There's a guy in our town who paints the side of his house with foot high-lettered imprecations towards his pet-peeve city council persons. In blood-red paint. Of course we all think he's crazy.
Lately however, the reason I most wish I owned my rented house for is that I could then paint the side of my house with $820,000 per minute/Military Budget and an extra $200,000 per minute/Iraq budget.
I talked to a singing teacher today and I realized that we could afford a lush and individual and astonishing education for every child in this country IF we spent 1/2 the money we spend on destruction on the real defense of our country which is superb education.
We are stupidly cutting out all the smart stuff like singing and drawing and small classes which give all kids a rich chance to get hooked on the drug of learning.
Note — I've managed to counter-fortune-cookie a few of their memes.
'Stay the course' I have made 'Stay the STUPID course?'
Cut & run — Leave when the Mission's Accomplished — May 01, 2003.
Support our Troops — We urgently support our troops coming home intact of life and limb.
To the death penalty advocates who blow off Jesus' radical ideas of turning the other cheek and loving your enemies — Remember that eternity is very long. Every thing is going to exactly happen to you that you wished & perpetrated upon others, directly or by proxy. Imagine this deeply before you forsake mercy.
& Electric Perception Outwit War
When you look back from Y3000, it’s clear that what saved us from war, from state-sanctioned human sacrifice, was, as it is in Y3000, art and perception, an electric perception. Art-thirst replaces blood-thirst. Seeing art, doing art. And when we let loose all that art on the Planet, it shines pearlescent all the way to the FarStars.
The following fable, Gwatwareg, is as close as I can get in words to showing you the thinking of & the feeling of the integration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming — the rhapsody, the woven song of day and dream, electric perception. Education and fate, ole sly Fat E, brought me this present, this man made of night.
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Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for my soul to survive. I knew that coming doom with a Damascus-sword-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.
By the way, the legendary Damascus-steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut even an evanescent waft of silk cloth in half before it can fall to the ground.
In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force après-magnetism — an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that, the force of him – symphonically buoyant.
It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. Gwatwareg’s humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?
All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.
When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.
Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.
He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. Obsidian, the color of panthers, his humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.
See gwatwareg & Leda & droit de seigneur & après-magnetism below
& Check pogblog’s Glossary for other brave & nefarious words.
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9 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 191 12.09.05 fri
the education-obsessed world begins today with you
gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;
droit de seigneur means ‘the right of the king’ & refers to the right of the king to have the wedding-night virginity of any vassal’s wife or of any slave girl any night.
après-magnetism means after-magnetism or post-magnetism;
In the sentence fragment above, “…one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall,” Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan:
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
William Butler Yeats