16 Aug 2020 3:46 am
In biology, two animals of opposite sex, do not make a liberal.
The liberal mind for that matter is not sewn genetically, my dog a female,
is a conservative, once I leave the house for only a few hours during the day I don't know what she does while I am away, but
upon my return she wags her tail as though I have been long gone for a life time, and oh how happy she is,
perhaps in her thinking I would never return.
What makes good is truth. Truth itself is not always good. Truth can be calloused, and immoral, in fact truth shows the worst of all history,
yet, with truth we learn from our own collective mistakes. Knowledge makes good, but it's not free willing.
The liberal is made by focus on the general truth of history. You don't get it once, and then it sticks.
Because the truth is real, you don't get it conditionally, like you might catch a virus. Because there is no cure.
My dog is a conservative, she likes to bury her bones, and this I guess was not a learned trait, rather it was a mechanism within her to store food for survival.
The dog is a social animal. So too is the monkey. I think if I were a poet I might suggest that little bits of each generation get passed down and eventually we evolve ever so slightly in the fabric of time.
Little bits like poems.
So here's one from Robert Frost - just in case you ever wondered why, or if, they wrote about politics mostly back then.
IRIS BY NIGHT
One misty evening, one another's guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home,
There came a moment of confusing lights,
Such as according to belief in Rome
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights
Before the fragments of a former sun
Could concentrate anew and rise as one.
Light was paste of pigment in our eyes.
And then there was a moon and then a scene
So watery as to seem submarine;
In which we stood saturated, drowned,
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground
Had taken all the water it could as dew,
And still the air was saturated too,
Its airy pressure turned to water weight,
Then a small rainbow like trellis gate,
A very small moon-made prismatic bow,
Stood closely over us through which to go,
And then we were vouchsafed the miracle
That never yet to other two befell
And I alone of us have lived to tell,
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent,
Instead of moving with us as we went
(To keep the pots of gold from being found),
It lifted from its dewy pediment
Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends
And gathered them together in a ring,
And we stood in it softly circled round
From all division time or foe can bring
In a relation of elected friends.
Robert Frost
We are people, townsfolk, human, family close nit,
there is no such thing as perfect, there is no jewel
hidden within the haystack, there are many,
countless haystacks, countless jewels.
The truth is not perfect. But the truth exist,
And can never be covered up for too long.
The conservatives are not even conservatives anymore.
Those who say they are have only worked at covering up the truth.
The liberal mind for that matter is not sewn genetically, my dog a female,
is a conservative, once I leave the house for only a few hours during the day I don't know what she does while I am away, but
upon my return she wags her tail as though I have been long gone for a life time, and oh how happy she is,
perhaps in her thinking I would never return.
What makes good is truth. Truth itself is not always good. Truth can be calloused, and immoral, in fact truth shows the worst of all history,
yet, with truth we learn from our own collective mistakes. Knowledge makes good, but it's not free willing.
The liberal is made by focus on the general truth of history. You don't get it once, and then it sticks.
Because the truth is real, you don't get it conditionally, like you might catch a virus. Because there is no cure.
My dog is a conservative, she likes to bury her bones, and this I guess was not a learned trait, rather it was a mechanism within her to store food for survival.
The dog is a social animal. So too is the monkey. I think if I were a poet I might suggest that little bits of each generation get passed down and eventually we evolve ever so slightly in the fabric of time.
Little bits like poems.
So here's one from Robert Frost - just in case you ever wondered why, or if, they wrote about politics mostly back then.
IRIS BY NIGHT
One misty evening, one another's guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home,
There came a moment of confusing lights,
Such as according to belief in Rome
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights
Before the fragments of a former sun
Could concentrate anew and rise as one.
Light was paste of pigment in our eyes.
And then there was a moon and then a scene
So watery as to seem submarine;
In which we stood saturated, drowned,
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground
Had taken all the water it could as dew,
And still the air was saturated too,
Its airy pressure turned to water weight,
Then a small rainbow like trellis gate,
A very small moon-made prismatic bow,
Stood closely over us through which to go,
And then we were vouchsafed the miracle
That never yet to other two befell
And I alone of us have lived to tell,
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent,
Instead of moving with us as we went
(To keep the pots of gold from being found),
It lifted from its dewy pediment
Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends
And gathered them together in a ring,
And we stood in it softly circled round
From all division time or foe can bring
In a relation of elected friends.
Robert Frost
We are people, townsfolk, human, family close nit,
there is no such thing as perfect, there is no jewel
hidden within the haystack, there are many,
countless haystacks, countless jewels.
The truth is not perfect. But the truth exist,
And can never be covered up for too long.
The conservatives are not even conservatives anymore.
Those who say they are have only worked at covering up the truth.