Identity

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 4:29 pm

The art of politics knows no limits.
It fears but death, after which transpires a great cleansing.

Before that a cleansing is not afforded by the gods themselves who may loose it themselves, thier consciousness could inverted any sense of why they should again and again procreate.

They overcome this by setting up a hierarchy where even the gods elect a higher being .

The highest being must know all this, and he himself is guilty by quadrillionths of proximal exposure to the distinction between guilt and innoscence, and that by a reference toward the eon's perfection' need to cover with 7 veils.

That absolute need to cover overwhelms the chastity of being a bum , a sick abortion, a sacrificial lamb that gives itself up to the highest immortal poverty of the shadow of trace remaining after the witches' feast, the mere remains of the middle, where Aristotle's choice overcame that of.Plato's soul.

She sacrificed for eros' sake, the animus overcoming the tender care that the seminal ideas must there on inspire


Two books the Talmud and the Koran conspire against the one,
and the other,
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 4:50 pm

But before that 2 witches


New Hampshire by Robert Frost
The Two Witches: The Witch of Coös

The Pauper Witch of Grafton →



TWO WITCHES

I. THE WITCH OF COÖS

Circa 1922

I STAID the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

Mother. Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button,
Who's got the button," I would have them know.

Son. Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.

Mother. And when I've done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How could that be—I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

Son. You wouldn't want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?

Mother. Bones—a skeleton.



Son. But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed
Against the attic door: the door is nailed.
It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night
Halting perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the cellar where it came from.

Mother. We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never!

Son. It left the cellar forty years ago
And carried itself like a pile of dishes
Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,
Another from the bedroom to the attic,
Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a baby: I don't know where I was.

Mother. The only fault my husband found with me—
I went to sleep before I went to bed,
Especially in winter when the bed
Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs
Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,
But left an open door to cool the room off
So as to sort of turn me out of it.
I was just coming to myself enough
To wonder where the cold was coming from,
When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.



The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on
When there was water in the cellar in spring
Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't anyone who could be there.
The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.
My first impulse was to get to the knob
And hold the door. But the bones didn't try
The door; they halted helpless on the landing,
Waiting for things to happen in their favor.
The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could have done the thing I did
If the wish hadn't been too strong in me
To see how they were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision of them put together
Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
A moment he stood balancing with emotion,
And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire
Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)
Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,
The way he did in life once; but this time
I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,
And fell back from him on the floor myself.
The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?



Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)
I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile,
It's coming up to you." It had its choice
Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall door for the novelty,
And set off briskly for so slow a thing,
Still going every which way in the joints, though,
So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,
From the slap I had just now given its hand.
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs
From the hall to the only finished bedroom,
Before I got up to do anything;
Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,
Toffile, for my sake!" "Company," he said,
"Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed."
So lying forward weakly on the handrail
I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light
(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own
I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.
It's with us in the room though. It's the bones."
"What bones?" "The cellar bones—out of the grave."
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what —
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy,
He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an open door to get out-doors.



Let's trap him with an open door up attic."
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them have it,
Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say—
To no one any more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.

Son. We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

Mother. We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

Son. We never could find out whose bones they were.

Mother. Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.



We were about it one night in the cellar.
Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him
To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
Son lodes surprised to see me end a lie
We'd kept all these years between ourselves
So as to have it ready for outsiders.
But tonight I don't care enough to lie—
I don't remember why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe
Could tell you why he ever cared himself. . .

She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted
Among the buttons poured out in her lap.
I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 4:58 pm

A baby, in the cradle, the 2 books, and their interior, 1 of redemption the other come from down asunder, palatable equal, one overcoming the other.

The other hand left,
Left, to right
Handed a choice.

A choice most clearly visible,
Of promise follow me and look asunder below us ALL

you can have,
All, but ill come back
To haunt you,
And collect my fee,

Your ultimate prize that includes my gift,

But please don't trick
Cause I will treat you for betrayed
Soul that knows no end and no beginning.

The two witches did not mince words they stirred the cauldron under a tent of starry starry night, where Man
Mann knew of.the double expiration of death through forgery.



New Hampshire by Robert Frost
The Two Witches: The Witch of Coös

The Pauper Witch of Grafton →



TWO WITCHES

I. THE WITCH OF COÖS

Circa 1922

I STAID the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

Mother. Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button,
Who's got the button," I would have them know.

Son. Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.

Mother. And when I've done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How could that be—I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

Son. You wouldn't want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?

Mother. Bones—a skeleton.



Son. But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed
Against the attic door: the door is nailed.
It's harmless. Mother hears it in the night
Halting perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the cellar where it came from.

Mother. We'll never let them, will we, son? We'll never!

Son. It left the cellar forty years ago
And carried itself like a pile of dishes
Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,
Another from the bedroom to the attic,
Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a baby: I don't know where I was.

Mother. The only fault my husband found with me—
I went to sleep before I went to bed,
Especially in winter when the bed
Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs
Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,
But left an open door to cool the room off
So as to sort of turn me out of it.
I was just coming to myself enough
To wonder where the cold was coming from,
When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.



The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on
When there was water in the cellar in spring
Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't anyone who could be there.
The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust
And swollen tight and buried under snow.
It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.
My first impulse was to get to the knob
And hold the door. But the bones didn't try
The door; they halted helpless on the landing,
Waiting for things to happen in their favor.
The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could have done the thing I did
If the wish hadn't been too strong in me
To see how they were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision of them put together
Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
A moment he stood balancing with emotion,
And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire
Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)
Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,
The way he did in life once; but this time
I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,
And fell back from him on the floor myself.
The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?



Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)
I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile,
It's coming up to you." It had its choice
Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall door for the novelty,
And set off briskly for so slow a thing,
Still going every which way in the joints, though,
So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,
From the slap I had just now given its hand.
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs
From the hall to the only finished bedroom,
Before I got up to do anything;
Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,
Toffile, for my sake!" "Company," he said,
"Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed."
So lying forward weakly on the handrail
I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light
(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own
I could see nothing. "Toffile, I don't see it.
It's with us in the room though. It's the bones."
"What bones?" "The cellar bones—out of the grave."
That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see
If I could see it, or else mow the room,
With our arms at the level of our knees,
And bring the chalk-pile down. "I'll tell you what —
It's looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy,
He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He's after an open door to get out-doors.



Let's trap him with an open door up attic."
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
Almost the moment he was given an opening,
The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them. Toffile didn't seem to hear them.
"Quick!" I slammed to the door and held the knob.
"Toffile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut,
And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything
Up attic that we'd ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them have it,
Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
That's what I sit up in the dark to say—
To no one any more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
For helping them be cruel once to him.

Son. We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

Mother. We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

Son. We never could find out whose bones they were.

Mother. Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
They were a man's his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.



We were about it one night in the cellar.
Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him
To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
Son lodes surprised to see me end a lie
We'd kept all these years between ourselves
So as to have it ready for outsiders.
But tonight I don't care enough to lie—
I don't remember why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he were here, I don't believe
Could tell you why he ever cared himself. . .

She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted
Among the buttons poured out in her lap.
I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.




Identity


Islamic–Jewish relations started in the 7th century AD with the origin and spread of Islam in the Arabian peninsula. The two religions share similar values, guidelines, and principles.[1] Islam also incorporates Jewish history as a part of its own. Muslims regard the Children of Israel as an important religious concept in Islam. Moses, the most important prophet of Judaism, is also considered a prophet and messenger in Islam.[2] Moses is mentioned in the Quran more than any other individual, and his life is narrated and recounted more than that of any other prophet.[3] There are approximately 43 references to the Israelites in the Quran (excluding individual prophets),[4] and many in the Hadith. Later rabbinic authorities and Jewish scholars such as Maimonides discussed the relationship between Islam and Jewish law. Maimonides himself, it has been argued, was influenced by Islamic legal thought.[5]

Because Islam and Judaism share a common origin in the Middle East through Abraham, both are considered Abrahamic religions. There are many shared aspects between Judaism and Islam; Islam was strongly influenced by Judaism in its fundamental religious outlook, structure, jurisprudence and practice.[1] Because of this similarity, as well as through the influence of Muslim culture and philosophy on the Jewish community within the Islamic world, there has been considerable and continued physical, theological, and political overlap between the two faiths in the subsequent 1,400 years. Notably, the first Islamic Waqf was donated by a Jew, Rabbi Mukhayriq.[6] And in 1027, a Jew, Samuel ibn Naghrillah, became top advisor and military general of the Taifa of Granada.[7]


{Zoroaster predated Jesus, yes, but the great span of time need not disqualify some slight or overbearing influence, through a modern relativistic universe !}
Last edited by Meno_ on Fri Jan 03, 2020 5:36 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 5:16 pm

Meno_
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 6:02 pm

You are here



Gutka Kriya: Using the Magic Mantra as a Gutka to Reverse Negative Energy

Taught on July 19, 1982

"In this living nucleus of a psyche, you need inner balance. That is your strength and power. If you don't want to be confused, degraded, upset, or depressed, you need the inner balance. What is that which keeps the inner balance? Shabad (the sound current).

[The energy of our lives can be in either a positive balance or a reverse (negative} balance.] For each thought there is an equivalent thought. For each negative thought there is an equivalent positive thought. For each negative scenario there is an equivalent positive one.

Whether the energy is emotional, commotional, or devotional, it is all praana, right? And it can be reversed.

When your mind is going berserk, apply a gutka. What is a gutka? It is a stopping lever. [It is found on the water wheel called a Persian Wheel, which is used in the Orient.] It is a lever that can stop you and take the entire weight of the reverse balance. So whenever there is a reverse balance, if you apply the gutka, it will stop it. When the energy is in reverse and it is stopped, it will go to the positive and you'll be good again. Isn't that a simple way to fix yourself?

And what is the shabad of the gutka? Ek Ong Kaar Sat Gur Prasaad, Sat Gur Prasaad, Ek Ong Kar. It is so written in the book of law that, if this mantra is chanted five times, it will stop the mind under all conditions and put it in it reverse gear. Five times. Try it any time you want. Your mind may be polluted, dirty, and ugly, but when you chant this mantra, Siri Guru Granth Sahib (the sound current of the Infinite) will sit in your heart. These are not my words; they are the words of Guru Gobind Singh (the Tenth Sikh Master)." 
-Yogi Bhajan

(This mantra is generally chanted out loud as a gutka, but if circumstances make that impossible, it is also effective when chanted mentally.)

Gutka Kriya



Note: every time I tried to use the Persian wheel to nihilise the invasion of psychic vampirism, a threat of a.computer viral infection prevented my search.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 7:08 pm

Ek Ong Kaar Sat Gur Prasaad, Sat Gur Prasaad, Ek Ong Kar.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 7:15 pm

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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 7:59 pm

And then someone
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile:
It wasn't anyone who could be there.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 8:39 pm

https://youtu.be/1ZXGJCIgcYo



In December 1852, Bahá’u’lláh was released from prison after four months. Almost immediately, He was banished from Iran with His family. They were never to see their native land again. On the trek to Baghdad, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá suffered frostbite and grieved over the separation from his baby brother, Mihdí, who was not well enough to make the gruelling journey.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 10:46 pm

Purring of cats


father said he was like cats, with green eyes,
after she was gone,
he went out and saw two cats first a black with white tail,
followed by a white one with black tale.


Then the black one looked into the room whete she died last. Ight , her ex brought her some mix of tar and snow and oxy , she was asking for unicorn & promised to quit, to her ideal husband, the queen was told not to park in the ex's parking spot- he bode by the shira law.

the results were predictable.


The new guy whom she knew for two years hence no surprise , sleeping when ex. Delivered cocktail.

The black cat more liberally disposed, confident and trusting, looked at the chiroubg in THE old tree, as if hunting.

He was only feeling him out, as if, still unworthy of attention but only making him think that he was as of yet unfamiliar with Egyption magic.

And all for the kid. her one and only.


Theh the new guy , under morpheus6's guidance underneath the canopy of the lost, and the ex, now changing the story to the cops that he has not seen her for two weeks.

Its an outlandish lie.


Bow he is spinning from fear of discovery.


The black cat saw him staring at a palm tree, as the slightest great of the calm breath of the stirring of the wind moved the leaves against the outlines that formed against the summer California looking azure.

But so much for appearances, it was January, and the missing scent of aroma of Jasmine and honeysuckle gave it away.

The white cat, always more careful and circumstantive, did as well, sat on it's hunches and appear to look at the blackbird, upon ee Cummings had so many choices.

They stayed in that position of testing him, for a king time, then the black lay down secured in mind of no attempt in an imminent danger.

They really cunningly, or knowingly looked at him, for that would have meant the end of the experiment.

He had to wait it out, and finally self convinced they left.

Was it her soul that did the test in the first place?


He outdated them under that blue and orange California sky, and he almost certain, comfortable with the idea of devolution into nature contra Darwin.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Jan 03, 2020 11:24 pm

Last night :


She is looking for a fix talking in high tones almost unrecognizable, and her mom says she is only on grass, she carries her boy on her shoulders running, her beau Charlie at the table, the her dad says ill give you a do it massage which always calmed her, and she did calm into the calm he always tried to infuse,


Then now with mom not really needing intimacy he falling into the vice that Wagner insinuated into his refusal to acknowledge to farcical, the kundalini of pleasure for it's own sake.

No not that could not have blinded him into acknowledge the prudent necessity of forbearance, not he, nor that hero in, that was so deadly earnest as the carnal depravity of Desiree, instituting the superlative and surreal force behind the power of H mixed .
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Sat Jan 04, 2020 4:43 pm

Ek Ong Kaar Sat Gur Prasaad, Sat Gur Prasaad, Ek Ong Kar.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Mon Jan 06, 2020 6:08 pm

Ek Ong Kaar Sat Gur Prasaad, Sat Gur Prasaad, Ek Ong Kar.



https://youtu.be/oYXdpb0VabI
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Wed Jan 08, 2020 3:11 am

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Re: Identity

Postby Aegean » Thu Jan 09, 2020 5:01 pm

Empath is the antithesis of a narcissist.
Cynic is his epitome.
Empaths experience another's emotions as if they were their own.
Everything is multiplied and sharpened. Every sensation; every feeling; every detail; every gesture and thought.

For this reason they require frequent periods of isolation to recuperate from this passionate influx.
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Re: Identity

Postby Meno_ » Fri Feb 21, 2020 10:56 pm

Periods of isolation and peripds of in involvement.

After the one almost separates from the other, the eternal identity identity from the current one, to the degree of separation that brings on the critical , point of non identity, then there is a pull back, an unconscious reflexive one at best, a conscious fearful one at worst, where either a faithful existential jump appears to be a solution, or, a constant conscious ' faithless, one, in bad faith overtakes the core memory.
That memory goes back as far as it is attempted attempted, or, proceeds a possible possible reconstruction, motivated by increasing faith.

At the point or a conscious reintegration reintegration of possible partial differentiations, a new re integration is built on more faithful reliance on higher forms not predicated.

The identity thus learns to rely on more uncertainty, and becomes more centrally attuned to the unknown.

The phasic partial total awareness overcomes the total unaware partiality and reconstructed as more authentically reorganized


Freedom to act for Sartre implies a festivity within freedom of choice is excercized, and a negative result will tend to turn the ego into acting in bad fate. Fasticuty is a given, but it may be changed in accordance with the degree of freedom a badly developed faith will afford. This fate is not necessarily prescribed by thetic considerations , since their may be pistsribed by identifying with other sources if centrally identified referentially sourced higher types of recalled intelligences.
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