Journal and Idle Musing: Tao riddle of the Sharpened Blade.

Went to sleep, fell asleep, very early after warming under the blanket from being chilly all day.  Popped-up about 10 pm and took my meds, spot of water, peed, and back to bed, foggy-headed, probably from the day’s extra caffeine, the McCafe I hadn’t had in five days.

There was also a hue.

It’s all process, you know?  Like when I was on the 8 bit playing 3D World Runner and it jiggered.  The technique is to remove the cartridge, blow it off, and put it back in.

It’s all like the Tao’s blade that is soon dulled: sharpened well, but soon dulled?  And Tai Chi Leia says the blade is dulled in murder, but all process does the same damage to the blade, and its all maintenance, but conversely, as I’ve found, the finer the edge, the more immediate the dulling comes, that the finer edge is weaker, or something.

Such that its all, in face, process, and in the meantime, the very act of presence has an ambiguity, reality itself a kind of fog of similitude, if that makes sense.

And is asked, does God want all the evil people to prosper over the good?  Such, “blessed is the poor in spirit”, but unspecified as to substance in hand, as if poor in hand, but downhearted, that the sad will be comforted.  And I was reading in Hebrews about people that long for the country, that Undiscovered Country of Shakespeare and Gene Roddenberry canon, and prophesied, the New Jerusalem, and all, and prophecy put in the meat grinder, some kind of nightmare scrawl of Freemason codes, and I remind you, there was a hue.

The Nationalists long for the country in the present and here, while the true ones know the far country is further off in the spiritual sense, sojourners, journeyman, who bet borrow on a time and place and bide their time in the fruit of the spirit, in longing and hope for that country, not bowling over people in the natural, or toting around wheelbarrows full of complaints.

How dismal it is to complain and then blithely chirp, “let not your heart be troubled.”  All some would have of us is trouble.  Ticks suckling their babies on secondhand take, blood of a dying beast; indeed, any agression feeds the Iranian purpose, just as so much feeds the Russen purpose, the raison Ruska.

And I heard Israel has a new hospital this week.  That’s good news, but I hope they’re up to the task.  The Askani took little Nathan Christopher in to the future, and he had what would become Legacy Virus, annihilating mutantkind, running rampant, and from the future, the germ, some three counterparts, three Nathans.  It’s serial writing of course, to have some fodder for the offing, just like that soap opera spending several days pissing about the patriarch’s lost stapler.
That said, pissing about the stapler, it was a moment of glory when they found it, the little cornhole girl looking through boxes, and nobody thought, at first or last, that the stapler from his desk would be in boxes of stuff taken from his office.

It’s a matter of paygrade mindsets, I suppose, that their blush is a more sophisticated kind of thing, and perhaps too sophisticated for truth and provenance at that, that hue, but there was a hue just the same, some Saladin Scarlett that at once provokes from beyond the ether, across space and time, that eternal cause and once and forever cemented Original Sin.