The long poem. Like the ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually, at 1.8 million words, the Indian Mahābhārata is, by far, the very longest epic poem, ever written.
Vyāsa‘s Mahābhārata is Urantia’s lengthiest, epic, poem. Its 1.8 million words, less its prose, makes for more than 100,000 couplet verses, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, written.
It’s roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s twins, the Iliad and the Odyssey. And it’s not just chopped liver; all along its length, it features content insightful; totally, compelling.
Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable the common people to understand the highest knowledge, more easily. To be, or not to be? But — is humanity — its humanity — losing?
Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in the course of them he’s learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — it seems — but him.
Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems but him. The proof is in the pudding. That the Godless nations’ rules makes sense to nearly everyone. Everyone — that is to say — but him.
God rules mankind, notwithstanding, anything. No Caliphate nor Jewish state is forever. No state is forever. Conflict on Earth is violence, domestic even when it is, a state, intervention.
But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable of man’s conflicts. Domestic violence has remedies, in law and in fact. Among them, a few main ones are separation,
reconciliation, toleration, and even eventually, acculturation. But acculturation takes time. Generations, sometimes. Time is limiting. To be or not to be? Whither goeth — Homo sapiens?
The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing, from a clear blue sky a strike of rare, ball lightning; from a clear blue sky, Art was stricken by ball lightning.
Extraordinary events, in the normal course of events are, all too often, not very extraordinary. Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be
stricken by lightning. Ye just gotta wannabe. Human history is replete with supposed coincidences; implausible ironies, straining, credulity. But Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan see.
Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.
My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.