Unforeseen tech changes behind the curtains of our stage have brought this site to a standstill for months. Confusion reigns. My apologies.
a man, a fool,
hidden in mysteries
a marvel mockery
a priest, a prisoner,
made of polish
humorous in appearance
Martin Bormann = Saloth Sar = Stephen Bannon
THE PAST REPEATS ITSELF
THE TALE OF JULIAN THE APOSTATE
GIAMBATTISTA VICO’S DREAM OF SPIRALING CYCLES
BONAPARTE NAPOLEON – LET’S MAKE FRANCE GREAT AGAIN
BENITO MUSSOLINI – LET’S MAKE ITALY GREAT AGAIN
ADOLF HITLER – LET’S MAKE GERMANY GREAT AGAIN
DONALD TRUMP – LET’S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN
Or. . .
The controversy between which is the more important, the PIs or HIs
Artificial Intelligence(AI), according to our intelligent sources, will soon become a reality. Science Fiction is populated by AIs, some friendly, some malevolent; Malevolence makes for a more exciting story so we gravitate toward stories of evil AIs. But why is no one discussing the dangers of Human Intelligence(HI). Global Warming is the product of HI. But as most gardeners know the PIs have it over HIs. Plant Intelligence. They know what they need, even if we don’t.
AIs – absurd, no one is discussing the dangers of human intelligence. Global Warming is the product of Human Intelligence or HI. But most gardeners know that PIs have it over HIs. Plant Intelligence.
In need of a foothold, Anxiety, fidgety,
drops to our feet, pecking the ground nervously.
The earth trembles, the invisible clouds
cover the sun. Anxiety, wide winged, once
gnawed at the immortal liver of a god,
relentless; but our anxiety resembles
no other life forms. It’s not an eagle, noble;
nor are we gods, impoverished. Anxiety’s a child,
the homunculus in each of us, without content,
but never content, restless, in need of perch, preferring
the seed of even the smallest discontent to peace.
At dusk, the fireflies in silent fulmination,
drifting upward, like fleeting stars shooting
skyward, caught askance on a black screen
of probability, seen then unseen, possibly, yes,
in the settling darkness, in the quickening
shadows of coming night. They are a tribe
beyond our realms of noise. A room full
of conversation intimated, then quietly fulfilled.