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Re: [anthroposophy] Untapped Spiritual Wealth

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  • jan
    ... Re: [anthroposophy] Untapped Spiritual Wealth On 2/8/03 1:08 am, Bradford Riley wrote: This fact of culture I offer is high
    Message 1 of 2 , Aug 3, 2003
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      Re: [anthroposophy] Untapped Spiritual Wealth On 2/8/03 1:08 am, "Bradford Riley" <holderlin66@...> wrote:




      This fact of culture I offer is high Sentient Soul mystery, laced with
      honesty that sees, sees so clearly the differene between the Heart of the
      Golden Sun, the transmutation of lead into gold and the weaving holy
      substance where in the Actions of Ahrimnic symptomology are contrasted with
      a wide brush stroke of Luciferic feeling for the truth. Marvel with me, if
      you will, the hot blood of warmth that floods over the cold, cold aims of
      the ARhrimanic agenda.


      I think Bradford is panning for gold.  Surely we do not have to accept or endorse every word of  what others have written to see and feel the pulse of life in their words, as here, to connect with the rejection of what is false, however it may be articulated? Let us not be the ping pong ball of politicians. We surely are not “political animals” but humans aspiring to become Human-Divine.
            Of course there are many holes in the quote, we all go threadbare and clad in rags and tatters, all wounded by the Two edged Sword.  Pilgrims and Wayfarers walk in disguise these days, are footsore and determined. To reject Bush is not to accept Clinton, or whoever.  To me, the quote was the man on the Clapham Omnibus saying, we’re on to you, we see you, we are going somewhere else. You have stepped into the light of my consciousness and become visible. A girding up of soul force.  This is a million miles better than the Lukewarm which will be  spewed out of the divine mouth.
           Most people are not going to speak, write and sing in Anthroposophical terms.  It is for us to think the thought, clear the air where possible, and recognize those who see what is wrong without any clear idea of how to put it right.  But, speaking personally, as as someone who  believes that Bush/Clinton, Blair/Major serve basically the same Master and further the same agenda, I see  something valuable and inspiring in the words below, something which may be raw, but can be transformed in the crucible of a soul who obviously cares.
           Having just re-read Steiner’s Mission of Anger, I see light in these fiery words, even if I do not agree with all of them. They have a purpose, a mission and a future.  With Danny’s real spirit work in karmic recognition and deep observation, along with the spirited quote Bradford posted below I felt heartened and hopeful this weekend.
      Jan




           *******************
      George W. Bush Means Nothing
      Note to self: The demons of sour conservatism cannot touch anything that
      truly matters. Just FYI

      By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist   Friday, August 1, 2003

      You cannot reach me, Dubya.

      Go ahead, ya smirkin' Texas lug, stumble around all scrunched and blank eyed
      and pseudo-manly, shove this country into a bloody unwinnable war and lie
      about all the reasons why, gouge the economy and ruin the schools and
      embarrass the nation every single day as you mangle grammar and meaning and
      truth. It doesn't really matter.

      Go ahead, toss those useless $400 rebate checks to the depressed and jobless
      populace as some sort of bogus humanitarian gesture as you quietly force an
      increase in their property taxes to pay for your record-breaking deficit
      brought on by the tax cut no one wants. Ha. You are so cute.

      There is so much more going on than you know. There is so much deeper
      understanding and wider knowledge and higher winking and you can't touch any
      of it. Do you know this? You need to know this.

      You and your brethren are like this sticky toxic mist. You will burn off in
      the sun of awareness and orgasm and breath. This is what makes it so fun to
      watch, so magical and visceral, such a divine circus, a rich tragicomic
      pageant. Do you sense it?

      By all means, hack away at the Clean Air Act so it allows millions more
      pounds of pollutants into the air every year. Slam gays and women's rights
      and call everyone in the country a "sinner," cut funding for AmeriCorps and
      the arts and the poor and nature conservation. Wow. The universe is so very
      proud. Do you hear it laughing? You're not even making a dent.

      See, you cannot touch us. We are inured. You are merely hollow and sad and
      quickly, effortlessly forgettable the minute we step outside or get into bed
      with our lovers or laugh with friends or scream to the sky the lyrics to
      "Ballroom Blitz," always, always striving to taste the intense flavors of
      the collective dream state.

      What, too vague? Too namby-pamby new-age tofu-licking pro-sex liberal? Too
      bad.


      Because there is more meaning and content and depth and significance in a
      lover's moan and in a drop of wine and in a dog's wag than in anything you
      can conjure in your homophobic faux-cowboy Lynne Cheney-thick dream, honey.
      Get over yourself. We are on to you. We know you are made of nothing but
      spin and frantic gesticulations and scowls. Poke a finger into you and out
      pours only sawdust and sighs.

      Hello, Senator Lott. You want to stick it to the environment, do you? Lick
      the tailbones of your corporate cronies in the auto industry and kill that
      recent bill that would've mandated a reasonable increase in fuel efficiency
      for thuggish belching SUVs in about 12 years?

      You wish, instead, to snicker and sneer and give not one crap for the planet
      or our nation's terrorism-inducing dependency on petrochemicals? Kill that
      bill, senator. You go. Toss a bone to your Detroit pals. That is so sweet.
      Here's a karmic Post-It note: The gods would like you to right now realize,
      you have zero true effect. Barely a footnote. A blip. A flicker of quick
      pain and then poof, gone. Very sorry.

      How about you, RIAA? You want a piece? You want to bitch and moan and attack
      individual music fans with your snide lawsuits and desperate paranoia and
      come scour my iTunes library and find out how I got my hands on free MP3s of
      the new Metallica and AFI and burned all that glorious chill electronica
      from Net-radio broadcasts using my glorious copy of RadioLover? Here is my
      phone number: 555-LICK. Bring it.

      Here is my porn collection. Here are my divine sex toys and my lubricants
      and my leather strappy things and my collection of happy open-minded
      perversions and my active account at Blowfish.com and my tattoos and
      piercings and love of massage oil and vibrators and things that go ooooh in
      the night. Come on over, Mr. Ashcroft, I have something to show you.

      You see, I know you're there, all of you. Sour politicians and conniving
      Wal-Mart execs and desperate reality-TV creators and gluttonous SUV
      manufacturers and poisonous garbage-food purveyors and all-'Murkin
      homophobes and the dumbed-down lowest common denominators and lip-twitching
      hyper-religious crusaders and anti-everything GOP lizard people, Rummy and
      Rove and Rice and Ashcroft and Dick, et al. I see you. We see what you are
      trying to do.

      We feel you seething and churning and eating away at the soft rainbow
      underbelly of the culture, feeding on the weak and the poor and the
      ignorant, doing your utmost to lower the collective vibration and thinking
      you are somehow all-powerful and significant and invincible, the center of
      the sociocultural universe, when in fact you are but a strange and banal
      rash on the ass of time.

      I know you want to shut us down. I know you would love nothing more than if
      all resistance was mowed under and all perversions were bleached dead and
      all nuanced questioning of your malicious antihumanitarian agenda was numbed
      to the point of blind flag-waving psychopatriotism, one born of fear and
      misinformation and photos of the bloody mutilated bodies of Saddam's demon
      sons. Damn, you try so hard.

      I have news. I have a revelation. It is timeless and ageless and nothing new
      and I hold no claims to it, but it needs to be repeated and shouted and
      deeply felt again and again and again, because sometimes you get a little
      out of control.

      Here it is: You are immaterial. You are of zero nutritional value and are
      indigestible like corn and just pass right through. Do you understand?

      There is so much more going on down here than is dreamt of in your bitter
      and small-minded philosophy. I, and millions like me, sense a more luminous
      undercurrent, a wider spiritual lens, a richer sensual mother lode.

      We know that no matter how much you pule and spit and hiss and spank and
      crack down, no matter how many laws and how many restrictions and how many
      wars and murders and stabs at the heart of meaning and sex and divinity, you
      cannot touch what really matters, you cannot really have any lasting effect.

      Oh, it might seem like you do. You can make daily life very grating and
      tiresome and make people sick with your chemicals and desperate with your
      slashing of jobs and guilt ridden with your hammering sin and pain and guns
      and fear.

      We watch you spin and hype and rage and scrunch your face in intense bogus
      prayer aimed at your bitter and self-righteous and homophobic God as your
      testes wither and weep. Man, have you got gall.

      Maybe this gives you the illusion of power and control. Maybe this makes you
      feel all phallic and handsome and virile as if your toupee isn't rank and
      askew and your slacks wrinkled and your children in rehab and your sexless
      wife popping Zoloft like M&Ms. Titter.

      But here's the thing: You affect only the surface of things. You are like
      the little swarm of gnats you have to pass through on the path to the cool
      summer lake. You are the tainted oyster in the vast ocean of time and sex
      and love. You are a jagged pothole on the highway to hell and the broken
      step on the stairway to heaven. But you are not real. You give no light. You
      contribute nothing. Not where it matters.

      But please, by all means, keep trying. Keep ripping away at the rich dense
      frantic fabric of this gorgeous inexplicable life. You represent all the
      dark threads, the ugliness and the tension and the low vibration and you are
      necessary to remind anyone who's paying attention of what to watch out for,
      what to methodically purge, what to use as easy leverage to vault forward.

      Look. You cannot reach me. You are nowhere near. You have no true power and
      no true connection and have yet to make any sort of splash in the calm lake
      of open-thighed soul. But it's OK. We understand. After all, as the saying
      goes, the graveyards are full of indispensable men. And the divine only
      smiles, licks its lips, and shimmies on"

      _________________________________________________________________
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