The night give up the morning when the birds say.
Dawn is a formality only.
——Non-human persons make sense to me.
——Human non-persons, too.
——An acorn is an oak but not a tree.
——A dolphin neednt thumbs for empathy.
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It’s terrifying to think how much of your life & actions can be predicted accurately by probability. For you, an interaction with someone in customer service is you making decisions about what to say and do. But for them, you’re just repeating something from one of a handful of categories they hear every day.
Poll a thousand people picked randomly enough and you’ve got a great idea of what 300 million will do.
If instead of an election, we had a full census and lottery, and picked a thousand to come serve in Congress for two years, we’d have the equivalent of a full, direct democracy.
This is terrifying. You’re not a creature with agency & will: all of your complexity gets smoothed out when there’s even more complexity to average out around you. How miserable, that all those billions of years & hundred trillion cells in your body, all coming to this, to make you the same as millions of other people.
——Fuck what I do & that I have to do it, & every fucking worldly thing.
A woman today said to me that infant mortality is different from
abortion because God has the right to kill the unborn & infants &
children as painfully & awfully as might be imagined, but it’s
immoral (only) when people kill zygotes, embryos & fetuses.
——The morality of man exceeds the morality of God because God’s
——benevolence appeals to force, only, while man’s appeals to common,
——intelligible reason. Nothing, nothing. End of all none soon enough.
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I ate her as she disappeared
I ate her as she cried
I ate her as she wept red tears
I ate her as they dried
It’s morning now, the churchbells ring. They sound like churchbells ought. The church attends to folk so poor, their souls are all they’ve brought. But these are what’s desired most, these souls that need be cleansed. Wash fresh the sins of naked flesh, the sins of naked men.
Too quick she left and took my fun
Took quick she ran home sobbing
But home at last is where she rests
While I’m alone, yet throbbing
You don’t quite seem to understand the service churches render. They remind us that we’re more than beasts, give reason to be tender. The laws of man are easy broke, man’s justice easier still. But the laws of God are absolute, and find us, good or ill.
Little girl, little girl, don’t lie to me
Don’t lie and spread your fibs
Was snake, not God, who made mankind
Eve’s children, Adam’s ribs
Salvation, then, is rarely found, in nature or in heaven, but here on earth it’s all around, all week, all day, each second. Salvation comes from Christ above, Christ the true Messiah. Christ alone can save weak souls, and rapture the pariah.
Too late, too late to change your ways
Too late to even try
Too late you fin’ly realize
To whom you owe your eye
Imagine if you will an ancient Greek city-state where once a year there is a week long festival celebrating the ingenuity of the human mind and creative spirit. During this month, all of the self proclaimed artists from the surrounding area come to this place for the purposes of mingling with other artists, and of course lauding their own particular works.
However, over the years the size of festival has outgrown the size of the city and the artists who once mingled freely have become to grow unmanageable, unable to decide how much of the city should be devoted each particular medium, each one of course believing theirs should have more than all the rest. Being the wise, benevolent dictator that you are, you decide to have a hearing so that you may choose which art and artists best deserve the right to come this festival, however it has already been made clear only one form of art (and in the case of some, one subset of a form) can be allowed to come to the festival, no more. Small groups representing each of the respective mediums shuffle into your courtyard and stand, waiting to be heard.
Fittingly, the philosophers begin the discourse. They argue (and would have had more to say had they not argued among themselves so much) that they impart direct truth to humankind and produce not only the most important art, but reasons for all art itself.
The poets argue that that’s nonsense. Philosophers deliver truth sure, but blunt truth. The poets say that they are responsible for giving the world beautiful truth, though they disagree with one another about the precise source of their art. However, the poets do agree that their works are the oldest of all human art, and the kind that will likely survive the longest, in some form or another, via oral traditions or underlying themes.
Here, the painters, sculptors, and architects all contend that that’s false and that mankind has been creating visual art from the very beginning, not poetry. They say that every culture that is known of has left some trace of themselves behind in the form of the visual arts, but here the painters and architects break off into their own argument, painters stating that theirs is the more common and personal art, architects that theirs is the grandest and most impressive, sculptors being ignored as they contend that statues are the best compromise between the two extremes.
The playwrights and actors have been bickering over who is more important, the one who creates the work or those who perform it, but do not hesitate to take this opportunity and begin explaining that while all of the other arts mentioned so far are dead, theater is alive because each new performance is a rebirth. It adapts to the time and place according to the actors and audience, and is both literature and visual, surely the highest art of all.
The philosophers take a break from talking among themselves and vehemently protest the assertion that all other arts are dead. The audience, the perceiver, is the one responsible for new life, and as long as any of the mediums have an audience, they will be alive.
The musicians have been silent up until now, only considered to be at the festival for entertainment purposes, but several stand up and say that surely music is the most important art, able to be enjoyed by anyone, regardless of their language, literacy, or nationality. It is the purest expression of creativity, and able to be shared by anyone who can play an instrument or sing.
The visual artists are cohesive again and they argue that their works can do the same and are much less subject to change or the winds of time the way a particular melody might be, and don’t rely on the performance. Music as an art can be ruined by just one person involved- as can theater -while they need only rely on the eyes on their audience.
Physical art is subject to the weatherings of time! someone shouts out.
And philosophers are a bunch of boy-loving faggots! yells another.
A riot breaks out among the representatives and your soldiers repress them, then kick them outside. You say you’ll make your announcement tomorrow and retire for the night. You get up next morning, get dressed, and walk out to give your decision.
What do you say?
I listen to the wind, to the silence and serene. I listen and I hear and I am glad. I part my mouth to speak, but have a second thought, I think I ought be pleased by what I have.
If I should want or feel, to do so is to scream, and screaming I’m afraid would break my vow. Though I entered life as such, crying, bloody, and afraid, now it shames me I could have ever been so loud.
A babe’s nature is no sin, only natural and right, and surely then I had no shame or past regrets. What might or would have been, if I’d had a chance to grow, to laugh and dance and let my nature stretch?
It’s much too late to question what I did or didn’t do, much better to just accept it and move on. To analyze or fret would have no benefit, it’s better to just leave it, leave it gone.
To be a Quiet Man, I confess the cost is dear, but the prizes I receive are dearer still. I wouldn’t take the world, to be a louder man. The things I lack are nothing, so I feel.
I praise thee Great Hyperion, gold titan in the sky
I love thee Brave Hyperion, fie’ry beacon upon high
Thou givest the morning its splendor, and the day its light
At dusk thou art all beauty, and thine absence felt as night
Thou art lovely, holy, gentle, divine!
But when thou art angered, all vengeance be thine!
Though thou seeth me always and never doth err,
Perceived trespasses please pardon, avert thy fierce glare!
I cry out to thee begging my sins be forgot,
I hide from thy wrath, Lord! oppress me not!
Thou art Life-giver, Father, Protector, and Friend!
Those who despise thee, thou smolder and rend
I love thee Lord Hyperion, body, heart, soul, and mind
I love thee fully, my Lord, so thou shalt love me in kind