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Politics : Should God be replaced? -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Solon who wrote (15882)	9/6/2003 5:51:41 AM
From: 2MAR$	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 28931

Our sense of control over our environment (and most importantly our inner feeling state) relies mainly on the first 2 years of life when our limbic loops are being formed through interaction with (usually) MOM and her unconscious mirroring (or denial) of feeling states. I remember it well....such an intensely lived universe it was , all in formation and shadows and light intimated bright vast formless things just put of sight , that shifted the scenery of my emotions to and fro . Thrust into the swirling midst of the tyranny of being alive . which reminds me of a poem ....

To: Solon who wrote (15882)	9/6/2003 6:03:55 AM
From: 2MAR$	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 28931

The poem ...(not sure why I am posting this , but it's powerful imagery and intimations , God should be replaced by better "poe'try" !) THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo ! 't is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years — A mystic throng, bewinged, bedight In veils and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly — Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast shadowy things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo ! That motley drama — oh, be sure It shall not be forgot ! With its Phantom chased forevermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude ! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude ! It writhes ! — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued ! Out — out are the lights — out all ! And, over each dying form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the seraphs, all haggard and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man," Its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~Edgar Allen Poe

To: Solon who wrote (15882)	9/6/2003 6:21:49 AM
From: 2MAR$	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 28931

And on a sweeter note ... O Sweet O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of prurient philosophers pinched and poked thee ,has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty .how often have religions taken thee upon their scraggy knees squeezing and buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive gods (but true to the incomparable couch of death thy rhythmic lover thou answerest them only with spring) -e e cummings

To: Solon who wrote (15882)	9/6/2003 6:28:17 AM
From: 2MAR$	Respond to of 28931

SONG OF THE CLOUDS (from "The Clouds") by: Aristophanes LOUD-MAIDENS that float on forever, Dew-sprinkled, fleet bodies, and fair, Let us rise from our Sire's loud river, Great Ocean, and soar through the air To the peaks of the pine-covered mountains where the pines hang as tressed of hair. Let us seek the watch towers undaunted, Where the well-watered cornfields abound, And through murmurs of rivers nymph-haunted, The songs of the sea-waves resound; And the sun in the sky never wearies of spreading his radiance around. Let us cast off the haze Of the mists from our band, Till with far-seeing gaze We may look on the land. Cloud-maidens that bring the rain shower, To the Pallas-loved land let us wing, To the land of stout heroes and Power, Where Kekrops was hero and king, Where honor and silence is given To the mysteries that none may declare, Where are gifts to the high gods in heaven When the house of the gods is laid bare, Where are lofty roofed temples, and statues well carven and fair; Where are feasts to the happy immortals When the sacred procession draws near, Where garlands make bright the bright portals At all seasons and months in the year; And when spring days are here, Then we tread to the wine-god a measure, In Bacchanal dance and in pleasure, 'Mid the contests of sweet singing choirs, And the crash of loud lyres.