Thus Three Princes of Reverie

In a land far away, in a time long ago, there are tales that lay poised on the breath of morn. Crisp and alive and joyful and tender, memories of lovers suspended in faerie, like soft footprints on lush meadows. Timeless. Endless. Wondering. Ever dreaming. Ever yearning. For life again, for love again, for thus again.

This is one such tale. Lest it fade like footprints...

Thus Three Princes of Reverie

Part I: Reverie

if
we should light upon each other
unawares
or mayhap awares of some indefatigable dislocation
would we
or not
step back
or forth
into reverie of memory

do you remember
horses in spring
and fields of green and elan esprit
do you remember
ashen timber perched aloft in neat little staggered rows
of fences for ascending and teetering
and dancing and flying
like merry butterflies alighting daisies afield, aflutter

of warmth and breath, and hair tangled in tall grass
and arms and legs akimbo
of laughter and innocence and insouciance and
preoccupation
why
pass through the liminal threshold
of here to there
strong and brave and tall and proud
still
not willing
to forsake
the clarity of audacity
of warmth and breath, and hair tangled in tall grass
demanding no rhyme no reason no explanation no context
no interview no introduction no legitimization no bridge

of the hearty puffs and snorts
of horses aquivering aglow amidst the free reign of free roams
over hills over fields over rocks nestled in creeks
babbling and giggling
like children on holiday
in a country of candor and the intoxicating scent
of woods and grass and mists and
flowers awaiting knitting
hands plucking from rooted fates
the wispy dreams of a boy's unfettered gift to a girl
a crown
with which to reign a faerie kingdom
of princes and paupers
opulent with love and joy and mirth and tenderness
and poor in baubles and artifice
cast aside
in rucksacks propped against fences
alongside shoes and cares and weary worries

do you remember
reclaiming you
uncovering me
redeeming life
divining love

if we should light upon each other
unawares
or mayhap awares of some indefatigable dislocation
of hearts where to hearts here
of souls where to souls here
of kin and kindred and love and loved
sundering talismans of fabricated narratives
piercing fogs of yore
to bring forth that reverie of memory
that was not a dream

to rekindle anew
our warmth our breath our hair tangled in tall grass
the effervescent genuity of our profound affection
the corporeal boy, the ethereal girl
there where here
noble and serene and fierce and devoted
yet
still
not willing
not ever
to repudiate the truth
of you of me of life of love
of thus

Part II: Rhapsody

this delirium
this ecstasy
this everything
this more

beyond immortality
beyond all that is, was, will ever be
this
more

beyond hearts aflame with lust, with joy
as intense as supernovas in the throes of creation
more
than that of fairy tale ephemera of immaterial infatuations
of what nourishes
our love
our life
our today
our tomorrow

of muses, of mentors, of champions, of friends
of mind, of body, of heart, of spirit
of inspiration, of devotion, of fealty, of freedom
to love without fetters
is
to love free
to love true
to love more

our love
is
was
will ever be
more

Part III: Reveille

alas
is that you
smiling and laughing
that hollow laugh of glittering aspiration
rolling Bentleys and Maybachs and private jets a'empty
with attendant yes sir-ing yes ma'am-ing
know nothings
amassing checks cashed in the currency of
Louis Vuitton and Rolex and
tailored frippery and couture lace
stitched with entitled thread and
invisible paid endorsements
as classless as pyrite dipped faux gold
hanging on wanna-bes drenched in superfluous self-importance
masking their cavalier conceit within the spotlight of
abysmal grifters

is that you
grifting
playing the mandolin, with hat in hand, dancing on cue
singing the praises of ringmasters and puppet masters
turning tricks on public stages and private theaters
winning trophies of participation
agog
livin' it up
in a life edited beyond reality
as synthetic as styrofoam spray painted sets
to look like mansions
and rooms
blasted via candid images to Facebook and Instagram and Twitter

is that you
asking fans and followers
to congratulate zircon artifacts of fidelity loyalty achievement
while admiring the hypocrisy of purity with
inspirational blather without context, alongside
hospital window dressing
as artfully crafted as reality
to sell
goodwill ambassadors
also known as image spinners and imposters

is that you
on media
or social media, twin doppelganger
scantily yet artfully clad 'fore some frenetic exotic locale
or is that a backdrop, a green screen, a photoshop trip
down fantasy lane
no less authentic
than moguls
whose effortless skipping the light fantastic abroad newsworthy headlines
hardly sets afire
any
much less
timber woods

alas
I remember

hearts blooming in lush meadows amidst the
aphrodisia of unalloyed genuity and
sincerity of unbridled candor
plunging the prince and the queen into
supernovas of serenity
like waves crashing and breaking
against thrall
fortresses of forgery crumbling
'fore fields of elan esprit
oh sanctuary, oh bliss
succumbing to the delirium of joy and mirth
honoring and obeying the ecstasy of
boundless, limitless, restraintless
ever

is it possible
to
forsake illusion
repudiate delusion
refuse deceit
forswear indignity

for you
for me
for love
for more

Part IV: Untitled

lest life be but ever
yearning for endless fancies
and coarse delusions

lest sleep be but mind
unopened empty, numb heart
slumber on, dream not

lest life be but dread
fearsome wasteland, dear soul, why
not now awaken

to sun, to morning
oh humble fulfillment of
immortality

Fin

More

for princes and paupers of reverie ~ for queens suspended in faerie slumber ~ for one and all ~

awake! awake! awake!

fondly yours,

a m

Note

If - by Rudyard Kipling (@ Wiki)

Thank You

for making me laugh ~

for making me cringe ~

for making me blush ~

for making me sputter ~

for making me cheer ~

for making me duck and run, too ~

for every anonymous ~ for every userid ~ for every pseudonym ~ for every string of vowels consonants letters characters symbols and so on and so forth ~

for every faceless face in a crowd ~ here ~ there ~ every where across the granverse ~

Thank You

for taking the time ~

to think ~ to read ~ to explore ~ to discover ~ to realize ~

for giving me a moment of your life ~

even if but ~ just here ~ just now ~ just this once and no further ~

Thank You

for choosing to make me matter ~ even if but for one exhalation in the span of eternity ~

what greater gift ~

for someone such as myself ~

from someone such as yourself ~

than your moment ~

Thank You

for your generosity ~

for your compassion ~

for appreciating me ~

for remembering me ~ with kindness ~ with care ~ with genuity ~ with sincerity ~

Thank You

for you ~

each one ~ each all ~ each every ~ each kind ~

i am truly humbled by the warmth ~ the goodness ~ the humility ~ the wonder ~

of you ~

Thank You

you matter ~

to me ~ to one ~ to all ~ to every ~

here ~ there ~ every where across the granverse ~

all matter ~

this day ~ every day ~ this where ~ every where ~

more

thank you for caring enough to share ~

it has been such a treat for me to read the comments sent a'flitterin' and a'flutterin' through cyberspace ~

from the bottom of my heart ~ i'm tickled beyond pink ~

as for those who care ~ whose comments yet hang unfettered a'waitin' a seat in an audience that is but standing room only ~

i wonder ~

what value the masks ~ what value the silence ~ of the few ~ the many ~ the proud ~ the brave ~

alas ~

methinks we are not so far removed ~ in this time ~ from times past ~ when the power and the control of things was not yet the immaculation of the internet of things ~ 

affectionately yours ~

a m

note

'Wind Beneath My Wings' (@ RHINO on YouTube)

Dear Captain, A Letter

Dear Captain,

I know not if you still remember ~

but ~

I remember ~ though not as clear as le miroir of gleaming silver ~ certain enough to feel the heart lurching remembrance of fond affection that persists as profound and true as if our devotion prevailed but yesterday after having endured for a hundred thousand years ~ instead of some time ago for a span no longer than the irrepressible migration of Monarchs to Mariposa ~

So it is ~ with unabashed chagrin that I am returning your correspondence ~ so verily late ~ and too ~ with shameful retrospect that our affiliation had last disintegrated into egregious declarations of petty colloquy ~ due in no small measure to my woeful immature nature ~

I do so understand ~ should you wish not to continue our devotion ~ as we left it quite infirm and frail, prior ~

but ~

should some small part of you feel as I ~ then perhaps it is possible for one such as myself ~ as irredeemable as I most certainly am ~ to attain forgiveness from one such as yourself ~ for I stand indeed humbly before your mercy ~ in this matter of most fragile intimacy ~

It behooves me then to express my vulnerabilities ~ candidly and without qualification ~

I am indeed a creature of caprice ~ subject to mercurialities that defy sense and sensibility. I do so entreat the Heavens to spare my soul so tightly woven a tapestry of whims and fantasias. But alas, I am but me ~ no better nor no worse than me myself.

Too I am oh so stubborn ~ beyond that which is excusably reasonable in one such as myself. With perturbed consternation ~ it is only now upon awakening that I have realized the loss of you ~ though you have corresponded to me ever so thoughtfully enduringly ~ whilst I have slumbered like a Princess of Faerie Olde ~ in deliberate ignorance and accidental defiance of bells of les matines.

How ashamed am I ~

That it must appear my devotion fickle and irreverent ~

How then ~ I prove the truth of me?

In the rapture of my impudence ~ I profaned that which you offered carefully. Oh but how I wish perfection were my forte ~ that I could be everything without offense and fear of failure. Though surely words come easy in this regard as any ~ that which is so arduous is not the vocable dredged from the hubris of reason and logic ~ rather, it is the sentiment that is so impetuous so tumultuous so indefinable so uncontainable so inexorable ~

The truth then is this ~

I love you ~ as surely as buttercups love dew and sunflowers love sun ~ as surely as lightning loves thunder and midsummer loves rain. And though an eternity has lapsed since last we met in renewal and wonder ~ I love you as surely as my heart beats a reveille alongside yours ~

Shall we fly ~ you and I ~ once more? With conscious insouciance ~ that once more might be for ~ ever more?

Respectfully,

Juliet

More

Lest my irresponsible nature be maligned ~

I am ~ at best ~ an actor playing the role of one. No more. No less. 

However ~ playing the role of the very best one ~ is still a real struggle ~ for virtue is no facile ideal. At worst? I ~ like so many actors ~ succumb to the senseless unquestioning stupor of the River Styx.

Lest my hopes be aspersed ~

I am so very grateful for that which flourishes in the warmth of acceptance and devotion. Should the Captain feel as I ~ then kindle anew shall we. However ~ should the Captain feel otherwise ~ then so shall it be.

(Notwithstanding that I ~ like Monarchs and Faeries ~ love ~ like champagne and myrrh ~ with irrepressible joie and inexorable faithe ~ which naysayers decry diminishes the devotion betwixt myself and all I dearly love. Needless to say ~ it matters naught to me that naysayers obloquy the reality of myself and all I dearly love ~ for their truth is their truth and mine is mine.) 

Sincerely,

Juliet

Note

'All the word's a stage' (more @ Wiki)

Letters (and books and poems, too) read aloud, i.e. Letters Live (see also YouTube)

Dead Poet's Society (more @ IMDb, more @ Wiki)

The Princess in the Tower

This is the very real story...

Well... perhaps not real...

Well... it depends on who you ask...

In any case... this is the very real and very true story of a princess in a tower...

Well... not a tower exactly... more like an abode of some sort... like a castle or a villa or a domicile or a flat or some such...

Oh... gee... now I've done it. This doesn't sound like a very real or very true story, now does it?

Well... this story is not very real nor very true, per se... rather... it's an allegory. That's it. An allegory. A parable. A story with a lesson that means more than meets the eye. Yes. That's it. That's what this story is. In fact, this story is not real nor true at all. It's a fake story. Like all stories.

After all... aren't all stories... fake? Because... how would you know? It's not your story. You didn't live it. So how would you know... if a story... or a journal or a diary or a photograph or a video or a poem or a song or a letter or a memoir or a keepsake or... a scrap for that matter... was real or true... or if a story was fake or made up? You see?

Maybe my story is real. Maybe it's not. In the end, that's for you to decide, now isn't it?

The Princess in the Tower

Once upon a time, on the third rock from a bright star, lived a little girl. 

{It's odd, I know, to refer to myself in the third person, but, well, it's a matter of preference. And, given that I'm odd, it's not so peculiar of me to eschew the first person, is it?}

Her favorite color was yellow and so she referred to herself and her people as yellow. And her favorite flower was the daisy and so she adorned herself and her people in white. And joyous indeed was her life amidst mountains and rivers, with flowers that danced and birds that sang.

Until she met a man. A man from another world. A world beyond her mountains and rivers. Beyond her flowers and birds. A world of immense skyscrapers, ubiquitous pollution, and miasmas of smog, of thunderous machines, throngs of people, and unbelievably vast swaths of cultivated fescue.

He promised her a world of adventure. A world of discovery. A world unlike any other. And a destiny.

In exchange -- her.

And so they danced and sang and chased each other through meadows and promised each other love everlasting and a destiny of old.

To save the world, she would give everything. To help her, he would be king and herald. And together, with her would be champion, they would weave a story of peace in a world mad with war and destruction.

And so she counted the days. Until. Gone the mountains and rivers. Gone the flowers that danced, the birds that sang.

Before her loomed a palatial gate that opened with ominous import... and thus began her new life.

Thereupon her body was ravaged and crucified. Thereupon her spirit was broken and immolated. Thereupon her mind was plundered and electrocuted. Thereupon her heart was deceived and exploited mutilated impaled racked quartered bound buried trussed drowned wrung out to dry on hooks of malice in the scorching mercilessness of human depravity.

Over and over and over and over.

With inhuman savagery. With relentless barbarism. With ceaseless rancor.

By one hand after another: one baton, one bottle, one whip after another -- one rope, one chain, one stiletto after another -- one knife, one cigar, one degradation after another. In one language after another: one laughing vulgarity, one obscene jeer, one vicious epithet after another -- one raucous taunt, one crude insult, one menacing threat after another -- in language after language after language after language.

For one people after another: one leader, one politician, one performer after another -- one humanitarian, one philanthropist, one healer after another -- one thinker, one doer, one wanna be after another -- one woman, one man, one other after another. At one tower after another: one dungeon, one prison, one cage after another -- one house, one apartment, one car after another -- one basement, one shed, one hotel after another -- one religious establishment, one educational establishment, one business establishment after another.

Justified. Rationalized. Legitimized.

By one reason one cause after another. One religion one morality after another. One label one name after another. One superiority, one narcissism, one perversion, one corruption -- one this that the other -- one after another -- justifications rationalizations legitimizations -- one after another -- like numbers on a number line from infinity to infinity -- each one as senseless as heartless as callous as cruel as incomprehensible as inconceivable as the one before -- yet each one not the last.

Thus the years passed.

As all hope felt lost.

As the king fell to disaffection and dissolution. As the champion fell to bitterness and vengeance. As the princess fell to despair and heartbreak.

What purpose -- her suffering? What purpose -- the unimaginable horrors, the unfathomable terrors -- executed with reckless indifference and monstrous brutality on her body, her spirit, her mind, her heart? What purpose -- her destiny?

Despite giving everything -- her mountains, her rivers, her flowers, her birds -- the world extended hands drenched in throw away charity -- sanctified lips laced with empty sincerity. Verily, the world of adventure -- the world of discovery -- the world unlike any other -- was --

A world that eschewed bridges for battlements and hands for guns and mutuality for bombs and humanity for death.

{If the princess was you and it was your destiny to save the world -- would you give everything? Would you fall to disaffection and dissolution, bitterness and vengeance, despair and heartbreak? 

Would you cash in your chips? 

Would you put one foot in front of the other -- fearlessly courageously vibrantly joyously? With no reservations? With no regrets? Would you breathe faith -- for all kind?}

~ * ~

{Perhaps... this isn't how this tale should be told. After all, it leaves quite a bit out, doesn't it? The man who would be king... the boy who would be champion... the destiny of all...}

Once upon a time, on the third rock from a bright star, lived a young man destined to be king.

{Well. Let's be honest. That's his story to tell and not mine. Notwithstanding that he does it far better justice than I, for a great storyteller in his own right, is he. So too the boy, born on the thirteenth hour of the thirteenth day of the thirteenth month. Sigh. What right have I, much less any, to tell their stories? Two such legends of old?}

When she met the man who promised her a destiny of old, she felt kindle within her the inexplicable. For in his eyes, she saw reflected there, love that spanned time and place and person and memory. So her heart was already his, when he asked Do you trust me?

Thus, when she stood before the palatial gate that opened with ominous import... she knew that this moment would liminate the end of one epoch and the beginning of another. Whereupon the boy who would be champion sensed the inception of their epic journey... and sought her with ever quickening haste... lest she face her destiny alone with naught but faith and love.

Continued...

More

Who knows if this story is true? Or if, like all stories, it's nothing more than a pack of lies? Were you there? If you were -- are you sure that your memories contain nothing but realities and truths? If you weren't -- then how do you know whether or not I speak the truth or the untruth? 

Will you take my word on nothing more than -- faith? Why? Have I earned your faith -- or your trust? Are you certain? By what criteria do you deem me faithworthy -- or trustworthy? Because I say I am so -- implicitly or otherwise? But how many say the very same, but mean the very opposite? For truth and untruth coexist, side by side, with real and unreal.

My story, like all stories, are both real and unreal, true and untrue.

It is up to you to discern between the two.

Not unlike autostereograms and optical illusions and slight of hand parlor tricks -- once you discern what is real and unreal, true and untrue -- what was once obscure and hidden will reveal itself conspicuously obvious.

Until then...

May a life lived with no reservations and no regrets be your life.

ever devotedly yours,

the princess in the tower

p.s.

While this is but one slice of my story -- it would require many many many more slices to tell the whole story (notwithstanding that to tell the story of the king and the champion, too, would require even more slices) -- I have not yet decided whether or not the telling of such a story in totum would be worth the telling -- since -- to be humbly honest -- it seems rather self-serving, vain, and self-superior to tell one's own story (especially in exhaustive detail). For what real value would such a tale truly possess -- other than the satisfaction of prurient interest in a tale that is no more special than any tale of any kind (of which, there are already googols of googols to the googolth power)?

In any case... I will consider it...

always affectionately and fondly yours,

the princess in the tower

Note

'Are you the new person drawn toward me?' (@ Project Gutenberg) 

'Yellow Flicker Beat' (@ VEVO on YouTube)

Learning How to Breathe

Recently, Twitter celebrated ten years.

Ten years.

A veritable lifetime in the span of social media.

But Twitter today is a far cry from Twitter yore.

Long gone the dreams of dreamers in Neverland.

Now -

Social media - transformed from the limitlessness of good - to a playground of deceivers.

Without further ado:

Learning How to Breathe, with accompanying expositions...

Learning How to Breathe

Tweet (I):

My heart beats like a tom tom drum playing reveille in a reverie.

Exposition:

'Day and Night' from 'The Gay Divorcee' (1934) (more @ IMDb, more @ Wiki)

Tweet (II):

ABWO: What Do You Do With An Idea? (2014) ISBN: 9781938298073

Exposition:

ABWO = A Book Worth Owning

Tweet (III):

Fie, Foe, Fum, Fee, I spy Jack Dorsey: Today

Exposition:

'Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum' from 'Jack and the Beanstalk' (more @ wiki)

'I Spy' (more @ wiki)

Tweet (IV):

When everyone has a voice and a seat at the table, we can accomplish great things. Wondrous things. Like peace writ large... (more: TCA)

Exposition:

... and a tomorrow to treasure (more: On Peace and Taking a Stand for Tomorrow @ The Chip Aisle (Index)).

We are all on the same side.

We are all on #TeamPeace.

For:

     #TeamPeace stands for everyone has a voice...

     #TeamPeace stands for a seat at the table...

     #TeamPeace stands for peace writ large...

     #TeamPeace stands for a tomorrow to treasure...

     for all kind.

Tweet (V):

The war not fought - is the war we win.

Exposition:

The war to end all wars - is the war not fought.

The war to end all wars - is the war worth winning.

Fin

Note (I)

Needless to say, no one social media platform has withstood the siren call of biggering to remain a paragon of limitless good. All social media platforms are playgrounds of deceivers. 

Thus:

This post is not a discrete rebuke of Twitter, itself - nor of Jack Dorsey, himself - for Twitter is but one social media platform that exists within the entire milieu of social media, including Facebook, Instagram (owned by Facebook), Pinterest, Blogger (owned by Google), etc.

Indeed:

Of all social media platforms - Twitter is near and dear to my heart - for the hopes and dreams that inspired it - that still live on...

in the dreams of dreamers...

in the limitlessness of good...

in you, in me, in every one, in every all.

Note (II)

On media - (including social media) - and the siren call of biggering: For Sale: Reality and Truth

Note (III)

Please bear in mind that all the dots are not connected for every connection illuminated by every tweet exposited above.

In the end, each tweet stands on its own...

for the merit of each tweet...

rests wholly within the miracle and the infinitude and the wonder of wonders of all kind.

Note (IV)

On bluebirds: 'Zip a Dee Doo Dah' (more @ Wiki)

On tweets: 'Rockin' Robin' (more @ Wiki)

Note (V)

Upon the New Alter of Worship... there are no dreams of dreamers... no limitlessness of good...

Only...

Money. Sex. Drugs.

Power. Wealth. Influence.
Fame. Status. Largesse.
Avarice. Aggrandizement. Conceit.
Logic. Reason. Sense.
Science. Technology. Facts.
Evidence. Memory. Data.
Statistics. Mathematics. Physics.
etc.

Therefore.

Now.

More than ever.

Is needed Learning How to Breathe...

The New Altar of Worship

The New Altar of Worship is not so new after all... is it?

Money. Sex. Drugs.
Power. Wealth. Influence.
Fame. Status. Largesse.
Avarice. Aggrandizement. Conceit.
Logic. Reason. Sense.
Science. Technology. Facts.
Evidence. Memory. Data.
Statistics. Mathematics. Physics.
etc.

Names - one and all - and -

utterly - powerless - one and all.

Except -

one and all - are - were - and always will be - names of power.

Names that we have imbued with meaning and value - that are otherwise inherently meaningless and valueless. Names that we - as vote bearing members of communities and societies - have collectively decided - mean something other than a string of nonsense vocables - i.e. I don't give a flying fuck about fucking fuck.

Because - what exactly - does that particular phrase - mean?

Doesn't that particular phrase look and sound like nonsense vocables?

Yet, many of you believe that you know what that particular phrase means.

How?

Is it - perhaps - because you and I have agreed to the collective use of a unifying bridge? In this case - a unifying bridge composed of vocables that we have collectively decided - mean something.

But alas.

We've taken our unifying bridge one step further.

We've put some vocables - in a class of their own. A class of special categories, if you will. Some vocables in this class are permitted utterance by some kind and no other. Other vocables in this class are permitted use by some kind and no other. Other vocables in this class, transform meaning and value, depending on which kind utters or uses, these vocables.

Even so.

There is a special category of vocables more powerful than these.

(Which are incontrovertibly powerful indeed, for vocables that inspire reprisal, retaliation, and retribution, for their mere utterance or usage, ostensibly 'impermissibly' or by a so-called 'unpermitted' kind, is no insignificant matter for all of us, as vote bearing members of communities and societies that collectively decide the meaning and value of all that composes our unifying bridge.)

These oh-so-special vocables signify to vote bearing members of communities and societies - that these are the vocables our communities and societies have determined - are adored, admired, emulated. Whereby and whereupon - we - as vote bearing members of communities and societies - praise, trumpet, worship - these oh-so-special vocables - above all else.

Given that no vocable possesses intrinsic meaning or value - we artificially imbue extraordinary meaning and extraordinary value to otherwise nonsense vocables - to compose this very oh-so-special category of vocables that transforms otherwise nonsense vocables into Names of Power.

For all vocables are nonsense prior to our collective determination (vis a vis our vote bearing status as members of communities and societies) of meaning and value, that we assign, award, imbue, and so on and so forth, otherwise impotent strings of vowels, consonants, letters, characters, symbols, and so on and so forth.

(Notwithstanding, that our assignation, award, and imbuement of meaning and value to vocables, are subject to the inexorable caprice of complex contributing factors, such as, but not limited to, the myopism of the following - societies, politics, histories, cultures, geographies, epochs, languages, beliefs, assumptions, etc., such that, from one moment to the next, some vocables pass in and out of usage and utterance, with nary a whisper from logophiles and undead bridge traversers alike.)

So.

What does it mean that some vocables possess meaning and value so potent and so sovereign as to warrant their assignation as Names of Power?

What does it mean, that upon their assignation as Names of Power, these vocables compose our not-so-new-after-all Alter of Worship?

For how many of us - fore our not-so-new-after-all Alter of Worship - worship, idolize, and immortalize -

Money. Sex. Drugs.
Power. Wealth. Influence.
Fame. Status. Largesse.
Avarice. Aggrandizement. Conceit.
Logic. Reason. Sense.
Science. Technology. Facts.
Evidence. Memory. Data.
Statistics. Mathematics. Physics.
etc.?

Indeed -

What does it mean, that the meaning and value that we've imbued these Names of Power, are such, that we adore, admire, emulate - these - above all else? That we praise, trumpet, worship - these - above all else?

For what else do we idolize and immortalize - at Altars of Worship - than Gods and Goddesses, Deities and Spirits, Creators and Destroyers...?

Verily, against a tide as powerful as this, wholeheartedly endorsed, lauded, validated, and legitimized by entire communities and societies, with zealous, ardent, and fanatical fervor...

who among us takes the road less traveled...

and eschews Names of Power...

for Names of Virtue?

* * Advisory: please be advised that the following Addendum contains strong content and language that may offend some. Enjoy! - M. * *

Addendum

As vote bearing members of communities and societies - we value Names of Power, such as those above - more than Names of Virtue... i.e.

Authenticity. Compassion. Generosity.

Forgiveness. Kindness. Sincerity.

Hope. Charity. Faith.

Nobility. Dignity. Respect.

Truth. Grace. Honor.

etc.

Notwithstanding that we've perverted virtues into counterfeits and forgeries and shams and frauds - by transforming real and true virtues - into fabricated ephemera that bear little resemblance to real and true virtues. For we - as vote bearing members of communities and societies - have collectively decided - to reduce the meaning and value of virtues - to meaningless valueless impotent vocables.

Indeed:

What does it mean, when newsmakers are entertainers and our non-entertainer newsmakers make news by entertaining?

What the fuck?

What does it mean, when news is entertainment and non-entertainment news make news by being entertainment?

Seriously?

I don't give a flying rip about fuckers doing fucked knows what.

Because fuckers doing fucked knows what - are - entertainers - and entertainment is not life. Entertainment is a respite for life - not life - itself - nor virtue - itself. And real and true, humble and great - entertainers - respect this - by demonstrating and expressing extraordinary gratitude for their gift to each other and us - the gift of respite - which they neither demand nor extort - exorbitant money nor fame for.

For real and true, humble and great kind - in every walk of life, everywhere - seek real and true, humble and great virtues.

But - conspicuously 'hidden' in plain sight, among entertainers and newsmakers, are also slick unreality plastics and untruth tellers and flim flam fakes - whose currencies are wholly artificial and entirely fabricated - so as to bilk us of our virtue - to gild fuckers with ever more ostentatious displays of pyrite. Because some unscrupulous charlatans and shameless entertainers would rather bluster and blather about smoke and mirrors and schemes and cons - than be real and true and humble and virtuous.

Holy fucking hell.

Does anyone else feel like they've woken up in a rabbit hole? Through the looking glass? In the twilight zone? Through some alternate universe where everything is fucked up beyond all belief?

When the fuck did up become down?

When did entertainment become news?

When did news become entertainment?

When did leaders become entertainers?

When did entertainers become leaders?

When the fuck did refuse become gold?

When did reality become a three ring circus for ring masters to control and the public to buy?

When did truth become a fun house of mirrors for the public to believe?

When did money, sex, power, and fame become our moral ideals?

When did our moral ideals become conceit, aggrandizement, and unfettered avarice?

Do you know who and what I don't give a flying fuck about?

Everyone and everything paraded in front of all of us as gods of Money, Sex, Power, and Fame. (Not to mention: when did our rampant polytheism morph into the Glorification of the Rationalization, Justification, and Legitimization of the Unqualifiably Immoral Exploitation of any and all Kind?)

Because their hell on earth is making a fucked up mess of my Heaven on Earth.

So:

If you want your Heaven on Earth back -

take it back.

Because our Heaven on Earth doesn't belong to the New Altar of Worship -

it belongs to all allkind.

- M.

More

'People don't write music - it's given to them' - Hank Williams, from I Saw The Light trailer (more at IMDb).

(Note: in the interests of full disclosure, I am an undisputed fan of many forms of music sung by one and all, anywhere and everywhere. Nevertheless, the use of this quote is not in any way whatsoever, an endorsement of this movie. It is however, the observation of a truth that is often overlooked by aggrandizers and god-makers in pursuit of the immoral ideals of Fame and Money.)

Consider:

If this is true - has it been true - since time before time?

If this is true - is it still true?

If this is true - what else is given to others - to lay claim to?

If this is true - what else is given to others - to perform?

Is a speech - not a performance? Is a book - not a performance? Is a concert - not a performance? Is a public appearance - not a performance? Is a pronouncement on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram - not a performance? Is an interview, a documentary, an article, a competition - not a performance? Is a crusade, a movie, an expose, a tour - not a performance?

In the case of someone who expresses such a sentiment:

If it is not true of one's self - why would one say it of one's self?

Indeed:

Aren't those selves for whom such statements are true - who speak this truth for all to hear - real bravehearts among us?

From my heart to yours - to all bravehearts - everywhere - thank you.

For real courage and honesty - such as that which is exemplified by bravehearts who speak the truth for all to hear - is hard to come by.

- M.

Note

A person: Noam Chomsky (more @ Wiki)

A movie: Idiocracy (more @ IMDb; more @ Wiki)

A sermon: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God by Jonathan Edwards (more @ Wiki; read here, p.78 @ Project Gutenberg)

- M.

II: Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx

Continued from I: Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx

Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx

Where were we?

Oh yes...

The race against time, matter, life...

The tale giver drank a glass of water... and continued... her voice echoing the poignant urgency of the course set for the queen, the knight, the king...

But before she could continue, a listener raised a hand:

Who are all the allkind?

To which... the tale giver queried:

Does it matter?

The listener considered... and spoke with hesitant assurance:

I suppose it doesn't. Not really. I suppose... I'm curious. That's all.

To which... the tale giver smiled:

If that's the case... then certainly.

Of course... I can't tell you all there is to know about all the allkind...

The tale giver laughed a laugh of infectious warmth, as she felt swell in her heart her love of all allkind.

For we could be here for millions of quintillions of googols of eons and it'd be nothing more than an eye of one pyramid... now wouldn't it? But... I can share a few tids and bits, if you so wish...

The listener exulted with eager anticipation:

Oh! Yes! Do!

To which the tale giver proceeded:

There are many allkind.

Many, it may surprise you, you already know. Though not as allkind. For your kind name and label all kind, with names and labels, by which many all kind, are robbed of inviolable dignities, whereupon their certain enslavement and exploitation is exacted with cruel and ruthless barbarity, time and time again, matter and matter again, life and life again...

Nevertheless...

There are allkind akin to what you call: Sparkly and shiny and giddy and fair... they swirl in and out of time and matter... with the ease of aether. Indeed, their very vivacity embodies effervescence and joie de vivre and insouciance and mais oui. More than all... they love to be.

There are allkind akin to what you call: Melodious and delicate and fierce and refined... they jut and protrude and thrust and plunge through time and matter... with the ease of ocean liners gliding through great seas beyond night. Their fearlessness and wonder as architects and questors, is unparalleled among many kind.

There are allkind akin to what you call: Frail and intemperate and passionate and slow to knowledge beyond the here and now... they plod and toil and rail and war... and ever they drag their feet, so to speak, on charting starry skies, ever where their kind sprout anew. But though their kind value gravity over stars, their kind are worth no less for their contributions to the granverse.

There are allkind akin to what you call: Strong and magnificent and independent and adamantine... they relentlessly conquer the weak and infirm... for dominion over all and allkind, in pursuit of unparalleled unrivaled perfection. Indeed, they testify to ceaseless perfectionism.

There are allkind akin to what you call: Warm and lovely, impassive and impliable... a contradiction of much among many. They are great sailors of seas and great tailors of worlds -- though, not consistently coherent nor considerately compassionate for every kind whence before -- they are intrepid explorers of the unknown and inspired creators of marvels.

There are allkind akin to what you call: Skittering and chittering and dedicated and faithful... they are among the least understood of allkind. For they communicate by scent beyond smell, sound beyond hear, touch beyond feel. But they too, have heart and soul. For they are ever devoted to their queens, whom they love beyond measure with peerless fidelity and adoration that shame many allkind whose caritas and fidelis pale in comparison to their unqualified magnanimity.

Of allkind, there are many many more, beyond googols of googols of googols to the googolth power...

The tale giver paused... and added gently with soft admission:

There is no allkind that I do not love and care for, that I cannot speak of or to at length, for every all kind is a miracle. An infinitude. A wonder of wonders.

Thereupon the tale giver spoke through a veil of prophetic reverie:

I dream of an age of allkind, you know. An age of...

Whereupon, the tale giver sighed... shook her head... and proceeded anew:

Well... that's neither here nor there nor up nor down... is it?

Shall we...?

Continued...

Note from the tale giver

Names are names of power and labels are labels of conscription. Thus, names as labels, labels as names, names as names of power, labels as labels of conscription, all -- limit, specify, particularize, isolate, and so on and so forth... singular kind, singular meaning, singular reference, singular instance, and so on and so forth...

Needless to say...

The extant reality and truth of all that is real and true... is, was, and always will be.

Sincerely,

the tale giver

~ ~ * * ~ ~ * * ~ ~

The Sword: In the granverse, all kind are deserving of celebration. For every all kind is a miracle. An infinitude. A wonder of wonders.

The Pen: Indeed, when one kind celebrates its own kind, to the exclusion of all non-one kind -- what is this one kind really celebrating?

The Sword: Then, Dear Pen, I propose a celebration of all kind!

The Pen: I second that motion, Dear Sword!

The Pen continued: For are not celebrations -- that embody true equality and promulgate true equality among all kind -- celebrations that exclude no kind? Much less celebrations that exclude non-one kind for the aggrandizement of one kind? For isn't this very exclusivity and aggrandizement -- the very apotheosis of privilege and inequality?

The Sword: Dear Pen... when will all kind be worth celebrating?

The Pen: Dear Sword... when all kind decide that all kind are worth saving.

~ ~ * * ~ ~ * * ~ ~

More

On names, labels, privileges, and inequalities: The Chip Aisle: Index

Unity (more @ Unity, more @ IMDb, more @ Wiki)

For Sale: Reality and Truth

It's been a while since I've made the Internet rounds.

Why ever for?

Well... at the risk of pointedly setting ablush the long ears of long listeners aplenty... swimming in garbage is something that I categorically limit.

(Since I've been subjected to feculent waters beyond the pale of nightmares... the significance of my absence on the Internet rounds is... notable... to say the least.)

In any case...

Upon the Internet rounds -- it occurred to me -- this:

Have many of us -- fore the Internet cirque de miroirs -- ask:

What's real? What's true?

Because there's not much that's really real and there's not much that's truly true -- that's peddled through town squares and across front pages of -- so-called knowledge-for-knowledge's-sake sites -- so-called truth-for-truth's-sake sites -- so-called genuity-for-genuity's-sake platforms for entertainment purveyors --

Wait...

Did you catch that?

Platforms for entertainment purveyors.

Let me ask you:

What's free? What's for sale?

Is what's real and true -- free? Is what's real and true -- for sale?

If there is no material profit in selling what's real and true -- what more appealing packaging of what's fake and what's plastic -- is there -- than the glitz and glamour of spectacle and luxury for what's bluster and what's blather?

If there is no material gain in selling what's honest and right -- what better disguise of what's invented and fabricated -- is there -- than the smoke and mirrors of counterfeits and forgeries and shams and frauds billed to one and all as The Reality and The Truth?

Isn't that the point of tantalizingly digestible amuse bouche delivered on glorious spinning platters? To be stratospherically profitable? And what is more stratospherically profitable than -- entertainment? And what is more numbingly entertaining than perversions and illusions and deceits and lies -- masquerading as -- knowledge and truth and genuity and integrity?

With which to titillate one and all into senseless unquestioning stupor, of course. For how better to deaden and benumb one and all, than dredge one and all through repeated traverses through the River Styx?

For what else is the unliving undead state induced by repeated traverses through the River Styx -- than stupefaction? Meanwhile, how likely are the deadened and benumbed, to ask:

What's real? What's true?

So...

If it is your material profit and your material gain -- on the hook, on the line, on the brink of your admittance to any number of not-so-rare-after-all take-your-pick-of-purveyors-of-entertainment's so-called-richer-than-rich-Richest-lists -- would you prefer that one and all be -- aware and alert and awake and alive -- or senseless and unquestioning and benumbed and deadened?

Likewise...

If it is you -- holding brown paper bags of feculent hot air -- enthrallingly packaged with pyrite gilded mottos of reality and brazenly flaccid sentiments of truth, for one and all to adore and admire and emulate and praise and trumpet and worship --

What would you do?

For though reality and truth have already been sold to one and all -- and subsequently bought by one and all -- (for entertainment purveyors have most certainly acquired stratospherically material gain -- by selling -- en masse -- what we are incontrovertibly buying -- in toto) --

have we also -- been sold to one and all -- and have we also -- been bought by one and all?

Or:

Are we not for sale -- nor so easily bought -- after all?

More

When what is real and true -- is for sale -- 

What's winning the game of life? 

If not what -- who?

As for why --

To bigger and bigger and bigger.

As for how --

The consequence of biggers who bigger is this:

Biggers who bigger -- bigger more than material gain. Biggers who bigger -- also bigger power and influence. And what is more powerful and more influential than -- Pens and Swords? 

Moreover, if you possessed the lion's share of Pens and Swords -- would you use your Pens and Swords to instill hope and illuminate grace, for all allkind? Or, would you use your Pens and Swords to enthrall one and all into states of senseless unquestioning unliving undead -- to bigger and bigger yourself at the expense of all allkind?

As for when and where --

Is there any who believe that there was ever a nanosecond in the history of the granverse -- when biggers were not biggering? Is there any who believe that there was ever a speck in the history of the granverse -- where biggers were not biggering?

Are there any who honestly believe that any kind have ever been exempt from the reality and truth of biggers who bigger? Are there any who honestly believe that those willing to bigger by exploiting one kind -- have ever not -- also -- been wholeheartedly willing to exploit all allkind? 

Are there any who honestly believe -- that those who have biggered by exploitation -- that those who are biggering by exploitation -- that those who will bigger by exploitation -- care one whit -- about which allkind are subject to exploitation -- much less any allkind? For all those who have biggered by exploitation -- who are biggering by exploitation -- who will bigger by exploitation -- will continue ad perpetuum -- 

Until all allkind stand.

Lest we succumb to paralysis, stupor, apathy, and fear -- as biggers bigger at the expense of all allkind --

Let us stand. 

For me. For you. For one. For all allkind.

- M.

Note

Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (2001) (read more @ IMDb; read more @ Wiki)

I: Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx

When we live our lives, relentlessly lashed without mercy, by dark fears that terrorize our mortality -- serenity and sanctuary on the River Styx inters preposterously beyond reason or sense.

Nevertheless, inasmuch as our lives are no more within our incontrovertible control, than the lives of any kind are unequivocally within any kind's control -- in one time or another, in one form or another, in one life or another -- one and all traverse the River Styx, to brave the one and only reality worse than death:

eternal amnesia of the mind, heart, body, soul.

Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx

Have you heard the tale of Serenity and Sanctuary on the River Styx?

No?

Pull up a chair... and let me weave a story of long ago and far away... well... perhaps not so long ago... nor so far away... 

The tale giver's voice drifted away... then, she continued.

Let's have a go... shall we? For this tale is long... and how much time is granted, you and I, is not for me to decide...

Pshaw! Enough of this glooming nonsense!

The tale giver settled into the cushions about her and intoned with a clear, crisp, radiant, resonant cadence:

Once upon a time... yesterday in fact... there were allkind. Some served black purposes. Some served white. But all served with diligence and fidelity, honor and brilliance.

Yet...

Three stood apart.

A queen. A knight. A king.

The queen and the knight were assigned white purposes. The king was assigned black purposes. But, over many many traverses through the River Styx, their purposes obscured as their clarity and vision disappeared beneath the blackest of black waters, over and over and over and over. For the River Styx ever transformed them, into:

Creatures of hatred. Creatures of vengeance. Creatures of intolerance, condemnation, vilification. Creatures of reprisal, retaliation, retribution. Creatures of cold mind, silent heart, hard body, empty soul. One and all, creatures in service to -- none other than -- the River Styx.

But time and time again, matter and matter again, life and life again, Grace wove her magic. She pierced every shadow. She lit every corner. She flooded every path with the light of truth. Over and over and over and over.

Until...

The queen, the knight, the king... awoke from the unliving undead slumber typical of all allkind in thrall... of the River Styx.

Thereupon their minds, their hearts, their bodies, their souls were flooded with all that was real and true. Thereupon memories returned. Thereupon hope returned. Thereupon, joy, love, faith returned. In full glorious measure... and more.

But their awakening stirred more than themselves. Their awakening stirred the allkind.

Thereupon...

A great horn reverberated with the deep thrum of the inevitable across all allkind... thus to commence the war of all wars to end all wars amongst all allkind. 

The queen, the knight, the king, startled amidst awakening, found themselves forthwith, at a crossroads -- whereupon Grace and the Moirai spoke with quiet audience -- to each -- in turn. Upon each was bestowed a blessing -- of a future that could have been, a future that may have been, a future that could yet be -- and a destiny -- of a future that could have not been, a future that may have not been, a future that could yet not be.

Consequently...

The queen chose the road less traveled. The knight chose the road most perilous and lonely. The king chose the road most arduous.

Three in a race -- against time, matter, life -- to return all to allkind -- all that was real and true -- their memories -- their hope, their joy, their love, their faith.

For the war of all wars to end all wars amongst all allkind -- could -- would -- end all allkind for all eternity.

But...

What were three... against the might of all allkind?

Continued...

II: The Pen, The Sword, and The Might of Pillars

Continued from I: The Pen, The Sword, and The Might of Pillars

Abbreviated Tales of The Pen, The Sword,

and The Might of Pillars

(Or Pillars Home)

Self

Said The Pen to The Sword: Who are you?

Said The Sword to The Pen: What?

The Pen: Who are you?

The Sword: I am The Sword.

The Pen: Are you?

The Sword: What do you mean - 'are you'?

The Pen: What if The Pen has determined that you are The Dagger? What if The Paper agrees? Now - any being that looks like you, walks like you, talks like you, thinks like you - is The Dagger. Now - are you still The Sword?

The Sword: Of course I am! That's ridiculous!

The Pen: What if you come across a Club of Swords, a Society, if you will, among whom you keenly desire to affiliate. But when you ask The Secretary for admittance, The Secretary oozes unfettered disdain: 'Our Society is for Swords only'; with pity, The Secretary adds quietly: 'The Society for Daggers is over there.'

The Sword sputtered: But... but...!

The Pen: What if you come across an exciting Experience, an Opportunity, if you will, extraordinarily alluring to your heart and your soul. But when you ask to speak with The Giver, The Doorkeeper replies with haughty reluctance: 'This Opportunity is for Swords only. There are no Opportunities for Daggers at this time'; with pity, the Doorkeeper adds quietly: 'There are Opportunities for Daggers over there.'

The Sword sputtered: But... but...!

The Pen: Do you still contend, that you are The Sword?

The Sword sighed, deflated and confused: If I am not The Sword... who am I?

The Pen: The Dagger of course.

The Sword protested plaintively: But I'm not! I'm The Sword!

The Pen: If you look like The Dagger, walk like The Dagger, talk like The Dagger, think like The Dagger - are you not The Dagger? For are not truths and realities of one and all - determined by Pens and Papers?

The Sword retorted, indignantly ferocious: Why do Pens and Papers decide... who I am?! What gives them the right... to say that I'm The Dagger?!! I'm The Sword!!!

The Pen: Do you not do the same... when you call me... The Pen?

The Sword replied with increasingly burgeoning unease: Aren't you?

The Pen: Am I?

Power

Said The Pen to The Sword: There is a tale called Power.

Said The Sword to The Pen: Really? Tell me more!

The Pen paused... silent; before The Sword, The Pen appeared visibly... inexplicable...

The Sword: What's wrong? Why won't you tell me about the tale called power?

The Pen: Because -

The Pen sighed... and started again: Because -

The Sword gazed with gentle understanding before The Pen: Is it me?

The Pen nodded... breath bated... on the precipice of enigma...

The Sword declared emphatically: Then I will seek all that is real and true - until I am ready!

The Pen exhaled... and hugged The Sword: I love you, Dear Friend. When you are ready - we will leave nothing unsaid about The Might of Pillars.

The Sword heartened by The Pen's warmth and affection, proclaimed: I love you, too, Dear Friend. For no Truer Friend, have I, than you... for no other listens as you... no other inspires as you. Thank you... for the gift of You.

The Pen rejoiced with infectious elan: You are Very Welcome. Thank you... for the gift of You.

Continued...

Note

The abbreviated tales of The Pen, The Sword, and The Might of Pillars - are exactly that - abbreviated. For it would be quite meandering indeed - to be a fly aperch - for every curious conversation - between two whose friendship runs as real and true - as The Sword and The Pen. 

Sincerely,

- M.

~ ~ * * ~ ~ * * ~ ~

Said The Sword to The Pen: Of tales yet untold, and, in particular, of The Might of Pillars... while our healthy respect for intolerance, condemnation, and vilification of illimitable curiosity... is no insignificant matter, by any rubric... what more is left to say?

Said The Pen to The Sword: Indeed, for is not the inimitable pursuit of all that is real and true... the true and real Might of Pillars?

~ ~ * * ~ ~ * * ~ ~

Said The Sword to The Pen: Concordia semper et perpetuum...

Whereupon... The Sword paused expectantly...

Thereupon... continued The Pen: Harmonia caritas et fidelis...

Whereupon... The Pen and The Sword, ventured forth, together... joyful in their amicus, humble in their mutuus, content in their sui et qua alius...

Thereupon... birthed a nova societas amicorum of allkind.

~ ~ * * ~ ~ * * ~ ~

I: The Pen, The Sword, and The Might of Pillars

In life...

Sometimes the road less traveled, the road most perilous and lonely, the road most arduous... yet... still... exhilarating, to be sure...

Is the road home.

Abbreviated Tales of The Pen, The Sword,

and The Might of Pillars

(Or Pillars Home)

Truth

Said The Pen to The Sword: How do you know?

Said The Sword to The Pen: What?

The Pen: How do you know - if what you know - is true?

The Sword: If I see it with my eyes to be true, if I hear it with my ears to be true, if I touch it with my hands to be true, if I taste it with my tongue to be true, then it's true.

The Pen: What if my eyes are blind... my ears are deaf... and I no longer have my hands or my tongue...?

The Sword thought carefully... and exclaimed triumphantly: If I think it with my brain to be true, then it's true!

The Pen: What if I'm drugged? Is the truth - when I'm drugged - true? What if I'm brainwashed? Is the truth - when I'm brainwashed - true? What if I'm asleep? Is the truth - when I'm asleep - true?

The Sword considered at some length... and shrugged: I know.

The Pen: Then... is the truth... true... on faith?

Beginning

Said The Pen to The Sword: What is the beginning?

Said The Sword to The Pen: What?

The Pen: What is the beginning? What is the end?

The Sword: My birthday is the beginning. The day I die is the end.

The Pen: So - before you - nothing was? And - after you - nothing will be?

The Sword stammered: Well. No. The beginning is the beginning of time. The end is the end of time.

The Pen: So - before time - nothing was? And - after time - nothing will be?

The Sword thought for a moment: Well. Aside from time, there's matter. So, the beginning is the beginning of matter. The end is the end of matter.

The Pen: So - before matter - nothing was? And - after matter - nothing will be?

The Sword started and stopped, appearing increasingly more perplexed, until The Sword expelled in resignation: Well. I don't know. Some people believe that higher powers are the beginning and the end, but I don't believe in myths and legends and fantasies and illusions and stories to comfort little children. So. My answer is: I don't know.

The Pen: So... is the beginning and the end... states of existence... that don't exist... except perhaps as arbitrary delineations to satisfy the need for some to believe... in beginnings and ends?

Good

Said The Pen to The Sword: What is good?

Said The Sword to The Pen: What do you mean?

The Pen: What does it mean to be a good being? What is good? How do I be good?

The Sword: You live right. You treat others the way that you want to be treated. You don't hurt people. You don't break laws. That's about it.

The Pen: That sounds easy.

The Sword reparteed with confident swagger: It is.

The Pen: Is it?

The Sword: What do you mean?

The Pen: Is it easy to live right? To treat others the way that you want to be treated? To not hurt people? To not break laws?

The Sword hesitated: Well. I suppose, when you put it that way, it's not easy to be good.

The Pen: How so?

The Sword: Well. I mean. I have a right to live my life the way that I want. So. Sometimes that means the way that I live my life - means someone else doesn't get to live their life the way that they want. And... I have a right to be treated the way that I want. So. Sometimes that means that the way that I want to be treated - means someone else doesn't get treated the way that they want. And... I have a right to want what I want. So. Sometimes that means that when I get what I want - someone else doesn't get what they want. That's life. Everything doesn't always go your way.

The Pen: So... when you live your life, your way... it's right. Right?

The Sword asserted emphatically: Right!

The Pen: So... what happens when others live their life, their way... and their way doesn't let you live the way that you want... be treated the way that you want... get that which you want? What happens, when others live their life, their way... and everything doesn't always go your way?

The Sword huffed with righteous indignation: Well. Obviously they're hurting me! So they're wrong! They should be punished. That's what law and order and justice is for: to correct wrongs.

The Pen: But of two people - one who is living life, irrespective of others... and the other, who is living life, respective of others - who is living right? Of two people - one who treats others, irrespective of others... and the other, who treats others, respective of others - who is treating others, the way that they want to be treated? Of two people - one who consumes wants, irrespective of others... and the other, who consumes wants, respective of others - who is not hurting people? Of two people - one who demands everything in life, irrespective of others... and the other, who champions self and others - who is not abiding by laws and orders that serve and protect, one and all?

The Sword exclaimed woundedly: But! What about my rights! Why should I sacrifice my rights, for others?!! I have as much right to my rights, as anyone and everyone else!

The Pen: Because rights are privileges... are they not?

The Sword sputtered in confusion: What do you mean? What does that mean?

The Pen: Rights and privileges are not inviolable; they're earned. Thus: good is an inviolable dignity and being good is an inviolable virtue, such that the demonstration and exercise of good, earns rights and privileges. On the other hand, the failure to demonstrate and exercise good, earns justice. (Not to be confused with - reprisal, retaliation, retribution - which are unjust.) Indeed: is it not unjust, for any one of us, to champion our (unearned) rights, to the exclusion of others? For what else is the championship of ungood - i.e. championing our selves and our (unearned) rights to the exclusion of others, etc. - than the championship of unjustice?

Continued...

Note

There are many tales of The Pen and The Sword, for The Pen and The Sword are great friends who take illimitable joy in each other as living and being beings.

As for the tales above, they are but snippets of curious conversing... gasps, really... of back and forth and back again... about all that is real and true.

Warmly,

- M.

Continued at II: The Pen, The Sword, and The Might of Pillars