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Some Thoughts on the Nature of Our Perfect Delusions
Why are we so predisposed to believing the Lie?
Why are we so opposed to the Truth?
By “We” I mean all human collectives, rather than individuals, as each and every one of our races, nations and generations regards the collective as morally superior to any individual sum of its parts, whether it be waxing or waning, energetically teeming or degenerately scheming. In all of our collectives we all construct towering falsehoods about our, race, our nation, our age:
-The only people to know God
-The only people to know slavery
-The only people to know liberty
-The only people to—fill in the blank and justify with either innate racial superpowers or circumstantially prejudicial subjugation to cruel and unjust powers giving both master and slave license to claim another age as his pure or raped womb.
Perhaps Plato was one of the first in our roughly 4,000-year stream of consciousness to define our metaphysical fishbowl from within in utopian forms. There is a lot of depth to be gained by reading Plato. But one would be wise to consider that his high ideals failed on contact with the real world when he was advising a Tyrant of Sicily [Sickle-Island], and that his star pupil, Aristotle—despite being religiously persecuted for conducting a funerary rite for Plato—abandoned his teacher’s search for perfect abstract form in favor of an investigation of mean, low reality.
Today I walked the streets of a world where friends and lovers and husbands and wives are convinced that they are either the first people to face a pandemic, or the first people to endure a panic or the first people to be failed by their civic sheep handlers. That is the expression of Platonic humanity, adhered to in the main by billions completely ignorant of the great-minded man of antiquity and that they are merely unthinking reflexes of his journey into the human perplex.
But unlike Aristotle and his student Theophrastus, our 2,000 year cocooning in the utopian ideology of the happy slave, “served” [effusively present in our civic and religious language] by a benevolent “Master” has rendered us incapable of respecting a search by our predecessors for something far better than that which they have actually found, and we sit bitterly on the last step on the staircase from Civilization back down into Barbarism, facing a slave-mind’s only real dilemma—no one to, for everything, blame.
My host had warned me that the spiders would come back to the garage and that he had commercial pesticide to knock them back a notch when I returned to the yurt after a 9-month absence.
He is referring to a brown-bodied and long legged, web-building spider. However, having lived here now for six months over the course of 18, I can tell you that there is another type of spider, aggressive, curious, hairy, crawling spiders that will walk up your arm and down your forehead and…
Guess who eats those hairy hunters?
Yep, old Shelob lives under the dry wall, between that and the outer wall, just above the drain cut in the concrete floor. When she gets one of these bastards, I can sometimes hear her dragging her marble-size torso across the concrete to throw the hairy husks into the concrete trench at my feet.
She’s had many children, and when they build their web too close to my bed, they get squashed by the pimp cane.
But, when considering the trio of spiders above the head of my bed, who live each in a web between a set of joyces, I noted that when spring came last year, after painting and spraying had eradicated most of Sheelob’s children, that I often had to squash a hairy crawler on the wall. Not so this year.
So, if I were to seek perfection, a spider-free garage, my reward for killing the easily located web spiders would logically be a plague of wolf spiders.
That is the wisdom of barbarism, that the web spiders keep the wolf spiders in check. But the civilized slave-mind can abide only perfection and is thus plagued by his own utopian deception, and blinded by his own intricate Lie, never sees Truth’s hand coming until it is too late.
It occurs on this chill, rainy night to this largely blind mind, that God’s mind resides beyond the web of our gossamer Lie in the realm of Truth derisively called reality, and perhaps, of old, situated beyond our petty eyes, On High.
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