About to leave my perch by Lake Edison--been laying about, eating a bit more, working on getting into Pynchon's _Mason & Dixon_.
A memorable moment two days ago now was listening to the Librivox reading of Plato's _Apologia_. The reading by a Detroit priest and the translation I find compelling, and the personality of Socrates something I can't recall having encountered anywhere for a very long time. Ideas such as: (my attempts at paraphrasing) "Man should do what he believes right regardless of concerns for his safety or situation in life."; "To maintain a known good I will not avoid what may or may not be good (death)"; "From virtue all else follows." (Franklin does mention Socrates); "I have a sense that tells me what not to do, but never what to do; this I always obey, and so I do not enter politics, and anyway, were I to do so, with my devotion to truth, I would have been killed long ago."
The oddness of the whole scenario as well makes it compelling--I haven't finished it yet, but a man is being sentenced to death for being annoying (on the surface). This man has got the idea (from the god/oracle) that he is the most wise of all, and his mission (from the gods) is to go around verifying that. He believes this leads to the betterment of everyone due to people who thought themselves wise and perhaps deceiving others to think so too being exposed in their ignorance.
Well, that scenario is not too uncommon, except that here, the annoyer gets the best press and the powerful (and the average) are shown to be harming everyone, even if, or even partly because they still sentence Socrates to die. I can't recall any other literary/dramatic/mythic situation where the one being got rid of is still respected enough or given enough power to--with rhetoric, logic, argument--expose to their faces (and to a sympathetic court audience?) without a doubt how foolish, ungodly, wrong are the charges against him.
It is as if in power are three fools, and everyone, and they themselves know themselves to be fools, and yet everyone still gives the three fools power to kill.
--
I'm not yet done pondering the effect of Socrates's example on my feelings and ideas about how to act.
Most everyone is, as he says, doing the best they can to get on. But he is sent from the gods--As shown by his neglect of concern about wealth and retirement and a potentially untimely end.
I don't consider myself showing great virtue, but I do seem to share this sense of what not to do. But as a result, I do not act in the world, such as by acquiring property, doing/teaching permaculture, being a force for positive progress in various ways.
Most everyone is running about, concerned about getting on in ways material, familial, spiritual, ecological. I'm sort of just stopping[?]. Letting it all go by. Not even trying to develop in any way (though I did earlier mention getting out of a rut, facing, overcoming fear of unknowns).
As it happens, doing this I can grow more and more out of the realms I used to be in.
I used to, when I lived with more despair than now, imagine a [not un]happy future as [1] an old man on a park bench watching things go by--or [2] as a tree.
Now I doubt it will be that way, but rather as a grungy hobo, staying out of the way.
The cleanliness issue (of any worn garment), the weatherbeatenness of appearance, these are instant separating and distancing factors.
My friend Don and other aboriginal skills people seem to be positively--somewhat happily--acculturated modern people who have these weatherbeaten, grungy (or all hand-made garment) aspects, besides those we usually refer to as the urban/rural homeless.
So, you start acting differently than you used to, you start to become more different from the population you may have once fit into more or less. And those whom you used to know may be dismayed should they encounter you again.
A monk shaves hair, wears robe; others grow hair and if they wear clothes, those get dirty.
Because this preoccupation with cleanliness as a virtue differentiating the civilized from the savage. . . well, it seems to be a harming thing. [It seems to exist]For all but abo/origin skills & green anarchist gatherings, maybe permaculture gatherings. . .
Oh well--I wonder what it will be like to be grungy in Mexico and elsewhere.
Efforts can be made to not stand out so much as living close to the earth and pinesap--if there's reason.
--
Another point for contemplation, by the way, was my writing of the tiredness of having to choose--of the "I want to die" thought coming at the idea of always having to come out of peace or engagement to choose direction again.
Well, clearly, that's an example of being overwhelmed, out of tune with the Dao, or however you want to say it.
So I watch for that sense more. And after hearing Socrates, for some reason-- perhaps his focus on his mission from the gods, perhaps just his attitude and vigor--I began to ask, "Why choose at all?" or, at least, why get exasperated about having to choose--
[I also considered: there is no choice: I am a given; any options & variables are too; when one encounters the others, there will be one result. And got to pondering a bit about fate, free will, and Covey's "between stimulus and response their is a gap/freedom." Ultimately this just led to the idea of being more patient--I think--keeping the idea in mind that any outcome is somewhat forgone and that I need not get stressed about having to make choices.]
I can't say much more than that now, except that recently, I've been watching for the exasperation (self-caused) at some perceived choice, and then, sort of, choosing not to choose.
There are many and yet two main ways I was once considering as possible to walk once I get up.
I had not got up earlier partly due to a waning of enthusiasm for wandering isolated forests for hours on unmaintained trails.
Well none of those considerations may matter much. When the time comes, I'll get up. I'll go some way. And so on.
A recent example of not choosing that stands out was the choice of getting on the bus to Mammoth and all that happened from there. The attitude was, "well, who knows?"
I still ultimately ended my adventures with Gianni and others I met and returned to this larger chosen, constructed plan, but--well that whole thing did feel more like hopping into a flow (, then getting out, drying off).
In a way this feels like letting external things chart one's path. Or relinquishing will, the idea of identity, schemes, plans. Even "common sense," virtue.
Ceasing to be what most people (I?) think of to be a person.
Well, it's a new experiment--at least it signals more awareness about that self-induced exasperation that brings awareness of not enjoying living.
--
Last note is I may be where there's no cell reception for two weeks--the way things have been going that seems unlikely, but if nothing from me for two, even three weeks, I'm somewhere between Lake Edison and Sequioa National Park [or even Kernville--tentative end-of-September destination] living off the excess hiker food from Vermilion VR & Muir Trail Ranch and will emerge, at the latest, when that runs out.
2008-08-26-1629
Peace,
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
prissy not
2008-08-24-1034 Ever heaven, ever wrong. I need not accept it, perhaps, but my friends left trash, at least a receipt, probably the rest was theirs, mostly just their freeze-dried food bag filled with stuff, and other scraps and litter and a plastic single-use shopping bag, the kind being banned. The receipt was the asian guy from Gaithersburg's for fishing gear, dated 8/20.
I was frolicking around suitless in my private, eternally-flowing pools, several nearly olympic size, warm enough, though not for too long, with elements of danger: could I be sucked down, and not able to get back--walls too sheer, current too strong? But all was well, and after the above discovery went back for my until-then-unused goggles, and then I could see the fish.
Now warming in the sun about to walk on south--those other guys were returning north to their car. I do not fathom what I have witnessed here [a lover's quarrel, a rushed night-time departure, did I disturb their isolation?]. These were the trekking-pole type--but that's nearly anyone with extra $. So, ever heaven, ever wrong. And they're headed to Paiute Canyon (North Lake Trailhead), then French Canyon, Pine Canyon, and going some cross-country (off-trail) places too. I've run into or heard of quite a few people going off-trail out here.
Happily, only around this spot, Cassidy Bridge, have I found so much trash, but usually I don't hang out where others camp.
1107
Peace,
I was frolicking around suitless in my private, eternally-flowing pools, several nearly olympic size, warm enough, though not for too long, with elements of danger: could I be sucked down, and not able to get back--walls too sheer, current too strong? But all was well, and after the above discovery went back for my until-then-unused goggles, and then I could see the fish.
Now warming in the sun about to walk on south--those other guys were returning north to their car. I do not fathom what I have witnessed here [a lover's quarrel, a rushed night-time departure, did I disturb their isolation?]. These were the trekking-pole type--but that's nearly anyone with extra $. So, ever heaven, ever wrong. And they're headed to Paiute Canyon (North Lake Trailhead), then French Canyon, Pine Canyon, and going some cross-country (off-trail) places too. I've run into or heard of quite a few people going off-trail out here.
Happily, only around this spot, Cassidy Bridge, have I found so much trash, but usually I don't hang out where others camp.
1107
Peace,
motive-seeking; Charles Pinkston
2008-08-24-0641 I was laying here, post dream-world, seeking motivating force. I have a reprieve from hunger/nutrition-yearning (my healthfood, nutrient-rich, calorie-poor rations from my resupply bucket have been getting somewhat unexciting--though I was getting a bit sleeker--leading to desire to arrive at Vermilion Valley Resort soon.): three 3.75-ounce tins of smoked clams, two of oysters, one of vienna wieners (can't remember exactly what those things are called & no label) left behind in a messy site, which I did clean up a bit and will pack some stuff out of. These will help. I may have been needing more cholesterol, fat, or I'm not sure what. My fat this time is the coconut threads. They satiate me but do not energize me as much as the parmesan. I ate the last two of these tins just now.
An early thought was amazement at the richness of the dream world. I sleep more out here than I did in my SD rut. More elaborateness of dreams appears, or more is remembered.
Another thought: my friends across the river appear to be gone. A spot like this-- Cassidy Bridge, across the San Joaquin River--on the weekend, I'd think to find more people. The trail is poorly maintained, though, and, it seems, many trails through areas designated "wilderness", besides the PCT &JMT, are infrequently traveled and poorly maintained. The river is warm here, and has a deep pool. After crossing the bridge only waving to them, I swam back across in the dusk to say hi. Two middle-aged--one white, one asian--guys, professional, well-to-do, from Modesto and DC (formerly Bay Area). Central valley towns interest me. A part of CA I've yet to spend much time in. The cultural contrast between JMT / high sierra hikers (like these guys) and the ones with stock animals who might drive in to a trailhead for the weekend. . . and leave tins of smoked meats behind for me--is something I wonder about.
I was on the topic of waking up, returning to, attempting to find, motivating force. I noted those guys were gone. Other thoughts: I never find myself in dreams as I do now, seeking motive. The forward compulsion, the push to do, seems ever-acting. It is as if, in the dream, the only noted events and memories are when there is something to react to: the river is rising, my quilt is getting wet, boats drift away, and we were to care for these. Now it is snowing hard. A friend has come to visit grandma, who says, with usual demeanor and energy, she's caught cold and is dying. Her friend eats a raw fish. I later go out to get some cereal from a hiker-barrel-like-barrel that is on railroad tracks out where the rising river used to be. Some of the workers reacted to me getting this--but many were drunk, or in the process of leaving for a party from the other half of what was now a duplex. I begin to expect a train to come along and attempt to get the track in order, switches right, but, a section of rails near where the cereal barrel was, I am not finding.
In a related story, I'm with some school-aged (7th-8th grade) friends, Charles Pinkston (sp?), Michael Wilhelm (sp?), and Kyle Decker (now McQuiston?; 3rd grade) made appearance too. A part focus was fantastic visual poems, not unlike the graphic novels (e.g., _Maus_), only these were one page or smaller. Wilhelm and my curiosity got me reading one aloud, or trying to, but it was hard to follow how to read it given the combination and jumbling of words and images. For some reason, Wilhelm wasn't guiding me well, and after, or during, a bus change (Wilhelm may have got us off in the wrong place), Pinkston brought out another of these poems, smaller (~a nearly square section of a dollar), more fantastic, and I began stumbling through that. Pinkston seemed to know how it could be done, or to have a deeper understanding of it.
A way to know you're dreaming, perhaps: read the same text twice and it changes (thanks to Richard's presentation on lucid dreaming at Barcamp SD 3).
Well, the main point was, in the dream there never seems to be this time for reflection.
Morning motive-seeking thoughts turned to the example of Benjamin Franklin, who I've heard more of now (via Librivox audiobook). He was an active, aware culture-channeler if ever there was one.
He had dreams of a world-wide political party or club of "men of virtue." And in reality sort of made a little one (limit 12), called, as near as I can tell, the Junta (J=h sound). Which eventually spawned a few others.
Once, I had my schemes, e.g., the being group.
Franklin, in the morning would ask, "what good shall I do today?"; in the evening, "what good have I done today?" He helped others.
Well, it is definitely the "others" part that has got to me. I'm not sure what to make of, how to interact with the other. In the past I've thought it a type of autism/asperger's, but that was fashionable, may still be.
What to do about, to make of, the undeniably social aspect of being.
Just flailing now, losing coherency perhaps, but in my situation, I've questioned masses of characteristics of the culture, failed to embrace, and so head off to subculture / sect land. Only, where I'm headed, there is no sect, only a recognition that the practice of the wandering, disconnected (relatively) individual is nothing new, will never be, only difference now being it may be easier to collect a broad range of the stories about these people (as was done in part of _Into the Wild_, _Encounters with Chinese Hermits_). Should there ever be a mass movement of these wandering simple livers, will we say anything of consequence to each other as we pass on the trail, or in our kayaks along some deserted coastline? Perhaps, "how's the trail ahead?", or not even that, because the ambiguities, frivolities of that question already begin to overwhelm.
Here, my talk is largely one-way. I limit incoming communication, interaction by living this way. The incoming I've allowed has been a few of the emails that still go my way, the audiobooks, the ebooks, some of the people and things I meet along the way. One of the biggest live-person incomings, by the way, was during my rides with two truck drivers one day long ago on the way here.
I think I could work with someone (others) who felt and relished/wallowed in the ambiguities of life and interaction as much as I do.
But it might have to be a woman (my attraction to her) or a gay man (his to me) for us to remain interacting where, out here, each is free to walk off any which way, and who, like me, is likely to be at a point in life where a type of independence, aloneness has been known and adapted to for so long, that sustained interaction with others/another would require a compelling reason to adapt to. Another scenario is the adult-child interaction--
Rambling mind stopped (momentarily)--I stretch my arms, make a sound, look around.
0850
Peace,
An early thought was amazement at the richness of the dream world. I sleep more out here than I did in my SD rut. More elaborateness of dreams appears, or more is remembered.
Another thought: my friends across the river appear to be gone. A spot like this-- Cassidy Bridge, across the San Joaquin River--on the weekend, I'd think to find more people. The trail is poorly maintained, though, and, it seems, many trails through areas designated "wilderness", besides the PCT &JMT, are infrequently traveled and poorly maintained. The river is warm here, and has a deep pool. After crossing the bridge only waving to them, I swam back across in the dusk to say hi. Two middle-aged--one white, one asian--guys, professional, well-to-do, from Modesto and DC (formerly Bay Area). Central valley towns interest me. A part of CA I've yet to spend much time in. The cultural contrast between JMT / high sierra hikers (like these guys) and the ones with stock animals who might drive in to a trailhead for the weekend. . . and leave tins of smoked meats behind for me--is something I wonder about.
I was on the topic of waking up, returning to, attempting to find, motivating force. I noted those guys were gone. Other thoughts: I never find myself in dreams as I do now, seeking motive. The forward compulsion, the push to do, seems ever-acting. It is as if, in the dream, the only noted events and memories are when there is something to react to: the river is rising, my quilt is getting wet, boats drift away, and we were to care for these. Now it is snowing hard. A friend has come to visit grandma, who says, with usual demeanor and energy, she's caught cold and is dying. Her friend eats a raw fish. I later go out to get some cereal from a hiker-barrel-like-barrel that is on railroad tracks out where the rising river used to be. Some of the workers reacted to me getting this--but many were drunk, or in the process of leaving for a party from the other half of what was now a duplex. I begin to expect a train to come along and attempt to get the track in order, switches right, but, a section of rails near where the cereal barrel was, I am not finding.
In a related story, I'm with some school-aged (7th-8th grade) friends, Charles Pinkston (sp?), Michael Wilhelm (sp?), and Kyle Decker (now McQuiston?; 3rd grade) made appearance too. A part focus was fantastic visual poems, not unlike the graphic novels (e.g., _Maus_), only these were one page or smaller. Wilhelm and my curiosity got me reading one aloud, or trying to, but it was hard to follow how to read it given the combination and jumbling of words and images. For some reason, Wilhelm wasn't guiding me well, and after, or during, a bus change (Wilhelm may have got us off in the wrong place), Pinkston brought out another of these poems, smaller (~a nearly square section of a dollar), more fantastic, and I began stumbling through that. Pinkston seemed to know how it could be done, or to have a deeper understanding of it.
A way to know you're dreaming, perhaps: read the same text twice and it changes (thanks to Richard's presentation on lucid dreaming at Barcamp SD 3).
Well, the main point was, in the dream there never seems to be this time for reflection.
Morning motive-seeking thoughts turned to the example of Benjamin Franklin, who I've heard more of now (via Librivox audiobook). He was an active, aware culture-channeler if ever there was one.
He had dreams of a world-wide political party or club of "men of virtue." And in reality sort of made a little one (limit 12), called, as near as I can tell, the Junta (J=h sound). Which eventually spawned a few others.
Once, I had my schemes, e.g., the being group.
Franklin, in the morning would ask, "what good shall I do today?"; in the evening, "what good have I done today?" He helped others.
Well, it is definitely the "others" part that has got to me. I'm not sure what to make of, how to interact with the other. In the past I've thought it a type of autism/asperger's, but that was fashionable, may still be.
What to do about, to make of, the undeniably social aspect of being.
Just flailing now, losing coherency perhaps, but in my situation, I've questioned masses of characteristics of the culture, failed to embrace, and so head off to subculture / sect land. Only, where I'm headed, there is no sect, only a recognition that the practice of the wandering, disconnected (relatively) individual is nothing new, will never be, only difference now being it may be easier to collect a broad range of the stories about these people (as was done in part of _Into the Wild_, _Encounters with Chinese Hermits_). Should there ever be a mass movement of these wandering simple livers, will we say anything of consequence to each other as we pass on the trail, or in our kayaks along some deserted coastline? Perhaps, "how's the trail ahead?", or not even that, because the ambiguities, frivolities of that question already begin to overwhelm.
Here, my talk is largely one-way. I limit incoming communication, interaction by living this way. The incoming I've allowed has been a few of the emails that still go my way, the audiobooks, the ebooks, some of the people and things I meet along the way. One of the biggest live-person incomings, by the way, was during my rides with two truck drivers one day long ago on the way here.
I think I could work with someone (others) who felt and relished/wallowed in the ambiguities of life and interaction as much as I do.
But it might have to be a woman (my attraction to her) or a gay man (his to me) for us to remain interacting where, out here, each is free to walk off any which way, and who, like me, is likely to be at a point in life where a type of independence, aloneness has been known and adapted to for so long, that sustained interaction with others/another would require a compelling reason to adapt to. Another scenario is the adult-child interaction--
Rambling mind stopped (momentarily)--I stretch my arms, make a sound, look around.
0850
Peace,
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Conception; nibbles on being
2008-08-23-0835 Perfect--that's how things are. Here to play. I was, earlier, wandering into great thoughts. I could follow the culture channeled by others in the afternoons; I could see where my being wanders--what passes through this undirected node--before then. G. Ann: "As I say: I don't turn on the TV before noon."
I am near a deserted creek crossing. The washed-out bridge has been rebuilt downstream. The only sounds: creek--Granite Creek--, wind, birds, bugs, and the munch of ants' jaws as I am tested for edibility.
Looking down to shallow pools, little trout; pools in the worn granite.
Conceptions, billions of them, walking around. Looking deeply (a Thich Nhat Hanh phrase) at a being, I see the moment of origination. The initiation of mixing and copying.
Looking deeply, also, I see human minds-- my own, this afternoon--seeking direction. The mind reading this.
We're more than seeking mind?
Benjamin Franklin, for him, once, access to information was the good.
Now: access to from where info--conception.
The novel, easy on the mind, because, till novel ends, mind need not wonder, can rush on, rush on. Not always easy though to find reading mind is happy to follow.
The novel suits the onrushing, ever-twitching, ant-like & bear-like (when they seek food), behavior of the loosed mind. Follow me!
Or, reading, more generally.
No answers here, other than give mind hours per day to wander, not immediately directed, affected by others. Does this require isolation? If others are around, reflexively, I react, unless, perhaps, through meditation I have made them "ripples on the surface of being" (Eckhart Tolle phrase).
May be time to walk on. Mind is empty as the blue sky, as the breeze, templado, temperate as it is.
Seekers, questioners, choosers! From where comes seeking?
From where, choosing?
From where, the question?
From where the conception
that it is time to walk on?
Can you live if you ask?
Can you not ask?
And what is good? --As B. Franklin prayed to be guided toward. And what is the good of _our_ time? Where and to what actions are we now guided if we stop and listen, follow?
I am not guided toward the roads that cars drive down. I am not guided to where mind-numbing, preoccupying food is always too easily got. I am guided to where ants nibble nipples near ripples.
Aha! Something cries: "The future! What about the future?"
"Great action! What about action?"
"Contentment. What about that?"
What about this culture flow? Could it be that more and more will live with less because less is all needed, wanted?
Oh, we each serve/perform our function, I suppose. Given the variables encountered.
Oh Culture, flow from me! Reproduce through me! Grow by my life. Be freed by me.
Mind, you seek guidance, occupation? You seek something to devote yourself to? Love, union, joy?
I leave you with nothing but the seeking and old Wilber's remark that we're both ever seeking and ever whole and we can switch--and I guess shimmer--between the two.
Same as for the future and as for being here now, I suppose.
If you want a solid course of action: arrange to spend more time with nothing to do (yet with access to what you might want to be content, relaxed, at peace).
The only solid possibility I see following is that that freedom becomes recognized, valued, understood, cultivated. Not all that different from how freedom and time to meditate are cultivated by some.
--to the extent that that freedom is seen as as necessary as nutrition, warmth, freedom from physical, emotional violence.
In other words: a cultural transition from: "Idle hands do the Devil's work." to "Minds never idle do no real work."
They avoid the work of our time.
Not Franklin's time. Not the time after ours. When more of the world is free to let mind wander, when that ability is regarded as as necessary as sleep? to our purpose here, then that may be the time after ours.
Humanity something different then.
Is this a vision of cultural imperialism?
Is this a vision of cultural liberation, diversity, multiplicity, indigenization, freedom?
A vision of liberation of the origin of culture, of conception.
Culture comes not from the land alone (minus "alone", perhaps a Quail Springs phrase), but from the interaction of freed, seeking mind with what it finds itself in. A mind, active, is always channeled and limited, but, in general, humanity? culturemind? would benefit from minds given more freedom, less channel. And this means freedom likewise from drives, addictions, compulsions, fears.
There is always unknown. Rather than attempting to fill limited minds with limited facts, encourage minds to play with moment conception.
1501
Peace,
I am near a deserted creek crossing. The washed-out bridge has been rebuilt downstream. The only sounds: creek--Granite Creek--, wind, birds, bugs, and the munch of ants' jaws as I am tested for edibility.
Looking down to shallow pools, little trout; pools in the worn granite.
Conceptions, billions of them, walking around. Looking deeply (a Thich Nhat Hanh phrase) at a being, I see the moment of origination. The initiation of mixing and copying.
Looking deeply, also, I see human minds-- my own, this afternoon--seeking direction. The mind reading this.
We're more than seeking mind?
Benjamin Franklin, for him, once, access to information was the good.
Now: access to from where info--conception.
The novel, easy on the mind, because, till novel ends, mind need not wonder, can rush on, rush on. Not always easy though to find reading mind is happy to follow.
The novel suits the onrushing, ever-twitching, ant-like & bear-like (when they seek food), behavior of the loosed mind. Follow me!
Or, reading, more generally.
No answers here, other than give mind hours per day to wander, not immediately directed, affected by others. Does this require isolation? If others are around, reflexively, I react, unless, perhaps, through meditation I have made them "ripples on the surface of being" (Eckhart Tolle phrase).
May be time to walk on. Mind is empty as the blue sky, as the breeze, templado, temperate as it is.
Seekers, questioners, choosers! From where comes seeking?
From where, choosing?
From where, the question?
From where the conception
that it is time to walk on?
Can you live if you ask?
Can you not ask?
And what is good? --As B. Franklin prayed to be guided toward. And what is the good of _our_ time? Where and to what actions are we now guided if we stop and listen, follow?
I am not guided toward the roads that cars drive down. I am not guided to where mind-numbing, preoccupying food is always too easily got. I am guided to where ants nibble nipples near ripples.
Aha! Something cries: "The future! What about the future?"
"Great action! What about action?"
"Contentment. What about that?"
What about this culture flow? Could it be that more and more will live with less because less is all needed, wanted?
Oh, we each serve/perform our function, I suppose. Given the variables encountered.
Oh Culture, flow from me! Reproduce through me! Grow by my life. Be freed by me.
Mind, you seek guidance, occupation? You seek something to devote yourself to? Love, union, joy?
I leave you with nothing but the seeking and old Wilber's remark that we're both ever seeking and ever whole and we can switch--and I guess shimmer--between the two.
Same as for the future and as for being here now, I suppose.
If you want a solid course of action: arrange to spend more time with nothing to do (yet with access to what you might want to be content, relaxed, at peace).
The only solid possibility I see following is that that freedom becomes recognized, valued, understood, cultivated. Not all that different from how freedom and time to meditate are cultivated by some.
--to the extent that that freedom is seen as as necessary as nutrition, warmth, freedom from physical, emotional violence.
In other words: a cultural transition from: "Idle hands do the Devil's work." to "Minds never idle do no real work."
They avoid the work of our time.
Not Franklin's time. Not the time after ours. When more of the world is free to let mind wander, when that ability is regarded as as necessary as sleep? to our purpose here, then that may be the time after ours.
Humanity something different then.
Is this a vision of cultural imperialism?
Is this a vision of cultural liberation, diversity, multiplicity, indigenization, freedom?
A vision of liberation of the origin of culture, of conception.
Culture comes not from the land alone (minus "alone", perhaps a Quail Springs phrase), but from the interaction of freed, seeking mind with what it finds itself in. A mind, active, is always channeled and limited, but, in general, humanity? culturemind? would benefit from minds given more freedom, less channel. And this means freedom likewise from drives, addictions, compulsions, fears.
There is always unknown. Rather than attempting to fill limited minds with limited facts, encourage minds to play with moment conception.
1501
Peace,
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