7953. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW

THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW

(Morristown, NJ  -  George Washington)

1. THE SONG OF MIRIAM

Oh how I hate making myself problems;

bringing up matters to haunt, things which

I must do. Why did I kill the goose, that

one with those golden eggs? With the idea

of rebirth, some silliness comes forth and

I want to begin something anew. If that's

so, then why did I stop the previous? The

lines of my pretzle'd logic are pretty

endless. All I really seem ever able

to do is go backwards.

-

On some forms of matter we probably all

agree, while on fifteen other things we

never can but it's all the same anyway, as

politics takes its steamy toll and brings

all its steamy bedfellows back again.

-

In the middle of Morristown, there's an old

cemetery, and it's laid out geographically,

in a way not done now; the compass points

are marked, the graves are aligned to the

Heavens and the constellations above. It's

all rather strange, yet it's ringed with

churches  -  all that rather heavy, symbolic

Masonic influence, just like that capstone

eye at the top of the pyramid on the back

of the dollar bill. I myself have walked it  -

quite odd, an angled hill, the rest of the

town grown all around it. It's basically

ignored, the way a crippled cousin or

something that makes other people

uncomfortable, is ignored. No one

deduces a meaning or cause from this,

no alignment on our own parts any

longer with things of the heavens

or the cosmic world. You can read

about it here, or go there, or look it

up, no trumpets will blast, no bright

images will scorch your face.

-

I've always felt that the marks left 

on the face of Moses, after his Mt. Sinai

'interview' with God and the scorching 

of the stone tablets with those 

commandments, and the reason no 

one could 'look' at him, and go there 

with him, and all that burning 

bush stuff, quite frankly, was because 

of an alien craft, (at a certain point it's
it's all 'words' anyway. The years of using
'God' as the word have made 'Alien' as a
word, though not as a concept, unfitting to
our ears. Same thing really - that's
the power of 'words'), lit down on the 

mountain top, seemingly as fire in 

the bushes  -  primitive man had a 

hundred ways of stating the obvious 

in what we've taken, years and 

years later, as euphemistic 

mis-translations. The presence of 

all this Heavens placement in the

most simple graveyard attests to, 

for me, the cosmic presence of greater 

things in the past. We've scrubbed it 

all down and ruined everything. People 

fight to the death over what's 'symbolic' 

or 'allegorical' in the Bible, when 

really they shouldn't at all. It's 

obvious to me we were made by aliens, 

scientific dewdrops, machined and 

calculated, and placed here to do their 

bidding. In wonderful straits, living

beautiful, long lives. It all got screwed 

up when there was a bit of warfare 

between the space-travelers  -  big 

blowouts, exploded planets, etc. All 

the myths and stories of God, Gods, 

interaction with mankind, Devils, 

fallen angels, serpents, half man-half 

beast experiments left to wander around. 

The crazy basis for all those tales and 

stories, and for Genesis 6  -  it's all there.

Go ahead and read Ezekiel and tell me

that's not a spacecraft he went away in.

Read the book of Enoch. Take the blinders

off your eyes as you read Revelation.

I mean, c'mon, get over it. We are 

made by 'Gods' and betrayed by 'Gods'. 

This is Heaven, and this is Hell  -  it's all

going on together; one big bundle. Stop

your linear, rational crap. Why would you

NOT understand a reference to a 'cat' 

being a 'cat', or a 'house being a 'house'?

Why must we so stupidly assume that 

the earliest of Mankind did not just 

simply say what they saw, what had 

occurred? 'In my father's house are many

mansions'  -  that's about as literal as you 

can get for the eternal presence of deeply

layered, multi-dimensional, outside

of time, recurring lives for each of us.

Mental flotsam, image screens floating

before us. The reptilian portion of our

brains is the oldest, most primitive center 

of the brain. That's the reptilian thinking 

of the Luciferists who try to control and 

rule us: contortions of rank and layers of 

being, numbers and procedure, rules and 

regulations, and  -  yes  -  churches and 

commandments and governments too.

In order to do so, they put all this out

in front of us  -  layers of interpretation,

rules and regulations, and then they take

and claim their own authority for it. The

Israelite portion of all this is a joke  - all

this goes from long before that unsettled

band of nobodies starting ranging around

and stealing the Egyptian and Sumerian

creation stories  -  babies in reed baskets,

floating down rivers, sacrifices, slaughters,

God's own sons and daughters, dying and 

returning. Egads, it's 2016, we're the same

primitive creatures we always were. These

stories and tales have been around forever.

Why do we always insist on being pushed 

around, and accepting it? Go sit in this 

cemetery for awhile. There's a

revelation-spirit there awaiting you.

-

This whole 'cemetery' place, along its fringes, 

is framed now by 'Headquarters Plaza'  -  

perhaps the most insipid piece of crummy 

over-development on a small urban 

scale I've ever seen. It doesn't deserve 

its name.  And I bet Washington, in his

'Headquarters', would have taken a 

sabre to any of the goons behind this 

one. The complete ignorance in place 

here is so prevalent as to make any 

sensible human blanch at the scene.

An old mausoleum, down at the bottom, 

fence all broken and tomb ignored, red 

bricks soiling away from the acidics in 

the rainwaters and atmospheres; little 

rows of graves tugged into the very 

edge of the macadam put in place for

parking and plaza use. The modern 

world with its gross wining and dining, 

eating and staring out from its little 

tables : at a landscape devoid of an 

referential solidity. No one knows 

a blasted thing. It doesn't matter who

these dead people were : names 

inscribed for the ages onto a transcript

of nothingness. What do we of the present 

day give to them? Nothing, not even a

proper read back of their names and dates

if we can find them. We are disgusting, 

and we act it. These people were the 

farmers and chandlers and wheelwrights 

who made this part of 'Morris County'

what it is  -  and who was Gouverner Morris

to any of these people. What did or does that

intriguing name even mean? How long ago?

What is the forge and what was the mill?

Where exactly, and why? You see, don't you,

what I'm getting at? We are in a dead-sea

soup of no-meaning. We've lost everything.

In place of the blood and wounds of soldiers

here on the ground, we've built Post Offices 

with municipal names and banks and churches 

and all the requistie trash which now 'makes up'

our towns and places. We are bankrupt, with

nothing. All we have left is 'naming'. Words.
We build and destroy, and then call it whatever
last was there. Headquarters Plaza, Shady Oaks
Lane, Spreading Elm Estates, Hidden Brook
Village. Even when nothing of that is there.

We should be ashamed.

-

And ashamed as well for how we conspired
to twist and tear at every facet of our own world
and spiritual lineages  -  the distorted face of
of forever-Moses, burned by radiation, half
blind by the madness it causes. A mad ghost of 

a man, unable to see again. We weave a story

around what we call it  -  this man, this place.

We leave with our wreckage. An underground

mausoleum, never opened, and untended for

probably a hundred years now. The walkway's

all gone and the rusted hinges are solid; the soil

has collapsed the hillock around it, and now no

inscriptions can be read, no names deduced, no

any, no 'thing' at all except deep in this festering

tomb great secrets remain - for it is from another

place and silent about everything except to the 

spirit-reader who stumbles here.
-
Yes, deep in this aging tomb, great secrets remain:
it all still resonates here on this dense physical plane.
Edging towards a darkness where there is no light left,
understanding all things, it bears us no grudge. It holds
the modern day in thrall  -  with someone's powdered
bones within and with nothing more to say. We shrug.
No one cares and things are different now  -  there's
no language anyway for the things we'd like to say:
'horse-whipped horn-swaggled, lolly-gagged,
no goodnick, high-falutin' fakers all that you are.'
And George Washington had no religion except
that war and he was never meant to say half of
what it's said he'd say but buried here instead are
all his secret papers, here where the massive
craft had landed once and one old horse and
maybe 'he himself' in duplicate form and doubled
twice - for that is how great legends go - and there's
no outfitting the exploration party today for they've
all gone home for something and they've all
managed to disappear and like some plague of
locusts the truth is shunned and all the weeds
grow everywhere ('and in my will to win I stand
apart and study deeply all that I can.
-
The railroad ties are stacked deeply along the side
of the road and the heavy trucks which carry them
there,  and the boatsman from the harbor who tarry
near the edge of the sea and relate what they've
done and seen and the piles of fish they throw like
the men with the  Gennasaret nets and the piles
of fish they throw from the holds and the scales
which measure the catch and the men and their
women who work the coast and the feeders with the
cutters and weighers and all those who sell and as
I remember back the surveyors too who once
marked every place, for a certainty of this world,
like naming, to keep it in place -- they are ALL
forgotten now and the sailors who sang of the sea
and the warriors and officials and taxmen and judges.
And I sing with the Song of Miriam thus : 'sing unto
Yahweh for He is highly exalted. The horse and its
chariot has He thrown into the sea'. And still I hear
those words echo down chambers of time, in a new
circumference and an understanding of many things
  -  material I cannot relate and ways of understanding
I cannot retell, but slowness is the Prince of Time,
and once you achieve that pace corrected you can

achieve most anything. The symbols of the world play
on and they shine back off earthly light, reflected.
And what of the sky? And what of the sea?
For wordless are all things in their final demise.