Disease X and Doctor WHO
Let us have our craze garbed in white, madness made moral by Quacks and money
Science sez witches are the cause of all ills-and if I don't agree I buy better science. Once there was a witch craze. Now there is a pestilence scything humans down detected only by trained medical experts, and wealthy merchants, men of high degree, in London they do dwell. Customs simmered and the cultural fish is changed, but man too little. Cubicle Culture triumphed by educating the Baby Boom and the children of the Baby Boom and their children. Creating square heads by lies and tricks to allow no thought to change direction. Lockdown and masking inside the idea of fear.
Gabriel Marcel always said he did not intend to present a philosophical system, but rather a path of inquiry that would that would at the same time be a spiritual path. He emphasized a distinction between “being” and “having”. For Marcel, our beliefs and the things we care about are not things we “have”, but rather should be considered as part of our being. He emphasized believing in rather than believing that.
Marcel spoke of “ontological exigence” as a need for what he called transcendence, and insisted that this transcendence must be experienceable, but that it is experienced as something entirely beyond our grasp. He distinguished between external “problems” that do not involve the questioner’s being, and instances of “the mysterious”, in which the question does involve the questioner’s own being.The World Is Too Much With Us
BY poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-word…
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Ko-fi.com/thejournaloflingeringsanity
DISCLAIMER: The Journal of Lingering Sanity is a reader-supported publication from Old Gold Mountain (Chinese: 旧金山. We are beholden to truth not party. “The time has come," the Journal said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.”
Beautiful work. I like imagism.
Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?
Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.
Ice, in summer, is still frozen.
Bright sun shines through thick fog.
You won’t get there following me.
Your heart and mine are not the same.
If your heart was like mine,
You’d have made it, and be there!
Since you're on Wordsworth...
I wandered lonely as unjabbed
BY SHILLIAM WORDSMITH
I wandered lonely as unjabbed
Barred from life and gyms and inns,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of branch Covidians;
Beside the press, beneath TV,
Floundering and drowning in the sea.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in a diminishing line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in predictive dance.
The 'news' waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A vaxxer could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What harm the show to them had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the mark of solitude;
And then my heart with sadness falls,
As gene therapy, population mauls.