Vol 2 - Chap 2

 

 

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The Marble Game - Part II
 
By Geoffrey Wallace Brown, Ph.D.

  • Chapter 2

1.

Good morning.

I thought you might like some observations on my continuing adventures in Frazer, Montana, which is where I am speaking to you from.

Frazer, as you know, is on the wind-swept plains of northeastern Montana.  Which is a poetic way of saying that this place is really out in the weeds.

I mean I haven't been able to spot a place as remote as this on a map of the United States.

We are two or three hundred miles from the nearest town, a "town," that is, that is large enough to sport a T.  V.  station.  Unless you want to count Williston, North Dakota.  Which we don't.

Williston is only a hundred miles away.  But Williston is in North Dakota, which crosses over into the Midwest.  There is an imaginary boundary at the edge of Montana, separating the West from the Midwest.

They even tell North Dakota jokes here.

Like the one I heard in the Husky Cafe in Wolf Point by a trucker.

He was telling about how you could tell you were in North Dakota because you could see the toilet paper hanging out to dry.

Frazer is the butt of a lot of jokes too.  Because it is an Indian village, and the folks around here are genuinely prejudiced against Indians.

When I go to the Post Office each day, which is only a couple of blocks from my house, the fact that I see freshly cut off deer heads lying in the path shouldn't bother me.  The dogs have to have something to eat.

The only thing that has bothered me even a little was this little dead puppy that lay in the street beside my house for a couple of weeks.  The other dogs would chew on it for a while; but mostly they would leave it alone.

It's January now.  And it regularly hangs out at around below zero.  It’s been down to -40, and last week it stayed around -20 most of the week.

Which means that only the hardy dogs make it.  The others end up as "puppyburgers," as the kids like to joke.

One thing about all these dogs around here in the winter: the little doggie turds freeze and accumulate.

But, that's okay in the end, because it is so dry here that they don't melt; they just sort of evaporate into powder.

The streets still aren’t paved; but it doesn't matter because for the past two months they have been sheet ice anyway.  Which is fine for rebellious youth.  Who like to race the streets in snowmobiles at night.

I have a problem with the dump.  The water and sewer are paid for in regular white man fashion, sort of: a guy comes around with a tablet with everybody's name on it, and collects for the both of them.  If you pay him he puts a big check after your name with a pencil.

The dump is more of a problem though.  You see, every now and then a guy comes along with a great big bulldozer and gouges out a hole in the ground in this place a couple of miles from town.  The idea is that you take your own garbage and dump it in the hole.  Then when it fills up he comes back and fills it up and digs another hole.

Well, this is okay, except it requires everybody's cooperation.  Not everybody here is that ambitious.

It works for a while until they notice that the bottom of the pit has been soiled by having trash thrown into it.  Apparently, and this is pure speculation on my part, they then figure that the garbage should get dumped in a new spot.  Because you start seeing garbage dumped not in the pit, but around it.  First around the edges.  Then, as it becomes increasingly hazardous to approach the pit from all the broken bottles around the edges, everybody starts dumping their junk at the periphery of the ever-widening edge.

Until you can't get close to the pit anymore.

And then they start dumping it on the side of the road going up to the pit.

Then the guy comes along with the bulldozer and digs a new hole.

And somebody cleans up all the mess.

But, that's okay.  All of this is paid for by Federal tax dollars and there is plenty more where that came from.

After all, they do have to keep these folks employed.

Actually, you mustn't misunderstand me.  Frazer is the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life.

The fact that most everybody is an alcoholic, or a dope addict, or a sexual deviant, with everybody seeming to get his little computer check from the Federal government (directly or indirectly), supporting and encouraging the absolute desolation of human life around here, doesn't bother me at all.

The fact that two girls under sixteen had to drop out of school to have their babies, that one of the girls was suspended for fist-fighting, and one of the boys was suspended for slugging my wife, these things all indicate the kind of social environment our government should support.

The fact that it is unusual for even the girls in this town to end up with the same family they started with, and that often they simply have no place to go to get raised into adolescenthood, means that they have to find a boy to live with.

There is so much incest around here that I honestly don't think they know what it means.

But, fortunately, we are helping our "red brother" through the massive welfare state that our idea of help has become.

This place needs some good teachers and some good people to show these perfectly beautiful little Indian children that there is an alternative to the ideas that they have been forced to accept as reality.

Anyway, Frazer is the most beautiful place I have ever lived because: it is infinitely quiet.

I came here to write my book and let my wife get a unique teaching experience.  But what I found I had forgotten all about.

The infinite quiet where you can find your peace of mind.

The prairie is unique.

The stars are so bright I can see all the little stars that make up the Pleiades.

The wind is so soft that it makes your relationship to God downright personal.

The snow is dry and powdery, and He is forever forming little wispy dances of beautiful ephemeral figures on the frozen plains.

Right in front of you.

His infinite care becomes immediately present to you.

The awesome thing He is trying to get you to see.

Infinitely patient.

A remarkable transformation occurs in human thought when you recognize that God is the only power in the Universe.

You begin to relax.

And look for what He is saying and where He is guiding you.

And the moment you do that, or start to do that, you begin to see, or start seeing, what it has been about.  All this time.

There is a process, a unique and thoroughly wonderful process, of surrendering the human for the divine.

Something within you begins to stir as you begin to recognize who and what you really are.

The fear is gone.

The trust begins.

But most of all you begin to see what the fourth dimension holds in store for you.

You begin to feel all those old human concerns drop away and mean nothing whatsoever anymore.

What you are trading in is like a shovel full of frozen doggie turds on a pickup full of diamonds.

All it takes is trust.

A willingness to cast your lure into the beyond.  Into the unknown.

Into the Love of God.

Well I, of course, just love to sit around and contemplate this stuff.  But even more, I love to walk around and be what I am contemplating.

There is nothing better than walking around and seeing God everywhere, in every bush, every snowflake, every child's face.

So my situation is ideal.

Except for the Indians.  The Indians think I am nuts.

You see the best time to really feel the inner peace with God is when you are alone.  And the best place and the best time to be really deeply alone is out in the middle of a blizzard at night.

I like to walk down the railroad tracks.

Or maybe the highway.

Highway 2, a major east-west U.S.  highway, goes right by here.  This place is so remote that you can actually wait up to half an hour on a normal night before a car or a truck goes by.

It is a marvel to walk under the stars on that highway and listen to the infinite awesome absolute quiet of God soak up sound.

(A scientist will tell you that it is the billions of little pores in the snowflakes that soak up the sound.  But at last I know that he is full of those little doggie turds I see on the way to the store.  My God am I thankful.

I can just walk and revel in how thankful I am for that.)

Well, the Indians still think I am at least weird.

I don't blame them.

Here is this 6' 2" 200 pound hulk, all bundled up and walking the streets when it is below zero, and any sane man is home getting drunk and keeping warm.

This is the time of night, too, when the kids prowl and look for a house that's empty and has something to steal.  (They usually just steal T.  V.  dinners and any money they can find.)

The other night I was out on this perfectly gorgeous night contemplating the beauty of God in His snowflakes that were gently, silently coming down past the street lights.

I was walking along and I heard this Indian behind me call for me to wait up.  He caught up with me and it turned out he was one of my neighbors.

He was drunk, and trying to get me to come over to his house.

I just looked at him, knowing that somewhere inside all of that booze and confusion there was the child of God.

(If you look for that you will always see it.  It is that that you relate to; not the material appearance that tries to obscure it.)

Well, this fellow, middle-aged, and the father of some of my wife's student's, was beginning to put the moves on me.

He said, "Wanna ooze ya."

I said, "What? "

He said, "Wanna ooze ya."

I said, "What?", beginning to get the picture.

He said, "You're beautiful."

I said, "That's nice.  I guess."

He said, "Wanna ooze ya."

I said, "I don't know what you mean?" Knowing very well what he was beginning to mean and starting to back off.

Finally he came up to me and put his arm around me.

Then he let his hand fall down, and patted my fanny for me.

And said, "Come on.  I wanna fuck you in the asshole."

Great Zot!

Here I am, came all the way to Frazer, Montana, to get away and find a place to hide so I can contemplate God in a snowflake.

And I have a drunk Indian fairy trying to put the moves on me.



2.

I would like to say something to you about dirty words.

Back when I was teaching in my college, Whitman College, in Walla Walla, Washington, the Philosophy Department--we had a three man department--seemed to attract all kinds of rejects and ne'er-do-wells from the student body.

We had our stock of successful cases--we sent a couple to medical school, a couple to Harvard Law School--but I was impressed, (and I think the rest of the faculty was impressed), by what a large number of students would come to our little Department who couldn't make it anywhere else.

This I took to be a right and reasonable function of our department.

We took in the rejects and refugees from all over the school.

Somebody had to do it.  And, we all felt, why shouldn't it be us?

We always had a little party at the end of the year.  We would go up into the mountains, or perhaps out to my farm.  (I lived on two different farms while I taught at Whitman for several years.)

I remember the first year I had people out to my little farm in the valley.  (I lived on one farm in the Walla Walla Valley for three years; on a second one in the adjacent mountains for another three years.  )

Half of the class came stoned on mescaline.

One of the girls, brought by one of the students, was later to become my sister-in-law and a Philosophy major herself.

She came walking into the Student Union Building at the precise moment that my brother-in-law and I were having a coke.  He asked me whether I knew of any "talent" around, and I motioned for Kristin to come over.

She joined us and flooded us with her woes about the impending Kant test she was going to take the next day.  (My brother-in-law happened to be a Philosophy major as well from another school.)

The next morning I found them on my living room floor together.

They haven't been apart since.

Our department initiated a course in the school curriculum, (the school, you must realize, is a small, liberal arts college, modeled after the New England style, with less than 1200 students living on or near the campus); our course was a one-credit Philosophy seminar, which was given at 4:00 on Friday afternoons.  Sometimes in the local bar, known as the Green Lantern Tavern, but more often at the apartment of one of the students.  Whoever was in charge of the beer would rotate around the group each week.  Usually.

I, more usually, got stuck with the job of bringing a couple of gallons of beer from the saloon.  Our senior man in the Department, a man named Bill Soper, would bring a gallon of home brew which he made himself.

Soper's home brew was famous throughout the Northwest.  It was the worst, god-awful crap you could imagine choking down your throat.

Only the hard-core Philosophy majors would curl the hair on their chests with that stuff.

Bill figured it was ready to drink after 10 days of brewing.

Either that, or he ran out of his previous stock.

These seminars were the academic high point of the week for the three of us professors.  (The other guy was named Joe Maier; he was the logician, logical positivist, and philosopher of science in the Department.  Soper was the historian.  And I was the garbage man; I picked up all the loose ends, like Philosophy of Mind, American Philosophy, and Value Theory).

The reason these seminars were the academic high point of the week was because they were the time when we confronted each other with what we were doing in that department as professional educators.

The booze would loosen everybody up so they would talk.  And the students were to deliver a paper--each student got one whole session to himself, on a topic of his own completely free choosing.

Whatever he wanted.

And almost always the topic came down to: what is education? What is Philosophy? And what are we doing here?

It wasn't that Soper and Maier and I would confront each other honestly.  We would weasel if we could.

Our students did it for us.

We had two whole years on the topic "What is Philosophy?" You get those dudes a little boozed up and you find them asking you very blunt questions about yourself, why you are doing what you are doing, what the nature of education is, and how our school fits into the social environment as you see it.

These questions, which often took the form of brutally frank accusations, really made you sit back and think.  (I never will forget one of our students calling Soper a "cracker-barrel philosopher" and Maier a "tunnel vision logical positivist." Thought I was gonna die falling off my chair laughing.  To myself.  (Fortunately, that time I was spared.)

We even had a mock trial in Soper's basement one time.  Soper had most of his Philosophy seminars in the basement of his house which he had remodeled into a family room, in which the whole of Philosophy was put on trial by the students.

With us playing the roles of the parts of the discipline we represented.

The students ate it up.

So did we; except things kept coming out that we would rather didn't.

Like the fact that we were wasting our lives in this podunk town thinking about things that were demonstrably unanswerable, encouraging our students to look in the same blind alleys that we were searching into, frantically, with the remaining heartbeats that we had left.

This kind of thing can wear out a department.

Until I die I will admire the way the three of us took the pummeling from our students, about each other, in front of each other, without a word of rancor or disrespect resulting from us toward one another.  (Or almost never.)

Word of this sort of thing got around.

I'm sure it was one of the things that cost me my job.  The other two guys were tenured.

How do you explain to a conservative college community, which is more concerned about protecting the daydream it is in than anything else, that going to the Green Lantern Tavern and getting a little loaded with your students is the best thing possible for their education and for the academic goals in general?

You have got to talk to students.  You have got to trust them.  Or they will never trust you enough to listen to what you have to tell them.

If I never learned anything else at Whitman about education I learned that; and that alone made the whole decision to go into Philosophy and teaching worthwhile.

There is just one Mind in this Universe, and whenever you speak to another human being you are speaking to that Mind.

You must learn to follow innocence and goodness where you see it.  And cultivate it.  And protect and nurture it.  And support it.  And encourage it.  No matter where you find it.  Because where you find it is right where Mind is leading you to find It.  No matter what the offending material appearances may look like to the contrary or to the other people.

We are in this business to find our identity; and it doesn't matter a good God damn what other people think about the path that has been laid out for you.

Each step is a step that has been prepared by the Almighty, and the nature of that step, and that path, are between you and Him and no one else.

Well, this can be a bewildering fact if we go around taking the material appearances for what is real, i.e., what seems to be happening with the five senses.  What the physical world presents to us as going on is really quite opposite of what is really going on.

So it is with dirty words.

Why do you suppose it is that the closest friends often have the foulest mouths with respect to one another.  And the crassest and most vulgar behavior?

It is because they love each other.  They accept the humanness of the other because they have seen the goodness that they know and love and trust.

They don't have to be concerned about pretending to be something they are not.

They are loose and natural.  In a word--"honest."

That doesn't mean that the dirt is what is real.  It means that goodness is so much more real that we don't care about the dirt.

Anybody can wash a dish.



3.

Let me tell you about dirt.

As you know I was fired from my teaching job at Whitman.

Or, rather, I was denied tenure.

Which comes to the same thing, because you have to leave the year after you are denied tenure.

Well, I mounted the most massive campaign to keep my job and remain at that school that Whitman had ever seen.

I did everything I could to show them that I really was the kind (or a kind) of teacher that they wanted.  This began a full three years before I came up for the tenure decision, because I knew what a threat my teaching style was to the rest of the faculty.

It was like writing, for me.

Say it once, well, and then forget it and turn away from it.

That is, I would come into class, with my hands in my pockets, with no notes, and, with really no specific idea of what I was going to say.

Only a general idea.

I knew my stuff; but how it was going to come out was going to depend entirely upon the chemistry of the situation.

So I would come into class and spontaneously find out where the students were, and let what I had to say, (or what it turned out I had to say), unfold in the best way possible given where the students were at that moment in time.

It made for brutal teaching on the instructor, because he had nothing to depend on but his wits, and where he had grown to in his understanding of teaching up to that period in time.

But it forced him to growBut it forced him to grow.

And he knew it.

And they knew it.

And the faculty knew it.

The thing about classroom teaching is that it is all in the delivery.

It's like acting or entertaining.

It really is.

You know your stuff.

They don't.

And it is your job to get it across to them.

If you don't...

You fail.

They don't.

It is your job to deliver.

Not theirs.

Needless to say, this is not a very popular view of teaching.

But it is one that requires tremendous growth of awareness, perception, and discipline on the part of the teacher.

And, it makes for breathtaking spontaneity in the classroom.  Or, at least it has that potential.

The students appreciate your willingness to put yourself on the line.

To set yourself up so that you are willing to fail on their behalf.

Because you can really crash and burn with this style of teaching.

But, when you have had the guts to try it on for a long enough time, you can turn even catastrophe into advantage.

Johnny Carson, I think, was the best example of this.

Johnny systematically set himself up on the line for his audience, and they loved it.  Even though he wasn't saying anything.

And they knew it.

And he knew it.

In fact, that’s all he did.

For 13,500 dollars an hour.

The appeal of what I am trying to talk about is very great, and any teacher worth his beans knows exactly what I mean.

Certainly my two favorite teachers, Christ and Socrates, did.

Well, this sort of thing is heresy in academia.  It is a form of malpractice, to borrow an image from the Red Dragon in the Apocalypse.

What!

No notes?

Telling stories in class?

This isn't an example of academic professionalism, much less excellence.

One of the guys on my evaluation committees, one of three, as it was going to turn out I was to have, asked the devastating question, "Has anybody here had an 'intellectual' conversation with Geoff?"

The point of this question was well taken by those present.

He was our resident intellectual messiah from the east; he had graduated from Harvard divinity school.

So he got to wear a red gown at Commencement.

He was well-known for being the driest, most boring, pedantic individual imaginable when it came to teaching the unimaginably beautiful New Testament.

Good hands to put that little responsibility into.

But, then, those are the guys that make it through the Big Time graduate schools.  The other guys, the guys with a little imagination, who might at some distant time pose a little threat to the lie about the intellectual establishment in this country, i.e., expose it for what it is, these guys get weeded out.

That is the primary job of graduate schools in the United States.

It is, however, not nice to fool around with Mother Mind.

And the lie will come crashing in on itself soon enough.

The tenure crisis going on across the country right now is the beginning of that.

It will be a breakup of lies and ugliness and destruction that will look like an earthquake.

It will begin with the pain in men's hearts as they see the evil that their academic intellectual systems of education have wrought on those they love, and in their own lives.

The tenure crisis is just the beginning.

It is just the first layer.

Other seals have yet to be broken, which will expose yet deeper lies.

Until the whole system is purified.

Well, anyway, I had developed this super technique of teaching--called "honesty"--and the students just loved it.

So did I: because it gave me back so much reward for my willingness to stand there and be truthful.  I have always been a little short on love in my life, and when I saw the appreciation for what I was offering and why the appreciation was reflected back, well, I was a hungry soul searching in the darkness who could spot the light.

But, I found in my academic teaching experience that the clearer the light I was to follow became, the more impossibly difficult the material institution made it for me to follow it.

So, I took my students into my confidence.  I made clear to them that I would be fired if they expressed the level of honesty I was coming at them with around the campus.

They tried.

I know they tried.

But the infectious enthusiasm of a little breath of truth and honesty on an otherwise desert landscape, barren of any redeeming trace of genuine academic responsibility or respectability, was too much to ask them to conceal.

So they fired me.

Even though I polished up my act, and came to look like one of the boys in the gowns as much as any human being could.

I even brought with me a beautiful expensive cap and gown, with a velveteen finish, (black, not blue, so it wouldn't be too flashy), and a colorful hood with the colors of the university from which I received my Ph.D.  This I hung behind my office door for all to appreciate when they came into my office.

What they couldn't see was the skeleton, the full-sized luminous skeleton, that had been painted on black board with luminous paint and was nailed to the wall directly behind that robe.

One of my students had painted it for me; he was an Art Major, and I had loaned him twenty bucks to go down to Reno and get married.

I wouldn't have done it in retrospect, because he told me that they had used the money to buy acid for the return trip home and it kept them stoned for three days.

Well, my committee for the first evaluation for tenure was composed of ten persons.  It split 5-5.

So I appealed.

This was where the defense was mobilized.

I had students writing from all over the United States.

We had graduates writing from graduate schools, from boys' camps, from insurance companies.  We had letters from Harvard Law School, from Columbia, from Princeton Theological Seminary, from Northwestern, from Chicago Medical School.

We had letters from transfer students, from Brandeis, from a student studying Far Eastern Philosophy at the University of Washington and a student practicing in a Hare Krishna cult in Portland.

We had over forty letters coming from all over the country, all former students of mine out of school, with nothing to gain but a good turn for me and their alma mater, all saying the same thing: keep this man.

Many of them, indeed I was impressed with how many, included their own addresses and phone numbers, and asked the committee to contact them if they could be of any more help.

These letters were very careful, very restrained.  They knew the seriousness of the situation, and the temperamentalness of the professors doing the evaluating.

So too with the students on campus who wrote for me.

There was a minimum of flamboyance and frivolousness in the demeanor and approach of these students.

Indeed there was too much consistency.

As indeed there was from the mountains of course critiques I had collected over the years, the latest of which I had sent to the committee.

(It was my practice to always give a course critique in my classes.  And tell the students to say anything they wanted to say.  They know what to say.)

It began to look, I suppose, like I was controlling the minds of my students.

I can't speculate on exactly what the excuse each professor had for voting against me, but it had to have something to do with the appearance that I wasn't doing my job according to his standards, and I was according to the overwhelming massive opinion of all the students I had ever taught.

Conclusion: All the students I had ever taught must be wrong.

Well, the dirt that I want to talk to you about is this: There was a guy I had known from the beginning of all this by the name of Jim Braddock.  Braddock was one of those refugees and rejects that came to our department because no one else in school would let him through.

I took Braddock under my wing and sort of made things work for him so he could get through our Department.

He wasn't well liked, not even by members of our Department.  Not even by me, at first.

I can remember telling Maier that he had to save me from this one, that I didn't want him in any more of my courses.

But, I kind of got to know Jim, and I began to see some stuff in his background, and with the particular obstacles that he had been given by the dear Lord to work his way out of and over.

Braddock got to be brighter and brighter and better and better as I got to know him more and more.

Finally, he was one of my best friends at Whitman.

He was still the same bum by external standards.  He liked his car and his girl a lot more than school.  And, by school standards (which are patently full of frozen doggie turds) he wasn't that bright either.

But, you can't judge a plant by when it blossoms in the Spring.

(I just made that up.)

Braddock was a true and good and straight man by the time he graduated; he knew it and I knew it, and neither of us cared what the rest of the world thought about it.

Besides that, and more important for professional reasons, Braddock knew his Philosophy.  He had grown in intellectual stature, from a real bum con artist, to a guy who understood what those Philosophers were trying to get at all those years and in all those ways.

I knew this from talking to him.

As well as from papers.

You don't need papers and tests to judge a man's ability if you have the chance to talk to him.

I had both.

And I was damn proud of him.

He had come a long way, and I had watched him grow.

I was proud of me.

I had dared to place my faith in humanity once more, even though I had been burned by it enough times that it was getting predictable.

Well, they were trying to nail old Braddock right up until the last, on one rinky-dink thing or another, to keep him from graduating, or make him feel like he shouldn't be graduating.

Like he was too dumb.

Or, at least that was how he felt about itOr, at least that was how he felt about it.

So, when I helped him through those last few hurdles, and he made it to the end, so he could jump in his little green MG and drive off and be happy forever after, he was so God damn glad and grateful that he brought me out to my farm the best sweetest most powerful smoking dope I had ever seen.

And we hadn't even smoked dope together.

We did.  That once.

We sat right down, (it was the end of the year and school was effectively out anyway) and lit up and shared a joint.

That was probably the best joint I ever smoked.

I think.  It's hard to tell.

That sort of thing is hard to judge.

Anyway, Braddock had paid a bundle for this super special fine grass and had given it to me as a token of his appreciation, using terms that he knew I would know were the terms that expressed his feelings.

I was a proud bird.

I had done a good job.

He knew it.

I knew it.

And it didn't matter what the rest of the God damned world thought about it.

Well, years later.  When I was up for tenure.  Braddock heard about it and wanted to write a letter for me.

He knew he couldn't write a letter worth a damn, and he hadn't touched a pen since he had left Whitman (I think), but he had to say something in behalf of this guy who had helped him and so many other guys like him get through this thoroughly mercenary system.  (Whitman, like other schools, but less so, loved to have that bottom line, below which they sought to castrate their victims by flunking them, so that the guys on top could feel that what they were doing was worth doing.)

Braddock phoned me a couple of times and got me his letter.

I think he drove it to me from where he lived in Idaho.

But his letter stank.

It wasn't well written.  It was written in pen, instead of typed.  And any reader of it could tell that this was an endorsement from a not very literate fellow.

So I didn't use it.

That's dirt.



4.

Good morning.

Let's talk about education.

In the recent past a great deal has been written on the Philosophy of education in the United States--what its goals, method, and substance are, and ought to be.  I would like to advance the thesis that the heart of the core of the problem in American education is repression.

That's right, repression.

Only not as this term has been taken over and perverted by the Freudians and Marxists.

I mean do not mean the repression of man by his social institutions, but the repression of God by man.

And as long as this continues to occur we will continue to have the strife that each of us faces in school.

I do not mean by this that I am advocating some kind of return to a parochial school situation, where God is taught at the end of a belt, whether physical or psychological, which totally defeats the understanding of God as Love, and hypnotizes the student with (usually permanent) fear.

I believe that the trauma received at the hands of Catholic educators is greater than if not equal to the trauma received in the public schools, and it is more subtle for the student to detect (usually) because it employs the direct use of human will masquerading as the Word of God.

Nor do I advocate a return to "prayer" in school, which is little more than public profession of faith, which is directly contradicted by the teachings of Jesus, (see Matthew 6.  vs.  1-8.)

Most intelligent people, students included, are embarrassed by being caught up in a ritual where they are supposed to be praying to God, and the circumstance is obviously one of hypnotic rite, which has forcibly captivated the otherwise sincere seekers of truth.

It is hard for me to imagine anything more offensive for me than having my prayer dictated for me over an intercom.

Prayer is secret, private, and personal.

It is in one's closet.

And, if we are sincere in our search, it is continuous and constant.

But the vestigial attempts of the medieval to control the minds of our young is not the target of my efforts today.

That effort has done a good enough job on itself.

I am after the heart, the core, of public education in America.

Why do we train our young to believe that competition with his neighbor is the road to success?

Why do we teach him to seek his every remedy in the material world?

Why do we let our young grow up into the belief that sex is love?

Why do we hypnotize our young into believing that beauty has anything whatsoever to do with the body?

Why do we teach our young that the possession of money is anything but an extreme hazard?

Why do we teach our young that something is lost in giving?

Why do we teach our young that material knowledge is power?

These things, and countless corollaries that directly follow from these axioms, form the geometry of what we try to teach our young in public schools.

Or, rather, what the hypnotic dream that has gripped us all would have us teach.

But the kids won't buy it.

At least not until they are forced out into the "real world," where they are so totally brutalized by circumstance that they are brought to their knees, whimpering and licking the boots of the Great God of American Materialism.

The thing that made America great was the ideas that made America great, not the effect, the material largesse.

The great evil is mistaking effect for cause.

We think that the material resources made us great; when actually the resources were the reward for our having the love, courage, trust, and humility to be great in a time of great adversity.

Sooner or later we are going to learn this.

(We already know it; my job is just re-awakening us from the hypnotic stupor that the effect was the cause.

That takes kicking us right in the ass where it hurts the most.  To wake us up.)

Why do you suppose that America has been given the countless blessings that have been bestowed upon her?

Because she is so great?

In and of herself?

She is just another continent moving along with the continental drift just like everybody else.

What is it?

What was it that accounted for her stellar rise in the fortunes of the world?

I just saw that movie on the tube about the Lithuanian defector who tried to jump ship and escape to the United States in 1970, while the Russians were docked off the Boston Harbor.

Alan Arkin played the Lithuanian defector.

Alan Arkin was born to play the Lithuanian defector.

Why do you suppose that a guy would risk everything he had, his wife, family, kids, country, his life--everything--just for the chance to get off that ship and into this country?

Not for the reality of what was here, I submit, as he soon found out when the gutless captain, following the orders of the gutless admiral, allowed the Russians to come aboard and beat the Lithuanian into senselessness and haul him back to the Russian vessel.

He bet everything he had, every last penny, including the love of his wife, on the promise, the hope, of what he had heard about this country.

What was compelling him?

What was leading him?

What led your people over here?

Something very compelling, I suspect, in order to get them to leave all they had.

All the security, faith in tradition, comforts of childhood memories.

Well, these same ideas that made this country the center of that kind of appeal are being systematically destroyed in our schools today.

We all know this.

What I am saying is a trite cliché if you think about it.

We are so numb with the destruction of the assault on our spiritual being that we sometimes forget that it isn't inevitable.  That it isn't the price of "progress."

I say to you that the so-called miasma of our times is not a miasma at all; it is the mental preparation for something, though revolutionary, that is glorious beyond belief.  That when we see it coming, when it gets here, we will be so god damned ready for it we will welcome it as the Saving Grace.

Which is exactly what it is.

When we have become tired enough of unfulfilled promises, the desert of human hopes, in the third dimension, or what we call in the English language "materialism."

Just how radical this is will become clear when I identify for you the core error in each of the academic disciplines that perpetuate the myth of the reality, the beauty, and the joy of the third dimension.

Each little Department, or "school" in a University has its own central little marble game, which is the source of the spin-off deceptions that cause the members of that Department and the people they teach who buy the lies so much misery in their lives.

Many good things are taught, but they are completely incidental to the thrust of the program, which is always to protect the lie at its source--the thing, the belief, that makes it a department.  Anything taught in the Department that is at variance with the lie is downgraded, demoted, ultimately rejected as valueless.

Let's examine them, just going around an average campus, the Departments it represents, and the lies that each promotes as being the essence of "higher education," as if the kindness, sweetness, love, charity, and generosity that are taught in the "lower" grades are somehow below it in intellectual stature.

I say that the values taught in the lowest grades are exactly those arrived at by those of the highest intellectual stature.  Indeed, the "values" taught in the lower grades are the reality of human life, and the rest of this sandbox is provided for us to find that out.

Whether we find it out by an intellectual route or not.

This is exactly what Jesus meant when he said, "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 18.  vs.  3.)

Let us see, then, just exactly what lie each of these Departments promotes in the repression of God and the glorification of human will.

How each of these lies operates to fulfill their aim will not be immediately apparent to all of you, but they so operate as the central marble game nevertheless.

The Chemistry Department exists to perpetuate the myth that the Universe is made of matter, obviously.  Even though the Universe is the Creation, and the Creation is Spiritual, and matter causes nearly all the woes of mankind, and God must be a hapless lunatic to have made such a Creation for "His only begotten Son," (that's us).

This belief will be punished as long as it lasts.

The Biology Department lives to perpetuate the fancy that life exists in matter, that life arises from and somehow returns to a material state.

Life is God.  There is no other cause, and we and the rest of the so-called "living" creation are the effect.

To say that matter "causes" life is to postulate another force in the Universe besides God.

This violates the first commandment, "Thou shalt have no gods before me."

The Physics Department speculates that energy, force, and power are to be found in matter.

That belief will be punished as long as it lasts in ways that have become manifestly clear to us in the 20th century.

Astronomy keeps speculating, looking, for causes of celestial activity on the assumption (the hope) that something other than God is at work that we can get a hold of.

Like material force.

Geology is still at a stage where simply wallowing in matter is peddled as a virtue.

Or knowledge.

Like naming things is somehow explaining them.

Mathematics peddles the belief that laws are not from God, but discovered by man.

As is evidenced by the recent efforts since the turn of the century to destroy the belief in sets, along with every last trace of platonism, a philosophy which is only a step away from the assertion that every law or idea that comes into man's head is a gift from God.

Every one.

Mathematicians tend to be pretty humble guys, because the rigors of their discipline force them to get themselves out of the way so they can think.

Until they become teachers.

When they (tend) to use their knowledge as an expression of their will to subordinate their students into an idol worship of themselves.

Mindlessly memorizing formulas.

Pardon me.

I didn't mean to restrict that to mathematicians.

History Departments have to promote the myth that the material events of the past have a causal effect on the future, for their discipline to make any sense as it is taught today.

This is patently absurd, and entrenches the belief that there is an extra force operating in the Universe called "human will," that operates independently of God.

A crucial assumption for the history professors to be the arrogant bastards they always are.

This belief, too, will be punished for as long as it lasts.

Economics supports the belief that material circumstance has something to do with supply.

God is our only supplier.

All we have to do is turn to Him to see that we have all we need for the moment at hand, and we will have all we need in the future as long as we continue to acknowledge Him as our sole supplier.

Sometimes we have to be brought to our knees to make this acknowledgment and recognition.

When this is made, the material needs vanish.

Political Science hinges on the belief that man is self-interested.

This is a lie.

It is one of the most insidious worms to feed the minds of the hapless young.

Man does not love himself more than God.  Indeed he does not even love himself more than his neighbor.

That this is so hard for us to see is the result of the effective work done by this Department, and all of its influences in training our young lawyers and politicians.

The hypnotic marble game of self-interest directly blocks the vision of the brotherhood of man as the spiritual offspring and individual expressions of the Love and Power of God.

Every great man has successfully defeated the belief in self-interest as it was presented to him in his day.

Sociology promotes the idea that groups are more important than the individual, when any nitwit can see that ideas originate in individual consciousness before they ever graduate to become part of mass hypnosis.

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" had to originate in some Sociology class of antiquity.

Which explains why there are so many feebleminded boobs in that profession.

Whenever you have the truth there is always the possibility

that there can be a lie about it.

That is our freedom.

All it takes is one nitwit to grab a lie and run around yelling how tasty it is to seduce all the others into wanting to believe it too.

Hypnotism begins with the belief in a lie, whether it is the Big Lie of Hitler, the Bigger Lie that groups control individual consciousness, or the Biggest Lie, that matter exists as a force and power apart from God.

Whenever you have the truth, such as the Truth about God and His Creation, that it is intact, spiritual, harmonious, and perfect, right here and now, heaven on earth, you have the possibility of a lie about it, (such as all the things that Sociology and the Social Sciences generally claim to be true about the human condition and life on this planet).

We are perfectly free to grab those lies and try them on for size, for as long as we want.

Until we tire of them and decide to put them down and look for something better.

Hypnotism, I think you will all agree, to whatever extent you have seen it operating, is very wearying.

All you have to do is make your wholehearted turn to Spirit to get rid of the lies that are claiming your life.

Psychology Departments have got to try to find a way of explaining human life apart from God.

That is what they are all about.

That is the sole justification for their existence.

They have tried everything the human mind can come up with to facilitate this explanatory miracle.

Behaviorism, Freudianism, gestaltism, Pavlovianism, pragmatism, existential reality therapy, and the countless countless variants upon these that have been tried.

Yet Psychology remains a problem of the heart.

The question always asked, always in the background, is why should I love my brother as myself?

Psychology is one hundred percent dedicated to showing that you shouldn’t, that it is not necessary.

This may be hard to see; but if you want to spend the next twenty years of your life finding it out, as I have had to, feel free.  You are.

Anthropology, to such an extent that it is a discipline, sucking as it does its life force from the marble games of other disciplines, like archeology, sociology, and biology, is devoted to the simple task of establishing the half-wittedly demonstrable assertion that man is the evolutionary by-product of organic life on this planet.

As if that wasn't apparent to the prehistoric man they study.

If, and I do mean if, you want to go with the material appearance of man in the third dimension.

Yet, I claim, I know that the material man is like an eggshell, something that the spiritual man pecks through until he sees his own identity.

And when he sees the light on the other side of the inside of that eggshell, nothing, and I mean nothing is going to convince him that the inside of that eggshell is what is real anymore.

Hence the necessity of third-dimensional thought, led by the humble, bumbling, well meaning anthropologists, to find ever more definitive proof that man, the essence of man, is doomed to masturbate and decay on the inside of his cage.

The essence of third-dimensional thought is limitation, the belief in the limitation of man.

The essence of spiritual, or fourth-dimensional thought, is the knowledge, indeed the God-given understanding, of the freedom that is his.

Freedom from want, freedom from fear, freedom to be the Power and the Life and the Love and the Truth that are his rightful heritage.

The only prerequisite is yielding to the moral belief in love, trust, humility, and courage.

Which are systematically taught against in our schools in the most effective manner possible.

Which leads us to the humanities.

Fortunately, these can be dispensed with quickly and effectively, because I know them so well because I was raised with them.

Where else would third-dimensional thought put its most deliberate and aggressive attack on our preexistent knowledge that we are already the children of God, just waking up to it, than in the division of thought that calls itself the "Humanities."

English and the Departments of Languages enforce the belief that the professors know what they are talking about by making it illegal to mouth a new or creative idea.

The belief here is that thinking is mouthing and regurgitating the ideas of other men.

Anything other than this is somehow not thinking.

Which, of course, sets up the professor to commit any manner of atrocity on the minds of his students in the name of "literary criticism."

Which is exactly what they do.

Which is where they get their jollies.

I have never known an unhappier group of men and women than the teachers of literature and language.  Who must pay, of course, for what they inflict on their students.

And it all comes from fear.

Every last drop of it.

They are so afraid to think, to let God be their minds; they are so afraid that they will lose something of themselves, (their personal ego which is causing all the trouble in the first place), that they will hang out in the nightmare of believing that copying other people's thoughts is creative intelligence, until they bring themselves and their students to a point of utter desperation in their lives.

Ah well, my heart goes out to them; I guess I'm too close to them.

Anyway, the fear leads to the egotism that causes them to make themselves the center of the drama.

Which is the straightest way to hell I know.

Which leads us to PhilosophyPhilosophy Departments are bound and determined to teach the myth that the human will has a place besides God's.

Everything they do and teach has this idea as its goal.

I won't elaborate on it; I will just say it.

Naturally they serve an important place in the academic disciplines.

Religion Departments have as their goal being weak.

Religion as a discipline or a Department is really not taught in this country.

The primary job of religious academicians is to lick the boots of other academicians, and to do this in as public a way as possible.

Naturally, only those who are totally broken of spiritual character are allowed to teach in the "profession.  "

The marble game of professional religious scholarship has become so rotten that it rivals the rest of its sister academic fields, in finding ever-increasingly new and creative ways to be cutthroat, petty, unimaginative, and thoroughly irrelevant and boring to the needs of man in its product.

The more Religion Departments can persuade students that they have nothing but a pile of dry powdering dog turds, the more perfectly and harmoniously they will have served their purpose in the academic institution.

According to the desires of third-dimensional thought.

Art Art serves its purpose when it is able to convince its students that human fantasy is a legitimate substitute for divine vision.  Art serves its purpose when it is able to convince its students that human fantasy is a legitimate substitute for divine vision.

Similarly, Music Departments make a sustained effort to show that it is the people, particularly the people of their Departments, who are coming up with (creating) the beautiful sounds coming from their instruments.

When actually, the music comes to those who wait and watch and listen.

Music people, like math people, tend to be a bit more humble, because the lie that it is the person rather than God doing the playing makes it hard to hear.

Which is one of the reasons that "Music" is shunted off as a lesser activity in academic institutions.

For just that reason.

It is not that "academic."

Until it is put in the hands of incompetents (non-musicians) or egomaniacs.

Then it can be made academic.

And respectable for the school.

And dead.

Which leaves us with the last Department we will survey in our brief tour around the academy--the Department of Athletics.

If indeed the goal of education is to teach love, trust, humility, and courage, as the gateway to the great door of Spirit, you might expect that this Department would play a very central role in guiding our young to an appreciation of these values.

The problem is that it is filled with jocks, which are thugs, which teach that the point of athletics is winning.  Which directly contradicts the spiritual values of the game.

Which completely obscures the whole point of it.

Which ensures that athletics will occupy a subservient and begging role in the status hierarchy of academia.

Indeed, in almost every academic institution, precisely because the institution is set up to promote third-dimensional values, whose only purpose is one of obscuring fourth-dimensional values, the value of winning isn't "the most important" thing; it is the "only" thing, as the "greatest" American "professional" football coach once said.

Of course, by any material standard, winning is the most important or the "only" thing in sports.

That is exactly the point.

And that is why the clash between the third-dimensional and fourth-dimensional thought occurs so dramatically in sports.

Which makes it a perfect place to teach our young the value of fourth-dimensional thought.

Which is precisely why Sports are relegated to the bottom of the academic prestige ladder.

And why they are only taken seriously when they win, or are concerned about winning, for the institution.

I guess I should, in closing, mention the Education Departments, which, as they function today are a contradiction in terms.

Schools of education are dedicated to finding something that will replace the example of a good teacher.

This they will never do because that is the only way of teaching good teaching.

But they are dedicated to the belief that good teaching has to be due to something other than the spirit of the man who is a reflection of it.

Something that we can mold out of clay in our schools of education.

I wish them well in their labors.


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