The Human Utopian Society, currently drafting, incomplete

Draft 1 Status, unfinished. Critique and Criticisms, accepted..

Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness, these three things, spoken of in the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America, can not be any more clear as to what a Utopian Society must embrace for it to actually become a Utopian Society. Let us quickly illuminate the inherent dynamics of these three states of beingness. You can have Life, but no Liberty, (no freedom), and you can have freedom but no life, this is the condition of not being. You can have happiness, in freedom and in slavery, up to a point, but you can not pursue a fulfilling condition of happiness if you do not have the freedom to do so. Freedom is the ability to go where you want to go, do what you want to do, and be who you want to be. Freedom is often seen as dangerous to those in power, thus the government must itself advocate a maximum level of freedom balanced with a minimum level of controls in the form of laws to check and balance the excesses of freedom that begin to violate the freedoms and reasonable well-being of others. It is Freedom that brings variety and danger to a society, but freedom is the only true path to happiness. All laws that deal with Human behavior have at their root this fundamental dynamic, the need to control the environment and the desire to be free and happy within the environment.
Happiness can vary from one person to the next, the belief of what is too much control and of what is too much freedom will vary from one person to the next, and from one culture to the next. Thus, when we set out to design a society based on the need for freedom and the restriction against personal violations we come up against a wall of human beliefs that hinder the formation of a perfect society. It is with wisdom gained from the shed blood in history, that we begin to understand that there never will be a perfect society. And it is with great wisdom, gained from the wisdom of the philosophers, poets, and song writers, that we understand that we must embrace freedom along with its inherent dangers even at the cost of losing absolute control over the environment we live in.  A Utopian Society must embrace the variety that only freedom allows and that life demands, not only in nature, for the survival of the most adaptive creature to the changing weather of life on Earth, but for the necessary stimulus of the Sentient Mind that craves novelty and challenge. It must have, within its environment, the freedom to seek what is new, and a place to call home when the day’s adventure is through. This home for a people is called a society, and we must plan it, build it, maintain it, and remake it or add to it, just like a house, when time changes the environments outside or within the society. Thus anyone planning a government that desires to function as an organic and progressive place in which to thrive, must have within its system of laws the allowance of variety that only a maximum level of freedom can bring. But to maintain a structure, or home, in which the society can flourish, there must be a minimal level of morality endorsed by the society or government. This minimal morality is established by a set of laws that focus on making it illegal to violate others purposefully in a manner that endanger their lives. Adding more to this, or going to extremes to not violate a person, takes away from free speech, public criticism, art, and physical expression, which are necessary in a society that embraces freedom and variety.
This tendency to over-regulate free speech, and expression, to avoid minor mental discomforts can be lethal to a society’s ability to criticize and make changes in the government when it becomes necessary. Thus, a Utopian Society must vehemently protect its freedoms of speech and expression. But without a minimal idea of morality, and without its proper endorsement, freedom of speech and freedom of expression can become a license to slander, rape, and murder. Currently, most of us do not question the horror and wrongness of raping and murdering. But we have religious institutes, and philosophers who have built up a backbone of the ideas we hold to be right and wrong. There are always factions in every society that reasonably question what is right or wrong, but there are also always going to be factions that desire to advocate rape and murder, and without endorsing a minimal idea of right from wrong, the degrees between what is a reasonable discomfort, or violation, and what is an outright rape or murder begins to disappear until there is no difference in the minds of the people as to what is right or wrong, and every violation that can occur to a person will occur, and will become accepted by that society as being part of their necessary freedom. Strong examples of this are the gladiator games in ancient Rome, where soldiers were paid to kill each other for sport, and in Europe and America, in the 1600’s and 1700’s where slavery was considered morally righteous by the societies in which it was practiced. To avoid those situations from occurring again, it is necessary to maintain a minimal level or morality. It is a truth that is true whether you or I like it or not. No society can maintain a high and enjoyable level of well-being for its citizens if major, personal violations, including actual slavery, rape, and murder become allowed or sanctioned by the government or culture.
We have, then, the beginnings of the understanding of what a true Utopian Society must contain to be Utopian in nature, which are great freedoms, allowance of variety, checks on extremism, and endorsement of minimal morality. What comes next, in forming our Utopian Society, is to determine its goals, and then, how it needs to be structured.
The goals of a Utopian Society will depend largely upon the sentient beings that inhabit it. Different worlds may indeed, and probably do, have different ideas of what constitutes a valuable goal for their society. We, being human, will focus on the goals that human beings wish to accomplish. The first goal of a Human Utopian Society should be to make an ascertainment of what it means to be a happy human, and to protect humanity’s general identity . Without actively protecting what it means to be human, we endanger our uniqueness in the large array of worlds far from our own, who one day will be very near to us economically and culturally. We can not advocate isolationism, nor bigotry or xenophobia. To do so would undermine our inclusion in a larger environment that may bring us the necessary room to spread out and create colonies that will protect our species from extinction should our sun or planet be overly changed or destroyed in the far future. This very natural and very evolutionary step in sentient species is most likely being followed by many worlds in many places in the universe. We would be very foolish to ignore that drive to seek new worlds and explore new civilizations, which is by no means a cliche, but instead is a dream and hope that lives in the hearts of beings who desire to be very alive and to stay that way.

A general mission statement for a Human Utopian Society could read as:

To endeavor to remain uniquely human, to preserve our varied cultures, and the freedoms our ancestors sacrificed to maintain. To seek out new worlds as we explore the universe, yet not enforce our identity or beliefs upon other sentient beings that we may find there. Nor to interfere in cultures that have a lower technological environment than our own, unless we can save that world with minimal contact and without damaging its inherent identity. To be a good neighbor in our universal community but not an overbearing neighbor. To seek peaceful relations with those of like technological environments or above, but not at the cost of losing our freedoms and societal goals…

As a Human Society, our goal is to set up and maintain maximum freedom and minimal morality; to offer and endorse free education and free healthcare to all the public to be paid for by the people as a whole through minimal taxation; to teach an accurate and unbiased version of history so that our future generations can have a more clear understanding as to where they came from and how to avoid returning to a more primitive type of society.

To enable a capitalist market with minimal restrictions, the restrictions being a stifling of monopolies and a campaign against false advertisement and fraud in products and finances; to endorse ownership and stewardship of land and its resources, which are not to be taxed or taken from those citizens that rightfully own them; to bring about fair and balanced budgets for all precincts in the government’s domain, and for a one time, annual, taxation of only ten percent of that year’s income which shall go to the maintaining of the goals of the society and its necessary offices of governmental structure; to maintain a lean and healthy governmental structure that is open and honest to scrutiny from the public, except in the area of defense to where openness may cause a national or world-wide danger to the public; to create a large and benevolent, yet well armed, exploration and defensive force that shall not be used fraudulently or to conquer or to intimidate other nations or worlds, to maintain the exploration and defensive force with taxes not to exceed a fifth of the total of income of the government through taxation.

To allow variety that enriches the environment; to promote art, music, writing and crafts as well as industry; to promote individual achievement and survival skills; to promote and maintain our planet’s ecosystem without demeaning or taking away from the freedoms of human beings within that ecosystem; to protect animals and plants, in a reasonable manner, from extinction and extortion that causes harm to the environment or depletes the population of that species to dangerously low levels; to work on reasonably lowering noise, light, water, and air pollution; to advocate, and enforce, a non-artificially-genetically enhanced human being, animals, and plant life, except in the cure of genetic ailments; and finally, to teach all citizens the values of our society and the freedoms and minimal morals that are necessary and important to making our society stable as well as one that flourishes.

The Governmental Structure of a Human Utopian Society:

to be continued….

Let’s make a Love Blanket!

I hope this blanket is huge. I know what it feels like to have something physical to wrap up in that reminds you of love when everything around you and in you feels so threatening. I hope the best for her.

The Veggy Side Of Me

I’m sharing a message of very special and extremely gifted friend Emily Cooper, and it would be nice if you could all help her making her love blanket!
love b

Hi everyone, I have a completely batty request to throw out there, please give me a minute of your time to read my post?

Our daughter Alex, was diagnosed with Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia four and a half years ago and has struggled with daily chemotherapy ever since. Her consultants are now organising a date in mid May for her to undergo a bone marrow, stem cell transplant.

We are all very positive about the treatment and Alex is at last looking at a future that is potentially cancer free. We are all aware that it will be a hell of a journey and that she will have to endure a really tough time but it will…

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Warm October Day

Let me share with you, a tiny memory of last fall to help brighten this snowy day…

From the grumbling stormy sky, to the maple trees below, air swirls over and around up high, rattling the papery leaves soothingly slow. A single golden leaf lands softly upon my hair, and a warm pleasant breath envelops me as with care. The scent of sweet maple sap, turned to wine, comes up from the yellowing lawn where the leaves have been left behind. And the sun breaks through towering columns of white and grey, as softness seeps into my soul this warm October day.


Warm February Day, even while the sun sinks low behind the dark stick-forest of trees crunched together under a layer of lava-glow orange sky, with dark blue rushing in overhead. The sidewalk looks more blue than white, and the brick buildings of Main St. look darker than brick red. A child could paint this scene with all the orange and blue crayons in the box and nothing would look amiss.

The cars rush by, a few at a time, and are more background objects, than the actual metal bubbles of lives intersecting. Just thinking it, though, and a rush of things come upon me. I push it back. I want lost in the blue sidewalk. I want the coolness coming from the dark blue overhead to stay with me, as I sit upon the warm stone of this marble bench, just a little ways from Main Street.

Too late. The court house, drenched in dark, blood-red bricks, none of it sticking to the white, lime stone foundation that skirts it, is telling stories of long ago. That Oil Soap smell of those wood floors, uneven, after all, buckling under unspoken pressures, comes at me through the cracks of the doors like dust scented perfume. The leather of a million lawyers’ shoes, and the polishing of a million million mop strokes to wipe away their scuffs on the floor, blends oddly with the still slight acrid smell of tobacco, when cigars and cigarettes were as common indoors as the shushing of babies in grocery stores. Some of the ceiling tiles in the janitor closets are still nicotine brown.

Lives. The building blocks of life. How odd to call DNA such a thing, the building blocks of life, considering other worlds may be teaming with life created from nanobot chains built from mineral ladders instead of amino acid rings. But both worlds would still be full of lives.

Lives, one wonders, are they the currency of heaven? Is your life typed up in a manilla folder, full of capital growth and investment predictions and numbers we haven’t even begun to comprehend? Is my after-life credit score good, or is it as crappy as my credit rating down here? How valuable is a life up there?

My sitting on this bench, soaking up the surrealness of this atmosphere, the smell of old building, fragile nerves, and car exhaust, am I increasing the right numbers, or wasting time just…. being? Is there a tax collector above, eagerly awaiting the wages of my idleness? Does he, or she, particularly relish the poets and writers of this world? Maybe the builders of cathedrals are the only ones that keep her up at night wondering where her next paycheck’s sixth or seventh zero will come from. People to take care of there, her family, her friends, her Lamborghini insurance and weekly detailing, all take a toll on the tax collectors of heaven. She has a life too, you know.

When angels kill, what makes them different from demons? Is it like us? Does it matter most why they killed, and not that they did kill? How many people can you kill before you become a killer? Soldiers waking up in the bleak hours of the night, with clenched teeth and sweaty faces seem to know the answer. Do angels know? They have lives too, you know.

These metal bubbles of intersecting lives, rushing by, full of eager faces with hungry tummies, they all stab at my heart. Like a fretful bird, my heart hovers over each one as they pass by, I can almost smell the hamburgers and spaghetties, the soups and breads baking in each house where they drive to, the living rooms full of laid out school books, the kitchen counter with romance novels on them, the smelly boots that dad took off, and the sound that English ears have heard since before it was Old High German, of girls and boys calling for mom… “Mom! Brother is annoying me again. Make him stop!”

A million different houses, bigger wooden bubbles of lives intersecting, with mostly tar encrusted sprinkles of gravel shingles on top, not sprinkles like the little yellow sprinkles of cheese on spaghetti, nor like the little brown dashes of sprinkles on top of a sundae. That sounds really good right now, here on this courthouse lawn.

I used to think worry was a form of love. My love hovers over the world, as if my soul was as big as a planet, but my mind is so very small. Love is not worry. I tell myself this as the fragile little lives and souls go rushing past into the shadows of the dark blue sky as it pushes down the orange glow into a thin hot line.

Oh tax collector of the heavens, tax this, if you will; I hope I make you a fortune, as I stay here, hovering over a world that doesn’t see me, feeling all of it, worrying over all of it, simply being a fat lump of flesh, dressed in rags, sitting alone on a bench, in the dimness of the evening, doing nothing. Invisible but so relieved that no one can see my heart. Like you, I only wish I had a little more love in my life, my friend.

A short walk in town.

Let’s go to main street.  It’s in one of those mid-south cities, small, but growing, where they clean up the little streets at night with old trucks that still have rotating brushes on the back, and the sidewalks and old storefronts are being renovated.  Art deco columns and old brickwork jut our between large square windows and new clean stucco surfaces, both decorated with local college mascots.

You might think this place alumni oriented, and to hear the news, you could hardly think otherwise, but many of the stores are now owned by liberal minded people, the young, artists, and a yoga instructor or two.  Cafe’s now dot each intersection, and you can hear independent label records playing proudly from inside.  Liquor licenses, hard won, hang jauntily on walls behind bars that hadn’t existed here since the early 50’s.  And at the very beginning of this stretch of newness mixed with the old, is a place for artists to meet, even poets, like me.

We can walk the back alleys here, without any fear, and if we pass behind that artist’s shop, we would see the most fascinating window, fractalated, almost cracked, like pale blue ink, spilled then frozen in time.  Well, it used to be there, that window.  They replaced it now.  I got a picture of it.  I’ve posted it for you at the top of the page.

If we go down the side streets, from main street, we’ll find yard after yard, filled with flowers and blooming vines.  No other city has looked as beautiful as this one, in the spring, in the summer, or the fall.  Rain or shine, the town always surprised one.  It still does.

We walk down a sidewalk, toward a house I used to live in, and my roses still bloom there.  I call them granny roses, but I don’t know their real name.  We dug them up at the last place we lived, and soon, I will sneak into this yard, and dig some up, and take them with me to my new place.

I wanted to show you the town I lived in for 20 years, but it would take more than one walk.  Amazing people live there.  I was blessed.

Ah, the sun is set, and near by, the yellow street light glows brilliantly through the sycamore leaves, making them look like they are composed of golden magic instead of sweet, aromatic sap and chlorophyll.  I have stared under this tree, at night, looking up at those leaves, many times.  And I never tired of it.

Down the road, there’s a cute wooden fence, and a lattice with a black mail box on top, the thickest, biggest, most velvety, purple clementines grow up and wrap their vines around it.  In the dark, they look like they are a bower over a door to a fairy land.

My mind is restful, and I want to take you back home. We can get in the car, and watch the houses and yards go by, shrouded in shadows and lit in yellow circles from the street lights. If we roll the window down, we’ll hear the many songs of the many tree frogs, clinging with little sticky fingers, in the thick canopy of tree limbs that arch overhead. The air is clean, cool, and easy to breathe….

A Warm Summer Rain

I want to take you into the past, to a real memory of a summer rain.


We piled in the back of a pick-up truck, not beat up or old, it was newish, blue, I think, seems my grandfather always chose blue trucks.  They often matched his overalls, that blue denim, crossing his chest, where he always wore a black glasses case, for reading.  We drove off into the dusty fields to the rocky hill, where black berry bushes had voluntarily sprung up.  The morning dew had wet our pants bottoms and shoes, and chiggers had already begun biting and causing us to itch.  I saw a turtle that afternoon, if I remember correctly, eating black berries right underneath me as I picked them up above.  It had that beautiful caramel-brown shell with dots and patterns that they always have, and seeing it right beside me made me feel nice, like it trusted me with its life, like it knew I wasn’t a threat.  I liked that feeling.  

This large tract of land, covered in lush grass for hay in the fields, and lush weeds in the rocky pastures, had once been all trees.  My grandfather had literally walked nearly every square foot of this land, clearing it for fields that would later support his family, and his family’s families unto the third and fourth generations.  It was a beautiful land, like a park, and we walked it too, at a young age, without fear of wild animal attacks, but we did have a few close calls with snakes and wolves.  There was still a little wild left in it.

I remember that as we picked berries, the sky became a pale green, and the light all around us was a pale green, and there was a kind of florescence to it, as if the sun had become a pale green neon light, covered by a fast blanket of moving clouds, not grey, but mostly white and wispy.  All around, the earth had soaked up the morning’s dew, and the breezes became little gusts, picking up and swirling loose silt and sand.  My grandfather noticed the weather changes, and began keeping an eye on the northwest.  But we kept on picking black berries.  My arms were scratched, like I had fought with wild cats, those thorny stems, I swear, sometimes they seemed alive, holding you by the sleeves of your shirt, urging us to stop picking their seeds, which seemed counter-intuitive to me, since it was by our good graces that they remained on the land, while their other briar kin had been bush-hogged, mowed down to nothing, but lone, one strand survivors, a leaf or two, flapping in the breeze like flags of surrender.  Why fight us if we were the ones securing their perpetual existence?  But then again, most of them were here because of birds, not us.  Birds that landed on the twisted, steel wires that stretched tightly from cedar post to cedar post, these were their usual birth place.  Yet again, the fences were what we had put up, without us, they would have had to compete with so many other of their kin, in fact, most of their kin killed them, strangled them, in the fence rows.  It was even rare for the wild, pink roses to survive there.  Somehow, that stranger, honeysuckle, seemed to be the only conqueror of the mighty briars.  Soft on the outside, but as strong as steel on the inside, honeysuckle was also there because of us, brought over to the Americas by gardeners for the delight of the heavenly perfume they created, especially on moon-lit nights when when the fireflies came, passing by the glowing white blooms, with glowing green tails…

My grandfather saw it first, the wave of rain, like a veil of grey smoke, gently strolling over the distant hills, then suddenly, white descended in front of it, as if a fog had covered it over.  We scrambled into the cab of the truck, crowded, breathing heavy.  Thunder came out of nowhere.  We thought of driving off, but Grandfather simply ran the engine, letting the windshield wipers push away the rain.  That rain.  Wow.  After the white cloud came down, and we got in the truck, the rain hit us like a fire-hose.  I had never seen so much rain fall so fast, so thickly, and to this day, I have yet to see the same.  It truly was a wall of water.  The wipers were useless.  All they did was swish hypnotically before us, swish, swish…. swish, swish….. swish, swish…..  And beyond them, just pale green, and water, no, rain, lots and lots of rain. 

Inside that cab, we were at the mercy of the storm, the wind that rocked the truck, the force of the water, the lack of visibility, and the lightning all around us.  Tense.  Yet my grandfather laughed.  He laughed.  I remember smelling that sweet onion he had for lunch, still on his hands, and the tart black berry juice, splotching our fingers like writer’s ink.  My dad sat on the other side of the truck, and he grinned.  I found myself grinning. 

Suddenly, all over, like in a movie.  Sunlight came pouring down, golden, making things stand out again, solid, substantial, no longer two-dimensional things blending into the wall of fog…

But the joy, that came, from deep inside, started on the outside, when I stepped out of the truck, and felt the last drops of that summer rain, and they were… warm.  Not cool, not lukewarm, not warmish, but warm.  A warm summer’s rain had fallen.  Under the golden sunlight, and in the last of the warm, thick drops of summer rain, my mind and heart burst with an aliveness I can not describe.

After the rain, we went home, on red, muddy ruts we called roads. And when we separated the berries, my Grandfather went to his house, and we sat down to watch tv, and out the window, the golden colors turned to blue, then dimmed, as time went on until sunset came, but dark and grey instead of orange and bright. I didn’t know if it would rain again, but I knew that life was full of surprises, and that some of them were very, very good.

What Love Is worth…

When I was shaking at the doctor’s office, full of fear and doubts, and voices, the doctor put a hand on my back, and comforted me before the ambulance came,

When I lost 10 pounds, in sweat, waiting in the emergency room, and a woman came in and stayed over time, finding me a good place to be sent to, instead of a state institute,

When I was in another ambulance, being taken to the mental care institute, and the technicians were calm and respectful, and held my bed in place when I was bumped around on my way to the care center,

When I checked in, and the nurses comforted me, trying to figure out what had happened to me, and gave me something to eat after hours, talking to me with motherly love,

When I was taken to a room, and my roommate was calm and thoughtful, and offered to share things with me, and to leave the light on if I needed it,

When I was attacked in my own mind by things I could not see, and seemed like an angel protecting me,

When every day after, a calm voice lead me through this, day after day, saying, hold on, hold on, wait, wait, you are loved,

When the screams come, and I ask God to quiet them, and they fade away in my mind,

All of this, beginning on 2011, November 11th.  When I attacked the occult world, and even today, 2014, January, 22nd, as I write this, silent to them,  in a restaurant, the group of kids that came in earlier sit all around me in a large group spouting things about the Illuminati, and occult, as if it is an every day word or something everyone talks and jokes about, and I feel attacked and mocked for holding on to God, and inside, a voice says, wait, wait, wait, and that it loves me and that things will get better, and I sit in a strange kind of surreal calmness,……

In the little things, I know what love is worth.