Bill,

There is nothing infinite about the people who post here, except the natural spiritual infinity that resides within each of us. Nor is there anything simian about any of them, except the 99.8% of their DNA which we share with the other branches of the chimp family. Once you come to understand the power of True BS, you will realize that this apparently chaotic concatenation of chaff is actually the symphonic realization of greatness in its purest form, and that to one who has traveled the road, All Knowledge is BS, and All BS is Truth.

These postulates will not make sense to one who has not traveled The Road. They are perceptions that come as the result of a Passage, a hero's journey through the Veil of Plausible Rationaity.


(And THEN he looked up and said calmly...)

"Monkeys disguised as people climb over the stockade, flapdoodling amongst the provisions and chittering under moonrise. Mist curls through the gunports, the flintlocks are sparkling in the moonlight, but their pans are moist with night dew, and they will not fire. Squirrels have eaten the fuses, the powder room has been devastated by ducks, the pikes eaten through by roving beavers, and the scabbards grown shut with lichen nourished by night air.

Outside, the stars are trapped by tall lodgepines, freezing the courses of time; a distant rumble announces that the walls of the creek are falling in.

Only the boulders can stil carry a tune, their notes unheard by men whose ears cannot resonate to so deep a scale. The bones of the earth smile, soaking down the redolent moisture from the strange passages above them -- the climate on their roof, meaning so much to those who walk on the surface, is a transient atmospheric to them. The bones are concerned with knowing other things, resting deep under the green plains and wet rivercourses, pondering a different way of space, a different meaning of time.

Out among the forest shadows, as the moon crawls into the pinetops among her sister stars, stands a glistening dark form, a savage of wilderness home born, walking without weapon or tools, he bear-talker, squirrel-tamer, the singer of pine cones, he who hears the bones singing, forest-walker and river-minded, world-native.

He knows the decays that are bringing the fortress to a standstill, because he has planned them. The lichen, the ducks, and the squirrels are his favors. In the night breeze, under shadowing arms of pine, stands he so, hearing night talk to the very bones of his planet. He is naked, resilient, glistening with soil-damp, gently formed like riverstone. Deep in his chest, born from fire and rain, comes up a song, which he believes will sing forever. Thus, fading among predawn shadows, has he built a stage for morning to play upon.

He smiles and turns along an invisible trail toward the far hills, and vanishes among the humming bark-heavy pines, into a forest of sweet causes, dark promises, whispering branches and moonlit shadows.

He is not tamed, for he lives in places where taming has never gone. He walks like a forest whisper, owning each brambled niche and open clearing, along with the ants, mice, and lynxes of the forest, and he cannot lie."


Leave your fine mathematics,
Leave your poetry, too
Walk away from the notions
You've presented as You;
Banish all preconceptions,
And your mind starts to pale;
When it sees you are bound for
The Wilderness Trail.

Turn away from the icons,
You have held for too long;
Cast off every image
Used to make others Wrong;
Bid farewell to fond formulas --
You have run out of bail;
And your time is beginning
On the Wildrness Trail.

The trailhead is near you,
Not more than a day;
But as you love your comfort.
Turn away, turn away!
Let your heart keep its Answers;
Let your eyes keep their scales.

For there's nothing but Change
On the Wilderness Trail

For there's nothing but Change
On the Wilderness Trail.

A