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The ‘Lucid Dream’, Sounds Better and Better

CEE

    Last Survivors of the Revolution, was published in 1864. A Congregational clergyman, the grandfather of famed poet, Archibald MacLeish, scoured our warring republic, hill, dale, nook, cranny, looking by means scarcely beyond word of mouth, for those remaining few who’d stood next to Mel Gibson as Redcoats came on, bayonets lowered. These centenarians, gnarled, hoary, remembered at length, calling back days, great men and great events we’re taught, now, to laugh at, revise, correct, because after all, you can’t rely on memories chiseled into souls of persons who stood right there—can you? Much better to rely on reconstructions of mishmashes of tertiary sources of revisions of spin from angry individuals 200 years later, working out their own issues.
    But, the men...men of Valentine’s Hill, Bemis Heights, Brandywine, Castine, rebirthed moments, impressions, revealing one thing unquestioned: Reality as held, in 1776, was far from Reality as fought, in 1864. These men had lived their lives, had their children, buried some of them, buried wives and friends. And, 8 decades passed...and, the country grew into Something Else, because the buddies of Mel Gibson didn’t stay young, vital, alpha and “no, you di’in’t!” The conveyor belt rolled along. Control was relinquished. And, the Vision changed, because the conceiving crowd, no longer shaped it.
    America isn’t a dream. Utilitarian as it sounds, the nation is a working process, structure built upon alienate-able goods. It has to run, day to day...but the days recede before us, and we recede with them. You can’t trust your kids, nonfriend. Smell the Water Joe. They aren’t You. Once you have no genuine control, well, they always knew they knew best—right? Apply that, to other peoples’ children. To whole schools. Whole communities. A nation.
    The papyri we visit, faded, weak, has great value...but thee and me, can’t see the Vision. This place stopped being some raw Hell that killed half the Pilgrims with 1620 Reality, and big shock, you aren’t your ancestors. To stand under the Betsy Ross Flag, today, might as well be standing inside the Pyramids. The Founding concepts, are all solid. But, We cannot comprehend, as powdered-wigged They. And, the descendants of families who retained power over lives, minds, oftentimes hearts, brought friends and cronies onto their Ark. Today, they watch us drown. Compassionless. And, we can do nothing short of destroying any vestige of order, for our power is long abdicated to a structure clone-populated by Macaulay Culkin as The Good Son—just desserts, too, because as the ...Arabian Nights tells us, we knew they were snakes when we picked them up.
    The math of presentism, Doesn’t Work. You and the ones you hang with, are NOT “the same”, as those you beheld from your cradle. Those they grew and ran with, were NOT like those who sired and bore them. Their parents and parents of parents, felt far differently... about JFK, about the Japanese, Prohibition, gold and silver, the Indian Nations, black suffering...than We, here, do, Now. Man, isn’t “Man” forever, intrinsic unchanging. It’s Truth, which is not merely truth in some era; Man, current Reality, are a whole-other shell. Your grandparents, despite any cuddle-kiss memories of saints, would as youths, push you down, over some behavior or viewpoint. Word usage. Immorality. Rebellion. Let your mind wander, Fauntleroy—they didn’t always agree with You. Stand in front of Gramps when he was vital—say, maybe, when Eisenhower ruled the Earth? You’re likely to encounter a sharp, ungentle man, who’d recoil at your swagger. Your great-grandfather? You’re struck. Greatgreat? You’re horsewhipped. Greatgreatgreat? “Begone in morning’s light, or I shall put you to the sword, for though I have for you but love, my house will not be slandered.” FYI: Men and women like the parents of Laura Ingalls Wilder, were incredible, due to their rarity.
    Life, nonfriend, has always been a BDSM bed of nails. You and I are simply no longer equipped to deal with it. A succession of shysters and monomaniacs, has left us broke, naked and unarmed. In trade, we got pharmaceutics. There’s a reason Power Elite permitted marijuana use. It’s a bone thrown to a People about to go 28 Days Later—which, if you can’t smile and mumble “thanks” as you take in water, is all you’re left as option. Our Newly Minted Reality: rage zombie, or sailor drowning in a Thomas Hart Benton painting. If there’s a lesser evil there, I’m totally missing something.



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