think to make themselves gods and demi-gods, giving birth to a new dawn, a new Olympus, an new order.

Vanity of vanities...All is vanity

Intoxicated

Somewhere between Vitruvius, Sam Johnson, and a little sewing box made of whalebone, and the incessant interruptions of Beowulf I found what I was looking for. The secret recipe for Old English ale.

Those that know me may remember the story of the English Party I once attended. I was very lucky to be visiting an acquaintance during the time of the annual English Party at an old English university. Those not affiliated with the English Department are not generally invited to the gathering, but my friend, an English student, wanted to show me something I had never seen and never will again, and thus broke the rules.

Evidently, it was obvious I was not a professor or a student, but an outsider; a foreigner because all there politely refused to engage in conversation with me. I was not bothered by this because I was there to sight see and enjoy the privileged event, not to mention that I had commonly experienced this reaction upon my native soil in the windowless and cold fluorescent confines of the local Institution of Higher Learning on the hill. In fact, I have even been known to take pleasure in the annoyance I cause certain crusty curmudgeons (Oh, Carol!).

I had a drink or two of the ale from the refreshment table which was kept brimming with good things by a very courteous and polite staff of stiff young men and women who offered up napkins with each glass of spirits or food. I always thanked them, set the napkin down and left with the drink condensing impolitely in my hand, and wandered around the great old room with its tall windows and ancient wood beams as it hummed very smoothly and warmed me in its yellow lamp lit glow.

If one has ever been to a perfect party or gathering they will remember that feeling of warmth, relaxation, and calm that emanates through the room. And even if the others gathered there are friendly, it is nice to find a quiet corner alone for a moment to watch and listen and absorb the vibrations and light into one's being, because it is like a warm blanket of joy and happiness which will not reoccur any time soon. I cannot explain this feeling of extreme and perfect contentment in the very moment one is in, but I do know that one must ingest it to experience it. That as why there is a gracious refreshment table.

During the course of the English Party I commented to a dark lady near me that there was an enchantment in the air and asked if this was a common thing in England. She told me that it was and that every village had the enchantment and that in some places it was so strong that even the rocks could fly.

Certainly, whatever it was I felt that night was very powerful and highly intoxicating. I do recall that the professors seemed to be wary of the younger students who became overly intoxicated and boisterous, but that it was understood this youthful lack of discipline and manners was only a passing phase, soon outgrown in another year at the university.

I did not think on that party for some time or of the puzzle of the enchantment (which I, a foreigner, had caught, much to the chagrin of the professors), but somehow Vitruvius and his Phi, Leonardo and his Golden Man, and a whale bone box reminded me that hidden away is a hoard of treasure, a highly valuable and volatile bottle of enchanted ale which only a few have tasted or dare to admit they have tasted. And I managed to spirit a bottle of the ale out of that country and home with me. Perhaps, rocks can fly.

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art" (Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita)....and, really, I am.

Virtual Pain

This virtual world of technology isn't always so great. Sometimes, one would like a more material and physical world so that when an item malfunctions it can be thrown, kicked, and smashed to smithereens (after trying to fix it and becoming frustrated by those attempts).

I read once that some Hebrew scholars consider the way we scroll on a computer akin to unrolling toilet paper. Lately, I tend to agree. But I can't go drape it around the Windows Media people's house because there's nothing to show after I've unscrolled a page.

Enough of this. When the going gets tough the tough get going back to their old ways.

Great Rivers and Thanksgiving

What if there were a river, large and raging, meandering through the land, clear and deep, endless and generous. What if this river supplied water for drinking, crops, energy, swimming, fishing, transportation, and homes for animals. And this giant stream never ran dry, always supplying the needs and the joys of all who utilized it and were thankful for it and would accept it.

But what if one day, a man came through the land spreading fear amongst the hearts, telling the people that they did not deserve the water of the river and should feel guilty for loving the water rather than being thankful for its many gifts. And what if the people of the land, knowing they did not deserve such greatness and gifts as the river gave to them, decided that indeed, the man was right, and they should stop wading in the stream or diverting the water to the fields, or chasing the silvery fish that lived in its pools.

And as the river began to be more and more avoided, only looked upon from afar as a kind of delicate and separate entity, something to be guilty about using so much; the fields began to become parched places, grave yards of skeletons that once produced the richness and oils of the world. No longer did the lines of the angler drift across the shadowy places on summer evenings, or the laughter of children sparkle in the sun-glinted splashes along the sandy banks.

The people of the land became parched and poor, afraid to touch the gift of the river for fear of contaminating it, not remembering that the river was greater than they and could wash away their dirt and grime, cool them, water them and make them rich beyond measure.

The great river continued to flow but its gifts continued to be rejected by the land. There was plenty of need for it, but the people were convinced that they could survive without it and that it was their duty to sacrifice their happiness to it. The river was wasted, and the land cried out for it, but the people afraid of themselves, believed the stranger's lie that the river needed protecting from them and their careless ways.

One day a giant chasm opened up and swallowed the river. The chasm had an insatiable appetite. Because the people of the land were helpless to divert the river, afraid of contaminating it with their touch, afraid of tempering nature, they stood and watched the chasm swallow the waters of the river. Slowly, even the source of the river gave up and less and less water flowed until one day only a salty and toxic trickle flowed into the endless pit. The fish died, the cattails, the birds, and the aquifers under the ground disappeared.

Why would a people believe the stranger and not accept the great generosity of the river? Why would they believe it was good to allow the water to be sucked up by a dark pit?

Do we accept the generosity of the rivers in our life in spite of being undeserving? Are we thankful for it? Do we use that generosity to water our land, our soul, and provide fruit and energy for life? Or do we waste it by rejecting it and allowing the water to go into a gaping cavern that does not appreciate or have use for the water's gifts?

Generosity does not require one to be perfect, it's only desire is for acceptance and thankfulness. Those who continually snub generosity will become dry and parched land where nothing grows and where certain streams will refuse to go even when attempts at diverting them are made.

image: View From Mount Holyoke, Northampton, Massachusetts, After A Thunderstorm - The Oxbow (1836) by Thomas Cole

On Time

Time. That eternally and infinitely timeless subject, time. There are so many ways to look at it and wonder and wonder.

Time is divided, subdivided, chopped up and categorized in so many ways, depending on the time of day and the age in which one looks at it. Historical time is most often labelled as linear, running along a straight line in one direction from some point buried in the sands of, well, time.

A day runs from morning to night for some and from sunset to sunset for others.

We often say, when not at a destination exactly when planned, that we are late, not on time. But we are always on time, because we live on time, every moment is time.

We say that some things are "timeless," which means that they transcend time, and are not ever on time at all because a timeless thing is not pegged to our time's segment upon the line.

But it seems quite evident that a straight linear time is not how time is organized at all. It must be circular, although it may not be repetitive.

Our earth is always hinting at the roundness of time. Everything moves in circular, spinning, and rotating motions.

What if time began at a point upon a circle and life is composed of two opposing forces that also began upon that first moment, and these two opposites are repelled from each other? If the two opposing forces are repelled they move in opposing directions from each other around the circle of time, thinking that they are going in opposite directions and further away from each other.

And for awhile the two opposites are spaced very far apart across the diameter of time. But as they each proceed further along the circle they become nearer and near each other until the moment they each reach the same point. The two forces will either merge with each other, becoming one or clash violently.

In the end the very thing we believe we are running from, that is opposed to everything we believe in will be the very thing we bump into or become.

This may explain, too, why we may be running out of time, because we are nearing the other side of the circle's diameter, drawing nearer that point of merge or clash (see "New Theory Nixes 'Dark Energy': Says Time is Disappearing from the Universe," 13 Sep. 2009, www.dailygalaxy.com).

image: oil press

The Holy Fair

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
(from the "The Holy Fair," by Robert Burns)

The Plain Language of Greed: H.R. 3962 "Affordable" Health Care Act

I've been examining the most elegant H.R. 3962 Affordable Health Care for America Act. I've read 654 pages of 1990, and plan to finish it. It's excellent. If passed it will force each and every American to enroll in "acceptable coverage" by compelling all to pay up or be penalized with exorbitant fines.

Nowhere does it say Americans will be given health coverage, but everywhere it tells them that they must obtain coverage or be penalized. The only "reform" is to the Internal Revenue code of 1986. This is a tax revenue-raising bill, not a health care reform bill.

This Bard wonders how forced coverage equals better coverage or reform? How does compulsory equal affordable?

How does amending the tax code with more sucking power improve insurance coverage or provide competition and choice?

And what is this about "Plain Language"?

(B) Definition.-- In this paragraph, the term "plain language" means language that the intended audience, including individuals with limited English proficiency, can readily understand and use because that language is concise, well-organized, and follows other best practices of plain language writing (page 122, "Affordable Health Care for America Act")

"Intended audience," or in plainspeak: unwitting players upon the stage, blinded by the glare of the strategically placed stage lights.

The Original Gold Second

"We speak of one thing being like some other thing when what we are really craving to do is to describe something that is like nothing on earth" (Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister)

Like. But isn't. Not exact, not the thing itself. Like.

How does one explain, give the meaning, not a mere semblance of the meaning? This is the ache and the yearning, the chain of being a human on earth. It's as if; like being a prisoner bolted to a cell with a heavy chain that allows one to get near the key, get near the door, nearly touch it....but not quite.

"Certain mind pictures have become so adulterated by the concept of 'time' that we have come to believe in the actual existence of a permanently moving bright fissure (the point of perception) between our retrospective eternity which we cannot recall and the prospective one which we cannot know. We are not really able to measure time because no gold second is kept in a case in Paris but, quite frankly, do you not imagine a length of several hours more exactly than a length of several miles?" (Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister)

There is no "gold second" to measure, although we do measure time with those adulterated "mind pictures." Somehow, we forget the meaning and imagery used to make meaning, which due to our forgetfulness look adulterated, unfamiliar. Because these pictures appear foreign to our present we say they are of another time. Why this is, I cannot tell.

When we read Shakespeare we must pull out our history and dictionary to understand what his meaning is....because the images, the likenesses have become adulterated. Would a gold second fade and disappear this way? Is it the gold second, the meanings that have faded, or is it us? Did someone drop the gold second and did the janitor sweep it under the display case? Are we reading backwards?

If time is moving forwards and our meaning, our images are only copies of other things; like something else that came before, then the future is only a copy of a copy of a copy, and so on. We are like wine that has been watered down, stretched out, and made clear.

Where is that original cask of wine, that golden first, and how good must it have been to have lasted all this while, after all of these adulterations?

Clippings and Letters

I have now been a week at salt water, & though I think I have got some good
by it yet I have some secret fears--that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.-- (Rabbie's letter to his father-in-law, James Armour, 10 July 1796)

"A newspaper clipping mentioned that the State Entomologist had retired to become Adviser on Shade Trees, and one wondered whether this was not some dainty oriental euphemism for death" (Bend Sinister, Vladimir Nabokov)

And on the other side of these are moths and mothers.

"to pass from the comedy of thought to that of action"

In the summer I make hay while the sun shines, barely reading or writing, but always a tinge of guilt prods at me for leaving these muscles to atrophy.

In the fall, in the spring I read again, starting with Vladimir Nabokov. It has to be him because I am a thief, as he is, and before I can lift my own weight I must have another lift me for awhile. The proverbial Standing On The Shoulders of Giants.

I know that I am weak when I fall into the abyss of worldly waste, especially political props. Tyrants, despots, money managers, peddlers of fear and other unimaginative destroyers. Of course, these types fill the pages of history and literature, but it takes imagination to embellish them and make them into great literature, because, really, they are small and stunted.

And so, I have begun my autumn reading with a reread of Nabokov's Bend Sinister. I've barely made it across the bridge. I'm not sure I can make it to the end because it makes me cry and I despise the Toad. But I do so love Nabokov's generous embellishments of undeserving creatures, his gift.

And then, there is Herman Melville's The Confidence-Man, which all who love Nabokov should read. Especially, Chapter XIV "Worth the Consideration Of Those To Whom It May Prove Worth Considering."

The entirety of Chapter XIV is absolutely gorgeous and Nabokovian....but, how can this be? Nabokov was not even a glimmer in God's eye when Melville conceived this. Perhaps, Nabokov is Melvillian. Or perhaps, genius and creativity have a similar hue no matter the author.

Some quotes from Chapter XIV of The Confidence-Man by Herman Melville:

As the last chapter was begun with a reminder looking forwards, so the present must consist of one glancing backwards.

True, it must be urged that there is nothing a writer of fiction should more carefully see to, as there is nothing a sensible reader will more carefully look for, than that, in the depiction of any character, its consistency should be preserved. But this, though at first blush, seeming reasonable enough, may upon a closer view, prove not so much so. For how does it couple with another requirement--equally insisted upon, perhaps--that, while to all fiction is allowed some play of invention, yet, fiction based on fact should never be contradictory to it; and is it not a fact, that, in real life, a consistent character is a rara avis?

If reason be judge, no writer has produced such inconsistent characters as nature herself has. It must call for no small sagacity in a reader unerringly to discriminate in a novel between the inconsistencies of conception and those of life. As elsewhere, experience is the only guide here, but as no man can be coextensive with what is, it may be unwise in every case to rest upon it.

But let nature, to the perplexity of the naturalists, produce her duck-billed beavers as she may, lesser authors, some may hold, have no business to be perplexing readers with duck-billed characters.

But though there is a prejudice against inconsistent characters in books, yet the prejudice bears the other way, when what seemed at first their inconsistency, afterwards, by the skill of the writer, turns out to be their good keeping. The great masters excel in nothing so much as in this very particular. They challenge astonishment at the tangled web of some character, and then raise admiration still greater at their satisfactory unraveling of it; in this way throwing open, sometimes to the understanding of even school misses, the last complications of that spirit which is affirmed by its Creator to be fearfully and wonderfully made

Ah, I love it. Good literature always points the finger at me, poking and prodding, making me laugh and cry with pity. It makes me human again.

Monetized Man

Where shall I begin upon this muddled mess of tangled strings?

Back in 1951 the case of Willcock v. Muckle made it to the High Court of Lord Chief Justice, Lord Goddard [interesting name there, Lord Goddard] due to the fact that some time earlier Mr. Willcock had refused to show his national identification papers to Officer Muckle [also an interesting name].

By 1952 the National Registration Act, which had been passed in war time, was abolished, and the people of Britain were set free....for awhile.

"The National Registration Act was passed for security purposes, and not for the purposes for which, apparently, it is now sought to be used. To use Acts of Parliament, passed for particular purposes during war, in times when the war is past, except that technically as state of war exists, tends to turn law-abiding subjects into lawbreakers, which is a most undesirable state of affairs" (Lord Chief Justice, Lord Goddard, emphasis added)

There are always those that say they don't mind intrusions of privacy, and added laws, and surveillance because they don't break the law or do anything wrong.

Obviously, these people aren't the brightest light bulbs, are a card short of a full deck, their elevator doesn't quite go to the top, and so on and so forth.

If a person is alive, breathes, and has warm blood running through their veins they are a criminal. Not one person exists upon this earth that is innocent of breaking the law. They are ignorant of the fact that they have broken a law and can claim innocence because they have not been caught by a person that does know the law.

I remember discussing this once while studying Uncle Tom's Cabin. The instructor thought it extremely important to point out the fact that the only reason escaped slave Eliza made it across the Ohio River was due to the help of an ignorant Kentuckian (evidently, Kentuckians weren't known for their knowledge of laws and were considered ignorant Americans).

If the Kentucky farmer (a slave owner, by the way) had been aware of the law and that it was illegal to help a slave escape he may not have helped Eliza. But he thought himself an innocent and law-abiding citizen, thus breaking the law and doing the right thing all at the same time. No one caught him breaking the law and he was able to return to being a lawful slave-owning Kentuckian.

Also, during the time of this discussion of laws, ignorance, and knowledge I studied one of the greatest books of all time (far superior and far smaller than that whale of a book, Moby Dick), The Confidence-Man by Herman Melville.

The Confidence-Man could have been written in a time like ours in which we classify people by their proof of identification. It brilliantly asks if a person is human, "authentic" without paper or others to vouch for them. Melville casts judgement upon those that trust paper over people. He also judges those that do or don't trust based upon stereotype, rather than taking risks and finding out for one's self the honesty or dishonesty of each person they meet along the river of life.

Yes, my route is a circuitous, but I'm getting nearer the top of the peak. It's a switchback and there are boulders falling in the way.... Onward!

At this time the world is in a post-Babel state. It is chaotic, confused, and dispersed. But the Corporations entangled with the Governments are fervently working on rectifying this situation, laying the foundation for restoring order, community, and one language. The giant Corporation-Government (Socialism) wants the nations enrolled in identification which will enable them to finish off that Tower project that was so rudely interrupted a few years ago.

Mankind must be numbered in order for this to take place. Already, we have been numbered. We are ranked with a credit score, each time we take a test at school, every time we have a birthday, each pay day, on our driver's license, and at census time. But these numbers are all fairly separate.

The Confidence Man has gotten our confidence, has us convinced that for our own safety and convenience a national identification and tracking card or chip which combines medical info, bank account, fraud prevention, proof of legal citizenship and whatever else is a good thing, a modern thing. All of this is grasping at bedpans(see last few pages of The Confidence-Man in which Melville elaborates upon the willingness of mankind to be conned by the sales pitch of false safety).

National Identification is the opposite of safe. And it will protect no one. It will create great disparity and inequality for mankind.

At this time, when one's account numbers and cards are stolen, it is possible to clear up the situation, although it can cause real devastation. But it is possible to disconnect from the problem.

When one's home is broken into and material possessions are stolen, again it is devastating, but the person can go on with their life because they are not the possession.

A National Identification card or chip will make a person equal the sum of their achievements and possessions, never able to free themselves from the burden of them.

According to earthly law the value of man is his health, good looks, education, achievements, all he owns, what he wears, and who he associates with. It's a point system. A National Identification card will number a man based upon these factors and many others, making each of us the commodity traded upon the stock market.

Rather than us spending and making cash, we will be the cash. We will be monetized. This is one reason we are moving towards a cashless society. We are merging with money, because as those witty writers of the 18th Century often told us, money is only as valuable as the person earning and spending it. Money has never been anything other than a physical tender of our own self (see Pamela, Anti-Pamela, Moll Flanders).

And so, tabulate the points and compare yourself with another person. Number their value and hold it against yours. Are they wealthier, do they own more property, are they healthier, are they more educated, are they younger, do they earn more? What is their number?

Will those with lower numbers ever be allowed to rise above the numbers assigned to them by mankind? Will those with a lower number be allowed to participate in society the same way as those with higher numbers? No.

If a human or a computer were to calculate the number of your name what would it be? Of course, it would be the number of a man.

We must not count the value of others. We must remember that our name is not a number and that we are not the sum of our closeness to perfection. We each are given a name.

Remember, as George Bailey noticed during the run on the bank in It's a Wonderful Life, "Potter's not selling! He's buying!"

The Governments and banks aren't crashing. They're cashing out the paper money and buying the only valuable thing on this planet -- mankind. What number brick will each of us be?

30 pieces of gold. The monetary value placed upon another. One became the first in a burial ground for those with no numbers to their name. One overcame the number and has an eternal name.

images: Louise Weiss Building, Seat of EU Parliament, Strasbourg; The Tower of Babel (1563), Pieter Brueghel the Elder

Older than the hills

"The child is the father of the man," a line from Wordsworth that has become a staple amongst Western literary quotations, and for good reason. It is so well said, so succinct, and so cyclical.

It is the spring board from which I will jump into some musing, observation, and opinion.

Wordsworth and his fellow poets of the Lake School were a band of Romantics, or as we would term them in more modern terms, "hippees." They wanted to get back to nature and enjoy free love away from industrial air. But the difference between them and our now aged hippees is that they really were creative, talented, and wise at times. They were quite industrious and have given generation to following generations, unlike the aged hippees who have often trampled upon the generations that followed them, or as Wordsworth put it:

Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,
Like a false steward who hath much recieved
And renders nothing back (The Prelude)

How is it that the child is the father of the man? Obviously, because he came first, and without the child there would be no man. But perhaps, there is more to it, perhaps, we are looking at things with limited sight, through that dark glass.

The child really is the father of the man.

Why do we say, "when I was younger," when we refer to our self as we were many years before?

That "younger" self no longer exists except as a memory in the fabric of time, an image captured in our mind. That younger self is actually older than the present self.

Why is it that we as individual people were younger, but history as a whole is considered ancient and older? Was it not also younger, newer, more energetic and beautiful too?

Why when we look at pictures of us in our early days, do we say with surprise, "Look at how young and good-looking I was. Look, no gray, no wrinkles, no sagging, no added thickness! I had SO much energy back then. I had no worries. I had no money and barely ate (because I had no money)and everything I owned fit into a box. I was so happy!"?

But when we look at history (which resembles a younger person) we say, "They were unhappy, poor, uneducated barbarians. They didn't know any better. They had no manners, no baths, no hygiene, no electricity. They were slave owners, they were slaves. They thought the world was flat and that a god or gods had created them (imagine, not knowing it is monkeys that fathered us!), they sacrificed their babies to these gods thinking it would make life better. We are so much more advanced through science and now only kill babies to make their life better, because we're so caring...."

We sound like old people when we speak of the previous younger generations this way. Turn that music down!

Isn't this how people often speak of younger adults? When speaking of the younger people it is often said that they possess the same uncouth attributes as the earth's inhabitants when they were hundreds and thousands of years younger.

I have often thought in recent months that we have become very old and that it is no longer the next generation setting the standard by which we live. It is the aging generations, those in their 40's, and especially those in their 50's and 60's that dictate the rules, that grasp onto their belief that their way is the right way.

One of the hints showing our old age is color.

In times past it has been the unwrinkled ones that chose color palettes and decor tastes. Color, like music, can be considered too loud for aging individuals, causing them to feel nervous, tense, or offended.

Newer generations have always loved color and combining it in new ways that define their generation and outlook on the world. Color is a way of expressing one's self.

Now color is being repressed by the aged among us, as many other forms of expression and freedom are also being repressed.

I discovered this killing of color when looking into the world of the past. I was looking at vinyl composition tile (VCT) and could not find anyone using it outside of offices, hospitals, and grocery stores. VCT tile is now considered taboo for home flooring, not rich enough.

But when youthful people set the rules VCT tile was in nearly every home and in nearly every color. Younger people and families don't generally have a lot of money, but this did not prevent them from setting the standard of middle class living through the first half or so of the 20th century.

I looked at picture after picture of VCT tile advertising from the 1920's through the first part of the 1960's and found my heart racing with the discovery of wonderful color. It was as if an entire world was opened up to me. And then I felt a bit cheated out of this knowledge that has been suppressed in the limited time I live in.

I felt old, as if my entire world was ruled by the rules of the old.

Color is life, joy, freedom, creativity, and youth. Not sedate, aged, and offensive.

The advertising of the young in comparison with the real estate of the current time is stark. The current colors to emulate are dead browns, grays, whites, mute greens, and more browns. These are the colors of winter when no snow has fallen and the blue sky does not shine through the haze. Why is November's winter and fall overriding crisp, biting winter, spring, and summer?

Previous generations would have chosen rich browns over dull brown, and spiked it with brilliant royal red, bright greens, pink, or teal. Gray would have been paired with yellow, red, purple, and jewelled emerald. Pink paired with turquoise was not tacky.

Are we in the winter of our life?

Our global worries are the worries of the elderly. We worry that we are dying, and believe experts when they tell us we must take certain remedies in order to squeeze more life out of our crotchety old bones and planet. We are easily conned (which also means "steered"). Where are the "young" people to shake their heads at us, ignore us, and make fun of us?

When we were younger we never thought we would get old.

Now, we have gotten old and too blind to even see how old and gnarled we are. The dementia has set in and we convince ourselves that if we follow the doctor's advice we can keep forever healthy, fit, advanced, and alert.

No, we are not younger. The world is older and sits in a rocking chair, too old, too blind, too feeble to get up and help itself.

If only grandma hadn't gotten rid of her youth, then she'd have someone to help her around.

History is young. We are old.

In our youthful and romantic past there is a father to teach us, if we're not too old to remember, too stiff-necked to turn around.

The earth is all before me. With a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again! (The Prelude, William Wordsworth)

What Real Wealth Is: An uncut diamond

"Don't participate in the economy unnecessarily. Buy as little as you can" (Dmitry Orlov)

This may sound like the advice of a miser, but more and more it becomes obvious (to this writer) that these are the words of wisdom.

When a person wants to buy a house or a car they usually make payments upon it, rather than paying in cash. But before the loan can be gotten one must first hand over a percentage of the cost of the item, which is called a "down payment."

The loan company gets cash, tens of thousands for a home loan, then the buyer feels happy that they have an instant roof over their head and get to pay off the loan, along with taxes, and repairs, and interest for up to 30 years of their life.

Hopefully, the person paying the loans and taxes is healthy as an immortal god, never gets struck in a car accident, and always has an income. If they show signs of being a mortal human the home/car will be taken back by the bank, or the government if they're unable to pay the taxes.

Meanwhile, the generous entity that gave you the loan has had fun with your quick cash/down payment, and interest without ever investing into maintaining the item. They don't repair its oil leaks, they don't mow the lawn, they don't paint.

Debt makes some people rich.

Earlier this year many people fell for the debt scheme called "Cash for Clunkers." The government "gave" the people and dealerships a small amount of money in return for their hard asset -- a hunk of valuable metal on wheels and years of payments with interest. It's not the person buying the new car that got a deal, but the government, those that gave the loans, and who ever got the old car.

Perhaps, it would have been a good deal to those few that took advantage of the incentive and paid cash for the car.

Then, there is the First-Time-Home Owner's incentive, which ends soon. This "gives" an new home owner several thousand dollars to buy a house. This $8000 benefits no one but those that have their hands out, and it's amazing how many there are when one is buying a home.

It's amazing how much greed is involved in the business of homes. If one wants to avoid a great deal of it they must behave and think more like a millionaire, which means having as much cash on hand as possible. Cash is power. A loan is slavery.

If more people would wake up from their pride they would see that they don't need a new car, a palace, or a perfect life for their children. It's okay to be mortal, imperfect, and have no debt. We don't need to prove to the world that we are successful with the shiny and sparkly new things.

We can't have it all, but we can have more freedom and joy by rebelling against the lie of perfection and entitlement. The world is not fair, and until we accept this we will never have true wealth.

"*To a society in denial, collapse invariably looks like personal failure, whether one survives it or not.

*Collapse without preparation is defeat.

*Collapse with preparation is an eccentricity.

*Collapse-avoidance is shame-avoidance"

And finally, my favorite part:

"Collapse-proof personalities: indifferent, determined, self-resilient, unreasonable" ("Definancialisation, Deglobalisation, Relocalisation," Dmitry Orlov, 11 June 2009)

image: Quilting Bee, Grandma Moses

My learned foes

A random choosing...you know, that little game we humans play with books where we open them and hope to find something interesting.

But it does make me smile a bit because it seems a bit appropriate. Following are some lines from Epistle to J. Lapraik, An Old Scotch Bard (1785), by the Bard, of course:

I am nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like by chance,
An hae to Learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
When'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your Critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a song?'
But by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a your jargon o your Schools,
Your Latin names for horns an stools;
If honest Nature made you fools,
What sairs your Grammers?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o dull, conceited Hashes,
Confuse their brains in Colledge-classes!
They gang in Stirks, and come out Asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o Greek!

Gie me ae spark o Nature's fire,
That's a the learning I desire;
Then tho I drudge thro dub an mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, tho hameley in attire,
May touch the heart....

But MAUCHLINE Race or MAUCHLINE Fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,
An hae a swap o rhymin-ware,
Wi ane anither....

Of course, those of us that have the Muse and Nature's fire, but not enough money to pay for time to confuse our brains in colledge classes must content ourselves with Rabbie's sentiments, but we will always wonder where we could've gotten if we had been able to come out Asses.

After all, one needs a degree to climb Mount Parnassus. It matters not if honest Nature made you a fool, as long as your Grammar is good enough to hide behind.

(side note: the spellcheck on Blogger doesn't believe the contraction "could've" exists! How very interesting.)

image: Shakespeare (Chandos), full of Nature's fire, hamely in attire, mystifies mountain climbers.

Time's Glass

"I'm frightened, Auntie Em; I'm frightened," says Dorothy as she awaits her demise in the Wicked Witch of the West's castle.

The red sands of the hourglass are running out.

"New evidence is suggesting that time is slowly disappearing from our universe, and will one day vanish completely" ("New Theory Nixes 'Dark Energy': Says Time is Disappearing from the Universe," 13 Sep. 2009, www. dailygalaxy.com).

I knew it. This explains a lot. The reason I don't have enough time to accomplish what I'd like is because time is running out.

Professor Jose Senovilla of Spain, along with esteemed colleagues is proposing "that there is no such thing as dark energy at all, and we're looking at things backwards. Senovilla proposes that we have been fooled into thinking the expansion of the universe is accelerating, when in reality, time itself is slowing down" ("New Theory")

"[P]rof Senovilla says, the appearance of acceleration is caused by time itself gradually slowing down, like a clock with a run-down battery" ("New Theory")

Toto and I learned awhile ago that we're looking at things backwards. We're always looking backwards. It's part of being human. It's called history and memory.

I think that what the scientist may mean is that we're looking at things upside down. This earth is upside down. We like to reverse the divine order and fool ourselves that it is right side up.

I discovered long ago that things such as the Great Pyramids of Egypt are upside down. Really, they should be balanced upon their tips, but because we live in a reflection, they are balanced on their widest part, rather than on the tip as the originals are.

We only believe we are rightside up because gravity allows us that privilege.

What happens when time runs out?

And by the way, have you heard of the Wizard of Oz Experiment?

Coincidentally, I was wondering who is behind the computer curtain, then forgot about my musings until I came across this.

In the Wizard of Oz Experiment a person is lead to believe that they are interacting with an autonomous computer. In reality there is a "wizard," a human controlling things and interacting with the user.

And why is it that since a very esteemed personage came to town people have been joking about their computers and telephones behaving oddly?

Who is behind the curtain?

Well, I am Dorothy, the Meek and Small, and it's my billowing bale of hay, my cowardly carnivore, rattling can, and puppy in a picnic basket that melt the green one, not a Kansan with a hot air balloon. And it wasn't a dream, old pal, Hunk.

Last Harvest

There are two harvests. The first one is sweet, green, and ripe. The second is hard, dry, and shriveled.

There is always that fig tree and its dropping fruit mentioned in the Bible as metaphor. Many of us cold climate moderns know only of crab apples and chokecherries, and nothing of figs or that there is such a thing as two harvests from a tree.

The fig tree has two harvests, the spring one, and the later fall harvest.

But we do have two harvests in the northerly zones. We have forgotten this because we often throw the second harvest away or leave it to mold on the stem. I was thinking of this as I sat quietly alone on the grass, shelling peas. Old, dry and bitter peas.

The second harvest is picked, dried, kept in a dark place and brought out for later --in the spring where it will grow into a plant.

Some plants, such as carrots, produce seeds that only produce one piece of edible produce. Other seeds, such as peas, produce one plant but many pieces of edible produce.

Many of us don't save the seeds, but instead order new ones from the catalog every year. If we saved the seeds we would be more likely to wonder a bit about that second harvest and what it means. What does it mean to be saved, put aside, and hidden in a secret place out of winter's cold?

image: Rye Fields (1878) by Ivan Ivanovich Shishkin

Toto, who's behind the telescreen?

The Wizard of Oz will return to the Big Screen September 23. But, there is always that big butt, the company putting on the event won't display the theatres until one clicks the "buy ticket" button. And because I am naturally skeptical I won't click the button to find out if it's showing anywhere near me. For all I know, that one click could access my account and get me a ticket for New York City.

I finished my reread of George Orwell's 1984, since the Kindle brouhaha rekindled my desire to read it. It puts that overly referred to piece of poor writing and thinking by Aldous Huxley to shame. When will Amazon delete Brave New World from the Kindle? I surely wouldn't cry over that. Ascetics flagellating themselves near lighthouses have never impressed me.

"The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power." 1984

"Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the revolution." 1984

It was 1949 when 1984 was first published, and here we are! Telescreens everywhere. How was Orwell able to see so clearly?

Remember, when you look out a window that others may be looking in at you. Big Brother is a natural peeping tom.

Summer's Song Is Sung

Summer is nearly at its farthest reach, about to topple over....

The Bard has been standing on ladders, reaching far with a paint brush, thus the thoughts of over reaching and toppling.

The Bard likes to label each summer with a song for the season. Last year it was "Summertime" sung by Sam Cooke. This year it is "Airstream Driver" by Gomez.

The Bard also believes it is proper to finish the summer with an excursion to see a live band. It must be a very warm evening and the performance must be energetic, otherwise the money is wasted and the drinks are pointless. Last year the Bard saw the Young Dubliners on a perfect evening.

It was highly entertaining, although the tall and underweight blonde with bleached and butched hair jabbing me in the back with her bony knees was a bit annoying. Otherwise, everyone was very kind and generous to the Bard. As everyone knows the Bard can get a bit outgoing on a perfect evening, but this did not seem to be off-putting to anyone, and even got him invited back up to socialize with the band afterwards, which didn't really work out because he was ping-ponging around, talking to a rodeo queen, the bartender and a girl ordering one of those sickening sweet inventions that they like to ask the bartender to make, then sip and say, "See, didn't I tell you it was good?" Then point the straw at you as they tell you to taste it, which you don't want to do because you don't even know them or their germs.

The Bard either grimaces, saying "No more for me," or if brave enough hopes that there is sufficient alcohol in the drink to sterilize anything that once was alive.

As of yet the Bard has not had the perfect end of summer. The Bard is getting old age and is painting before the first snow flies.

The Bard thinks that if he could be reincarnated, made young again, he would come back as a Los Lonely Boy. He can think of nothing better than having long black hair, a guitar, a voice, and of all of the Jeans, Agnesses, Jennies, and Marias magnetized by him and his brothers. Ahhh, croon.

Now, if one wanted to curse the Bard to eternal hell they would reincarnate him as The Prince of Wales, or Michael Jackson, or Bono, or that Beckham footballer, or Madonna. But we'll not dwell upon these things.

Hurry, make hay while the sun shines!

image: Billie Holiday

The New Folk Music Movement

Rap is dying. Country is dying. Folk music will rise. The pendulum swings.

The Bard doesn't often make predictions about pop culture, but this is barely a prediction. I am only observing obvious fact.

At this time rap is sooo old, so worn out, so repetitious, so overwhelmed with electronic call and answer, so numbing. It's hanging on, but like country music it began dying about the same time and for the same reasons: Boobs, bling, beer bashes, and blondes belting out boyfriend songs for "tweens." And like a 15 year old girl getting drunk on wine coolers, too much of a sickly sweet drink can cause a horrific reaction. Rap and country are pink and blue drinks with minty and sugary flavors sucked through a skinny straw. There's only so much one can take before they decide to go back to the beer and whiskey, no straw.

The time is here, upon us. I can smell it in the air like unbathed pits and stinky feet in leather sandals. The time will strike, calling the unwashed masses to the socialist preacher with the guitar and plaid shirt. The masses will feel enlightened, enervated, intelligent, and ready to create a global utopia. They will attempt sustainable living, and try to halt time's rapidly increasing speed. They will use their weight to hold the pendulum back, strum-strumming, hum-humming slower.

Yes, Rap and Country will survive, but as arms of the folk music movement. They will adopt a bohemian flair.

There will be folk music everywhere, beckoning, beckoning to battle. Unlike the folk music of the past, which was mainly Marxist, this time we will see anti-Marxist folk music as well.

Warning! Stop your ears! Remember Odysseus and his crew when they had to pass by the sirens. He had his crew mates stop their ears with wax, and securely tie him to the mast so that he could not give into temptation when he heard the sirens singing the folk music. Unlike rap and country, folk music's goal is to seduce one into action through emotion and preaching.

Rap was good before electronic and materialistic influences strangled it, making it into a tool for numbing and dumbing club goers and kids hooked on cigarettes, I mean cell phones (same difference). It served the pop culture controller's purposes for a time, as did country, music, which from a Marxist point of view would be ideologically identical to rap.

But now, is the time to activate the mind-numbed ones, and the switch that will do the trick is folk music. Stop your ears, unless you like being preached at and told what to believe by a sweet voice. Don't jump in after the sirens, or death will waste you. Time can't be stopped, it's not sustainable.

Oh, yeah, and folk music is "green" because it doesn't generally require electricity to play the instruments. It's eco-friendly music! Man, I love sustainability.

image: Whistler

NASA To Bomb Osama's Moon Bunker

NASA plans to bomb the moon in October of this year, having launched the mission on the 18th of June. They claim that they are bombing for water particles, but we all know the truth.

Osama bin Laden has been hiding out in one of the craters of the moon, colonising it with terrorist cells. He has a proven ability for surviving in barren, desolate, and remote areas. But NASA's hot on the trail and will blow him out even if it means destroying heaven and earth to accomplish the task.

"Disturbing the Moon's orbit may cause tidal waves and quite possibly Earthquakes in many zones around the Earth where the edges of tectonic plates are already at or near the breaking point of sliding" (Ted Twietmeyer, "NASA Moon Bombing Is Cause For Worry," 22 June 2009, rense.com)

But nevermind that. And even if bin Laden escapes again, at least, the moon will have a nice five-mile wide gash for "science" to study, and NASA will prove that bombing is a great way to create life just as it is here on earth.

I know that around here, we aim missiles at our property to find water all the time. It works like a charm.

My mind hearkens back to an old John Wayne movie in which he arrives at Terrapin Springs, dying of thirst along with two fugitive friends, only to discover that the idiot green horn pioneers have dynamited the spring, closing it forever.

If "science" claims as fact that humans can cause climate change, then why is it that in this situation we won't cause harmful change?

Won't Come Back From Dead Man's Curve!

The Bard remembers the good old days--the days when there were still a few deafening engines mowing down the stop lights, and there were some who thought it cool to drive hoodless. I don't know, perhaps, driving hoodless was due to laziness, or improper latching, or some other malfunction, but it was cool. Those that chose to leave the hood back in the trailer court really had nothing to show off, since the hoodless vehicles were also the ones that needed the most paint and looked as if they had been run into signposts, and deer, and old ladies, and other obstructions. But it didn't matter because they made the most noise.

Ah, the good old days when the good old cars were still on the road. One acquaintance had a particularly special car. Oh, my! It was in mint condition with perfect white vinyl covered seats. And they were bench seats, which means that everyone gets to sit in the front. A hundred miles an hour down Main St. once, was what the officer said! But that was nothing.

Now, there is an automobile euthanasia program called the Car Allowance Rebate System aka "Cash for Clunkers," which seeks to rid the streets of these old reliables because they are now considered liabilities and wasteful burdens.

Really, the car must not be a clunker if it is still registered and drivable. A real clunker, one that has been sitting in the back forty is not eligible for the government voucher upon trade in.

Somehow, this program strikes me as disturbing. When the old vehicle is turned in to the dealer the engine must be destroyed before the car can be sold for scrap. This is how it is to be done: "Drain the oil, then run several quarts of sodium silicate through the engine. As engine heat evaporates the solution, deposits of dehydrated sodium silicate line the engine's lubrication system, abrading all the moving parts and causing the engine to seize" ("'Cash for Clunkers' starts Monday" msn.com).

"Scrap facilities can sell any part of the car except the engine block or whole drive train, but ultimately the car must be taken off the road" ("Cash").

This seems incredibly wasteful and disrespectful of a healthy and strong, although old vehicle. And where will the scrap parts be sold to? If I were to guess, China, which has quite a trade in scrap parts and bodies of all sorts. If it bleeds blood or oil they'll profit from the parts and sell it back to us in a repackaged form.

Image: 1986 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS

Jean, Jean, Dressed In Green

This Bard doesn't much feel up to writing the history of the American Lawgiver, Tekanawita, at the moment. Great Laws of Peace only work for a time, disappearing under the heaps of laws piled upon them stinking up the air, causing false religious practices and legalism to spring up like noxious weeds.

Look at the most famous man of the Law, Moses. He brought down 10 very basic laws to live by (plus a few more), but as is the way with people, this was not enough. Over the years there were many more laws and rituals added on until it became a competition to see who could complete the most rituals, tithe the most, and know the law the best.

Now, we are living in the most religious time of all. We are quite medieval in our superstitious fear of the earth, in our belief that we can save it with tithes/indulgences/carbon credits/whatever. We are quite Hitlerian in our obsession with eradicating cancer, smoking, meat, and undesirables. And we are much like East Berlin before the fall of the wall, in our self-censoring. We are very Roman Catholic in our favoring the community over the individual. We are very Roman Catholic in our belief that those who do not want to worship the earth religion, pay indulgences, or participate in its sacred rites are called heretics.

Who are the priests making the tons of money off our ignorance? Who are the ones pushing those toxic fluorescent time bombs called light bulbs on us? If they really cared, if they really wanted what was best for the serfs, the High Priests of Mother Earth and Global Consciousness would not allow mercury-filled toxins in our homes and into the landfills. The Green People don't care about this wonderful land, and they hate all of the pernicious people who continue the multiply in spite of their laws. They only care about Green Money and "sustainability."

And so, the Bard would like to conclude with a sweet song of Jean. Here, the Bard has it all figured out. Our relationship with the earth is one of images which are to remind us of something better. No river, no flower, no bird compares with Bonny Jean. If the Bard had written of how Jean did not compare with the hills, the flowers, the birds or the air, he would not have been a poet, but an unmentionable dupe. Jean wins. The beautiful earth and its creatures remind us of her, and should also remind us of their Creator.

"I Love My Jean"

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bony Lassie lives,
The Lassie I lo'e the best:
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bony flower, that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bony bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean

Image: Praire by Ken Furrow

The Law of the Land

Why did the participants in the Boston Tea Party dress themselves as Indians?

The answer to this question has been hidden away by the history books, and what does remain has been heisted by for-profit shamans and twisted into wispy nothings for gatherings of utopians waiting for the return of the Star People from outerspace to reappear in Area 51 to save them from their stupidity.

There is a great law of the land, which we call the U.S. Constitution, The Bill of Rights, and before these, the Declaration of Independence. And before these documents was The Great Law of Peace of the Longhouse People. It is this constitution of the Iroquois Confederacy that unleashed the spirit of freedom and independence amongst the colonists, and this is why those of the Boston Tea Party chose to identify with their Iroquois brethren. This is the law of the land, not of a mystical Star People, but given by a man named Tekanawita and his follower Hiawatha.

From the 1740's on, the Iroquois had encouraged the colonists to unite into a confederacy like their own and declare independence from Britain.

Finally, in 1776, the Continental Congress planned to meet in Philadelphia. The Continental Congress sent an invitation, signed by John Hancock, to the Iroquois leaders, requesting that they would be present at the Congress.

In June of 1776 there were 21 Iroquois leaders camped outside of the State House in Philadelphia. They were there as "brothers" of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. They oversaw the debates, approving them, and expressed their desire to be "as one people, and have but one heart" with the colonists.

What was this Great Law of Peace that so inspired the signers of the Declaration of Independence? And why is it that when we speak of the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution we speak of them as new creations, as revolutionary, or based upon new enlightenment thought, but never as laws that were written upon this land even before the Pilgrims set foot on Plymouth Rock? The Great Law of Peace is irrefutable, and all that have forgotten it or ignored it have fallen into weakened and scattered states.

The Great Law of Peace was given to those that accepted it, the nations of the Iroquois, by Tekanawita who was sent by The Great Creator to save the miserable people from themselves and the blood they were spilling upon the earth. This is not a New Age history, but one that makes one question what we think we know about this earth and how God works in it.

When one knows the history of this land and of Tekanawita, it seems that we are idolizing our "Founding Fathers," giving them credit for a documents that predate them, and were originally handed down by The Great Creator and protected by the Iroquois nations. This Constitution, like the Ten Commandments was handed down by God via an intermediary and if we toss it out or break its laws we will have no peace and be separated from each other as the Iroquois eventually were.

And so, I conclude here with high hopes of proceeding on to the the amazing history of Tekanawita, perhaps The Founding Father of this nation --- and of all nations that follow shepherds and fishermen.

Socially Solitary, Free Range, and Feral

"There are two components to human nature, the social and the solitary. The solitary is definitely the more highly evolved, and humanity has surged forward through the efforts of brilliant loners and eccentrics. Their names live on forever precisely because society was unable to extinguish their brilliance or thwart their initiative" (Dmitry Orlov, "Definancialisation, Deglobalisation, Relocalisation," The New Emergency Conference, Dublin, 11 June 2009)

"We have a huge surplus of 'factory-farmed humans and a shortage of free-range humans'" (Dmitry Orlov, "Definancialisation")

Image: Marc Averette, Free-range feral chickens in Key West

The Bard In the Forest Primeval, Across the Plains, In the Swamps.....

"This is the forest primeval," and "Still stands the forest primeval." What an old, dark, mossy green sound these lines of Longfellow's "Evangeline" have.

Evangeline is separated from her Gabriel on what was to be her wedding day. Forced out of their homes by British troops and placed upon boats, they like so many of the Accadian diaspora are split apart from family and loved ones. Many of those that survived the journey and were allowed entry into the United States settled in the deep south, becoming what we call Cajuns.

But Evangeline devotes her life, traversing this country in search of Gabriel, always missing him, never finding him, until returning to the place she began; Philadelphia. And there, old and gray, ministering to those dying of a plague, she finally finds him.

When reading this beautiful piece of North American history it must be wondered who or what Evangeline is. She is more than a person. She, as her name indicates, is an evangelist. But even more than that, she is this country. She is the land, she is the people. I wonder if she is a prophet or only a forgotten memory.

"Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;-
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
Now in the secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
Each succeeding year stole something from her beauty,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her
forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning." (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Evangeline," Part 2, IV)

"Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from
her fingers,
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying,
Hot and red on is lips still burned the flush of the fever,
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the dark-
ness,
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he the cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!"........" ("Evangeline," Part 2, V)

A Fascinating Read

This Bard has been perusing the jaw-dropping, eye-popping Underground History of American Education by John Taylor Gatto, an award winning educator. It is highly recommended summer reading, and nearly impossible to stop reading.

"Once you trust yourself to go mind-to-mind with the great intellects, artists, scientists, warriors, and philosophers, you are finally free. In America, before we had forced schooling, an astonishing range of unlikely people knew reading was like Samson's locks--something that could help make them formidable, that could teach them their rights and how to defend those rights, could lead them towards self-determination, free from intimidation by experts. Those same unlikely people knew that the power bestowed through reading could give them insight into the ways of the human heart, so they would not be cheated or fooled so easily, and that it could provide an inexhaustible store of useful knowledge--advice on how to do just about anything" (John Taylor Gatto, Underground History of American Education)

Scales are dropping from these eyes, and my heart breaking, and thankfulness abounding at the bravery of my mother.

Learning To Be An Actor

"His fellow educators was local farmers that immigrated in from Germany after they tried to make Germany an republic. In Germany they were some of the most greates and smartest educators with the same belief as Harris" (Wikipedia entry on American educator William Torrey Harris)

I couldn't stop laughing! Sometimes, Wikipedia entries are spiced with wandering crudity and stray fouls of mouth, but the entry on William Torrey Harris was tops.

William Torrey Harris (1835-1909) was the United States Commissioner of Education from 1889-1906. Harris, along with a few others helped create the country as it is now, compulsory, segregated, and extending into young adulthood, i.e. high school. When the copper barons, petroleum people, and big guys on Wall Street grew tired of mining and sapping the earth, they decided to mine people. Harris helped them implement their progressive plan of growing German-style potatoes--I mean, people to consume more, think less, and be useless.

Now, before I proceed, I must put this next quote forth. This also was in the William Torrey Harris article on Wikipedia:

"He was responsible for introducing reindeer into Alaska so that the native whalers and trappers would have another livelihood, before they brought other species to extinction."

It makes me laugh so much I nearly snort snot. Personally, I believe, that the person writing the entry knew exactly what they were doing, and must have spent quite awhile trapped in the system Harris created, becoming quite bitter. Or this is proof positive of the successful outcome the philanthropic misanthropes sought for.

But it gets better, or worse. These are quotes from William Torrey Harris, US Commissioner of Education (1889-1906), Editor in Chief of Webster's Dictionary, Simplified Speller, receiver of the Carnegie's Advancement of Teaching award, etc, etc.

"Ninety-nine [students] out of a hundred are automata, careful to walk in prescribed paths, careful to follow the prescribed custom. This is not an accident but the result of substantial education, which scientifically defined, is the subsumption of the individual" (William Torrey Harris, The Philosophy of Education, qtd. in John Taylor Gatto's Underground History of American Education)

"The great purpose of school can be realized better in dark, airless, ugly places....It is to master the physical self, to transcend the beauty of nature. School should develop the power to withdraw from the external world" (Harris qtd. in Gatto)

"[Education] must make the individual obedient to the requirements of the social institutions under which he lives" (William Torrey Harris The History and Philosophy of Education)

Does Shakespeare Exist As Himself?

<<-This is how that other Bard appeared according to Martin Droeshout.

This is how he appeared after the economic crash of 1610, and had been hobnobbing with the Puritans. ->>

Last, but not least, the following portrait is how he appears in 2009, after a long vacation amongst the members of the Cobbe family. Perhaps, it is him, perhaps not, but as is usual with this particular Bard, there are always arguments about him being himself or another being him. It depends upon which side of the bed one wakes up on, the weather, and other factors, as to whether one is themself on any given day.

The great argument as to the other Bard's identity is surely the greatest achievement a man can attain to, for it is akin to being God. No other creator, other than God Himself, has achieved this height of disbelief and argument from the mortals in regard to identity. How do we know that Shakespeare really wrote what he wrote, and not another more educated? How do we know that God wrote what He wrote and not another more educated? How do we know?

How does anyone know greatness when they see it? One sign is when others won't believe it, or must subvert it, or steal it, or hate it for the despicable truth that knows exactly who and what their identity is. I believe in Shakespeare and that he is who he is and no other.