I feel totally helpless about getting my disappearing, previously published entries back from the vaporware crypt. Google is a huge company full of people who seem perfectly willing to pass the buck if you're not rich and/or famous. I'm sure I would be. I don't have the power or the time to devote to haranguing these kept geniuses to find my missing entries. I got nothing to reward them with for doing it except sharply honed insults. They already got their's, why bother?
It's not like the world will suffer if my (missing and previously published on Blogger.com [Ergo, Google]'s watch) entries are never found and restored to their rightful Home. I knew they're still alive, poor babies, but like inmates on some huge server farm where they get ignored by the words of better, less demented writers. I write the same stuff over and over again. Hoping that some small typo or editing mistake will force me in a different direction or present me with an interesting challenge that might allow me to make a mountain out of a molehill as a form of self-amusement. I don't really care. I never read this crap after I publish it anyway.
Since in the Enneagram system for thinking about things it is written that people like me are doomed to poverty because of their own false promises to docetic idols, I'll never be able to afford professional entertainers to amuse me when I feel despondent. Another reason I've been condemned to poverty is because I was taught to do things for myself instead of hiring professionals. It's cheaper, and a good reason to have more kids if I could do that any more. I can't even afford to pay someone to do it for me.
Using other people or rather using their money is the most admired system for becoming financially independent invented so far. I'm thinking maybe the reason the idea of kings coming into ex-is-tense was to grasp the possibilities evinced by the delegation of authority.
Simultaneously, there is another way. An appropriate way to rid oneself of the responsibilities associated with delegating authority by abandoning desire. If you don't need the results accomplished by groups working together under the leadership of a literal (or for all practical purposes) king, then why be burdened by form without content? Retreat by feigning insanity?
In my frequently ignored opinion, many people get controlled by their subjective, trumped-up desire for respect among their peers. Some consider it disrespectful to their family and friends by daring to pretend to a world-view outside of their own litter box. Why risk being shunned by those who have pretended to love you as social contract? You might get told, "You just ain't right, boy!", and get rudely pulled back into the crab bucket. Some are afraid they'll be accused of being crazy if they don't toe their culture's lines. Which begs the question to be asked: How can you abide with the pain of ridicule long enough to learn to ignore it, and thus, abandon that particular ship of fools? It may not be possible, but some say It may have to be carried out by remaining mentally balanced while pretending otherwise. Many homo sapiens have a predictable, instinctual response to paradox. "It takes two bowls..."
Paradox as misdirection can be used to create a cloud of confusion in which retreat appears as a state of flow. Just walk away. Don't wait until they resolve the paradox on their own terms. Such can be taken by some that the confusion of paradox is a deliberate act of provocation. As if they've been taken for a sucker. The idea is to be constantly vigilant in order to abandon common sense and mutual respect for an escape route, and a fanciful mirage to hide behind if some belligerent spoilsport can't take a joke. '-)
What this has to do with event horizons can seem puzzling at first. Castenada claimed that prowling the event horizon was a great and greedy eagle that breeds humans in order to steal the consciousness they develop during their brief lives. The trick is to trick the eagle into accepting the flashy persona you've used to give added-value to the spirit, instead of the docetic spirit that accompanies the body throughout.
If you have stored your treasures on Earth, and what you have here as a human is all you know and all you know to value, then when this tiny little solar system gets pulled into the black hole past the event horizon at the center of what we call The Milky Whey, it's all over but the screaming... well, and the screeching too. '-)
How can your focus on erecting icons to matter on pedestals like the Earth when you know it's gonna be gobbles up eventually by some black hole. Sickness, war, old age, and Death are yo' friends. They force humans to abandon hope for storing up treasures on Earth. Why do that if your physical body is not immortal, and the un-nay-me-able, docetic spirit doesn't remember the abstract corner you painted yourself in from one lifetime to the next? How can you ignore watching your body waste away without eventually realizing you're not gonna be around to enjoy those "treasures"?
If your children have any sense at all they will decide to hate you in order to follow their own spirit that condemned them to coming to Earth School. If you had any sense you'd never have children, and the band plays on.
I disclaim knowing the truth except in real time. By the time you read this what I tried to describe in real time is mere history. An embarrassment really. It reveals my addiction to capturing drifting thoughts with words. Some I make up to suit the occasion. Why would I not? You're only gonna read what you would have meant if you had written these sa-me words. I pretend to address that pretense in anticipation and for the sole purpose of my own amusement. Selah
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
