Dutch Boy Paints Himself Into a Corner, or, No Spinozone Layer

Baruch Spinoza
1632-1677
Nationality: Jewish/Portugese/Dutch

Group Alliances:
"Contumelious" Continental Rationalists
"Destructive" Determinists
"Pernicious" Pantheists

AKA: Spinoza the Bulldoza
Spinoza Spins Over Ya
Throws Ya Spinoza
Benedictus de Spinoza

Powers: knowledge of the infinite intellect of God, invisibility

Weaknesses: geometric method, excommunication
Given my tendrils that first sprouted back deep within the 1970s-left organic health-store counterculture (you know my decentralist mania for home-schooled yogurt and vinegar-cured salmon-head soup didn't start with this blog, right?) - to which I was attracted in part for the falafel and the chick-peas, and in part for the floridly-feathered pea-chicks, the movement's to-this-day refreshingly unshaven women, whose very milk, trust me here, turned out to be as bracingly tart and as rich in active cultures as their (full-)front(al)-porch shrubbery turned out to be a healthy source of what a chlorophyle Carlyle might have called leafy sea-green incorruptible sprouts, especially after patient overnight soaking - I thought I would extend the story of my wholesomely pan-simmered pantheist lineage back further still, into the 60s of a sort rather more classically rationalist than New Age, via an old post from a group-blog to which I in what seems like a former life two years ago used to contribute my attempts to keep a straight face amid the stacked 78 rpm political and economic quackeries otherwise setting the oft-cued tone arms there:

Anybody ever asks me to declare my sociopolitical affinities, I’m gonna tell ‘em I’m basically a west-coast, Bay-area “organic”, nature-revering “60s” type.

But they’ll have to click to see how I define each of those terms, in seeing that any flowers you wear in your hair on my west coast, also that of Northern Europe, would have to be tulips, and that the IJ, Amsterdam’s waterfront, used to be a bay, and my “60s” predate those of Haight-Ashbury by 300 years. 

But just to show that, though I may have no hard-on for our NoCal sweeteners of the soul in all their psychedelic Splenda, neither do I have hard feelings, I am more than happy to admit that my spiritual homeland and theirs are bonded eternally one to the other after all, thanks to their respective resplendence in the way of Dykes – and though the “vans” in the Californian case are more automotive than nominative, they, too, are no strangers to beards, whether v-shaped or on social occasion, and as closely-trimmed in the one case as in the other .