Saturday, November 1, 2008

It is too much with me!!

I will vote on Tuesday.

What shall I vote for and for whom shall I vote? Within my culture and subculture the issues rise and fall. Vote or don’t vote for the socialist, secularist, conservative, evangelical, pagan, right to life, abortionist, divorced, not divorced, tax activist, tax suppressor, male, female, black, white, native born, island born, Muslim, Christian, military strategist, prisoner of war, inexperienced military leader, maverick, mustang and the list moves on nauseam.

I am surrounded by voices of the righteousness that speak out of a materialist hell or a holy quest or personal panacea. Am I asked to vote for the person that sinned less than the other? When did they sin less, yesterday, today or tomorrow? What is the instrument that I should use to quantify my decision? How much sin is too much sin?
Why am I asked to make presumptions? What do my voices know that makes me ignorant? “The world is too much with us,” It is too much with me!!

What is true? The innuendos and the peccadilloes come to me daily from friends that believe I must be educated. Twenty six months of campaigning and in that period of time I grow less educated by friends and non-friends. I really hate the spam. Repeat, repeat and repeat.

I believe I cannot make a “silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” Can anyone? Change!! The standard for change has been raised in the corruption of politics for years It still remains a “sow’s ear”.

I will cast my ballot, my secret ballot. Please cast your ballot, your secret ballot. Then, let me rest from the materialist hells or holy quests or personal panaceas that are brought forth in all the spam. I might have voted for the same deceiver you voted for.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth

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