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The Spirit of the Lord is Upon me.

This is a piece I wrote several years ago during a time of my Soul’s ferment.  It is not a religious statement by any means.  It is quite the opposite.  While I was indeed raised in a religious culture and have degrees in theology, and philosophy, and depth psychology, etc., blah, blah, blah. (Not a big deal at all.  I just wrote a bunch of papers to get another piece of paper to hang on the wall.)  This was a search for Truth.

This is also an experiment with a new pulgin to automatically posts WP offerings to the blockchain of Steemit.  I found it at scottyeager on Steemit.  Click on scotty’s name and find the article.  Now let’s see if it works. 🙂

The Spirit of the lord is upon me.
Because He anointed me to preach the Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the Captives,
And Recovery of sight to the blind,
To set free those who are oppressed,
To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.
(Luke 4:18-19)

I believe in and receive the anointing to bring the Good News to the poor. But what message shall I bring? I have little use for a message worn and tattered by time and culture’s change in context. The Message, the Truth is eternal but the voices carrying it fade in the breeze. They lack relevance to my habitation and pattern. They lack a quickening resonance which sets the heart aflame.

The messengers are full of answers to questions I have not asked. They are either unaware of, or avoid that which lies dormant, a weight carried in the bowels of my being. But I am poor. How long since the yearnings of my heart have motivated me to action, either right or wrong? For the most part I remain stoic as the poor, smiling through teeth clenched in resignation. Resigned to the idea that dreams may indeed be just fantasy, That the “glorious” yearnings of my heart were merely the function of biology.

There are as many ways to be captive as there are to be poor. My poverty and captivity is that of the heart and mind. The stagnation that manifests on the material plane is neither hopelessness, laziness, nor fear. There is no dream to motivate and inspire belief and creativity. It has all been done before.

I am imprisoned within the trite, opaque walls of a stereotype. To succumb, to ride cynicism as a lover is the way many go. She is a loyal bitch, yet bitch she is. Or I could write out the story as a morality tale. Do this. Don’t do that. Perhaps the Law could help me regain my honor. Then I could write books and give speeches to the unwashed. I could become a hollow Wizard and refuse to face the Witch.

But, one is as much a prison as the other. Morality as rules, is a tyrannical pimp. To exchange one captivity for the other is vanity. To give one’s soul for the illusory comfort of the current zeitgeist is profane. Is there no other path? I would that I might find it and show it to my children. O’ that they might dwell in creativity, well outside the walls of stereotype.

But today my eyes are shut and the pathway eludes me. I am blind as well as captive. I see yet I do not trust my sight. Past visions once sharply defined on my horizon, shimmering in the heat of my want, were false. Some are easy to dismiss. Some were truly immoral. Some caused pain and loss. Others were “right” and “good” yet I found myself lacking in the midst of their abundance.

Surely it was I who lacked. Surely I am the mirage. The eyes through which I’ve seen have failed me. O’ for the eyes to see and the ears to hear!

But how am I oppressed? Do I not possess food, shelter, friends, and opportunity denied others? If I am oppressed it is the oppression of the mundane, the stereotype, and the false. It can take many forms. Religion, morality, achievement, addiction, and rebellion all can deaden the soul’s cry for life. They can oppress, smother, and wear down the captive’s capacity to live as if freedom were possible. It is the living “as if” that allows eternity to break into time and create an alternate plane of existence here. He said “the Kingdom is among you. Can you not see it?”

The captive moves between the polarities of good and bad, opposite sides of the same coin, the medium of exchange in the economy of the soul. But good and bad are deceptive propositions. The game of good vs. bad is a distraction. For there is none “good” but the Maker. The soul is neither good nor bad. It is either living or dying. It is either moving toward viability and life, or moving toward the impossible and ruin. The soul is addicted, bound to ritual, a particular morality, or it is free.

The Law is oppression and death. Creativity, Being, and Life are the Soul’s true habitation.

Just when is the favorable year? On whose calendar is it marked? Do the poor get a copy? Are the captives kept in the loop? Is there a braille edition for the blind? Do the oppressed have access?

Should then the stories prove true, time is an illusion and there is no favorable year or month or week or day. The Creator is either on our side or He is not. Perhaps the measurement has to do with our perception that time is made of the same stuff as eternity, that somehow eternity is endless time. Perhaps it is that we need some sense of perspective that measuring the stuff gives. But in the end all of eternity is for us and not against us. It must be. So that every year is the favorable year and every month is the favorable month and every week is the favorable week and every day is The Favorable Day of the Lord.

It is surely true that our poverty, captivity, blindness, and oppression are all of our own making. It can be, but it is not necessarily acts of volition, but rather our ignorance and immaturity in tension with the innocent and fierce Soul’s longings for Life.

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What if the World is Flat – Flags and Fags and Pants that Sag

What if the World is flat after all

What would that mean

Would it alter my steps

Would it change the axis around which I spin

They say it is a spinning sphere

Hung like a blue marble in black space

But They say lots of things and it changes like the wind blowing this way and that

They used to say it was flat

Pluto used to be a planet too

Then it was not, now who knows

Can someone remind me if eggs are still bad for you

Is it Global Warming or Global Cooling or just Change now

It is hard to keep up between seasons of American Idol and Netflix marathons

It is hard work whoring myself for the next newest shiny thing They say I must have to be complete

I need to turn on the programming written for my particular demographic to get my bearings

Let’s see . . . what trifle shall I mediate on today

Whose direction will fill my thoughts and be parroted with borrowed words

Am I against Christians or Gay people, Black or White Devils or the manipulated Mexicans brought in to fill a growing gap

Do I care more about puppies than baby parts

Will I kill you over an idea that you are an idea, a label not a soul

Existential unnamed rage projected onto the stereotypes injected into my mind

Or will today be a time to remember that I forgot to feel terrorized

By the ones They have created, pissed on and off, and financed

Cause if I am angry about flags and fags or pants that sag I won’t consider

It will never enter my mind that perhaps I am asleep dreaming I am awake in this hall of mirrors

A prison of half-truth and misdirection, held captive by the cage created in my mind

Fighting for the crumbs from Master’s table that I have built and even now sustain

Righteous anger aimed amiss is an impotent thing and is no threat to Them

It only tightens the noose and the more I struggle the less I can breathe

That is why it was said to turn the other cheek.  It dissipates Their power

They feed off the struggle of the pawns and the knights, the bishops and the royal court who think they are players

But no, they are being played, both king and pawn.

The game is played above their heads with pillars and ladders to heaven

Whether one travels a space at a time or the length of the board it is still on the square, boundaries defined by the Makers of the game

Rules and moves defined, determined by demographic, groups magically manipulated by the illusion of averages and statistics

Groups cannot think, only individual souls might consider that there may be better questions that would reveal the real play

A soul might pause and wonder why is it that they ask Them for permission to marry in the first place or why it is we seek a right that we already posses

A soul may ask how it is that we have surrendered our authority to smiling sorcerers and devils that claim to own this world and us through Divine Right

Birthright traded for a bowl of beans, distraction of their fertility rituals, and conjured safety

For They promise security and solutions from threats and problems They created

They break my legs and I gratefully accept the crutches They provide from my labor

And I will continue to eat the poisoned food and water They make available then come flaccid and fat and weak, hat in hand begging my Masters for Healthcare

I will not give a moment’s thought to Their mass genocide, drug trade, trafficking in children for sex, starvation of tens of thousands because it is convenient, expedient for Them

No, but I will fight for my right to remain a slave to the business of the MON EYE god they serve, stay discontent in my little cube as they offer me up as a sacrifice to the Lord of the Rings

It is all business, nothing personal, I am a number, a member of a group and have grown accustomed to my bondage

My chains may be of iron or gold yet chains they remain

And I will be on guard to protect my status

It is what I have traded for my empty, grasping, and envious soul

I have become my own prison guard policing myself and others ever watchful for the code words that signal a breach in the walls of my demographic

Cracker, Nigger, Faggot, they change through the years and the current context of culture

They are a function not a person, but if I am a statistic what do I know of spells and incantations spoken over me from my birth

Flags and Fags and pants that Sag are the current code words which illicit the predictable preprogrammed patterned response

I will watch as they change business models based on trends and temperament of the slaves

Socialism, Capitalism, Fascism, Communism, are all isms and ocracys and any will serve them at need

It is all the same game to them and they need good ignorant slaves whatever They call them or the system dejure

Even if one wants to be a “good” Master, they still want to be Master

But, what if the world is flat after all

What would that mean

Would it alter my steps

I think not.  They come one yard at the time either way

I encounter one soul at the time too.  I have never met an average or a median or mean

Men and women and boys and girls given rights by their Creator

Given seeds and water and earth and resources for life in love and grace, not walking death and slavery

Real change happens in the heart and the mind as we awaken and shake off the webs they weave

They can only do what we allow, it is all a head game played by our leave

No is the most powerful word

There is no need to fight anything but the fear and the addiction to what does not satisfy anyway


P.S. It is interesting that the UN uses a Flat Earth map.  What’s up with that?

P.S.S.  They said it was flat, then a ball, but now use a flat map, I wonder what people will do when They tell them that the Aliens are here to save us and it is important to submit to trans-human implants?

P.S.S.S.  It all sounds crazy when it is first said.  It always has because it’s different.  It sounded crazy when they told you not to shit your pants anymore too.  Your world was shaken but you learned to handle your shit differently.

P.S.S.S.S.  The funny and sad part is that some folks will take more issue with the map and alien stuff than the slavery they are living.

P.S.S.S.S.S.  Just remember that if there is fear and a promise of safety They generated the fear and built the pens for everybody to run into.  That is the real game.

P.S.S.S.S.S.S.  Perfect love casts out fear – Love, Your Creator

🙂 Be Groovy!

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Tap-Tap-Tapping (Audio)

Обои завязанные глаза, девушка на поле ...

I wish I could write something beautiful
I wish I could write something so real that it would change how things are
I can see it in my mind, a picture so clear, I can taste it and inhale its fragrances
The desires of my heart have burned me, they have hollowed me out
The landscape of my soul has been altered
Or perhaps it is just the overgrowth that has been cleared
For now I seem to see better the rise and fall and shape of me
It seemed as if the fire would consume me and I would be no more
As the last ember died and the wind hurried away the final wisp of smoke
I remained, still there, naked, scarred, and raw, but separate somehow from all that had been
I found only dry bitter ashes and the black barren solitude of my grief
I wandered in that place, alone for many days and many nights watering the ground with my tears
Remembering what was and what could have been, wishing for what is now, Not

I hope I will write something beautiful
I hope that my Soul will find Her voice and learn to sing a new song, one that has always been
I can hear a simple sweet strain rise and fall, strangely familiar like a dream of home
For now I make my way like a blind man, sight requiring new senses
Cautiously my words tap – tap – tap before me, through the ash and the unknown
Seeking their way, reaching out, feeling for the next step along this new path
Scribbles on a page, symbols seeking structure enough to contain the melody of Her
Clever words and ego were burned in the clearing of me, the illusion of my intellect brought low
Yet with what small vision remains I catch glimpses of green arising from the soot
Life indomitable pushes through the ruin and back into the light, buds break and blossom
The landscape is bare but not barren, even the ruin enriches and reveals the soil of me
Salt tears are still needed to water this place and in my laughter new seeds are sown
What was is no longer, what is to come is yet to be, so Now patient I wait, just tap – tap – tapping

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Arthur and Oz (Audio)

“Run away,” they cried.  Coconut shells beating out the rhythm.

On a quest, foolish tasks, tests with no purpose

Stupid King with no kingdom, only coconuts

Grail vision at least lead them toward their fear

White bunny, Holy hand grenades, battle won

Movie within a movie

Fear is like that

It is not the enemy, it is a guidepost pointing toward what is illusion


Left home in a storm, betrayed left unprotected, vulnerable

Toto barks at opportunity for change

Advice from Munchkins followed, seeking Wizard, the honest liar

Can’t think, can’t feel, no courage, yet moves toward source of dread

Fix me, broomstick in hand, unaware of victory, angry

Fear is like that

Dream within a dream

Red shoes already on her feet, she just needs to want to go home


The white bunny always points the way out of the show

The way out of Oz is always through the Witch’s castle

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Fishing in the Weeds (Audio)


I recognized that look.

It originates in the depths, in the dark, in the unknown.

That place where restlessness never sleeps even when engaged in conversation, prayer, love, play, work, travel, or dance.

Unconsciously seeking, scanning, assessing for that shape, that fragrance, that sound, that taste which would satiate the hunger of the heart, that which would quench the thirst of the soul.

At times ravenous, at times less demanding but never completely still, never at rest.

Restless eyes never still.

It’s not their fault.

They are not aware of the hunger much less that they search.

The object is therefore unfathomable.

Endless loop, boredom, interest, excitement, disappointment.

Becoming more and more bitter.

Tired, torn, and ragged from the search.

Seeking that which is unnamed, unseen, just desire cast upon a world of people doing the same thing.

Hooks cut and mangle soul as they are ripped and yanked out of flesh and spirit.

Like fishing blind and in the weeds.

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