Warfare Chessboard

After a long interlude of warfare and dungeons and dragons, we arrive (a bit tattered) but of sounds and bodies to our landing strip in the western part of the hemisphere.

We have had a long night of battle, and now it is time for some didactic philosophy. Ive spent long enough talking about myself to you reader, and now I want to know your thoughts on the divine, the earth’s travel into a new age.

Questions may be the best way to start off our journey on this particular round-a-bout. Who are you? Where is your space? What does it mean to have space, to recognize (or not) one’s own image in the mirror- a plane, another dimension, a lifeboat, whatever you want to call it, I am obliged to use your words for this- not mine. My words are still without that gold- crusted shine.

What can we do-do, do, do, It is all actioin or it is nothing (says the big man in the big house). I feel there is an unpleasant stirring in our communities- this idea of fights worth to be fought. Can we not choose to use words for expansion- no more wars for me, thanks though.

It is past time that our 30 second generation chooses to think of war on a more meta-physical force towards something we (you or I) want to make our footprints in. I feel like we are not getting any- where.

I feel inspired to thrust forward (violently, if that is the only way to get your attention) ideas that help us redeisgn our perameters, our boxes too small, our channels exhausted by toxic fumes. Here is an image: Two cognitive adults having a conversation about whether or not they should put feed in the birdfeeder at home.

The wife complains that she wants it to be spring and to set out feed so that while she is sipping on her morning tea, she can be in the company of some feathery friends. The husband insists that winter is still among us with her crisp mornings and desires to stay in bed all day. Birds are in no way ready to take on these colder months. Wait, feed the birds when June comes around.

The conversation gets heated: to feed or not to feed the birds in the backyard- they fight all the way home. So angered is the husband that he takes the shotgun (which is loaded and set to shoot passing children that accidently grab it or the bullets flying away to smack the thirteen-year-old across the street with stray bullets) off the mantle and shoots his wife. The police make it in time (due to the old lady next door hearing the shots) to say goodbye to this woman- flashback to bird feeders in the backyard.

Does this scenario seem the best way to deal with such an argument? If you think so, stop reading this book. If you like or can put yourself in the shoes of this man, then pack your things up and leave this poor piece alone. If, however, you feel a twinge (of any kind) that there is a fundamentally wrong action taken in this scenario, stick around.

Let me try to explain my feelings about this sort of behavior. First, anger hits. I find myself disgusted by this man. Death is everywhere. I made it a few meager pages without voicing ideas on death. As well, it was meant to be discussed, I suppose.

Throughout these pages martyrdom and death- war and significance will pop up to say hello, in a raspy Tom Waits sort- of voice. It is in the order of the cosmos to discourse on such topics. Let me be clear. This powerful engine, this beast of humanity, this hypothesis of philanthropy is a call to action. Actions seeped into a system that, hopefully, will not see us coming down the trial of this multi-verse. Actions such as: art, poet-ness, mystical experiences of all non-brands and non-labels.

My caveat to these actions, however, is that I will voice till death that sacrifice should go only as far as madness of one’s self- not war, not violence, blood washed libraries and homes of children.

This Chapter is supposed to be before the Red Queen Speaks.