Little thoughts 03

Who will be the first to stop the old ways?

Will it be they, who, from the beast having turned over its back, are thrown from the existent order? If nothing else, yes, it will be this.

Will those who take themselves off of the animal of burden, voluntarily, will they be spared?

No, not unless they could reach the necessary height, meet the necessary escape velocity, and even then, they would have to make a life on the Moon, or Mars, or the equally incalculable inhospitable conditions of deep within the Earth, or in space, living within something like a tin can… and such a life would have to be of the overman;

Unlike our lives today, these which must merely be lived for the Ubermench, lives (ideally) lived in preparation for his, for their arrival (from within, not from without — though the overman might well be aliens of other worlds, to our own, he is native; he is the next man of humanity), those who live in the next home for man, these men (used in the sense of humanity, therefore, I absolutely mean all humans, irrespective of sex or gender) cannot be of the old ways, they must be wholly of the new way, the new way of Being, and being human.

For, to escape death, here, only to die elsewhere of the same terrible disease of the mind?

How terrible, how terrible and foolish, selfish.

Mmm, it is this terror, this greed, this ugliness that makes this place, presently, so defunct, so fucked, respectively.

Not fucked in the absolute sense, no. But, mmm, well, actually, yes, we might be in such a dire position as to say that our situation is totally fucked.

Where was I?

Oh yes, the most evolutionarily-advanced form of life has woken up, but, we’ve merely woken from a dream within a dream, and woke, we are not. As such, with our industry, our commerce, with our focus on the days of the life of existence, rather than existence writ large…

And so we poison the ocean… poison the air… mmm, worst of all, we poison our minds, the minds of one another.

Will God save us? Perhaps, perhaps not.

Of course, God walks among us, God is (among other / all things) Man, Himself.

For, in my view, God is Nature, and Nature God. Man? Man is nature, and nature God, and, therefore, God is man.

Yes, God is the trees, but the trees cannot speak but to grow, to die, to blossom, to give fruit, to give no fruit, to die.

It is God, it is Nature as Man that allows Nature, that allows God, the Cosmos to speak.

And what does He/She/They say?

Does Nature tell us to love? Does nature tell us to respect life, to preserve and cherish what we have been given, what we have found ourselves growing out of?

Sometimes, but, so too does this God say “fake news”, “not in my backyard”, and “fuck you, I’m here to get mine”.

Why?

Because He will speak and think and act as we do.

By poisoning our minds, by turning toward greed, shortsighted views, collectively, we have put these words and thoughts into our collective mind.

And, like an infection in the body, the illness moved to our collective mind, to our God, and he was made ill, too.

Love your fellow man, find kind paths to take, find difficult heights to ascend… persevere, work to make this place cleaner, healthier, and of love, a love that wants to fight, to fight to live for good and right, to fight to survive, to survive with meaning; to use mere subsistence when it must be so, and then to get back up, and to, again, to always seek The Good.

It is this allegiance to The Good, to knowledge thereof that will heal our collective, to right the mind of Nature, such that we may know one another as we can and ought, as family, as fingers upon the hand that keeps us, as leaves upon the tree that gives life.

God is the good that we give to one another.

Salvation will only ever come from the good thoughts, the noble actions of men like you and I.

Mmm.

Eventually, this animal on which we hoard our resources, on whose back we have wars, military operations, pipelines, hostile takeovers, value to shareholders over value proper… eventually we either have to get off the animal’s back, to help it recover, and to care for it, as well as ourselves, or, we just do as we are known to do… and we do so until the animal collapses, until Mother Earth, or our will to go on passes some threshold beyond which there is nothing but stars, rocks, gas, just thoughtless stuff, going on and on and on, until some of it can, for a time, struggle between the base, thoughtless lower nature… and the far more difficult, more useful, uniquely beautiful higher nature which brings me and my thoughts to stir, each and every morning.

And even in such a light, one must be hopeful in their conclusion that life just pops up, that the vastness of time and space are such that we can afford to let the ~13.7 billion monkeys writing on an equal number of typewriters lose their copy of the Magna Carta, of the works of Shakespeare… because, surely, the incalculable causal and random events and special conditions which brought everything to be, and, to be from nothing, oh, that it can and will just happen again, right?

That’s some guess.

It’s a hope.

It’s a hope born of fear. Fear, not of death, not of permanent cosmic annihilation, perhaps not even of the cessation of all known life, of civilization, and, as we understand it, possibility itself… no, the fear most high, most moving, most terrible… that is the fear that you know the wrong that you do, your culpability, the blood and Earth and history on your hands.

Out, out damn spot?

No.

Leave your hands unwashed.

Let the sun, let the moon light your hands pf crimson.

Guilty are we all.

Precious is this all.

The only way through is by living, individually, collectively, as conscious of our crimes, our ugly desires, our complacency.

Mmm.

Life is precious. Life as you and I know it? God… I know of no sin greater than to let all of this be for naught.

Just daily thoughts, these.

Beautiful, all of it, everything, everyone.

If only we could love it all in the way that such beauty deserves.

We can. Some do. We will.

I have hope, hope and love.

Take care

– J

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Little thoughts 02

The elephant in the room is one of self-censorship.

On the one hand, to write, toward the end of being a writer; this, if left unchecked, could be nearer to the production of noise, for the sake of noise, than to the letting out of thoughts, elucidation, thereof for which my efforts are aimed.

Mmm, conversely, perhaps it is the incessant blowing of this, my vuvuzela –a contemptible instrument– that clears it out, such that I can, as I once did, make music.

My brain, my mind –allow me this digression; a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Always, most always, mmm, often; often, I feel as though my mind rests in some super-position of creative / ideological potentiality. Touching upon many and varied possible paths, options, ideas… often to the benefit of no single idea.

I imagine a person sinking into quicksand, and I see this person considering his escape forwards, backwards, to this side, and to that. Mmm, such a man, unless he selects the right option in time, such a man goes nowhere but down.

This world.

The recent period in which I stopped writing, in this time, the world seems to have become that much more crazy.

So many facets of this, too.

Where does one even begin to untangle the mess? How does one reform this colossal house of cards, while standing upon it?

Mmm, I believe the solution has more to do with addressing the card, the nature of the form of the card, the individual card, itself.

Why do I hide my ideas, so?

What if someone heard my words, and they completed my work for me? Why, on a deep and substantial level, do I fear this?

I do not understand. Well, the ego, et al, I suppose I do. But, you think I’d be above that, no?

It’s as if I was in a large burning building, and I wanted to let everyone in the building know that it burns, and that it will destroy us all if we do nothing, or if we spend too much resources doing other things… and yet, in light of my apparent inability to make this message clear, I have not handed the responsibility to others…

In fact, haha, truth be told, the very reason I stopped sharing my thoughts, here, was because I had begun to write my own book, to start my work with a true, real, honest attempt at finishing it.

I didn’t want to just let it out. I wanted to bottle up my feelings, my thoughts, such that they would burst forth onto the page.

Mmm, and they did. So too, of course, came forth the cruel reality that I am best equipped for writing… where the act of writing does not include editing.

Sure, I can edit, but my editing skills are seperate from my writing abilities. They come from different places within me.

I’d like to blame others, I really would. Well, I’d like to be so honest as to let my frustrations speak, however petty and self-serving as they may be.

I wish I had gone to university, I wish I could go back, right now, and continue my studies in philosophy.

Sometimes I think about taking all of my notes, destroying them. Perhaps then I’ll be able to write real thoughts, once more.

Otherwise, having written what feels like… most everything that needs to be written, I feel like I am just tracing the letters of prior pages written.

Do I have the rigor, the mind, the skill set to work at a newspaper, in academia, at a place that deals with minds, people, humanity, the future?

Well, a question I can answer with greater ease: do I have the ability to think less of my abilities, to undercut my worth, to stop myself where forward motion would bring me potential success? Oh yes; oh yes, my friend, I can do that.

Oh, the world.

You sprang out of nothing, out of the something which is nature, and here you shine for yourself to see.

And now that we have a clearer idea what nature is, what we are, what all this is… mmm, on the large, we do almost nothing.

There is a mechanism to existence, a reality of reality that, unless we fight, work to clear our vision of it, that blinds us to truth, makes us too lazy to act on that which makes its way through the blinders.

I have said it before, if I truly knew, if in my heart I fully, fully understood my own beliefs, the reasonable metaphysics of this place, this thing, this mind, this nature, this God, if I knew what I knew, and I actually knew it, truly, it would manage to be more terrifying than finally coming to realize that you are trapped in a cage with a hungry, angry lion.

For, if the lion takes his/her time to torture you to death, you still die; through cessation of existence, you find your escape.

The truth of reality? I could put myself in a cage with such a lion, I could put my head into its mouth, snap it shut for the animal.

And still, still, I would not, could not escape nature.

Of course, this is not a clear analogy. No.

Truer would be… haha… well, the truth, itself, would suffice; it’s like life, by chance, by the sheer volume and span of time and space came to be… and, in keeping with this improbability, life then advanced to such a dizzying height as inanimate matter becoming animate to the degree that it considers its own existence, right and wrong, that it contrives such things as the self, civilization, history, science, rocketry, et al.

Oh, yes, and then, despite how ability to know, and to know ourselves, we see that we hurt ourselves so. Worse yet, the atoms that might as well have arranged themselves into the blueprint for the mind, for love, for life… that blueprint stands to be lost forever.

And yet… despite knowing this… despite knowing that saving humanity from itself, saving life from humanity, saving humanity for life… despite knowing how terribly, terribly, terribly important this is…

The consequences of inaction, of incorrect action are so great…

Despite knowing this, we find problems in other, temporary, superficial things.

Donald Trump holds the highest office in the known universe.

Carl Sagan, you died too soon.

Nature, please grant me the strength to find a way to preserve our wondrous forms of life.

Sigh.

Do I want a job and a family? That is, do I want to participate in the game?

Or, do I want to communicate that which it is that I feel it within me to be necessary?

It’s a real question.

Can I do both?

I think I could be a good father.

I believe I can be a good man, a good human.

Why must I feel compelled to be loved so that I may write?

Anyway, I feel a little better having shared this.

The world is a beautiful place, and so are you.

Take care, remember to be kind,

– J

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little thoughts 01

Little thoughts, like small drops of water falling from a large sky, onto a large surface below, alone, they are but a temporary flit of affectation, and as that, barely so.

Together, the many little things form a great something, and their effect, something greater, surely.

Water cuts, erodes, washes away; water pulls heat out, water delivers heat, water turns to gas and ceases to be water… but for that moment.

And, in so doing, in its change, a truth is revealed, yes, that truth.

A truth so simple, so apparent, once you arrive upon it, one so… inherently so, that I cannot pry myself from it. I cannot turn myself on it, for it speaks to me, and I hear my own voice talking of my having turned my back on myself.

Mmm.

A dream, this morning, something of an apocalypse, something to the effect of time’s passage, of a real and latent worry of that which must be done versus the dwindling opportunity to bring the right into being.

Mmm, of course, though I could see –in this frivolous dream, this fancy, unwilling imagining– the writing on the sky, as it were, I was concerned not with rods and rocks from heaven sent, no.

Rather, I found myself with the soft, warm, sumptuous bosom of a young woman.

I could see her body, and, concomitant to my appetites, physically, carnally speaking, I knew her form was good and right, mmm.

I could sense her general character to be trusting, mmm, but I could see not her face. Or, had I, her visage was of no vista that I have come to know.

Mmm… and I have come to know many such faces.

At the end of the dream, as panic reached something of a fevered pitch, I was still touching her hand, looking at the tanned, supple contours of her flesh; I looked at her, and I wanted to believe in it, in her, in my own terrible mind, at that moment.

But I could not, I did not, for the grooves of love, of its permanent affectation upon the mind, these could be felt, still, even beneath the spell of sleep, of the cage of imagination, opened, turned upon the mind; I knew this was not love, but some empty hunger for it, some hollow desire for… for love? Comfort, perhaps. But, perhaps love.

The takeaway?

Probably that meditation is something that I require.

My busy mind… it knows what must be done, the necessary work, even if it is to hold toward the sky, an opened umbrella, offering no true protection against oblivion, of what falls from the sky, what rods and rocks and special light from the constitution, the configuration of this place.

And yet, I give in to such secondary pursuits as the open investigation for love, trust, for human connection, cosmic communion.

Blah.

Have I shared good thoughts, this day? Mmm, perhaps not. Though, I have spoken, and I should like to speak again.

Like the first run in a long while, sharing thoughts as this, it typically begins quite painfully, relatively fruitlessly, only to improve with each iteration, with each consequtive attempt.

Take care,

– J

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The old, the powerful (short story)

From beyond the knowledge of the shell, of even the projectile within, the hammer follows the will of some finger (the appendage to a much larger question atop a question, atop a question ad infinitum, until we reach not some hard wall, not some resolute end, or lowest turtle, or willing mind; rather, it isn’t until we understand the relationship of the whole that we can see the origin to our current path), the path of the physical constraints of the mechanism that delivers the firing pin to the rear of the casing.

Youth, the explosion that first propels us, that first heat and light and fire that seems to tear away the cocoon that was our personal nothing, the fleeting, familiar warmth of a void that delivered us into the world.

Tumbling through the air, spinning, heating with the coarse, rushing air, and, as our trajectory begins to dip, we cool; the energy drains from us, or, becomes manifest in the distance, in our own affectation of the world, of each other.

And then we strike a wall at terminal velocity, perhaps we bury ourselves into the ground, maybe we strike someone in the heart, and the world is forever changed, again, and again, and, well, this is how the world works.

Hmm.

Imagine a world where we do not age as in decline. What if, instead, the older one became, the larger, stronger, more verve-filled one became?

Gone would be the days of sitting by Grandmother’s bedside, waiting for her to lose her local battle to entropy, to the use and re-use of mechanisms ill-equipped for the immortality of the human.

Instead, one would notice Grandpa in the weight room, in the middle of the night, despite his claims that he was tired as the dinner table.

Frozen, from the doorway, Andrew, the youngest of the ten children of the house licked his lips, the dim blue light from the room not yet fallen onto him.

“Grandpa”, he spoke, cautiously, his hand on his hip’s holstered sidearm, “what are you doing up so late, shouldn-”

“I’m only eighty-two”, Bernard interrupted, slowly letting down the combined seven hundred pounds, back onto the rack. The rack sagged under the weight, as Bernard’s giant, bursting muscles relaxed. “My granddaddy lived to be a hundred and forty”, he spoke, taking a swig from his water bottle, still laying, looking up at the ceiling.

Andrew moved his right hand’s middle finger, an inch, just to be touching the leather clasp that held the revolver in place.

As if responding to this unseen motion, immediately, Andrew’s eighty-two year old grandfather ducked his head beneath the bench press bar, leaned forward, as if in one or two, soft, yet quick motions. His head, looking at the floor, slowly tilted up, toward his grandson.

“Now listen, I just want to be healthy, while I’m still here, and there’s–“, he began, before his was cut off by his grandson.

“No, you can’t be doing this; you haven’t been taking your medication, have you?”, Andrew said, his throat in pain from the fear, and of the sadness, a physiological reaction of fight or flight.

The room was silent; though, to the boy, the room was filled with tinnitus, the beating of his heart, his breath. To the man, his highly developed years, his eyes, beyond high definition, could see detail in the moon-cast shadow in the hallway, enough to see, to hear Andrew’s finger pop the little revolver clasp off of its holster.

“NOW LISTEN!”, Bernard shouted, as he stood.

With two loud bangs, Andrew fired two shots into his grandfather’s chest. Bernard lunges at the boy. Another three shots fire off, flashing the room, each time, blinding only the boy. His wrists crushed, Andrew lay on his back in the hallway, his torso unnaturally twisted around, his upper torso flat against the linoleum floor. Andrew looked beyond his mangled hand, the gun deformed, too, covered in red and pink, wet bits of flesh, through the sliding glass door, into the yard.

Andrew could not hear anything, and his vision was failing him, before the draining blood took with it, his consciousness, his life, he saw his grandfather’s 7′ frame, half way to the treeline that stood twenty-five feed from the back of the house.

His grandfather’s body suddenly stiffened, and his white collared shirt began to fly into little pieces, into the air. Out of view, on the deck, and out of the windows on the second floor, all of the children of the family emptied their weapons, filling his back, cutting his head in half with bullets and projectiles of varying caliber. Overkill, always.

Behind Andrew, just as the lights inside, went out, a woman, his aunt, ate quietly at some cheese that she stole from the dinner table. Alice never felt like she was eating enough. She felt old. She felt strong. She ate the cheese. Tensing the muscles in her back, long, thick muscles hidden beneath a dated dress that we wore often, Alice stepped into the night.

Lifting the fingers of her dress with her bloodied hands, she disappeared.

It wouldn’t be for another hour that the family notices that both of Andrew’s hands were missing, not a piece larger than a pea, anywhere to be seen. Not until morning would they find Alice missing.

Following the investigation of a terrible, terrible event that laid waste to two neighboring industrial districts, some years later, the family learned the true age of Alice, not aunt, not mother, but great, great grandmother.

  • J

 

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Photo, words

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds”, he said, learning against his bicycle, his feet, and it, planted into the sun-white grass, the stark black of the leaves, beneath him.

“Did you mean to say that?”, she asked, looking through her mirror, into an image she was imagining, a man leaning against his bicycle, in the park; the scene, completely bereft of colour, and wholly dark, stark with black and white contrast.

DSCF5681-2

“You said you love me”, she said, her own eyes closed now, “just now, you say you loved me”, her question could be felt in her stomach; like quickly driving over a hill, in the back seat of a car, she felt the sudden pull of her innards, her unconscious mind flirting with the awareness of the dubious reality, here entertained, with such conviction.

With his head down, his hands in his pockets, he looked as though he were sleeping. He didn’t say anything like that. He knew he had not, because he could feel the tension within him to do this; that tension was as strong as ever.

“I meant that I was alone, and that I wanted to be warmed, some”, his lips moved, the words drawn out in his head, invisible lips and vocal chords, constrained by the mere functional understanding of speech.

“Yes, and I am alone too–“, she began, but he had already begun speaking over her.

“I shouldn’t have come here”, he said, aloud.

“I should have stayed away.”, she said in her mind, he said in his.

And together, they shared in the silence of their minds.

  • J

 

 

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20161024 – navel gazing

Words and ideas, they opine in my head. Flowing, but not like water rushing over the fall’s edge, cascading into the air as a great, white, billowing mist. No. These days, the words and ideas seem to move about like flotsam, forgotten: trash that’s become lost to the pointless swirl of an eddy. Relegated to follow itself, to lead itself nowhere, round and round, until time, until circumstance dries it up, leaving only the dusty, dirt-speckled residue of what had ceased to be, long before the moisture of its body had left it.

And lo, I am now faced with an opportunity to pick myself up, to gather these words and ideas, this garbage, my wreckage, and to toss it all–everything, toward those turbulent waves. To drown, to swim away into the blackness; to be, or to become overwhelmed, beyond hope, and to then walk the ocean floor, reluctantly waiting for the sun to envelop the Earth, to boil off this weight above my head, and to turn me to the same ash as everyone and everything that I have known, here on this place in space and time we call home.

hmmph

And I may do this. I may do it with no good reason beyond depression.

Hmm, and if I do find myself and my weightless, empty thoughts dashed upon the rocks below, well, that wouldn’t be the end, either. For, being so-destroyed would be another such eddy, only, one less familiar, far less comfortable. And so, given my fall, I could just do it again, and again, and again, until I have either succeeded, or until my life and/or opportunities in life have expired.

dscf0038

Time. Time is finite. Life, is worthwhile, certainly if you’re already in it, and you’ve not found yourself immediately aware of the horrors capable of the human animal and his human animal civilization.

Open your eyes, and you may find yourself suckling at the bosom of one who loves and cares for you. Blink, and now there are worms suckling at you, beneath a pile of your brethren, atop countless generations of that same life that lives on in the near-to-infinite variations.

This blink. This time between lives, we feel that it is something like the length of the life that we presently lead. Oh, the life that I presently have is good, and therefore I may enjoy this good life for some eighty years, at which point I may roll the dice, once more, hoping to get a life as good as I now enjoy.

I’m afraid to tell you –mainly, because I have spent years writing a book on the subject,  a book I doubt that I have the heart to finish without assistance, the help of a trusted adviser, likely a Buddhist — that this blink of a lifetime, it is an illusion.

What I mean to say, and perhaps I won’t here describe it (lest I fear that my words are too imprecise, concerning something that is paramount to my intellectual, heartfelt existence), is that all existences, all existence everywhere, all of it, all of you, each of us, myself, your dog, the little bugs on your face, what animated, living things that live upon them, all of you are a single existence. That existence, this universal existence is you. Rather, more precisely, it is You. Call it us, call it we, call it God or the Cosmos.

You do not experience your life after the last life, before the next life. Rather, you experience everything, all of the time, all at once, everywhere.

The only reason why you are not aware of this, is because your intellect, that which may grasp this idea, is essentially extraneous additions upon the more basic animal constitution, and that animal that you indelibly are, it simply must survive, and because of the way this place, the cosmos, this universe, at least this apparently physical instantiation of it is structured, one body can (under normal circumstances) only know itself and the world through that single intimate lens of awareness.

If the animal body was aware of the oneness of everything, as the intellect can ascend to, then, I imagine we would be something more like the ant, or, perhaps the bee. The individual would be lost, and to that, our quality of life; indeed, life itself, as we know it.

I am meandering, dangerously, with these words. Like a painter, rather, like a “painter” who looks at his easel with reproach, with a disgust that hurts his being, like a “lover” who never speaks to his love. Is such a person a lover, or are they simply deluded, perhaps they’re in love with the idea of being in love.

Yes, I put these words here, but am I a writer for doing so?
Have I put anything here, really, that hasn’t been said before by me, and/or is not pitiful navel gazing?

I doubt it.
But this is a step, a step toward a long, long journey that I had stopped taking steps toward.

Sometimes, your first step is a stumble.
Perhaps that’s what this is.
I certainly hope so.

– J

 

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Watch “Joe Rogan Experience #750 – Kip Andersen & Keegan Kuhn, producers of Cowspiracy” on YouTube

Found this podcast subscribed on my walk home, tonight.
A talk on Cowspiracy, a Netflix documentary concerning the consequences of our way of life.

-J

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Love, or some such thing | 20151008

Love

Just walking around with my camera. Even this, I find myself doing less of.

Just walking around with my camera. Even this, I find myself doing less of.

It’s amazing how fucking can be so important to me, while at the same time being lesser than this idea of love. But what is more real, a physical act between two people, or some lofty, vague idea that probably exists nowhere but in my own head… at least in the form by which I presently grasp it.

Perhaps it is because I have been there; I have been wrapped in this vague idea as a butterfly was once wrapped in a cocoon. But now I approach the idea of love, the idea of this transformative cocoon, not as the caterpillar, the loveless and open being that once facilitated it, but as the butterfly that knows it…

And that may be my problem. I have known it. I have expectations.

I once was blind to it, and only then was I able to find it so.

hmmph…

I’m still alive.
These are thoughts.

– J

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03/30/2015 – TPP | Chris Hedges on the next 50 years

Ho folks,

Business interests are to this world as the massive Kraken is to the ship which it is squeezing, crushing, pulling beneath the waves. Of course, before the ship’s back is broken, we feast on the fruit of the beast.

Is it any wonder though, that things are getting so bad? Although we are among enlightened humans, they, like ourselves, are subject to the same market that supports our way of life. We drink Kraken oil, and we cry when we hear that more of the ships resources and focus are put toward this great monster.

How do we get ourselves out of this mess? I do not know. For, if we push against the interests of the huge corporations of this world, then we will be met with the most aggressive and effective resistance that our own dollars, labour, and livelihoods can offer, for it is we who constitute the Kraken. We do not simply support it, we are it.

The core of the problem is not we the people, but the organization of our persons. And the root of this has to do with a failure to properly conceptualize what is, what we are, and what role we play in the construction of our collective future on Earth and in this vast cosmic beyond.

An article, with news video on the leaked TPP plan – WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations 

WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations

WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations

A talk out of the UK concerning the TPP – Recipe for Ruin: TTIP the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership

It seems that the sky will be turning black, and that the Earth will heave and throw off its back many forms of life. This will likely be unavoidable at this point.

What can be done is to teach our children well. For, when when these bodies are falling to pieces, it will be our children and their children who will face more immediate existential threats, and ideally they will be doing so with greater knowledge and more advanced technological tools by which they may reign in our greedy Kraken before it is too late.

Should we be leaving it to our children?

Well, the Canadian Bill C-51 may actually make it illegal to discuss (much less to do) anything that will reduce the environmental impact of industry, because (as the TPP covers) this hurts business.

Below is an article by internet freedom crusader Michael Geist

A Conversation About Bill C-51: How the Anti-Terrorism Bill Undermines Canadian Privacy | Michael Geist

A Conversation About Bill C-51: How the Anti-Terrorism Bill Undermines Canadian Privacy | Michael Geist

And finally, a very, very important talk about the gloomy future of humanity and the planet’s other inhabitants by the incalculably-important Christopher Hedges

SFU Vancouver Speakers Series Presents: Chris Hedges

Godspeed,
– J

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McKenna on creativity | Sagan on Earth | 021715

To say that I have been neglecting this blog is an understatement. I have been putting all of my energies onto my primary project. The status of that project? Stalled.

It is very disheartening to see so much valuable time go by without anything substantial being accomplished. This is the malady that affects my entire adult life, at present.

Anyway, there are more days, and more opportunities for me to get my life together.

Moving on,

Here is great view from Terence McKenna, on Opening the Doors of Creativity

When I finally publish my work, people who are familiar with the work of McKenna will no doubt see similarities, parallels, and probably a great similarity between his, my own, and Eastern philosophy more generally. To become as lucid as Terence is my dream.

But we all have dreams, surely.

From another love of mine, here is a lecture from Carl Sagan, The Earth as a Planet.

That’s all that I have for today.

Perhaps I will share something tomorrow as well.
Baby steps toward productivity… or at least a less-useless state.

Take care,

– J

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