Solar Life and Flashes…

Sun_532Solar Lighting begins late in the evening sky and continues through the following weeks; first scorching the million-acre-land around Calimesa City and ultimately damaging the domes of cover across the skies above those made at home. Life ends and life begins. A different life also creates-stop-start inside several thousand—where water begins and evaporates.

Rulers gather and die.  The death of middle worlders on surface is many and rarely varied. A renewal of the hidden memories of power in times of sorrow and danger and fear prevail.  Wealth again moves and poverty descends from above the sunlight and below the ground levels of cave dwellers and their children.

Across spaces of lighted atmosphere and spaces absent of everything except views above and across an angled galaxy, war of rearranged arrangements begin and end in victories and losses. Some obtain more of less and some lose everything to those others dwelling above these spaces and below this ground—stretched places of caves and cave-ins and areas where life hides from death and awaits the end of silent lightning and the reaches of flash.

Once again upon these skies, a spinning whirl of land and seas of salt and lakes of salt less liquid, warriors stage the wars of rearranged arrangements and wealth distributes where the winners rejoice and the losers lament. The dead are discarded beneath the soiled blood and inside rocky renditions of those of victories in death and legend. Quickly forgotten are the response of battle and the rhymes that end with hunger and rearranged arrangements.

For these days of peace remember pleasant moments of above ground splendor and days of night and night of days as knights begin an uncertain dance of daze. Swords and shields never rust and the lightning of solar ruins again gather in place of suns and along a galactic twirl of swirling earth filled with the salt of sea and the breaking winter waves along the shorelines of a billion lakes without salt and filled with many lights of star sparkle and life.

These are the days of women and men and children and reaffirmation and survival’s rearranged arrangements and offerings. These are creators of ways and means and love and care in heart shaped reasons and certainty. The responsibility of these creations are moments before another war and the death of songs forgotten from those last days battled when reasons were few yet responses necessary. Always…Rearranged arrangements? Blood feeds the form and those forms cease flesh without it? Let it be written so let it…

And! Beautiful you are…

Whatever Storms—Wherever Gods…

We watch Storm Gods…We! Tucked inside this swirl of trash and tin bobbles and cardboard homes of glass and stone wait the confusion to rise and winds to wind these narrow streets of matchbook stories and matchstick people…After the roar and the wetting and the flashes, the god of storms dart-departs to dash and trash another world apart from our own. Begin then the song of flowers. Without wails—those sweet tales with soft music and misty touches and peace are moment songs. 

We venture into drying air and as we cross wet sands and a bloom of desert flowers and freshening air—rejoice we of ourselves and our certain knowledge of knowing certainty for another clearer night and a brighter morning. And! We understand the knowledge of the good of something necessary and good. Together; our story of life is magic and our world is… 

s81These twisted places and the rust of metal frames and broken concrete stretch before our eyes toward sights ending and evening’s growling gloom where boxes of movement use to wind along ribbons of silent construction before tears filled the eyes and wind dried water. Home is protection from bombs’ early light and for those requiring protection, home is both sanctuary and safety space. 

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights against the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’

Paint now a picture that loves these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life drawn across a million miles of rock and rolling till another day of storms and another night of passion shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again, share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Sweet Songs and Whispers…

60Here the eternal spirits swim and wait for day’s beginning and star-light’s fade. Somewhere the familiar are new and the same and also very different.  Watch now as we pass—swimming in deep water clear and blue and green.

We breathed the same air and often we never surface. We do not require space above the sea. Together all of us—animals and fish and forever spirits….Never cease—we are alive! We are verses of the same universes—We have the right to be everywhere…

There is a slip off the main channel of a River called Manatee…The Sentinel watches this curving slip of water between landfall and islands of reeds and grass and palms and sand. Bear cubs and Panthers kiss the sweet liquid of combinations both salt and fresh and dance along the edges of knowing their way and sea-side rhythm and of verses of silence.

The GrefShane come this way…They are not frequent folk to line these shorelines; however, they love the Sentinel and the Festival of Bridges—occurring every thirty years. And! The GrefShane watch no sweeping clocked hands or sun’s pitch or star travels across a darkened sky. They are existence and they happen when they are timed to form and to appear.

They stand beneath moon light and within the form of Draped One and their motion casts gentle designs into an easy night. Tall and short and large and small and gathered to hear the soft waves scatter across the shore and just beneath their feet—bare and warmed in the air of night.

They watch the shadows of bridge span and steel as wooden shapes pass underneath the towers of man, built when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled the world—before the tearing days and summer’s song. A night bird cries and another winged one settles protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

The large ones rise to surface and water gently swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong inside a current they know as their reasons and their purposes inside the strength of their being strong and imagined as real.

They rise to meet the GrefShane— protectors of these moments-in-time and places-of-being simply life and nothing more or less. The River Manatee sleeps and its current survives.

And! Beautiful you are…

Rain Whistles-Mist Sings…

55Just above cloud-fall she dropped to Earth without trumpets or warriors or cries or the wailing of terrified folks. No swished angel wings or the usual thunder just after lightning bolts from sky-to-ground or back again. When angels fly-sound may become the music of both rapture and fear.

Why do arriving angels come in lots of two?  Why either soft or hard? Why arriving as a girl or a boy? Or are angels of any physical realm saved or seen by the nonsense of non- angels? Why do angels arrive here from somewhere other than here on planet-side of heaven? And! How do they cross heaven’s length from where-to-wear and back to where-ever they begin? It is magic, wizard, dragon, fire, storm, calm, wind, rain and war.

Heaven’s gate is hard to find and many have perished-the-thought and died attempting to pass from star-gate to star-fall of the planet-slide of hell or paradise.

This angel was alone–both hard and soft and ready to purpose the reason of her travel and the respected message she brought to the mysterious magic folk and the very quick or the dead.

Angel she called herself and she imagined her image as double self and triple purposed with a silent drum of butterfly wings and the knowledge of both living and dying before the end of twin-planet sins times fourteen.

Power at the end of wit and the beginning of the rhyme of substance’s cessation. She was both good and evil and her reason was either a knowing or a complete confusion to those able to see or hear or know or imagine her path from sky to planet-side. She saved a few and she lost a few and those lasting through her visit–survived.

No! Angel was the good witch of spectacular whimsy and crafted stories told by magic men and the disciples of both the Gods and of men. Once upon a moment, Angel did visited Earth-land and found it was missing a reason for being the place of promise or ruin. She existed and…She calls to us sometimes and sometimes through no sounds we understand.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Chasing Eternal Spirits…

25City ended when life known though not completely understood stopped and the wars began. Great floods of political or religious doctrine mixed with gun-powder, drones and bombs—ba-boom-ba-boomed despite of; right or wrong, weak or strong and as all beliefs—no regard for precious life. Territory divided along the secular lives of too many bleeding folks and still the ba-boom of gun-powder and drones and bombs along with the religion of death found no one innocent enough to live.

City stopped and the social constructions of neighborhood and village and town died without a whimper. These constructions simply died, when the bullets ran out and all the weapons jammed. Riding those lines of timeless speed and the dark-light dance—carried Sparking Sparkle toward mass of center without color.

Then began the poisons of time. Another body politic found a better way to worship and to control those left to control. Call climates-a-changing or winter’s wrath or drought or flood an Earth-ender. Call death by storm or maelstrom or super storm Cindy or Clyde or Mary or…Mind-storm of those to control the unwilling to be controlled and always war to stop-start-win-lose-contain-spread-prevent-continue…Confusing of words sometimes win?

And! Always those living or dying in-out times either today, tomorrow, in present condition or another future real or imagined. Watch the sky for ‘It’ will come and destroy us! This never happens because we destroy ourselves. Are war and the fighting of battles as genetic as the creation of our own children?

If we let them do…then this is what will happen…they are not able to govern…and let’s call those freedom fighters—Terrorist…they are not people…they must be contained…this is our war against Terrorism…yet; is their war a hope for Freedom and Determination? Those winning wars rewrite history and are remembered as Patriots-Noble-Courageous-Founding Fathers and…really Thomas Jefferson, are all men equally created; yet, slaves are owned?

After several weeks of warnings the ultimate destruction of our Solar system, commenced and in a little under one hour the sun and planets were gone…All men are created equally! Living changes everything and another adventure begins. Skipping into start-stop and without this motion all ends…Skippity-Hoppity-Peace-be-Peace.

At this bridge we jumped to safety just before our vehicle splashed into water below us. He leaps to safety, and then plunge-jumped into the swirling-twirl and chased the auto as it went to-bottom. We waited for him to surface…He re-appeared as a boy. However; why a small child? Anyway, we never saw the man again.

And! Beautiful you are…

//

We! Born to Be…

Whitnal Lake_1The great bird—without wing flap glides three inches above water surface for ten seconds then moves wings, strengthens and glides again…Sea calms on motion’s day and the watchers silently visiting shoreline, wait the happening and the night.

This is the day of Lions and caught between the water deep and surface wait the Griefshane and their moments in sunlight along forest’s edge and sand’s start. They are a few of many…Liquid born and water borne in ceaseless mixtures of salt and waves and sky and shoreline; trees, rocks, hills, valleys and mountains.

They are the mysteries of society and culture. They are…Legends of mighty warriors and caring givers-of-life. Their women are strong and their men powerful. They build worlds and are from other places and galaxies and wars and peace and forever.

We are their beginning and our end. Sounds as Godspeak—told by men and by women in times of peril and of need and of superstition and…We spin tales that become truth and power and magic. We craft the moneyed ways of future’s lost and tomorrow’s end.

People-governed through fear and the fabrication of religious lies and wealth, turn to burden. The revolution of death’s start-stop dance and the futility of power continues in any name except Truth.

We are born-to-be-wasted. ‘I want to unite with you Eternal Spirit…Help me awaken to that great goal’—unknown author.

And! Beautiful you are…

The Conditions of Surviving Survival…

7Is a Society equivalent to the sum of its members? Will the actions of the members of that society serve to fashion and to shape it? What are the social consequences of intentional actions and will these actions often be unintentional? What is a Society to do to ease itself into an obvious oblivion?

Scientific Theories are predictive. Societies’ songs prohibit most predictions…

For the Programmer…

Bayes’ Theorem is a simple mathematical formula used for calculating conditional probabilities. It figures prominently in subjectivist or Bayesian approaches to epistemology, statistics, and inductive logic. Subjectivists; maintaining rational beliefs, are governed by the laws of probability and lean heavily on conditional probabilities in their theories of evidence and their models of empirical learning. Bayes’ Theorem is central to these enterprises by simplifying the calculation of conditional probabilities and clarifying significant features of the subjectivist position.

The Theorem’s central insight — that a hypothesis is confirmed by a body of data that its truth renders probable — is the cornerstone of all subjectivist methodology.

Bayes’ Theorem… PE(H) = [P(H)/P(E)] PH(E)

The probability of a hypothesis H conditional on a given body of data E is the ratio of the unconditional probability of the conjunction of the hypothesis with the data to the unconditional probability of the data alone.

A Definition…

The probability of H conditional on E is defined as PE(H) = P(H & E)/P(E), provided that both terms of this ratio exist and P(E) > 0.

Here are some straightforward consequences of (1).

Probability. PE is a probability function.
Logical Consequence. If E entails H, then PE(H) = 1.
Preservation of Certainties. If P(H) = 1, then PE(H) = 1.
Mixing. P(H) = P(E)PE(H) + P(~E)P~E(H).

For Magical World of Society…

There are no reasons for a society to forever survive. A society is not eternal because it cannot be predicted into certain oblivion. No Way and No How and Oh—No.

And! Beautiful You Are…

 

Illusions and River Spirits…

44The Hollowing is an indentation of soil between concrete ruins and dirt–just a skip from Will’s alley. It is a sacred area. Hollowing is visited by those healthy and those sick of Plague Waste…Religiously sacred? The Witches’ Coven and blessed ground is touched and healing powers and love abounds and…Crowman knows better.

Hollowing is a bomb-sized hole in the ground used as cover during Latest War. These pictures of miracle destroyed large chunks of Sity and killed eighteen million and one half…Latest War occurred one hundred years past and was just another in the many wars fought first for ideals and then for survival…Plague came later and survival lost!

What of Coven and what of life’s life? In a wig-waggled world most children do not live past the ‘coming of age.’ We are ‘preggers’ and then we die of Plague waste. It is a simple death. No suffering, no pocks, not ugly…just sleep. So! The hope for young men and young women to procreate, in case of ‘cure-fall,’ is great. And! There is ‘cure-fall.’ Many gatherings live past their twentieth year and some into their thirties.

Not many—but sacred—for they are the mothers and the fathers of future days…Not hopeless, then. Sad, yes…but expected without variance, except by Coven…Witches live forever. Witches are the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. They are the fire builders and the rain of oils that fall from somewhere-to-there without distraction…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds.

Sity is a child’s world both spelled and said as it sounds. Sity is concrete and great rivers of water and oil and salt and the saturation of dusted waste and dusted life. Sity is a brief whisper of humanity. Sity is crap. Sity is sore. Sity is the dance across once hills and soft snow and winter night. Sity is life and snow is no longer white.

Crowman glances down. The boy is strange and speaks few words. Withdrawn? However, that is his way. They are; the children surviving Plague. Quiet? Yes! And; yes again to fatalism, fear, courage and the strength of one or more than one. Nothing surprises them. They accept everything. They expect nothing normal and nothing abnormal.

They do not understand the difference. There is nothing either moral or physical. Customs and habits do not; for children, exist. Only survival…Sity.

And! Beautiful you are…

//

//

Destiny or Peace…

Leadership of Greed—Stop now!  Rebellion is upon you and your way has ended. Through peace and prosperity balance exists…Horror without either—ensues. Tis the Greed of Destruction. And! The goal of the warrior’s soul is to die.

Leadership of Greed—Stop now! Death to body is fast while death to Society is laborious and heart breaking and absolute. Beware; the death of the Middle East. It has not started— it is over. America’s war machine is great and murder is constant…How far must a nation go before it also falls amidst the spawn of gun-fear and violence. ‘Paranoia strikes deep and into nation’s soul it does seep…’

Leadership of Greed—Stop now! Are the drums of war also the sounds of desert fury? When sand storms rage across our lands how many grains of sand does it take to cover a woman and a man and a child? How much death causes a memory? How much servitude before freedom?

Leadership of Greed—Stop now! Toy with the will of humanity long enough and you die. Rebellion is not a gentle motion of movement and the change of painless alterations. Rebellion is the killer of society and an alternate civilization. Balance ceases—horror ensues.

Leadership of Greed—Stop now! The memory of bullet sound and the strike of metal to flesh becomes the communal scream of all women and men. Freedom from the immediate is the revolution of survival…Iraq-Iran-Syria-Palestine-Libya-Lebanon-Afghanistan—not distant planets…These are the names of Nations and the Home of people—Earth people of red blood and families and hopes and dreams and Life.

Leadership of Greed—Stop now! From the moment of controlled governance comes the roar of guns and slavery and fear and death…Let the stealing of the substances of survival and the ration of dignity begin. Humanity deserves far better than the control of the few with the most. And! When does fear turn to paranoia? Just before Revolution?

So! Dance now between the whirling and the twirling of grains-of-sand and flakes-of-snow. Call this dance religion and humanity destroys itself…Call this dance government and control destroys itself…Call this dance prosperity and ‘must have’ devours itself…Call this dance freedom and truth dies…Hunger binds a people…Greed divides everyone!

And! Beautiful you are…

War Eternally Yours…

We fight these wars for so long and over and again until life ends and begins and ends…yesterday—today—tomorrow…Nothing matters but everything means the beginning of another end and we die and live together on these fields of battle.

I have been with you and in the names of religion and government and power and home, we battled foe, either you or me against another or against each other. No matter…we lived and died and were remembered and forgotten. And! We fought these wars and died. Forever; these wars for life-for throne-for freedom and we are lost.

War with Alexander or against Napoleon or another king or another religion of a same or different God. You and I, battle scarred or wounded or dying and never remembered except when she misses us or when we miss her. And! Our women go to war beside us. They stand with us and they die with us. They are not created to die in war. They are Life.

If we hate war—then why do we continually fight wars against life until life ceases and starts and stops and begins—ad infinitum? We! Are born to be wasted? Flags changed and still blood red is never a different liquid poured from wounds of knife or sword or spear or bullet or bomb or cannon or when mixed with powder and smoke. Blood red flows from you and I and horse and cat and dog and man and woman and child and baby…Still blood red—cries for strength and air and life.

I win and your history fades. You win and my life fades…And! If I must fight may I die to protect or save my family and my love? Be damned the government or the church or the faith or a thousand knife wounds or a million bullets. I fight and I will die for Home—and home is where I am this time—in this land or another place or world in another day or another time. We are born to be wasted…

Would it be precious to know that Love and Peace and Understanding is the next ideal stop made beneath the sky? Would it be precious not to be born and wasted but to be born and last without war for just one lifetime? Not to fall in battle—but just to fall in love…

One then
Two now
Then another
Then we
Then us.

Growls both low
And throat deep
Sounds just above
Noise-thought and
Beyond Dream-Speak.

Then whistles
Of distant trains.
A long distance
Away-again a call
And memory of war…

And! Beautiful you are…