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the prickly pear

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  • cribprdb
    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
    Message 1 of 3 , Oct 31, 2004
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      "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 Jordan,
      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 word
      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 in
      ear and eye of the fool - a never ceasing birth of sayer and seer into
      foolishness. Indeed the only cure of it is truth, that great fortune
      of accidental letters the sound and sight of which most often pass
      unnoticed, and always elude the fool so fascinatingly engaged by and
      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 hearing
      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 never
      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 something
      has commenced, and the taste of the saying of it is bitter, but then
      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 sweet
      chains, and labor heartily in the hewing and shaping of men, until the
      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 eating
      pages of Lindsay, mumbling Auden librettos out of tune. Fame arose of
      the convenience of political adversity for that cocky little fire
      chief. I wouldn't change a thing in his world, hell he earned it. He
      may have scared babies into hysterical laughter, but the truth is some
      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 it
      has always been with your ilk, when faced with challenging argument
      you resort to cryptic mysticism, slathering histrionic moralizing, and
      appeal to authority. Furthermore it is throughout your recorded
      history that you would kill me and my family if you could, or at the
      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 died
      were often killed for my days of life.

      The truth requires no moderation, and in this age there is already no
      moderation in hope.

      Puerto Rican History X
      Trinidad Cruz
    • louise
      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-
      Message 2 of 3 , Nov 1, 2004
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        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.

        Louise

        --- 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
        Jordan,
        > 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
        word
        > 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
        in
        > ear and eye of the fool - a never ceasing birth of sayer and seer
        into
        > foolishness. Indeed the only cure of it is truth, that great
        fortune
        > of accidental letters the sound and sight of which most often pass
        > unnoticed, and always elude the fool so fascinatingly engaged by
        and
        > 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
        hearing
        > 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
        never
        > 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
        something
        > has commenced, and the taste of the saying of it is bitter, but
        then
        > 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
        sweet
        > chains, and labor heartily in the hewing and shaping of men, until
        the
        > 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
        eating
        > pages of Lindsay, mumbling Auden librettos out of tune. Fame arose
        of
        > the convenience of political adversity for that cocky little fire
        > chief. I wouldn't change a thing in his world, hell he earned it.
        He
        > may have scared babies into hysterical laughter, but the truth is
        some
        > 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
        it
        > has always been with your ilk, when faced with challenging argument
        > you resort to cryptic mysticism, slathering histrionic moralizing,
        and
        > appeal to authority. Furthermore it is throughout your recorded
        > history that you would kill me and my family if you could, or at
        the
        > 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
        died
        > were often killed for my days of life.
        >
        > The truth requires no moderation, and in this age there is already
        no
        > moderation in hope.
        >
        > Puerto Rican History X
        > Trinidad Cruz
      • cribprdb
        So driven then down to the river, collected up with sword or gun, we never understood the ruckus, challenged as we were there with baptism or death. Most of us
        Message 3 of 3 , Nov 1, 2004
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          So driven then down to the river, collected up with sword or gun, we
          never understood the ruckus, challenged as we were there with baptism
          or death. Most of us just wanted peace and to calm that white fanatic
          adventurism enough to allow for life. There was no philosophical
          change then in us, just an effort at co-existence and peace, but Jesus
          was never content, and could never get enough. Eventually we died and
          left that worthless seed of error behind in our children, and all over
          and over again reproduced the terrifying Christo-fantasy in our own
          bloodline. The choice for peace was authentic, but not the choice for
          Jesus, and it was a peace that never came at all, because of a Jesus
          hungry for power and unashamed of human bloodshed. So today what
          Christian is authentic, all spawned of philosophical heredity,
          intellectual parasitism, flouted history and amnesia? And the way of
          Jesus remains the same, the lurking dormant parasite, driving hosts to
          kill hosts, for its life is perpetuated and agrandized always in new
          children. All ideas of Gods are speculations in the face of the fear
          of death, a paradoxical intellectual mutation of an initially
          authentic choice for peace and human life. No choice for religion is
          authentic, and without new children it will die out. What hysteria
          began, hysteria will end. Hysterical intellectual improvisation is the
          most likely cause of sub-conscious biological mutation. So say your
          sooth in your sickness unto death.

          Trinidad Cruz

          --- In existlist@yahoogroups.com, "louise" <hecubatoher@y...> wrote:
          >
          > 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.
          >
          > Louise
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