Posted by: whiteagle | March 5, 2011

Spirit-talk from Oldman

An Oldman’s Vision of Utopia (revised)

© 2011 by TwoHawk Speaking for White Eagle

 

Already a pool had formed in his mind.

“I do not understand this,” I said to My Friend

“Is this your alms, your hopes, your sadness, or your joy?”

“It is all of the above.  It is my love for you.

“I want to walk with you again, hand in hand,” said The Oldman.

 

“Everyone has some kind of a vision about a utopian world.  We often think of a new day as being unique, beyond the now, something yet to be.  What if there really is nothing new under the sun?  Every vision, regardless how futuristic and unfamiliar it may seem, is always conditioned by someone’s version from their past.  This whole process is really more about rebuilding from the past, or re-creating rather than creating by itself.  So here in my “vision”  about Utopia, I will begin in part one an overview.  In part two, I will focus on how to use the current conditions, and the teachings or lessons from the past in suggesting how to re-build what it is I truly envision…..what is a real, rather than a mere imagination of utopian possibilities.”

 

“I am an Oldman but I still have visions.  No Polyannas, no devisive derision shall retain the on-going chorus of change built into my refrain. I see trees of green, red roses, too, children laughing,  so glorious and wise, all those things without the bang, bang.  In my song, all desert lands flower, all rivers run free.  All swamps remain unaltered, unrestrained, no one dumping into or on them.  No one trying to drain them away, either. You see, in My Utopia only people of good intention shall live.  No greed or grabbing  of someone else’s piece of pie will be allowed. No one will want to because each shall have their need fulfilled.  There is a price attached to all this but there is no bill, deceit, or any receipts thereof included in these transactions on the condition you simply love the one who gave you the goods in the first place, including your enemies.  There’s nothing wrong with my swamp. One shall not stomp on My Ground either, for in My Gardens, My Mountains and My Valleys only soft moist loam will cover the land.  Only slow walking, slow dancing will make the grand entrance abound:  Wondrous sacred space, keeping pace with melodious sounds.You see, in My Utopia everyone will want to give to each other of themselves, not their useless remains. Seeds of newness will be built into my remains.  They’ll recycle themselves!”

 

PART TWO:  How to Rebuild From The Now.

 

“Now The Now has several components: the current, the undercurrent and the surface,The Now, The Past and The Future. None of them last very long, but each must be understood while they’re here. Now who would you think they are?  Hah!  I caught you!  Notice I said Who Instead of What.  The What is the  part we must let go of.  Dealing with The Who is essential if we are going to rebuild anything long-lasting. And just who are these components we call current, undercurrent and surface, who are their counterparts?  Well, there’s Buddha and Jesus, Isis and Orpheus, Abraham and Moses.  There’s Ceridwen and Nora, Brigid and Bel.  There’s Venus and Euridice, Aristotle and Plato, There’s even all those Satans and Lucifers, The Bushes and Carlyle’s, the Harriman’s and the Brown’s.  By their momentous grand erroneous madness we can find some useful tools to back them up into a corner, round ‘em up, watch them wrestle with each other in their own circus ring, draw the drapes, close the door and throw away the key while The Utopian Rebuilding of The Real Kinder People’s World goes on.”

 

“Now, I hired the best architects among them all, those who submitted the best blueprints. I found that Jesus and Buddha’s blueprints had made the most sacred, the easiest and the most effective method of construction come to light with ease.  (Neither of them, by the way, charged me a single penny, though the rest charge you way too much!)”

 

“Jesus reveled his secrets to The Woman of Samaria, didn’t he?   She was a whore, too. All the madams and pimps from the village, their clients and other wimps, though they say they had all the answers, they didn’t.  They weren’t the ones whom he spoke to, the ones who said they’d keep the shores intact did not have the answers I was looking for.  (Neither did the agents and the agencies that make the rules and forms dealing with the chorus of love they claim they have the right to maintain moral authority over as well.) Their brains contain little  evidence or substance remaining that allows for the reconstruction sustenance and materials still needing to begathered in order to be part of the refrain. They only sing the choruses full of noise no one wants to hear anymore. All their ideas enacted have fallen apart. It ‘twas in the hidden part of a prostitute’s  heart the meanings of love remained. The Master Oldman also revealed himself to fishermen and carpenters, the low-brow types. Not that the wealthy don’t have any answers, they do!  Lots of them, but their blueprints contain so much poo-poo and dodo, I had no use for them.”

 

“I also hired Gautama Buddha, Hoti and Krishna because their main affirmation, “Be careful what you ask for, ‘cause you’re gonna get it whether you like it or not”, sold me on the idea that made the most common sence of all. Now that I had the right blueprints in line, I went to work.  I discovered that to refurbish the desert of the empty, dried out flower pots, it was love and compassion that brought on the rain for the flowers and grasses in the desert to sprout. It was dedication and that “whistle while you work” kind of energy that allowed the good guys to dismantle the damn dams and let the rivers run free. It was replacing the asphalt and concrete with dust from the memory of the good life that smoothed out the paths to the mounains  and valleys of pride lined with natural rails and fences of humility others called failure that neutralised the chem trails of indifference and greed.”

 

“My utopian theology says take the nukes, the bombs, and the land mines, remove the pins and the signaling carefully, melt them down. Build monuments of remembering them as fragments of the past, The Now doesn’t need any longer. Leave them on an island one goes to visit now and then as works of useless art, no further living instructions about using them ever to be found.

 

The Desert’s in bloom,

The Rivers are running free,

Fluffy Clouds proudly circling The Mountains

The Valleys singing loud and clear

The Swamps and the Oceans proud to provide.

 

Fishermen with fishes, oceans wide

Prostitutes, lovers,whores, wives,

Misters and mistresses none to derride

Cats and Dogs without scratchy needling whiskers

Dishes and doors

 

To use, pass by or through as they do choose

Fullfilling Creator’s wishes wherewithal.

Condoms of love, no need to wear gloves

All staying in survival mode,

Allowing love to flourish across the land.

 

In rooms, on walls, ceilings and floors

In whatever form they take, sit or stand.

Pictures inacted like sculptures

Artists have always longed for to wake us up

To an Oldman’s Utropical candor and horn:

 

As The Old Sea Captain sits on his rocker watching ships enter his harbor, bringing goods so desparately needed for his Utopia to release The Cornicopia of Love spilling out into the cleansing oceanic depths of  new found feelings of renewal and resolve. So there!”

 

(That’s how Oldman rebuilt his hovel and made his planet The Home Where Real Love and Brotherhood was reborn.)  Aho!

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Categories

%d bloggers like this: