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...That Thing We Need...

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It's all about our courage, eh? ...Or that lack of same thereof, which festers in frustration and incurs profound disgust?  It portends our total failure to complete that *final* test—to separate the wheat from chaff, to be, perforce, our very best?

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It shows the path to shadow, which is slippery and steep! It casts us in a harrowed plight... provokes in us a fearful sleep.

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No one cops the obvious—we are lacking all control. That we're at the whim of forces far beyond what we are told...

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That our living time is borrowed; that we do not know a thing: that a sword of sullen Damocles, surely, hangs from threadbare string.

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That our science falls afoul with "lights" which pulse through timeless skies. That scientists are cowards at the "feeding trough" contrived?

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That "hard-nosed talk" is easy when you're "safe," remote—detached. See, everything you hold so dear's too quickly gone—too soon dispatched!  You and I are conscious dust, a whiff of cheap cologne, separate and apart we live... "In flight to the 'alone'."

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Go their distance; pay their price; admit, at last, they're not so nice. Proof exists of this contention. We've trod this path, but still worth mention:

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Few will honor John Ford's courage! Ford's in jail, denied—discouraged!

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Johnny Ford is less than free (!); he'd had the guts we fear, you see?

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With wit and grace...and bravery (style!), it's obvious he stayed his mile, going more than half-way—where—he reached out... found you weren't there...

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Contrive your easy, masked belligerence brave enough to act indignant; challenged by my righteous cry, you say "not so," with downcast eyes!

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And I beseech all "honored minds," a shared desire, space, and time. They, the few, who "talk the walk"; eclipse the mass who've "walked the talk." They're the ones to make grand speeches, but act, good friend, like fleas or leeches on a corpse of arcane study, they won't cop—their feet get muddy!

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They're scared of laughter, sneering peers; they won't act out—"They'll think we're queer"!  Remains John Ford for courage shown, where we accept injustice sown.  See, he may be crazy as a loon, driven such by "stooge" and "goon"; but, that won't matter, not a wit, where Ford's betrayed and innocent!

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We keep our distance from his edge which begs (beseeches!); still, we hedge!  I hope untruth's at last supplanted; we're used, betrayed, then disenchanted—lost in murky "might-have-beens" on which we, sadly, must depend.

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It's all about that lack of courage we contend with, I disparage!

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We're the ones to find out why! We're the ones to ask and try!

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We're to LIVE reality! We're to rise up from our knees!!

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We're to question obfuscations! We're to feel new elations!

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We're to live like folk, not fleas! We would have the truth now, please!

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We're the ones to press the issue; we are made of more than tissue!

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We won't crawl upon our knees! We SHALL not live the past's disease.

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We're the ones who look up high, and see the lights which thread our skies! We won't suffer to be teased, hoaxed or played... remotely squeezed. We SHALL protest their disrespect as we protest all lies and threats. We shall FIND out what we PLEASE... concerning truth—the thing we NEED!

 

 

Though, leave us not retreat reflexively to those wounded "frowny pouties," pouties facilitating obligatory  cheap-shot recriminations. Let us look, instead, into a MIRROR for the first assumption of blame or the reason for that first "thrown stone."

None of us has the dead lock nut on the aggregate craziness, and one performs a general disservice to suggest that one does. We're grains of sand on a backwater beach with regard to adjacent entelechies and their view of things: a view reflected fractally across a vast range of entelechies, if self-awareness recapitulates the same fractal expression of, seemingly, everything else, anyway! Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny everywhere else, after all... another fractal expression.  Still, one grain of sand on the aforementioned backwater beach only presumes to instruct another, eh?

McKenna nails it. You're your own Guru, or should be.

Any expressed opprobrium, of course, goes for your garden variety Shermer-smirker or hypo-literate, if rabid, faux-skeptical klasskurxian skeptibunky.  These know who they are, don't get it, and don't care.  These can pack sand past a prolapsed pore, eh?

These  personify abject regression, codified their glad repression—abrogated all progression—provide for all our sad depression!

Restore John Ford!

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