At War with War?

July 27, 2010 § 4 Comments

I’ve been wondering about many people seemingly at war with war. Puzzled by it really. Especially when women are blaming men for it. I wonder, since when does blaming solve any problem?

When a man is a fart ~ only minding his own survival ~ he is just that, a total fart. Farting and warring comes natural to (most) men and it doesn’t make ’em assholes.

Rapists and invaders, those are assholes. And no doubt, when a rapist gets caught and convicted, that’s what they become, an asshole in jail. Literally. Because the residential farts do have honor, and a great sense of humor.

In my book, if you want less terrifying wars on Earth, then help men focus on beauty more. On the visual arts. On poetry. On making music. On dancing. On humor so they don’t take themselves that seriously anymore. Because beauty is not an appearance, it’s a state of mind. Unity between the spiritual and the natural. And it can take many forms.

Speaking of such unions, with more artful sex in this world (please do protect yourself as we already are overpopulated and diseases also lurk), we’d probably also have less terrifying wars. Men easily get caught in self-gratification spins. It lures them into the now. And men that are satisfied, likely are less susceptible to authorities trying to hook into any dissatisfaction and channeling that toward Big War/Invasion-like reasoning for their own political purposes. When a man feels king in his own home, why fight for another “king”, and then far away at that?

And we women, who were always queens, we can crown farts to become kings, energy dancers, taking the lead in healthy survival in a world gone mad with all kinds of terrifying wars and exploitation that seems to be going beyond Earth’s breakpoint. Or am I crazy?


I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse-
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly
A terrible beauty is born

Yeats, September 25, 1916


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