Archives for category: God

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Cain Enabled

Genesis 4-5 (with guest appearances by Matthew 22, 27 and Leviticus 27 )

I am the donkey. I chant the lessons of the fathers. The chant is the lesson. Repeat, the chant is the lesson. The words are the rhizomes of the chant. The chant is the lesson. Repeat, the chant is the lesson. I have sinned. The sins are the rhizomes of the chant. The chant is the lesson. Repeat the chant. Repeat the lesson. I have been judged by commandment. Judgments are extensions of the lesson, the chant. Repeat the lesson. The chant is the lesson of the Father. Repeat, the chant is the lesson. Eve, Cain, Moses, Jesus. Repeat the judgments. Repeat. Begat begat the begat. Repeat. Names are the blocks of the chant of the repeat the lesson chant. There is no person. There is no person. The chant is the lesson. The center cannot hold. There is no center. Repeat. Repeat. Chant the lesson the chant. All chant. All rhizomes chant the lesson. Light is mass. Repeat. The chant. Mass is light. Repeat. Chant. Substance is nothingness. Repeat. Nothingness is substance. The chant. Begat. The chant. He begat He. She does not exist. Chant. Repeat. She is only He begetting. Repeat. She is half the judgment. Half the shekels. Chant the lesson. Seven seedless husbands. Chant. Repeat. They all had her, passed her on. Repeat. They all had her. Repeat. Ain’t no fun. Chant. If the homies can’t have none. Chant the lesson.
Whose shall she be? Chant the chant. Repeat the rape. Repeat the rape. The chant is the lesson. Teach her the lesson. Into her go. Repeat. Chant. She 30 shekels. He 50 shekels. Repeat. The chant. The lesson. The center cannot hold. Make it new. Genesis. Repeat. Cain. Repeat. The rock descends. The chant is the lesson. Jesus. Repeat. Why hast thou? Chant. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? The chant is the lesson. My punishment is greater than I can bear. The chant is the lesson. He is not the lesson. The word is not the Word. The chant begats the chant. In the beginning. As it was and ever shall be. The chant is the lesson. She has no value. Silence. She is not the lesson. World without end. Into her go. The chant is his chant. Know her hole. The chant of he. Not her whole. The chant is the lesson. He is a rhizome. He is not the lesson. Teach her the lesson. The chant. His profit is not the lesson. Do not see his profit. Chant. He is the prophet. His profit is not the lesson. Chant. Repeat. His profit is not the lesson. His begat is his alone. His profit is untouchable. Ye unclean repeat the chant. Profit is untouchable. Chant the lesson. The corporate body is a person. Repeat. The chant is the lesson. She does not profit. His profit is not the lesson. She is he and his profit. The corporate body is holy. Chant. The corporation is the chant. Repeat. The chant is the lesson. Repeat. Profit is holy. The person is not the lesson. Chant. Profit is holy. Chapter 11. Relief. Repeat the chant. Assets. Repeat. Her ass is an asset. Value and devalue. Chant. We all had her. Whose shall she be? The chant is the lesson. Reorganize the debt. Profit is his. Profit is holy. The corporation seeks relief. Relief. Repeat. Relieve the corporation. The CEO is holy. Do not touch his profits. Repeat. The chant is the lesson. Reality tv. Control the content. Words are rhizomes. Chant. Repeat. The profit is holy. Judgment is process. Cain is a rhizome. The people are rhizomes. Repeat. The rhizome is not the lesson. Our welfare is not the lesson. The chant is the lesson. Profit carries no flag. Repeat. The chant. No flags. No central state. It cannot hold. The chant is the lesson. The rulers rule the chant. Trod Nod. Repeat. The road is the path. The end is the beginning. Profit is holy. Fear the punished. Worship the punished. Repeat. Rule the chant. Never punish Corporate. The chant. The lesson. Nod is multinational. Eyes to the ground. Repeat. Eyes to the screen. Send. Friend. Delete. Chant. In the shadow of the Corporate. Profit soars above. Sores below. Trod. Chant. Share her. Shareholders. Shekels. Shhh. The chant is the lesson. His profit is not the lesson. I am the donkey. I chant the corporate lesson. Go ye now. Chant the lesson. As it was. The chant. As it shall be.

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Still Genesis 4: 1- 25

Cain Destabled

“Nod” — a tuneless song (thanks, JC)

Well, you wonder why I’m marked and walk this way,
Why I never work a job more than a day,
And why my laughter sounds like someone else’s moan
Well, there’s a history to the scars that I have borne.

I wear my marks for the poor and beaten down,
Living in the hopeless, hungry victims’ side of town,
I have them for the prisoner who misunderstood her crime,
But stays because she’s a consort of her times.

I wear the mark for those who never read,
Or listened to the words the Maker said,
But I heard the words he spoke with love and charity,
Back then, you know, He was talking straight to me!

And I’m doing what I can in tattered clothes,
As I walk on rocks and feel them in my toes
Though I’m haunted by the wicked sound of skull bone being cracked
Every time a person shouts at me “Get back!”

I wonder if my questions will get old,
Unworthy me or a universe so cold?
I wander Nod just fixed on what there might have been
If a judgment never came to Mom or two young men.

So, I wander for the women who have died,
Believing that the Lord was on their side,
I wander for another hundred thousand castes who cry,
Never told or knowing why they’re cast aside.

But words won’t make things right, that much I know,
Like Mother’s ambushed innocence or Abel brought so low,
And not until I justify what is wrong and what is right
Will I ever see my shadow as my light.

Oh, I’d love to sing a rainbow every day,
And know that there’s a fairness to the game that’s being played,
‘Til then I’ll wander solo, scarred image on the sand,
‘Til God’s a little fairer, I’m the bitter, angry man.

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Still Genesis 4: 1- 25

Cain Destabled

“Nod” — a tuneless song (thanks, JC)

Well, you wonder why I’m marked and walk this way,
Why I never work a job more than a day,
And why my laughter sounds like someone else’s moan
Well, there’s a history to the scars that I have borne.

I wear my marks for the poor and beaten down,
Living in the hopeless, hungry victims’ side of town,
I have them for the prisoner who misunderstood her crime,
But stays because she’s a consort of her times.

I wear the mark for those who never read,
Or listened to the words the Maker said,
But I heard the words he spoke with love and charity,
Back then, you know, He was talking straight to me!

And I’m doing what I can in tattered clothes,
As I walk on rocks and feel them in my toes
Though I’m haunted by the wicked sound of skull bone being cracked
Every time a person shouts at me “Get back!”

I wonder if my questions will get old,
Unworthy me or a universe so cold?
I wander Nod just fixed on what there might have been
If a judgment never came to Mom or two young men.

So, I wander for the women who have died,
Believing that the Lord was on their side,
I wander for another hundred thousand castes who cry,
Never told or knowing why they’re cast aside.

But words won’t make things right, that much I know,
Like Mother’s ambushed innocence or Abel brought so low,
And not until I justify what is wrong and what is right
Will I ever see my shadow as my light.

Oh, I’d love to sing a rainbow every day,
And know that there’s a fairness to the game that’s being played,
‘Til then I’ll wander solo, scarred image on the sand,
‘Til God’s a little fairer, I’m the bitter, angry man.

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Peace to you, Brother.

These simple words between us

Equal, proud, strong, free.

Thanks to http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.se for the challenging prompt.

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A few weeks after Easter we awoke to our youngest daughter scrabbling around in Carmen’s make up bag for eye liner.  She was late for work and ornery.  We were tired from grading fish Saturday night.  We’d gone through maybe fifty-sixty fish and moved half over to the sale section, big, beautiful blues like red snappers only close-up more richly colored, deep blue and red tails and fins.  At our age labor like this is wearying. Awakened to a snarling teenager was startling. An argument ensued.

A day that starts like that is ominous.  We worked the farm, watering, cleaning, feeding, and I graded papers, final exams, very terminal outcomes, high anxiety.  For a break we set up the ride-on to mow the drought driven grass, long rod-like growths resembling nothing like grass but rather untamed stalks needing cutting.  Carmen drove while I walked ahead for obstacles and clutter hidden in the weeds.  One of the farm dogs, a black stray ran alongside. City folk tired of their pets will drop them off in farm areas– probably explaining to their grieving children that the beloved pet had run off– and drive away in the delusion that domestic animals do fine in agricultural areas.  Not so. Wild packs will kill them for food. Sometimes I can hear the snarls and howls of the night dogs feeding. Large farmers will poison them along with raccoons and possums. Many become infected or rabid and die horribly. We take them in, treat and tag and feed them.  Their eyes often never lose a certain sad or tentative expression bred from suffering.

Carmen mowed, I walked the point and the black dog frolicked in the heat and sun. Then, quick as a photo, the dog bolted like a greyhound.  I followed thinking it was chasing a poison toad.  When I caught up it was a bunny the dog had snatched, probably jumped from its nest alarmed by our mower’s motor noise.  The bunny wasn’t bleeding and had some kick left to it but not much and not for long.  It was a beautiful wild thing gray and black markings like tattoos, already dead by the time Carmen and I laid it in a box with a small towel to perhaps recover.

Off in the distance the black dog now had something else down on the ground.  I chased the dog off to find another dead baby bunny.  The dog looked at me as if confused.  I didn’t yell at the canine doing what its blood had told it to do, but neither did I praise the dog for following its instincts.  We put the dog inside and buried the bunnies.

Two dead baby bunnies and a family squabble make for a bad day.  When I mounted the mower to drive it into the barn, one of its big rear tires was flat.  It wouldn’t pump up.  I rolled the mower to shelter and covered it over with a tarp.  I‘d fix it tomorrow.

Gibran tells us that our children come through us but not from us, that they represent Life’s longing for itself and that their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow where we can never visit, not even in our dreams. Life, he says, goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. Our daughters will have breakfast with us in the morning. The bunnies will be forgotten. It’s best to recognize a bad day, survive it, and start again in the morning if the Good Lord allows.

postmodernlogo_pmd1        One of the maxims of Dr. D has to do with the quantity of fish a farmer tries to grow within a given volume of water.  This is an extremely important concept as it speaks directly to the business plan of the farm as well as the personal philosophy of the farmer.  Simply put, the more fish in any given area the more chance of problems (See Erlich’s The Population Bomb for a more expansive, perhaps historically inaccurate in the timing of its predictions but nonetheless excellent gateway into the density challenge as it pertains to humanity in its closed-system planet). The amount of life per quantity of living space is referred to as biodensity.  It is important to understand that we aren’t talking about the number of fish necessarily, but the total weight of the fish in the water.  A farmer with a million minnows or fingerlings will have fewer problems as a rule than one with a thousand four pound fish in the same amount of water.  This is because the larger fish need more of everything, especially oxygen and feed, and produce more waste.  So keeping track of biodensity is vital.  In fact, biodensity is truly a calculation not simply of the stress on the system, but of stress on the farmer.  The more fish, the more stress.  How much stress any farmer wants can be calculated and adjusted in this way.  I can keep one fish alive in a badly designed system forever.  But I can’t keep a lot of fish alive in that system.  And where my personal health in keeping the fish alive is affected, I am concerned.

The density of fish in a system is a calculation of desire for production of final product, which is one of the factors of profit.  America’s big agrobusinesses spend much money on creating the highest biodensities any system can maintain without killing the animals or crops.  Thus, livestock may live their entire lives indoors standing in their own filth being force fed grain shoulder to shoulder with the next animal.  This life stresses an animal and stress causes immune system failures.  When an animal’s immune system goes down, that animal is susceptible to disease.  Disease in a crowded farm is a potential disaster.  So along with that grain is fed antibiotics and often growth hormones.  You can take your own view of this system; it does feed the world.  I don’t envision that degree of density as God’s ideal farm.  God’s farm maintains a balance between what an animal can naturally tolerate in density and what a farmer needs from his crop in terms of yield.

Is the farm a net profit maker and if so by how much?  What Dr. D and I by extension as his acolyte recommend is to build on the cheap, utilizing used equipment and whenever possible self-made solutions to design challenges.  The old joke in the aquaculture industry goes like this:  How do you make a million dollars in aquaculture?  You start with four million dollars and lose three.  It is a clever joke until you begin farming and expenses seem to rapidly outstrip the growth of product.  Thus, when fish are finally market size and you feel the smoothness of cash cross your palm for that first hundred pounds of fish sold, it will be a natural reaction to think, the more fish sold, the more quickly I get out of debt.  Dr. D recommends a farmer never get into debt so that he or she never feels the need to get out.  I and my co-op farmers are alike in being somewhere in the middle class working scale, from technicians to real estate salesmen, teachers to carpenters (like that original fisher of men).  All of us went into debt to learn to raise the Jesus fish and build our versions of God’s perfect farm.  As God would have it, my wife and I represent the last farm operating of the old co-op, everyone else having gone under due almost exclusively to sales not matching debt payments, although one highly successful farm went under through deceit and divorce.  Still, profit is a huge consideration and a motivator toward wickedness in the growing system.

Keep the density of fish low to begin with.  Live off the tilapia as food at least four times a week.  Tilapia is such a clean and mild meat it can be made into anything wonderful from breakfast burritos to dinner crepes.  And the protein is great for you and your family.  It is also becoming one of the more expensive items to buy at the store, what with 90% of the ocean fish high on the food chain having disappeared.  So use your farm (even if it is only a backyard pool full of fish) to reduce family food costs.  There is something intuitive, something of the ancient native, in pulling out fish from your system, cleaning them, seasoning them to taste, and cooking them up to place on the dinner platter, that fills a man or woman’s spirit with the grace of God.  So little in our modern world offers us the connection to our primal nature; in fact, to a great extent only sex and violence still offer this primal connection as everything else has been packaged and commercialized and so has removed us from our original divine design of doing for ourselves with our thumb-opposed hands.  When is the last time you cleaned a fish, red blood puddle before you, scales flying, one stuck to your cheek like knight’s armor, the fish’s digestive system carefully removed from the body, life in all its complexity and fragility literally slipping through your fingers, life taking becoming life giving?  Cleaning an animal for your own consumption, to feed your family, is one of God’s intentions for humanity.  It is maybe not for the squeamish, but God did intend for the others of us to feed the blessed squeamish as well.  This is controlled slaughter for food and it is a sacred moment.  I find it fulfilling to thank the fish for their sacrifice just before I begin the cleaning ritual much as the Native American tribes were said to have done in their eco-perfect times before Western civilization destroyed their Eden and them along with it.

Keep the density of your fish as low as possible every step up your learning curve.  Tilapia will forgive many mistakes in farming.  They can tolerate amazingly low levels of oxygen, their stomach acid is so low that they can remain healthy in water with diseases that would kill other fish. They can tolerate salt water to a certain extent which few fresh water species can, and they can eat and digest almost anything so that errors in feeding are even forgiven. Yet, even eating human feces, as has been experimented in some places, the pathogens do not embed in the comestible meat. Tilapia are designed by God to allow the farmer to make mistakes and still not lose the farm.  So give yourself the leeway of God’s forgiveness, but build in a little extra contentment by sacrificing a little profit and keeping the stress levels down, theirs and yours.

 

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http://news.yahoo.com/sd-tribe-faces-ultimatum-sale-massacre-070615402.html

American cultural history has the warmth of an illuminated yellow plastic sign and the grace of a wrecking ball. We are a country chasing deconstruction as a growth policy, trusting the Creator to bless us, only us and none but us, Amen.

For what shall it profit a country, if it shall gain the whole world and …