Songs that Expose Truth (?)

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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby simonshack on Sat Jun 15, 2019 7:21 pm

Cool, dear Cooler!

I'd sure open the door to these Postmen. :)
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby ICfreely on Thu Jul 11, 2019 4:24 am

Buprenorphine for opioid addiction

SUMMARY

Buprenorphine is a partial opioid agonist of the µ-receptor, and is used as a daily dose sublingual tablet or filmstrip for managing opioid addiction. In the USA, the Drug Addiction Treatment Act of 2000 made buprenorphine the only opioid medication for opioid addiction that can be prescribed in an office-based setting

Buprenorphine is one of the most important developments in pharmacotherapy for opioid addiction, preceded only by the broad implementation of methadone maintenance before the approval of buprenorphine in the USA and other countries. Distinct from methadone, buprenorphine may be prescribed by a qualified physician in an office-based setting instead of only being dispensed in federally authorized opioid-treatment clinics. Thus, the arrival of buprenorphine permitted physicians to directly manage the treatment of their opioid-addicted patients, making it possible for them to treat these patients with the same medical approach used for other patients with chronic conditions…

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4283787/




Pixies - Where Is My Mind

full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3oCS85HvpY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3oCS85HvpY


[Intro]
(Ooh)—stop

[Verse 1]
With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah (Yeah)
Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it
And you'll ask yourself

[Chorus]
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Way out in the water
See it swimming

[Verse 2]
I was swimming in the Caribbean
Animals were hiding behind the rock
Except the little fish bumped into me
I swear he was trying to talk to me, to me, to me

[Chorus]
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Way out in the water
See it swimming


[Verse 3]
With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it
And you'll ask yourself

[Chorus]
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Way out in the water
See it swimming

[Outro]
With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah


"There will be, in the next generation or so, a pharmacological method of making people love their servitude, and producing dictatorship without tears, so to speak, producing a kind of painless concentration camp for entire societies, so that people will in fact have their liberties taken away from them, but will rather enjoy it, because they will be distracted from any desire to rebel by propaganda or brainwashing, or brainwashing enhanced by pharmacological methods. And this seems to be the final revolution."
(Aldous Huxley, Tavistock Group, California Medical School, 1961)
https://academyofideas.com/2018/06/aldous-huxley-brave-new-world-dark-side-of-pleasure/



https://cluesforum.info/viewtopic.php?f=27&t=995&start=30#p2412081
https://cluesforum.info/viewtopic.php?f=27&t=995&start=30#p2412265
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby cooler1021 on Tue Jul 30, 2019 9:53 am


full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYu8HthTGjo

Lyrics:

We can be
We can be
We can be more than ever people
More than ever people
More than ever people

Wake up you lazy people
Put on your heads and realize
We can be positive people
Adjust your attitude and rise

We can be
We can be
We can be more than ever people
More than ever people
More than ever people

Beyond lust and desire
Cut free and individualize
The colors of your power
Let love come shining through your eyes

We can be
We can be
We can be more than ever people
More than ever people
More than ever people

Wake up you breadhead people
This time's so in control of you
Such an only time for money
When will you see the real truth ?

We can be
We can be
We can be more than ever people
More than ever people
More than ever people
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby ICfreely on Wed Aug 07, 2019 3:11 am

Pink Floyd - Learning To Fly (Official Video With Lyrics)

full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ObaCDQj8LC8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ObaCDQj8LC8


[Verse 1]
Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a wind swept field
Standing alone my senses reel
A fatal attraction is holding me fast
How can I escape this irresistible grasp?

[Chorus]
Can’t keep my eyes from the circling sky
Tongue-tied and twisted
Just an earth-bound misfit, I

[Verse 2]
Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings, I thought I thought of everything
No navigator to find my way home

Unladen, empty and turned to stone

[Chorus]
A soul in tension that’s learning to fly
Condition grounded but determined to try
Can’t keep my eyes from the circling sky
Tongue-tied and twisted
Just an earth-bound misfit, I

[Verse 3]
Above the planet on a wing and a prayer
My grubby halo, a vapor trail in the empty air
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye
A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night

[Chorus]
There’s no sensation to compare with this
Suspended animation, a state of bliss
Can’t keep my mind from the circling sky
Tongue-tied and twisted
Just an earth-bound misfit, I
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby antipodean on Sat Aug 10, 2019 8:51 am


full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlNkikh3Iu8

The world was stripped of beauty baby by the working man
He was told it was his duty baby again and again and again
They took the slaves from africa baby along with sugar sacks
To build the british empire baby and break everybody's back
Hey hey slash and burn hey hey slash and burn
Hey hey slash and burn that's how they feed the world
They burned the mighty rain forest the howler monkeys screamed
They turned it into burgers for the monkeys on the street
The paths were forged with promise hung up like jewels and gold
While atlas the adonis was holding up the globe
Hey hey slash and burn hey hey slash and burn
Hey hey slash and burn that's how they feed the world
That's how they feed the world
America is a car park london is a dump
China's for the chinese russia is for chumps
Criminals were elected to divide the world
For every head a bullet for every swine a pearl

Hey hey slash and burn hey hey slash and burn
Hey hey slash and burn that's how they feed the world
Hey hey slash and burn hey hey slash and burn
Hey hey slash and burn that's how they feed the world

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rCuLTm8yjs
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby ICfreely on Wed Aug 21, 2019 3:15 am

I’ve been thinking about who the real Jews are. What does it even mean to be a real Jew?

IMHO, the Jews who have the intestinal fortitude to question Jewish dogma and speak their minds (knowing full well they’ll be labeled “self-hating Jews”) are the Real Jews. The Righteous Jews who are truly doing what’s good for the Jews. More power to them!


The conference of the birds; a dazzling Persian Sufi poem
June 11, 2018 by Faena Aleph

A masterpiece of Sufi mysticism, between the lines of this poem are lessons even for today.

It might be idle to insist (as so often happens) on the symbolism and power of birds in the human imagination. Beyond all that might be said of birds – on the books and treatises, on the unconscious, the mythological, the sacred, and similar considerations – the creative works documenting the phenomenon will always be delightful. One of the most beautiful texts reflecting the metaphysical qualities of these animals is The Conference of the Birds, a 12th-century mystical epic by the Persian poet Farid ud-Din Attar. A pinnacle of Sufism, the poem narrates the allegorical journey of a group of birds and the moral learning they encounter along their way.

The story, enchanting like few others, begins with a meeting of all of the world’s birds to decide who will be their sovereign, because, at the moment, they’re without a leader. The hoopoe, a solitary, territorial bird, and the wisest of all, proposes finding the simurgh (a mythical, benevolent bird of the Iranian cosmogony, in some ways related to the Phoenix) to resolve the dilemma. The hoopoe will then guide all the other birds, symbolic representations of the human vices which keep people away from enlightenment.

The hoopoe explains that in order to reach the dwelling of the simurgh, the birds need to cross seven valleys – the steps along which Sufis travel on their way to understanding the true nature of God. The first is the Valley of the Quest (Talab), where the traveler is freed from dogma, belief, and at the same time, from disbelief. The second, the Valley of Love (Ishq), moves travelers away from reason and closer to the feeling of love. The Valley of Knowledge (Ma’refat), third along the journey, is a place where mundane knowledge becomes useless. Fourth is the Valley of Detachment (Isteghnâ), where desires and apprehensions for the material world are let go. The Valley of Unity (Tawhid) is the fifth valley, where the birds learn that absolutely everything in the universe is connected. The sixth is the Valley of Wonderment (Hayrat), where travelers, fascinated by the beauty of the Beloved, understand that in reality they’ve never understood anything. Finally, in the Valley of Poverty and Annihilation (Faqr and Fana), being disappears entirely and becomes one with the universe, a timeless entity existing in both the past and in the future.

While listening to the descriptions of these valleys, the birds are overcome with affliction and fear. Some even die at that very moment. Finally, the flock begins their epic journey during which still others will die of hunger, thirst, disease, or by falling prey to other animals. Just 30 birds arrive at the home of the simurgh where they realize a startling truth: they are themselves the simurgh. In fact, the word in Persian means “30 birds.” Finally, the birds understand that the Beloved is like the sun in that it can be reflected in a mirror. In other words, we all reflect God because we are God’s shadow and reverberation: nothing is separated from its creator.

The skill in the use of symbols in Attar’s poem is perfectly intertwined with the narration of the smaller tales within the story and which, like Greek fables, always contain a drop of wisdom. In many ways, the adventure of the traveling birds – a treasure of Islamic mysticism and Sufism – is a story of initiation. It recalls many of the religious pilgrimages we’ve heard about, from Dante’s journey through the underworld and his arrival in heaven or, even, the brave Odysseus’s travels when his destiny was always to return home, to return to his origins, and to learn, once again, the truth.

https://www.faena.com/aleph/articles/the-conference-of-the-birds-a-dazzling-persian-sufi-poem%e2%80%a8/#
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby simonshack on Wed Aug 21, 2019 4:25 am

*

Since my longstanding Youtube channel was crudely & crassly deleted / shut down / censored a year ago or so (by the self-anointed "God chosen" supremacist weasels who rule this world), I will be slowly reuploading my favorite home-made videos on my new Youtube channel.

Funnily enough, most of the requests I am getting nowadays (to reupload my videos) have to do with my music videos... (perhaps I'm not trying hard enough to show people how deeply we're all being duped in the fields of geopolitics and science - *sigh*)

So here we go. "Weatherchange" may be almost twenty years old - but it's still pretty relevant! ^_^


full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2OknL7MvDE

We really do live in a silly, silly world. Let's just laugh about it - lest we waste our precious lives bothering about its profound silliness.
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby sharpstuff on Wed Aug 21, 2019 7:25 am

Firstly:

I want to thank ICFreely for posting the following:

The hoopoe explains that in order to reach the dwelling of the simurgh, the birds need to cross seven valleys – the steps along which Sufis travel on their way to understanding the true nature of God. The first is the Valley of the Quest (Talab), where the traveler is freed from dogma, belief, and at the same time, from disbelief. The second, the Valley of Love (Ishq), moves travelers away from reason and closer to the feeling of love. The Valley of Knowledge (Ma’refat), third along the journey, is a place where mundane knowledge becomes useless. Fourth is the Valley of Detachment (Isteghnâ), where desires and apprehensions for the material world are let go. The Valley of Unity (Tawhid) is the fifth valley, where the birds learn that absolutely everything in the universe is connected. The sixth is the Valley of Wonderment (Hayrat), where travelers, fascinated by the beauty of the Beloved, understand that in reality they’ve never understood anything. Finally, in the Valley of Poverty and Annihilation (Faqr and Fana), being disappears entirely and becomes one with the universe, a timeless entity existing in both the past and in the future.


Having read that paragraph, I was amazed to see how it coinsided with a small book I wrote in the late '70's which reflects a great deal of my own poetry. I make no bones about presenting it here. Please enjoy.

******************************************
THE SONG OF THE SCRIBETHE SCRIBE

AND THE SCRIBE came from the mountains and they asked him of Love, whereupon he sat on the gravel and answered them, saying:
-Love is what I find in the hills but it is not the love of a woman, it was the love of life and woman is only part of life. And such as there are grains of gravel, so there are many forms of love, as there are blades of grass, upon which the cow chews to make milk.
He explained that love took these forms because there was much need of variety and that if there was a purpose, then all things, had purpose.
They looked upon him, seeing that he looked afar with eyes that did not see them, but only the idols of his thoughts. But he laughed and taking the hand of a maiden, stared into her eyes and they departed. The crowd laughed, they could see that the look he gave her was love-lust and they were happy.
Yet it was not so and the maiden and the Scribe wandered not far but only to the trees, that bowed to the changing wind. Here the Scribe took the maiden's hands into his and she felt the peace of his world and though not innocent, she felt something different.
The Scribe showed her that love swayed like the breeze; that no leaf occupied the same space twice, even though there was no breeze. He did not take her to him, because all men can do that and in love it is only a small part, as a grain of sand is to the desert. Sand makes bricks, but not foundations-it also makes glass to see through and mirrors that reflect.
Thus was the maiden changed and without words, she departed the Scribe and with a new heart, went back to the village.

The Scribe did not want to return and wandered into the plains, a youthful wisdom in his aged bones.
When the maiden entered the village, the eyes of the men and women looked knowingly that she had changed but it was not for the reason they assumed, since their lives were shallow and they knew not what had been revealed.
But they could not laugh, since folly could not be found in her countenance; only the love of finding love where once the waters of ignorance flowed.

After the Scribe had wandered for three days in the heat, rain and darkness, he came upon another village browsing between the hills.
-I have created this hamlet, this dream, he said
-from the turbulent past, that has often been the motive of my journey. It is here I will savour a woman, for my need is great.
Thus he came to the hamlet and its long shadows spoke serenely of night, picking the dull-red bricks from the fading light. A garden brought his first friend, who offered the nomad food in his house.
Now in this house resided a woman of not too tender years, who blushed with mature youth when she looked upon him. Of late she had prepared the meal at which he now sat.
His host introduced his family-the young woman of which was his niece and asked him why he travelled as he did--was he ascetic, or a monk? The Scribe answered, saying:
-I am here because this village lies in my path and at such a time as night is upon me, I do not wish to remain alone, circumnavigating life, which I do not desire to lose as an ascetic or a monk, for closed minds are not my occupation.
The woman looked at him and her breasts rose with the passion of deeper breathing.
After dinner, the sun having fled to ground, the Scribe rose and begged of his host the accompaniment of the woman, who rose only with the permission given, for does not an honest man demand an answer?
Outside the mean cottage, the Scribe took the woman and they walked into the world. She asked him of Folly and he answered her, saying:
-Folly is that which our mind sees as wrong, but which our sense desire, tempered with our realisation of its wrongness. Yet rightness and wrongness do not exist except as reminders of our folly, for living itself, is folly.
She stood beside him, as if not with him and he felt alone, knowing that she was thinking her private thoughts. Yet a passion of wanting flowed over him and he gave her thoughts no chance, spreading his lips upon her fresh mouth...
for them, thought left and only the green carpet of Nature gave its scent to the feeding of their desire and their bodies ate each other, consuming and being consumed.
They returned to the house absent of guilt that was not theirs to feel.

In the morning, having slept in a corner bed, the Scribe left his hosts and went on, leaving a little of his-self behind. The bird-egg cracked and the fledgling was born.

In the palm of my hand, said the Scribe, I hold the future that can be read by any good woman with a crystal ball. Yet that same crystal ball reflects only a distorted view of my world, that seems to want to be known only by the living of it.
Thus do I feel master to my Fate, that changes as the seasons that enter the brow of the hills that confront me now.

Thus the Scribe came from the valley into the mountain village, that so prettily sang to the golden corn that surrounded it, and where his creatures flourished with their own songs.
In the market square, he supplied his thirst with the crystal-clear water that sprang untainted from a fountain; as a mountain stream finds glory in freedom from an underground spring.
He sat upon the steps of the fountain, marvelling at the sight that was about him.
The village children came to him, laughing; and he laughed back, playing their games, that to him, were also real.
Then came the village people, stooping below their wares, seeing that he was a traveller they wished to be. They asked him of his travels and what message he brought them. And he answered, saying:
-I travel because that is the nature of Man. But yet my travels do not mean that I do not know where I am going, or that I shun my fellows. To each his own place, be it the home you go to now, or the home of the world that I see about me.
They asked him what was Home, and he answered them:
- Home is the place that you feel best for you, whether it is the comfort of four walls, or the open sky which breaks into a darkness of shining light. Home is where your ideas best shape themselves, but mostly where you could be yourself and at one with yourself.
They continued to listen, offering him food, because this place was their home and he was their guest and their homes were his also, because they were under the sky which was his place. Thus did the world fulfil its promise, that it was for each and all.

When the Scribe had eaten, they asked him of himself, and he answered:
-I am myself only. That which is me cannot be spoken of, but can only be sampled by those about me, because without you, I am alone. I do not want to be alone, because I cannot be myself. Self is essence, like the stormy clouds, or the fragrant breeze, or the trees that frame the landscape; but self is also awareness of being alive.
The Scribe was tired and had eaten, and thus they offered him a place to rest. He rose from the fountain, which still bubbled in the evening light, a miniature universe of glittering tears. They took him with them and the children sang their songs, which mingled with the calls of avian creatures who took to the air for last flights to their nests.
Then night descended like a blanket; the world froze as the Scribe's lids passed the optic fibre of sight.

The gentle music of the golden corn was mellow upon the Scribe's ears. He plucked a full ear, not to marvel at its construction (for that miracle was already in his soul) but to break it upon the wind, whereupon the melody of its spores dissipated as a song to the wind.
Those feet, which had travelled so far, now begged the forgiveness of his frame and he came to rest upon a scented turf. Here, he spoke to his inner self with the enchantment of a child that surely one day his wandering must stop--but where? he asked himself. Was it to be here, among the melody of Nature or the full orchestration of the hamlet that lay shining beyond the cultivated copse, yonder.
He told himself that the time would reveal itself to him, that now was not the time to contemplate such things; that life was too cool to be heated by the future, which though only an instant away, was as the next page, not written upon, nor read.
He rose from the ground, the sun was setting, pulling him to rest elsewhere than the swaying field of corn.
He walked toward the hamlet, reality calling.
They gave him food, a place to rest, low to his beloved ground. Moths beat dusty wings against the rising moon's glow, flapping away their thin lives in a glittering shower.
The Scribe slept, unwoken by the noises of the night. His dreams flew to the beyond, upon awakening. His body felt the near-ending journey and he knew he must rest a while in this place as if he must be ready for the time he could wander no longer, though he knew that he would never die--his life was an idea that flourishes even though never used.
The Scribe rose to the lightening dawn that flowered from the bud of night, washed at the well, drawing water from within the bowels of the mother earth, the womb of all creation.
And so for a time, the Scribe stayed, working like some ghost in the fields--there, but so silent and thoughtful as to be like a spirit, unseen, but not unfelt.
He was fed and clothed and in the evenings would sit in the fragrance of the twilight and talk, or sing with the villagers of that which was about them--and when the sun's rest was upon them he went his way, to feel those things within himself, so that he could rejoice.
Such was the Scribe's tune, the lyric episodes of the verses upon which life is constructed.

There were no days that had names, no weeks that formed months, no months that created years, for Time's progression is not measured in these things--only is its passing felt and savoured, for we all need its incessant calling upon our lives--so said the Scribe as he wandered abroad.
No longer could he still time as he had in the hamlet--for his journey was to pass through Time that he might contemplate its entirety--thus is a god made. (And did they not treat him as a god because of his wisdom--and had he not laughed at them-with gentle composure--because no man is a god, only a servant of Time and he was not beyond time.)
The children ran to him, laughing-not at his ragged countenance, but because they were curious. And he laughed with them--time was not their enemy--yet still they were beyond Time, but had not yet reached its drawing fingers, beckoning them to old age-then to be afraid of the receding past- that was sad and surely Time was joy.
He spread his hands out to them and in innocence they clung to his garments, throwing flowers about as they danced. He sang to them of the world, but they harkened only to the music, afraid of the words they could not understand.
The Scribe bowed to their better judgement, staying, only to play their games with them.

Now, was Time One. The Scribe came to his final draught. He penned the last haunting lines of the Ode, the pastoral picture of his life, for what journeys had he not taken and what journey has not an end that is not the final calling? The mother is always the bearer; the son only a transient phrase in Life's sentence.
Thus the Scribe made final peace with the world; not surrounded by the timely ones, but the timeless eternity of past joy and a future breathless existence for which there was no fear.
Passing thus, there were no tears, no laughter, no words nor thoughts, only the gentle floating upon the wind of a departed soul that the Universe would find beautiful.
Thus ended the Song of the Scribe to be read and re-read, thus one can remain immortal.

*******************************************************
Be well.

Sharpstuff
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Re: Songs that Expose Truth (?)

Unread postby ICfreely on Fri Aug 30, 2019 3:06 am

sharpstuff wrote:Firstly:

I want to thank ICFreely for posting the following:

The hoopoe explains that in order to reach the dwelling of the simurgh, the birds need to cross seven valleys – the steps along which Sufis travel on their way to understanding the true nature of God. The first is the Valley of the Quest (Talab), where the traveler is freed from dogma, belief, and at the same time, from disbelief. The second, the Valley of Love (Ishq), moves travelers away from reason and closer to the feeling of love. The Valley of Knowledge (Ma’refat), third along the journey, is a place where mundane knowledge becomes useless. Fourth is the Valley of Detachment (Isteghnâ), where desires and apprehensions for the material world are let go. The Valley of Unity (Tawhid) is the fifth valley, where the birds learn that absolutely everything in the universe is connected. The sixth is the Valley of Wonderment (Hayrat), where travelers, fascinated by the beauty of the Beloved, understand that in reality they’ve never understood anything. Finally, in the Valley of Poverty and Annihilation (Faqr and Fana), being disappears entirely and becomes one with the universe, a timeless entity existing in both the past and in the future.




Having read that paragraph, I was amazed to see how it coinsided with a small book I wrote in the late '70's which reflects a great deal of my own poetry. I make no bones about presenting it here. Please enjoy.



I know, dear Sharpstuff. That's why I posted it.


A Horse With No Name - America (Lyrics)

full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpSdePGgVyQ
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpSdePGgVyQ
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