Language/thought vs reality process

Language/thought vs reality process

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This subject is uncapturable. It's too big and too "real" to be nailed down with concepts.

Hence, this piece will be a whiff only of truth. But that's virtually a definition of the "human condition", i.e., the human condition is limited to whiffs.

The problem, to say it straight out, is that we are hypnotized by language. First we invented it as a species to speed up and sophisticate communication and then we internalized it into thought. Unfortunately, from that point on we equated reality with thought. Reality, for a human being, equals "thought/forms".

"You", to me, are a thought/form. Of course, "I'm" also a thought form to you -- as well as to "myself". In short personal pronouns are NOTHING BUT thought forms. They have no denotative meaning; they're just sounds and ideas.

This isn't a new idea. The orient has been kicking around the notion of "maya" for millennia and (maya) = (consensus reality) = (the world of thought/language). Maya is the thought/form world in which we live and move and have our being.

As opposed to what?

As opposed to (let's call it) reality process. Yes, these too are words and concepts, but they are grounded in intuitions which transcend consensus reality. It's the self communication of intelligence. Its intelligence "condescending" to use language/thought to non dualistically communicate with itself.

Said differently, this is reality itself talking, not some ego/personality a duality away everything thought "thinks about". Indeed, the thinking about point of view IS ego/personality. It's not what the ego/personality is "doing"; it's what the ego/personality IS.

Hence, all this birth and death business is total nonsense. Nothing (no "thing") is born and nothing dies. It's all reality process.

Here's still another way to say this. The already ongoingness of immediacy is 100% reality process. Nothing is happening "over there" while you and I are "over here" conceptualizing about it.

Non dualistic, spontaneous immediacy is all, and it's forever beyond the thought/forms of religion, science, or your designer thought/form institution of choice.

It's so simple. This is It. Nowing is Realitying.

. . . and no ego/personality is writing or reading this.

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W. Christopher Epler (meaningless words)

Does Evil rule human history?

Let's look at the early 3rd millennia.

More specifically, let's look at the Bush Administration (and family!) -- and if these people aren't evil incarnate, then pigs can fly.

We can talk about our noble Constitution (and it IS noble) until we're blue in the face, but people like Rupert Murdoch, George Bush Jr. & Sr., and Pat Robertson are pulling the strings of the early 3rd millennia civilization.

But these people are the dregs of human existence. They are irrational, psychotic, stupid, and . . . EVIL.

But so what else is new? Hasn't it always been so?

Think about the 3rd Reich of the 20th Century. Monstrous evil. Evil beyond imagination. Now think about the Bush Royal Family (alias, the Saudi Royal Family). Samo, samo: limitless power, vampire greed, infinite hypocrisy, and mass murderers. And these are the people who are at the helm of our American Ship of State.

As opposed to who? Who do we have as a nation and country to oppose them? The diaper dems? People like the Hillary Clinton DLC Doll and Judas Joe Lieberman? This is called washing off blood with blood.

History isn't a subject which makes you optimistic about defeating evil. Yes, the allies "won" WW2, but then came the Soviet Union business and Korea and Vietnam. And now Iraq, Afghanistan, and if President Filth has his way, Iran.

In short, basically years of war interspaced with months (or weeks) of peace.

By why? War is lose/lose for civilization and humanity -- but it's win/win for evil. It has been so through the millennia.

Said differently, George Bush, Sadam Hussein, Dick Cheney, Adolph Hitler, Genghis Khan are all the same person, because the more you lack morality and rationality, is the more you an insensitive, simplistic hate machine. And the Bush Family has enough hate on tap to drown the east coast. They sure didn't blink when they cold bloodily murdered New Orleans, did they?

Bush is just another word for hate or evil. Maybe eventually, we'll speak of Good and Bush, not Good and Evil. Hell, use Satan while you're at it, or the 3rd millennia anti-Christ. Evil is evil is evil, and evil as always is tearing at the vulnerable throat of civilization. Unfortunately, for the first time in human history, evil has reached the magnetite that it can (and is) killing the biosphere of planet Earth.

Does this mean we should stop fighting the good fight. Certainly not, but realistic, factual history is whispering to us that (like it or not), evil generally (always?) has the last laugh.

Case in point? The here and now world. What more evidence do we need? Devils, hypocrites, maggots, Republicans, Texas energy corporations, terrorists, neocon traitors, and Armageddon freaks; call them what you like, but they are indifferent to law, civilization, morality, and rationality. They have their designer lusts and they would unhesitatingly boil your children in oil to get what they want.

And, however much it may torment us to admit it, THEY ARE STILL IN CONTROL OF AMERICA AND THE EARTH.

So what else is new?

Said differently, the biological evidence is strongly on the side that morality and rationality are being selected out of the human adventure.

Grim assessment? Well, this ain't Disney Land and the top of Pandora's Box doesn't even exist. It never did. Pandora’s Box has always been the House of Bush.

Ode to Potato Man

once upon a time
potato men were real, actual men
. . . but that was once upon a time.

profile of a potato man:

[usually]

(1.) married with children
(2.) middle aged
(3.) at least 20 pounds overweight (who's noticing?)

[always]

(4.) lackluster skin
(5.) wears unflattering clothes (who's noticing?)
(6.) rarely makes eye contact
(7.) signs lots of checks
(8.) and, of course, lover less, lover less, God help them,
lover
less

when a potato man walks into a shopping mall
he has no illusions,
he knows what he's in for,
(like a steer diving into a Brazilian river churning with piranhas).

immediately a garden of goddesses absorbs him,
moving around him, through him,
moving under unconcealing dresses like sexual panthers
serenely indifferent to the dead rabbits of potato men.
buttocks of women in their prime
cupped in saran wrap designer jeans (or is it paint?)
blossom like ripe globes of flesh fruit in Eden's
from which potato men are banished.

cleavage also, of course, abounds in all quadrants,
breasts to make a god cry out,
spilling
almost,
but never quite,
their nipple secrets before the world and the sky.
coarse words, over the centuries, from all civilizations,
can muddy these waters, but the glory of female nakedness
is a holy place, a sacred place, for all men with souls.

it's amazing how you can die and die and die
without falling on the floor,
without calling attention yourself
or that you're bleeding from orifices
unknown to any surgeon on this planet.

and yet, you keep "running your errands",
putting one foot in front of the other, as they say,
while all the while you're dying in that water torture,
holy way
men always die like dogs without lovers,
without that unique, special, oh so personal woman
who treasures your company, your dignity and spirituality
and who is as swollen and moist with lust for you
as you are for her

a PASSIONATE woman
who leaps,
over and over and over again,
hand holding with you,
and you only
into
the
abyss
of
abandon.

the paradox of potato men
is their desperate, pitiful charade
that the Holy Grail of loving your lover,
and being loved BY your lover,
has become for them a matter of no consequence.
they have, after all, their tasks de jour,
pants to buy, bills to pay, lawns to mow, and they fold
letters quite evenly before sticking them in envelopes.

thus in sexual concentration camps, like shopping malls
(there's many others)
a potato man keeps his eye on the ball,
and walks dutiful, responsibility walks
on rainbow less, castrated, Platonic journeys.
but SHOULD his eyes wander (naughty, naughty!)
to the cheeks of the woman burgeoning so artfully before him,
he merely shifts his gaze,
nonchalantly announcing to whomever,
no big deal, I've got more IMPORTANT things on MY mind,
gee, I've got some pants to buy, what do you think about that?
why should I be paying attention to the mere ass of a goddess?

this dying game he plays with himself countless times a day!
but why do potato men do this?
I'm not sure you really want to know,
it may break your heart,
but here's the answer anyway.

it's all about not adding insult to injury.
you see, for potato men,
living = dying from THIS injury,
and you just die and die until you're finally, fucking dead!
but IN THE MEANTIME, potato men (at least try to) give themselves
the only gift left in life they CAN give themselves,
which is to act "as if" they're above all this passion business
and placidly detached.

thus, when glimpsing even the coverings
of creatures they used to prowl in
FUCKING YOUR BRAINS OUT JUNGLES WITH,
they turn away like mannequins
preoccupied with pencils and erasers.

what else can they do?
roll around the floor, holding in what's left of their guts,
howling to the universe for their (once upon a time) lovers?
who gives a shit?
who's listening?

but here's something worth doing.
find a potato man (trust me, they're everywhere),
but don't look at his clothes,
look into his eyes,
but be warned, that's hard to do, since potato men make a science
of eye contactlessness (so infinite is their shame and loss).
but IF you can get his gaze, and hold it,
what you'll find there see may surprise you,
because there's a REAL man inside that potato man
who's never stopped keeping the faith for a lover.
a man who knows all about passion and abandon
and hand holding in French restaurants and feeling
mountain winds at night and breakfasting on the seashore,
and who will hold in his heart,
and who will hold in his groin,
to very death and beyond death,
the sacredness and human poignancy of what passion can be like

between a man and a woman