He sat at home, tired from the dinner. He was alone, companions unconditionally faithful and sleeping at his feet.

He thought to himself that unlike the others at dinner he could not think of nor recall any real permanent mistake he had ever made. Not that his life was perfect or completely satisfactory but it was better than all theirs if you took out any feelings. Their feelings were generally negative but he wondered if that was griping because they seemed alive recklessly so but with so little time to think of their actions.  They wondered even more at the consequences which seemed without cause and unfathomable. His future was predictable and little had been left to chance.  Was it less dramatic-yes but was he then living it less- he wasn't sure.

He had written it all done. Now with computers and his paper journals, it was recorded in triplicate.  But it was primarily his recording. Others had collected video; objective proof they could rely on later and then recall their feelings. And they had the daily perspective of their significant other. He didn't want that kind of presence. His only consolation was that if he was able to produce something, maybe someday others would think of his actions, cognition, as substitute for the windy vacuum he dwelt in.

He thought of Friedrich, a man who insured his eternal remembrance by writing prose poetry. No less than Strauss had dreamed of his inner life.  His would not be the same and if it was would it be of  help  now   Would it be of comfort at his death to know he had a shot at recollection later. What would be his thoughts if as more likely would be the case, all evidence was discarded weeks after he was shelved  with the others in the mall lines of grave occupants.

WHEN Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed,- and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:

Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.

Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man. Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.

a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers?

WHEN I came unto men for the first time, then did I commit the anchorite folly, the great folly: I appeared on the market-place.

The youthful swell of a loving girl with its risk of abandonment, that was the fools errand.  There at his birth, he could not allow his psyche to twist him in its quest for return.  Less living but more genuine comfort. His solace was a refusal to compromise or allow others to do so in their contacts.

Each god was intensely patriotic, and detested all nations but his own. All these Gods demanded praise, flattery, and worship. Most of them were pleased with sacrifice, and the smell of innocent blood has ever been considered a divine perfume. All these gods have insisted upon having a vast number of priests, and the priests have always insisted upon being supported by the people, and the principal business of these priests has been to boast about their God, and to insist that he could easily vanquish all the other gods put together.

These gods have been manufactured after numberless models, and according to the most grotesque fashions. Some have a thousand arms, some a hundred heads, some are adorned with necklaces of living snakes, some are armed with clubs, some with sword and shield, some with bucklers, and some with wings as a cherub; some were invisible, some would show themselves entire, and some would only show their backs; some were jealous, some were foolish, some turned themselves into men, some into swans, some into bulls, some into doves, and some into holy ghosts, and made love to the beautiful daughters of men. Some were married--all ought to have been--and some were considered as old bachelors from all eternity. Some had children, and the children were turned into gods and worshiped as their fathers had been. Most of these gods were revengeful, savage, lustful, and ignorant; as they generally depended upon their priests for information, their ignorance can hardly excite our astonishment.

Of course, they have always been partial to the people who created them, and they have generally shown their partiality by assisting those people to rob and destroy others, and to ravish their wives and daughters. Nothing is so pleasing to these gods as the butchery of unbelievers

These gods did not even know the shape of the worlds they had created, but supposed them perfectly flat. Some thought the day could be lengthened by stopping the sun, that the blowing of horns could throw down the walls of a city, and all knew so little of the real nature of the people they had created, that they commanded the people to love them.

One of these gods, and one who demands our love, our admiration and our worship, and one who is worshiped, if mere heartless ceremony is worship, gave to his chosen people for their guidance the following laws of war: "When thou comest nigh unto a city to fight against it, then proclaim peace unto it. And it shall be if it make thee answer of peace, and open unto thee, then it shall be that all the people that is found therein shall be tributaries unto thee, and they shall serve thee. And if it will make no peace with thee, but will make war against thee, then thou shalt besiege it. And when the Lord thy God hath delivered it into thine hands, thou shalt smite every male thereof with the edge of the sword. But the women and the little ones, and the cattle, and all that is in the city, even all the spoil thereof, shalt thou take unto thyself, and thou shalt eat the spoil of thine enemies which the Lord thy God hath given thee. Thus shalt thou do unto all the cities which are very far off from thee, which are not of the cities of these nations. But of the cities of these people which the Lord thy God doth give thee for an inheritance, thou shall save alive nothing that breatheth."

One of these gods, according to the account, drowned an entire world, with the exception of eight persons. The old, the young, the beautiful and the helpless were remorselessly devoured by the shoreless sea. This, the most fearful tragedy that the imagination of ignorant priests ever conceived, was the act not of a devil, but of God so-called, whom men ignorantly worship unto this day. What a stain such an act would leave upon the character of a devil! One of the prophets of one of these gods, having in his power a captured king, hewed him in pieces in the sight of all the people. Was ever any imp of any devil guilty of such savagery?

If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization.

Man has never been at a loss for gods. He has worshiped almost everything, including the vilest and most disgusting beasts. He has worshiped fire, earth, air, water, light, stars, and for hundreds of ages, prostrated himself before enormous snakes. Savage tribes often make gods of articles they get from civilized people. The Todas worship a cow-bell. The Kotas worship two silver plates, which they regard as husband and wife, and another tribe manufactured a god out of a king of hearts.

Man has no ideas, and can have none, except those suggested by his surroundings. He cannot conceive of anything utterly unlike what he has seen or felt. He can exaggerate, diminish, combine, separate, deform, beautify, improve, multiply and compare what he sees, what he feels, what he hears, and all of which he takes cognizance through the medium of the senses; but he cannot create. Having seen exhibitions of power, he can say, omnipotent. Having lived, he can say, immortality. Knowing something of time, he can say, eternity. Conceiving something of intelligence, he can say God. Having seen exhibitions of malice, he can say, devil. A few gleams of happiness having fallen athwart the gloom of his life, he can say, heaven. Pain, in its numberless forms, having been experienced, he can say, hell. Yet all these ideas have a foundation in fact, and only a foundation. The superstructure has been reared by exaggerating, diminishing, combining, separating, deforming, beautifying, improving or multiplying realities, so that the edifice or fabric is but the incongruous grouping of what man has perceived through the medium of the senses. It is as though we should give to a lion the wings of an eagle, the hoofs of a bison, the tail of a horse, the pouch of a kangaroo, and the trunk of an elephant.

It is enough to make one almost insane with pity to think what man in the long night has suffered: of the tortures he has endured, surrounded, as he supposed, by malignant powers and clutched by the fierce phantoms of the air. No wonder that he fell upon his trembling knees--that he built altars and reddened them even with his own blood. No wonder that he implored ignorant priests and impudent magicians for aid. No wonder that he crawled groveling in the dust to the temple's door, and there, in the insanity of despair, besought the deaf gods to hear his bitter cry of agony and fear.

We are assured that all is perfection in heaven--there the skies are cloudless--there all is serenity and peace. Here empires may be overthrown; dynasties may be extinguished in blood; millions of slaves may toil 'neath the fierce rays of the sun, and the cruel strokes of the lash; yet all is happiness in heaven. Pestilence may strew the earth with corpses of the loved; the survivors may bend above them in agony--yet the placid bosom of heaven is unruffled. Children may expire vainly asking for bread; babies may be devoured by serpents, while the gods sit smiling in the clouds. The innocent may languish unto death in the obscurity of dungeons; brave men and heroic women may be changed to ashes at the bigot's stake, while heaven is filled with song and joy. Out on the wide sea, in darkness and in storm, the shipwrecked struggle with the cruel waves, while the angels play upon their golden harps. The streets of the world are filled with the diseased, the deformed and the helpless; the chambers of pain are crowded with the pale forms of the suffering, while the angels float and fly in the happy realms of day. In heaven they are too happy to have sympathy; too busy singing to aid the imploring and distressed. Their eyes are blinded; their ears are stopped and their hearts are turned to stone by the infinite selfishness of joy. The saved mariner is too happy when he touches the shore to give a moment's thought to his drowning brothers. With the indifference of happiness, with the contempt of bliss, heaven barely glances at the miseries of earth. Cities are devoured by the rushing lava; the earth opens and thousands perish; women raise their clasped hands towards heaven, but the gods are too happy to aid their children. The smiles of the deities are unacquainted with the tears of men. The shouts of heaven drown the sobs of earth.

No one, in the world's whole history, ever attempted to substantiate a truth by a miracle. Truth scorns the assistance of miracle. Nothing but falsehood ever attested itself by signs and wonders. No miracle ever was performed

If we admit that some infinite being has controlled the destinies of persons and people, history becomes a most cruel and bloody farce. Age after age, the strong have trampled upon the weak; the crafty and heartless have ensnared and enslaved the simple and innocent, and nowhere, in all the annals of mankind, has any god succored the oppressed.

During that frightful period known as the "Dark Ages," Faith reigned, with scarcely rebellious subject. Her temples were "carpeted with knees," and the wealth of nations adorned her countless shrines. The great painters prostituted their genius to immortalize her vagaries, while the poets enshrined them in song. At her bidding, man covered the earth with blood. The scales of justice were turned with gold, and for her use were invented all the cunning instruments of pain. She built cathedrals for God, and dungeons for men. She peopled the clouds with angels and the earth with slaves. For centuries the world was retracing its steps--going steadily back toward, barbaric night! A few infidels-- a few heretics cried, "Halt!" to the great rabble of ignorant devotion, and made it possible for the genius of the nineteenth century to revolutionize the cruel creeds and superstitions of mankind.

The civilization of man has increased just to the same extent that religious power has decreased. The intellectual advancement of man depends upon how often he can exchange an old superstition for a new truth. The Church never enabled a human being to make even one of these exchanges; on the contrary, all her power has been used to prevent them.

Men began to investigate, and the church began to oppose. The astronomer scanned the heavens, while the church branded his grand forehead with the word, "Infidel"; and now, not a glittering star in all the vast expanse bears a Christian name.

One by one religious conceptions have been placed in the crucible of science, and thus far, nothing but dross has been found.

 A new world has been discovered by the microscope; everywhere has been found the infinite; in every direction man has investigated and explored, and nowhere, in earth or stars, has been found the footstep of any being superior to or independent of nature. Nowhere has been discovered the slightest evidence of any interference from without.

We are doing what little we can to hasten the coming of the day when society shall cease producing millionaires and mendicants--gorged indolence and famished industry--truth in rags, and superstition robed and crowned.

Salvation through slavery is worthless. Salvation from slavery is inestimable.

Thought is a form of force. We walk with the same force with which we think. Man is an organism that changes several forms of force into thought-force. Man is a machine into which we put what we call food, and produce what we call thought.

Nature is but an endless series of efficient causes. She cannot create, but she eternally transforms.

There was no beginning; and there can be no end.

It should not be surprising that I am drawn to Ingersoll, for he is Leaves of Grass... He lives, embodies, the individuality, I preach. I see in Bob  the noblest specimen--American-flavored--pure out of the soil, spreading, giving, demanding light.     Walt Whitman(1890)

http://www.richardashcroft.co.uk/video-page/are_you_ready1/

Who has no memory of unimaginable magnifications

On the order of a total mental reality

And which were not at all

Amazing at the time

But were given truly delivered

To the forest of one's childhood

                      Artaud Lynch

And they came into Bethany and a certain woman whose brother had died was there.   She knelt down before Jesus and said to him, "Son of David, have mercy on me".   And Jesus went off with her into the garden where the tomb was. Then Jesus rolled away the stone from in front of the tomb. He went in where the youth was, stretched forth his hand and raised him up. The youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beg him to be with him.

They left the tomb and went to the young man's house, for he was rich. Six days later, Jesus gave him instructions of what to do and in the evening the youth came to him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth over his naked body. He remained with him that night, for Jesus taught him the mystery of the Kingdom of God.

And when Jesus woke up, he returned to the other side of the Jordan

And there followed him a certain young man, having a linen cloth cast about his naked body

and he left the linen cloth.

wandering stars

the narrow road of the commandments

in a boundless abyss of the carnal and bodily sins

priding themselves in knowledge

boasting that they are free

for not all true things are the truth.

 Mark (Carpocrates)

     

In 1763, was born William Cobbett sometimes known as Peter Porcupine who tried to preserve the countryside in the face of the Industrial Revolution.

Cobbett was born in Farnham, Surrey on a small farm kept by his father. Now a pub. When aged twenty-one, Cobbett joined the army in the 54th Regiment of Foot  and, in due course, rose to the rank of sergeant major. He used the ample spare time available to soldiers in peacetime, to learn the rudiments of English grammar. After service in Canada, Cobbett reached the rank of sergeant but on his return to Portsmouth, charges were brought against him by corrupt officers, against whom he had gathered evidence of venality.

Although the charges were unsubstantiated, Cobbett was obliged to flee to France, which he found in the throes of revolution. After escaping to Philadelphia, Cobbett supported himself and his family by teaching English to French immigrants. Cobbett disliked the American Revolution and its consequences and began writing pamphlets criticising America, its constitution and its republic. His vitriolic journalism was not popular and gained him many enemies but he continued for six years, writing against the American system, until eventually he lost a libel suit and was ruined. A story by Cobbett in 1807 led to the use of 'red herring' .

Cobbett fled to London, where he founded a weekly journal, Political Register, in which he attacked the government’s conduct of the war against France. He also produced a journal containing continual verbatim reports of the proceedings of the House of Commons. This journal still exists and is now called Hansard. Cobbet particularly disliked the fact that commercial interests were dictating foreign policy, In 1816, when he denounced corruption in parliamentary elections, his enemies sought to have him arrested and he was obliged to leave for America.

In 1819, when Cobbett thought it safe to return home, he conceived the idea of repatriating the remains of Thomas Paine. According to some contemporary reports, Cobbett exhumed Paine’s body and shipped it to Liverpool.

O DE

O N

THE B  O  NES

O F THE

Im  m  o  rta l   TH O M   A S PA  INE,

NEW  L Y   TRA NSPORTED FROM      AMERIC A TO  ENGLAND

The No  Less Im- m  ortal

William   Cobbett, Esq.

Great Pain  for great  Trumpery.

1819

AND so, friend William, thou art safe returned from the Land of Liberty, where there is no such a thing as a Maid Margery to be found. If Madam is asked, Whether her Master or Mistress is at home, instead of dropping you a courtesy, as a simple English girl would do, she will stare thee in the face, and answer, She does not know who you mean; she has no Master or Mistress.

This is Liberty indeed!

And thou hast most patriotically brought us the Bones of Том Paine, to set us all to rights. Troth, I began to rub my hands when I heard the news.

Pry thee, canst not contrive to clap a few brains into the pericranium, and then we shall have, par nobile t'nitrum, a noble pair of counsellors to mend the Times, that, as Shakespeare say», are sadly out of joint.

But really, friend Cobbett, jesting apart, if I had given thee a dinner at my Garret in Grub Street, instead of at the Crown and Anchor, I would  have given thee a Glass of Rumbo.   There are my good neighbours Mrs. Mumpsimus, Mrs. Slipslop, Miss Biddy Mantrap, and Miss Nancy Placket.. But, hush ! here's my Landlady calls for her weekly rent

When she is gone, I will give thee the first six stanzas of a Ballad never printed on the Boston riot.

                                     

The bones were still among Cobbett's effects when he died over twenty years later.  There is no confirmed story about what happened to them after that, although down the years various people have claimed to own parts of Paine's remains such as his skull and right hand.

Cobbett followed later in another vessel, but when he arrived at Liverpool, he found to his dismay that the other ship had been lost at sea and Paine’s bones were at the bottom of the ocean.

During the 1820’s, Cobbett toured the country on horseback, writing descriptions of the countryside, hoping to draw attention to the plight of the agricultural workers, who were suffering great hardship due the effect of the Corn Laws. He published his writings in 1830 in book form under the name Rural Rides. This book gave an unrivalled picture of the land, in the period before wholesale agricultural reform swept the country in the mid nineteenth century. Rural Rides became famous, not only for its realistic, and often humorous, portrayal of the countryside, but as a historical document, giving an insight into the habits and customs of village life. The village way of life, as portrayed by Thomas Hardy, has more to do with Rural Rides than life in Hardy’s own time.

This, to my fancy, is a very nice country. It is continual hill and dell. Now and then a chain of hills higher than the rest, and these are downs or woods. To stand upon any of the hills and look around you, you almost think you see the ups and downs of sea in a heavy swell (as the sailors call it) after what they call a gale of wind. The undulations are endless, and the great variety in the height, breadth, length, and form of the little hills, has a very delightful effect

There were some very pretty girls, but ragged as colts and pale as ashes. The day was cold too, and frost hardly off the ground; and their blue arms and lips would have made any heart ache but that of a seat-seller or a loan-jobber. A little after passing by these poor things, whom I left. cursing, as I went, those who had brought them to this state, I came to a group of shabby houses upon a hill. While a boy was watering his horses, I asked the ostler the name of the place; and, as the old women say, "you might have knocked me down with a feather, "when he said, "Great Bedwin ."

I am now going to speak of clouds coming out of the sides of hills in exactly the same manner that you see smoke come out of a tobacco pipe, and rising up, with a wider and wider head, like the smoke from a tobacco-pipe, go to the top of the hill or over the hill, or very much above it, and then come over the valleys in rain.

In looking from a hill, over this valley, early in the morning, in November, it presented one of the most beautiful sights that my eyes ever beheld. It was a sea bordered with beautifully formed trees of endless variety of colours. As the hills formed the outsides of the sea, some of the trees showed only their tops; and, every now and then, a lofty tree growing in the sea itself, raised its head above the apparent waters.

Cobbett stood for Parliament on several occasions, but each time was rejected, on account of his unwillingness to offer voters the customary bribe. Eventually he was elected as MP for Oldham, in 1832, at 69 years of age. Sadly the nocturnal schedule of Parliament disturbed his wellbeing and hastened his death, from influenza. Cobbett died on 18th June 1835.  A reported 8,000 people attended his funeral.

Automatic, instamatic, not quick enough for your patience

lack thereof being expected from a riff raff with your history!

I should have turned you out of here ,  when the sun came down

You can’t spray at night, kills the customers

So now I’m in the pitiable position of begging a favor from you

And threatening you si  mul    tan eously  that if you refuse

You had better kill me now because I will hunt your children down

Before I kill you

People go back inside themselves under the wrapping

find their real self becoming immediately aware of itself

using its real needs beyond survival

to integrate with their normal conscious self

to make a more alert human being.

Anima takes off the mask and walks the earth in its true face.

Age makes your real self more accessible.

Mind becomes aware of its unstable ground and feels the hard interior

Realization of its unity with your “Normal Reality”

where it was born to expand in its time.

The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough, The blue smoke over the hill,

And the shadows trailing the valley-side, Make up the autumn day.

When the golden days arrive, With the swallow at the eaves,  Sighing at the latch with spring,

If death be good, Why do the gods not die? If life be ill, Why do the gods still live?

If love be naught, Why do the gods still love?

 If love be all, What should men do but love?

So it was with those I loved In the years ere I loved thee.

Many a saying sounds like truth, Until Truth itself is heard.

Many a beauty only lives Until Beauty passes by.

And the mortal is forgot In the shadow of the god.

Now the moon-white butterflies Float across the liquid air,  Glad as in a dream.

As, on a morn, a traveller might emerge From the deep green seclusion of the hills,

By a cool road through forest and through fern,

Little frequented, winding, followed long

With joyous expectation and day-dreams,

And on a sudden,

turning a great rock ,

dark with dripping water,

Behold the seaboard  of surf and sound with all the space and glory of the world

                                                          sappho

What a noble privilege is it of human reason to attain the knowledge of the supreme Being; and, from the visible works of nature, be enabled to infer so sublime a principle as its supreme Creator? But turn the reverse of the medal. Survey most nations and most ages. Examine the religious principles, which have, in fact, prevailed in the world. You will scarcely be persuaded, that they are any thing but sick men's dreams: Or perhaps will regard them more as the playsome whimsies of monkies in human shape, than the serious, positive, dogmatical asseverations of a being, who dignifies himself with the name of rational.

The whole is a riddle, an aenigma, an inexplicable mystery. Doubt, uncertainty, suspence of judgment appear the only result of our most accurate scrutiny, concerning this subject. But such is the frailty of human reason, and such the irresistible contagion of opinion, that even this deliberate doubt could scarcely be upheld; did we not enlarge our view, and opposing one species of superstition to another, set them a quarrelling; while we ourselves, during their fury and contention, happily make our escape, into the calm, though obscure, regions of philosophy.

                                                                              
                                                                                  Hume   1757

Africa, again, has supplied several fresh examples of a similar practice of regicide.   Among them the most notable perhaps is the custom formerly observed in Bunyoro of choosing every year from a particular clan a mock king, who was supposed to incarnate the late king, cohabited with his widows at his temple-tomb, and after reigning for a week was strangled.

The custom presents a close parallel to the ancient Babylonian festival of the Sacaea, at which a mock king was dressed in the royal robes, allowed to enjoy the real king’s concubines, and after reigning for five days was stripped, scourged, and put to death.

My old porch where I will die at last

sun is her fellow and I am her suitor.

birth is but a gathering of processes

something called a  life

matter is conscious

no matter to memory

sentient atom clusters

surrendering not in death

only in love

you are an antenna

pulling from me

tuning fork

trimming  noise

fundament of commerce

experience

 

 

 

 

will your biological framework

permit a window to infinity

or at least unboundedness

plus thought

not air but soup
covered in it
jelly mass
of a million nerve cells
imposing order on cell slaves
egg drop in soup

cognition leads us to decipher

a world  made of energy

all are energy

we are changing energy flows

harnessing energy

music simulates that energy

symbol of a matter less world

where thought

moves freely item to item

without exhaustion

inexhaustible

without trust we are prairie jackals

nature  no longer proper

rooting  for advantage

in the spirit of progress

leaving no empty space

Into the heart of a doomed land the stern warrior leapt

Carrying your unambiguous command like a sharp sword

He stood and filled the universe with death

Immediately dreams and gruesome visions overwhelmed them

With terror

Unexpected fears assailed them

Hurled down,

Some here some there, half dead

They proclaimed why it was they were dying

once a visitor

it never leaves but

rots the whole

mutinous stutter

Morris Berman

After the death of my father, he began, when a not entirely meager amount of capital fell into my hands, I hurriedly departed for France. I was lucky, above all else, to become acquainted with Marseilles before the Twenties had come to an end. Apart from all the other things for which it stood to me at that time, it was Marseilles, the home town of Monticelli, to whom I owed everything in my art.


As for my capital, I left it untouched in the small private bank which had satisfactorily advised my father for decades. Moreover, the firm's junior director was, if not quite my friend, then an especially good acquaintance. He also promised me, with the utmost assurance, that he would keep a sharp eye on my deposit during the long period of my absence and, in the event a favorable chance of making some investment should arise, that he would immediately notify me. "You merely need to leave us a code word," he concluded. I looked at him perplexed.. Suppose we were to wire you and the telegram came into the wrong hands. We protect ourselves by arranging a code name for you to sign your telegraph orders with instead of your own."

I understood and yet for a moment was perplexed. After all, it's not always that easy to just slip into a strange name, like a costume.

To me it was as if the pressure of a thousand atmospheres which this whole world of images was urging and convulsing and staggering beneath were the same force which tests itself in the firm hands of a sailor on women's thighs and women's breasts after a long voyage; the voluptuousness which urges a red or blue velvet heart from out of the mineral world of a shell pyx so that it may be pricked by pins or brooches; the same force which quakes the streets on payday.

Much more likely, it was an attempt to surrender myself completely to the city which had gently taken me by the scruff of the neck with a magical hand.  I had a view of one of the black narrow streets of the port district which are like the trace of a knife's incision in the body of the city.

Only now did I realize that the hashish had long begun to work its effect, and if the transformation of tins of powder into boxes of bonbons, chrome-plated cases into bars of chocolate and wigs and toupees into pyramids of cake had not already tipped me off to the fact, then my own laughter had been enough of a warning. For the high begins with such laughter or with laughter which, being quiet and intimate, is all the more blissful.

And now I also recognized it in the infinite tenderness of the wind which was ruffling the fringe of the awning on the other side of the street.

My gaze fell upon the creases in my white beach-trousers. I recognized them, creases of the burnoose;
my gaze fell upon my hand.

I recognized it, a brown, Ethiopian hand.

And as my lips continued to purse tightly together, refusing the drink and words alike,

a smile rose to them from within me,

a haughty, African, Sardanapalan smile,

The smile of a man who is on the verge of seeing through the course of the world and destiny.

For whom things and names no longer contain secrets.

Brown and silent I saw myself sitting there...

That was the last clear thought which I formulated that night. The next one was bequeathed me by the noon paper which, when I awoke on the bench in the hot afternoon sun overlooking the water, read:

>>SENSATIONELLE HAUSSE<<

or

SENSATIONAL HIGH !

--walter benjamin

: Drunk couple lean on a concrete green flaked wall bisected by a brown  wide stripe.   One  from the window.

 3 : 1  7  am.

Boy  tired, a girl bored.  Music noone is aware of.    M. Ward distant.  No words.   Weird Daniel piano.

 Beige ashtray, crusted spine.

B  Friday, the lake?

G  Need to study.  Morning or afternoon

B  If morning you'll never go

G  You won't leave me or the bed

B  that's a good plan

G  We won't know until  morning

B   I can't imagine later that morning will count

G  Sleep.  Lets go.

B  One more beer or I'll walk asleep

G  Its a long walk,

B  No sitting?

G  Not every week.

B  Glory days-no lines

G  no memory

B  Can't stop memory.  I remember things never tried  or  never wanted.  (drains green bottle back)      

   Many things I forgot like fifth grade.

G  Couldn't have been  interesting.   I don't remember how old.

B  So if you would remember tomorrow what would you do?

G  You don't want to know. Not the lake, maybe not  you.

B  Too late to tell me.

G  Pay or leave money.

B  Five minutes

 Fifteen minutes later, he hid a beer.  He  grabs the steel in the glass door and they walk into  yellow light.

Breathes, a tree from cement.  All ahead.  He will.

She thinks better.  Needs to leave, waste.

To wake up alone.   Get out early. Drunkenness..  Church in the afternoon.

Voices on a staircase.  The sleeping have given up.

Grey sparrow its head under wing, peering down. Confused jay  alone chirping.

College mopped by singers with arms  tired surrendering.   Profit  in the tile churns up new tools.

Twenty five years later men reach to a shadow, remembering more.

Love snuggles, leagues away into a forever man.

Our personality is almost a shroud over this mind. Certainly our ego is. Only one chef in the kitchen, one master of the house. So we go through different disciplines, religions, searching for this other that must be out there because we are repulsed by our own neural anatomy and will do anything but face it, our singularity.

We may believe and it may serve the brain's interest that we have overcome the challenge to all, of the child, which is the brain's earliest actions but some part of the gel inside the bony shell never forgets its real predicament.

The continuing product of Evolution is the maturation and growing complexity of neural fabric.

Aspects which can be distinguished have to be learned later. Much of early learning is simple labelling.

Is there a value or truth to be obtained by returning to the infant state which the brain appears to desire at all times?

What is society but a series of rooms where cerebra feel comfortable and protected

Spaces which provide necessary rules permitting the mind to hope it is free (e.g. saved) or at least cared for

The infant at first does not recognize its own body and in our own infantile conception of ourselves we do not recognize our anatomical reality as cerebra. We expend 80% of our effort in service, indulgence and even worship of the body. What is winning the war?

What has developed to be enjoyable about sex, beyond neural stimulation or routine pattern is the act of feeling feeling or sensation itself. One feels and can control the feeling of another without need of the body. This is part of the agenda of the brain. Certainly the body is involved, especially as a visual object, but in passion our body feels different, lighter, more neural. Cuddling may look abnormal or strange in public because the body is not behaving as it does in any other activity. The brain is in control and using the body for its own neural stimulation. The body is minimized, almost as if the cerebra are rubbing each other.

Because you can feel feeling you can change how you feel feeling and thus you have all the interest in sadism, pain etc. which is just extreme manipulation as a manifest demonstration of mastery of feeling Dramatic horrible things can happen to you or someone in front of you and because you can control their feeling of your feeling the person has greater tolerance. The more extreme in manipulation the greater power the brain feels. When the brain controls feeling, it feels good because it has demonstrated control of the body. The brain at its primal strategem is scared of everything, even the body.