Big Bubba's Internet refuge after being barred for life from David Horowitz's Front Page Magazine for reckless use of the word feckless. No, I don't know why mindless twits find the word so objectionable. A Voice From Deep Within Flyover America
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10 Comments:
BB,
That is quite a cultural lifeboat! I'll say one thing for them, they've stored plenty of "provisions" within! The only thing I can't quite make out is the "worker" on the "left" door. What is he/ she doing? And what's in the left-lower panel? It looks a little "abstract"???
Funny, far too many people seem to have abandoned the ship that brought them and built these cultural lifeboats based upon the values held shortly after "passing" their peaks and therefore partially responsible for their own decline. In so doing, they hope to both immortalize themselves and "inform" future archeologists. It might be funny if it weren't so tragic, for they are for the most part, but rhapsodes that are doing the composing, and so like Platos's "Ion" know not WHY Homer was the "greatest" poet of his day. Then they make Theueth's mistake (Phaedrus) and write things down in words, canvas, and marble in "politically correct" terms. How "seaworthy" are these lifeboats? Is "quality" a good indicator? And what ever became of the old "oral" traditions, the practices of certain shaiman's and chief's? And what happened to the men who wield both the compass and square? Or sextant, straightedge, compass, map, and a good copy of Bowditch's tables? And which map-maker stretched his northern latitudes most faithfully, the globe-dealer?
And so I simply ask people to ponder this question. What remains of Daedelus' art? Sappho's poems? Epicurus' writings? Mayan murals? Periclean buildings? Egyptian plateau's? And what lesson should future generations draw from these sometimes "inferior" latter-day "shrines"?
The left takes over the "high culture" and lays it low. They take the "old" paintings off the wall (Courbet) in the "museum" and begin to hang "new" ones. Courbet's Studio And in so doing, repeat all the "old" mistakes of the past. They pass on "roman-tic" "shadows" and "relections" instead of "truths" and "lights". They strip the part of the symmetry contained within themselves off the canvas, or present partial and incomplete portraits that omit "vital" aspects of the picture. For these are the parts they are ashamed of, or "fear", that make them pc. Pictures of their own faces, staring back at them from within the abyss. Usually forces that require "constraint" (Iran).
Only a great artist can include "most" of them, hidden abstractly with plays on style, color, and light, visible to those who seek them. The artist thereby "winks", and the sensitive man's intellect, consciously or subconciously, "wink's back".
-FJ
Farmer John, the windows by the door each represent one image divided into window panes. I noticed them the first time yesterday so I haven't had time to research.
It appears, to me, that the left door is an image of a printer at his press somewhat stylized. Presses and printers are a very important trade in centers of rebellion and to politicians in more peaceful times. San Antonio was still home to rebels long after the Revolution. San Antonio was a safe haven for Mexican politicians on the lam from lynch mobs. Printing presses were kept busy with the Mexican revolution d'jour. This spot on Guadalupe Street is not far from the print shop of the Munguias, Henry Cisneros' in laws. Munguia is a famed South Texas Democrat guru. That was back in the days prior to the progressive liberal demoracists coup d'etat for party control.
The door on the right is very obviously a family group with the mother possibly making tamales. While the father and children eagerly watch.
Nietzsche, "Beyond Good and Evil"...
"225
Whether hedonism, or pessimism, or utilitarianism, or eudaimonianism —all these ways of thinking, which measure the value of things according to pleasure and pain, that is, according to contingent circumstances and secondary issues, are ways of thinking in the foreground and naïveté, which everyone who knows about creative forces and an artistic conscience will look down on, not without ridicule and not without compassion. Compassion for yourself—that is, of course, not compassion the way you mean the term: it's not pity for social "needs," for "society" and its sick and unlucky people, with those depraved and broken down from the start, and with the way they lie on the ground all around us—even less is it compassion for the grumbling oppressed, the rebellious slave classes, who strive for mastery—they call it "Freedom."
Our compassion is a higher compassion which sees further—we see how man is making himself smaller, how you make him smaller—and there are moments when we look at your compassion with an indescribable anxiety, where we defend ourselves against this compassion—where we find your seriousness more dangerous than any carelessness. You want, if possible—and there is no wilder "if possible"—to do away with suffering. What about us? It does seem that we would prefer it to be higher and worse than it ever was! Well being, the way you understand it, that's no goal. To us that looks like an end, a condition which immediately makes human beings laughable and contemptible, something which makes their destruction desirable!
The culture of suffering, of great suffering, don't you realize that up to this point it is only this suffering which has created all the things which raise man up? That tension of a soul in misery which develops its strength, its trembling when confronted with the great destruction, its inventiveness and courage in bearing, holding out against, interpreting, and using unhappiness, and whatever has been conferred upon it by way of profundity, secrecy, masks, spirit, cunning, and greatness—has that not been given to it through suffering, through the cultivation of great suffering?
In man, creature and creator are united. In man is material stuff, fragments, excess, clay, mud, nonsense, chaos, but in man there is also creator, artist, hammer hardness, the divinity of the spectator and the seventh day—do you understand this contrast? And do you understand that your compassion for the "creature in man" is for what must be formed, broken, forged, torn apart, burned, glow, purified—for what must necessarily suffer and should suffer? And our pity—don't you understand for whom our reverse pity matters, when it protects itself against your pity as against the most serious of all mollycoddling and weakness? And thus pity for pity! But, to say the point again, there are higher problems than all those of enjoyment, suffering, and compassion, and every philosophy that leads only to these is something naïve.—
226
We immoral ones! This world, which we're concerned with, in which we have to fear and live, this almost invisible and inaudible world of sophisticated commanding, sophisticated obeying, a world of "almost" from every way of looking at it—entangled, embarrassing, cutting, and tender—yes, this world is well defended against clumsy spectators and familiar curiosity! We have been woven into a strict yarn and shirt of duty and cannot get out—in that respect we too are "men of duty," yes, we as well! Now and then, it's true, we dance happily in our "chains" and between our "swords." More often, it's no less true, we gnash our teeth about it and are impatient with all the secret hardness of our fate. But we can do what we like: the fools and appearances speak against us—"They are men without duty." We always have fools and appearances against us.
-FJ
Aftersong (BG&E Cont.)...
O noon of life! A time to celebrate! Oh garden of summer!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting:—
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time!
Was it not for you that the glacier's grayness
today decked itself with roses?
The stream is seeking you, and wind and clouds
with yearning push themselves higher into the blue today
to look for you from the furthest bird's eye view.
For you my table has been set at the highest point.
Who lives so near the stars?
Who's so near the furthest reaches of the bleak abyss?
My realm—what realm has stretched so far?
And my honey—who has tasted that? . . .
There you are, my friends!—Alas, so I am not the man,
not the one you're looking for?
You hesitate, surprised!—Ah, your anger would be better!
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?
And what am I—for you friends am I not the one?
Have I become another? A stranger to myself?
Have I sprung from myself?
A wrestler who overcame himself so often?
Too often pulling against his very own power,
wounded and checked by his own victory?
I looked where the wind blows most keenly?
I learned to live
where no one lives, in deserted icy lands,
forgot men and god, curse and prayer?
Became a ghost that moves over the glaciers?
—You old friends! Look! Now your gaze is pale,
full of love and horror!
No, be off! Do not rage! You can't live here:
here between the furthest realms of ice and rock—
here one must be a hunter, like a chamois.
I've become a wicked hunter! See, how deep
my bow extends!
It was the strongest man who made such a pull—
Woe betide you! The arrow is dangerous—
like no arrow—away from here! For your own good! . . .
You're turning around?—O heart, you deceive enough,
your hopes stayed strong:
hold your door open for new friends!
Let the old ones go! Let go the memory!
Once you were young, now—you are even younger!
What bound us then, a band of one hope—
who reads the signs,
love once etched there—still pale?
I compare it to parchment which the hand
fears to touch—like that discoloured, burned.
No more friends—they are . . . But how can I name that?—
Just friendly ghosts!
That knocks for me at night on my window and my heart,
that looks at me and says, "But we were friends?"—
—O shrivelled word, once fragrant as a rose!
O youthful longing which misunderstands itself!
Those yearned for,
whom I imagined changed to my own kin,
they have grown old, have exiled themselves.
Only the one who changes stays in touch with me.
O noon of life! A second youthful time!
O summer garden!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting!
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time
* *
*
The song is done—the sweet cry of yearning
died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend—no! Do not ask who it might be—
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . .
Now we celebrate, certain of victory, united,
the feast of feasts:
friend Zarathustra came, the guest of guests!
Now the world laughs, the horror curtain splits,
the wedding came for light and darkness . . . .
* * * *
* *
-FJ
Why the sheep bleet about the interruption in their failed "scheme"...
"After a brief, fallow period of considerable frustration, his [Napoleon's] next opportunity came when, by chance, he happened to be in Paris on sick leave during the autumn of 1795. A revolt was pending against the Convention, and Napoleon was called in by his friend and protector Paul Barras (one of the five members of the governing Directoire) to forestall it. He positioned a few guns (brought up at the gallop by a young cavalry captain called Murat) on the key streets leading to the Tuileries Palace. Three years previously he had witnessed the mob storm the same palace, and the weakness of the King on that occasion had made a lasting impression on him. "If Louis XVI had shown himself on horseback, he would have won the day," Napoleon wrote to his brother Joseph. He was determined not to repeat the same error and showed no hesitation in giving the order to fire. Discharged at point-blank range, the historic "whiff of grapeshot" of the Treizième Vendémiaire put the mob convincingly to flight. For the first time since 1789 the Paris "street," which had called the tune throughout the Revolution, had found a new master whom it would not lightly shrug off. Barras, grateful but also nervous at having Napoleon so near the center of power, now appointed him-at the age of twenty-seven-commander in chief of the French Army of Italy."
The rest is, as we say, "history". You seek to live the excesses of the revolution, and the will of the 51% every day. Kratos and Bia have been ordered by Zeus to oppose you.
Pity is not a sustainable 1st principle. Good intentions do not always make for good results.
All it takes is a terrorist to defeat you, to stampede the herd. OBL, your slaves await their new master! Or is he simply another minor perturbation in your grand "scheme"? A man whose principle's are even "more" uncompromising than Napoleon's.
-FJ
BB,
I suspect the printing presses have already starting rolling on board the Mexican lifeboat.
The founders originally had a message for the street. "E Pluribus Unum". Post-modernism message to the street "Man your Lifeboats"...
-FJ
To weave the peplos of great civilizational art like Plato did in his "Statesman" requires symmetry and proportion. Here perhaps lies the best 3-D example ever produced... Two squares sharing an over-lapping "golden" arc. Fibonacci lies in nature as well as great geometrical art.
A Map of My Mind
-FJ
And of course, there have been other great "weavers of peplos" like Ben Franklin...
Covenants and Peplos?
eg 1
eg 2
eg 3
Did the Iroquois write this? Or BF?
It has been a long time since the people joined in solemn procession to renew the peplos or polish the covenant chain.
-FJ
The coat of arms of her majesty's indian agent in North America...
Sir William Johnson
Does the coat look familiar? Is it made of cloth?
Honorable Artllery Company (London)
How about this one?
Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company
Why are there Indians in the last coat of arms? Tree's of NE Peace in many state flags? Indians on many state flags? Something fishy? Or just new "forms" of "peplos"?
-FJ
Of course, you can always see into a man's stomach the second you see his money 1776 Continental Dollar
-FJ
Have a great weekend people!
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