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30955Re: the prickly pear

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  • louise
    Nov 1, 2004
      Trinidad Cruz,

      If 'sweet Lou' is a reference to me, your penultimate paragraph is
      odious in the extreme. Now, I believe true philosophers can be self-
      moderating, but that's an idealist position. It is still Susan's
      decision when and how to moderate, and whether to kick or ban
      anyone, something thankfully rare on this list. So what I am about
      to say is purely my own opinion.

      First, the facts. I do not drink Jesus' blood. I have never even
      taken communion, or participated, if you prefer different
      terminology, at the Lord's table, though it has been offered to me,
      for example when I first thought I might have become a Christian, at
      an Anglican church in West Bridgeford, Nottingham. And I do not
      drink your blood, you sick fantasist: how dare you make such an
      accusation, you who suggest it is I who resort to 'cryptic
      mysticism'. Overcome your intellectual laziness, and you will find
      plenty of rigorous arguments from me in the archives.

      Your whole message here is a rant. It is not argument, it is not
      philosophy, it is not existentialism. It is literature. Take the
      beam out of your eye, you pseudo-imperialist, and learn some manners.


      --- In existlist@yahoogroups.com, "cribprdb" <trinidad@i...> wrote:
      > "Here we go 'round the prickly pear"
      > And so sweet Lou, you anglo-loined tweedy toothed Christian
      > prophetess, shall we all gather at the river? Which river, the
      > or the Thames, or perhaps the poisonous Styx? - though I am not so
      > certain the coin of your modern realm will suffice to pass you well
      > across. Implicit in all things is the fact that not every fools
      > falls dead on the winds of time to the ground unheard ever again by
      > human ear, but rather what is spoken and written in error goes on
      > ear and eye of the fool - a never ceasing birth of sayer and seer
      > foolishness. Indeed the only cure of it is truth, that great
      > of accidental letters the sound and sight of which most often pass
      > unnoticed, and always elude the fool so fascinatingly engaged by
      > in his prideful fearsome fairy tales and the beloved human edifice
      > rising inevitably of such slothful linguistic failure. This then is
      > all the secret works of the spinners and spewers: that the power of
      > words is not in the saying and writing, but roars out in the
      > and reading; and all such outwardly directed attempts at verbal
      > intellectual conquest end up inwardly self-effecting and
      > self-demoting, because the sound and sight of such mistake can
      > end for this kind of verbal perpetrator except through sweet
      chance of
      > truth. Only truth can make the error into record and pass it from
      > wasting life on to its death and uselfulness. Without the truth the
      > error lives again and again and cannot be killed. The end of
      > has commenced, and the taste of the saying of it is bitter, but
      > no one would ever tear the damn thing down so it is built until it
      > falls under its own weight. So sing joyfully in unison of those
      > chains, and labor heartily in the hewing and shaping of men, until
      > thing is done and falls down about your head. I believe, I
      believe, I
      > believe, I believe in Faeries, oh Tink!
      > I saw the dark little Dane just the other day, in bad stomach
      > pages of Lindsay, mumbling Auden librettos out of tune. Fame arose
      > the convenience of political adversity for that cocky little fire
      > chief. I wouldn't change a thing in his world, hell he earned it.
      > may have scared babies into hysterical laughter, but the truth is
      > babies just laugh out of a robust joy at being alive and loved, to
      > think otherwise is perverse.
      > I don't think you're fun, and I'm not interested in having fun. As
      > has always been with your ilk, when faced with challenging argument
      > you resort to cryptic mysticism, slathering histrionic moralizing,
      > appeal to authority. Furthermore it is throughout your recorded
      > history that you would kill me and my family if you could, or at
      > least look the other way while we died. It's not the blood of Jesus
      > you drink, it's mine. I am the son of my dead and they lived and
      > were often killed for my days of life.
      > The truth requires no moderation, and in this age there is already
      > moderation in hope.
      > Puerto Rican History X
      > Trinidad Cruz
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