Category Archives: ClownSchool Interdimensional

All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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    The reason I like to use the allegorical essay rather than the strictly formal and putatively rational essay is that there is a part of the mind to which you as a reader get access if there are story elements. It engages all four quadrants of your brain and the collective unconscious. It’s a way of giving philosophy its juice and its irony back.

    I read linear essays with admiration, but I always feel like I need to have better posture when I read them. As if I were having tea with the Queen.

    I happen to have always had an inclination to the sort of Celti-sci-fi version of allegory because it makes an end-run around the reason I’ve never been so much of a devotee of post-Faulkner American Literature: neurosis. Pieces set in the semi-quasi-future obviate neurosis because they aren’t worming over one’s narcissistic melancholies with as confessional or thinly veiled confessional modes. There was a kind of perpetual adolescence to so much 50s + literature.

     I like the more angular, odd, well, allegorical stuff.

     The following piece is certainly as important a piece as I could either think or write, but I like to think it has a defter touch – is less sledgehammery when it’s set in the future. It’s less directly judgmental. And though it is mind, heart, soul-bogglingly serious, it doesn’t take itself seriously. I like droll.

     Part of pogblog’s job is to make the ‘horizontal’ point both clarionally and subversively. We only fool ourselves that we aren’t still fascio-feudal with different clothes. Democracy comes eventually, but not before we grok and contain and maintain the horizontal model.

 

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

 

    G.Ro TesQ had been rescued from the thin air of the Grueling Heavenly Realms. Back home on Earth in new washed if not new-minted simple humble happiness, G.Ro had returned to laud the Horizontal.

    “I am G.Ro TesQ,” she said quietly as she gave the keynote speech at the ConCon in the millennial Earth Year 3000. ConCon was the global consciousness convention that convened annually in these times. “All of Earth's old troubles came from the Vertical Model which had

kept its heel on the throat of the human spirit for centuries.

    “Simply turning the axis of understanding to horizontal solves 99% of both human horror and human awkwardness.

    “First consider the range of densities our consciousness crisscrosses in a life's experience. We have spaceless/timeless thought. We have dreams, daydreams, fantasy, imagination, memory. We have the precious. moving kinesthetic present, seemingly sequential and solid. Now, in the dominant Vertical Model, as invisible as space, our religions have posited a non-solid, spiritual realm which is above us–is better, purer, less gross than our terrestrial experience, all muck and rut.

    “Of course, conveniently, the priests, monks, gurus, and shamans had the key to our escape.

    “What I'm about to tell you is radical because I have searched the literature of the globe and that literature is invariably full of the higher self or the soul or spirit, all more valuable and more wise than we sluggish, lesser, benighted earthdwellers who will ascend' in death or enlightenment to our truer selves.

    “If we see consciousness vertically, a ladder to be climbed, we are falsely forced to see ourselves on the lower rungs staring up at the compassionate rump of the priest, guru, monk, shaman who precedes us to the heights.

     “If, on the other hand, we rotate the axis of consciousness to be sideways, we can more correctly and coherently see the spectrum of our consciousness as including all the densities with no greater value implied. Just as in light, ultraviolet is not better than infrared, our less-dense experience is not better that our solid experience, only different.

    “The old Vertical Model organized millions, then billions of people for millennia. In a rough sketch, the Vertical Model puts God up in Heaven & the Devil down in Hell. God & his angels in idealized pure heaven and us down on gross, coarse Earth. The lower chakras are coarse energy, the upper increasingly more sublime. We are basically a colony of heaven. And when we refine ourselves enough, we'll get a white robe, join the junior ranks of the choirs of angels and be allowed to kiss the big toe of God. And then when we've really refined our unruly consciousness, we get to dwell in the vast seamless rippleless nirvanic stillness for our Good Behavior. Thus, depending on the phase or fullness of my rage, the virulent or pesky Vertical Model came about because the daggone Head got an inflated or puffed-up view of its importance to the whole system though it can not even digest a single groat–not a single grain of barley or grow a single toenail.

    “The higher self doesn't have digestion and mucus and dirt under the fingernails. One could wax as rhapsodic about digestion as about Christ consciousness if we were less prissy and overfastidious about what qualities we invited through the spiritual front door.

    “A simple shift of 90º¸ puts us in the new Horizontal Model where all the considerable ills of the vertical hierarchical model fall away. The Horizontal Model shifts the axis of metaphysical, ethical, epistemological, psychological, economic, and sociological understanding from hierarchical to equal-and-various.

    “The Horizontal Model is a model of collaboration. In the Horizontal Model we discover the preciousness of the immanent vs the transcendent. The immanent is an indelible relationship with the brilliant manifested world, recognizing mobius how it's lit from within. The transcendent energy is too thin, not sufficient, not sufficiently engaged, leading to spiritual anorexia. True compassion must be horizontal. No judgment, only evaluation. The body is not neurotic or restless or even greedy. It is the ethereal which keeps pushing the adrenalin button or drives the body to eat when it is not hungry. All sins are sicknesses of the soul. The excesses of the soul. The most natural state for the body is joy. What body would choose suffering? It is the confused or thwarted soul which incurs morbidity. The ethereal drives the body to visceral or lower chakra disturbances or distress when it pushes the sweetness buttons past grace and elegance and delight. The ethereal drives the body to anorexic or upper chakra disorders when it idealizes deprivation and detachment.”

    G.Ro TesQ chuckled, “Certainly constructing the Horizontal Model requires a lot of naps. Perhaps it is because, catlike, I take so many naps that I don't have this head/intellect/spirit prejudice that infests the holy and alternative literature. Napping, my head's not at the  top, it's not higher, it's just to the left and my feet to the right. These distinctions are not trivial. The hidden prejudices in the language deeply affect our profound feelings of value. I sometimes think I should wear a shoe upside down on my head as a hat to remind us to keep our heads on the ground.

    “Your horizontal waking brings democracy not just to politics, but to thought and feelings, an equality of qualities. We need to bring all our qualities and talents–woven–to bear on the moving present. The emerald earthflame in each molten molecule. The honey in each enchanted molecular dance.

    “We need to internalize and eternalize this new model, the horizontal spectrum. Co-llaborate. Co-amaze. Co-applaud. Co-kindle. Co-ignite. Co-weave emerald strands of enchantment from whatever qualities apply to the precious moving present.

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com        

7 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 163  11.11.05 fri

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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IBM vs Education

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IBM vs Education .. a melodrama

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   If you send your people to an IBM Leadership Seminar, the instructor will guide and prod, say, 25 people through a highly distilled and interactive experience. All applaud, eat expensive boxed lunches, and may heed a point or two.

   Bill Blarney is a famous well-paid instructor whose renowned programs are available in boxed sets on DVD.

    As the IBM events planner, you go up to Bill Blarney at the end of the day as the late light filters through the graceful weeping amber trees beyond the huge picture windows into the plush seminar room. “Fine job today, Mr. Blarney,” you say. “I want to talk about the terms of your next engagement with IBM.”

      Deeply at ease with his fine status, fine suit, and porsche reputation, fat-cattish, post-canary, post-saucer-brimming-with-thickest-cream, Bill Blarney beams all but beatifically at you.

     “Well, Bill, next week starting Monday at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />8am, we want you to teach five different seminars before 3pm.”

     “What!?” Bill expostulates, snorting like a startled stallion, “That’s absurd!”

     “Additionally,” you add, “each 58 minute seminar will have between 30-40 students, a different group each hour. Between most of the seminars, you will have no break whatsoever – one group will file in as the other files out.”

    “What?!” Bill’s eyes begin to bulge. A vein on his sweat-slicked forehead visibly pulses. “That’s absurd!”

    “Moreover,” you continue, “each seminar plan involves completely different material.”

    “Well, I, well, er, I – I guess I could do that on Monday if absolutely necessary to keep the lucrative, I mean important IBM account, but well, but it’s overwhelming, it’s unprecedented,” says Bill.

     “And,” you say, “you must do the same pattern with all new materials and enthusiasms on Tuesday and then Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.”

     “What!? You mean I can’t just repeat Monday’s materials? This is preposterous. I’m a leading professional. This is not humanly possible.”

     “Well, you must also give assignments each day which you must correct and comment upon each evening – from at least 150 daily participants.”

    “Nonsense,” barked Bill. “You’ve lost your mind.”

    “Yes, and you will be paid 1/5 of your current salary and have no car allowance.”

    Bill could no longer speak.

     “And after next week’s five days, you will do five days a week thusly every month for nine & ½ months of the year.”

     Weakly, licking the froth off his lips, Bill said, “No business could possibly demand this level of performance from any imaginable instructor. The energy, the organization, it’s simply inconceivable. You couldn’t pay me enough even if I could handle it for one single marathon week, least of all 36 weeks in a row. What has American business come to?”

    “Not American business, BillBoy,” you say, “you’ve been made an American high school teacher.”

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pls send this to your dear teacher friends as a holiday confection from both of us .. if only there were a way to thank them enough.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzol 160  11.08.05 tues

ffwofw 873§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1126

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

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    I saw a tv program on grisly diseases like river blindness and malaria. River blindness gets into your blood and causes constant horrific itching – to the point where you just peel pieces of your flesh from your body. And then when you are about thirty, you go blind and hold the end of a broomstick with a child holding the other end, leading you around for the rest of your life. Until that child goes blind and so on and on. It costs a buck a year or something to prevent this. You probably make 50 cents a month in this country so you brutally itch and go blind.

    Where does the list have to end for you, pilgrim, in order for you to throw up your guts and say FUCKING STOP spending money on weapons? I try to avoid swearing on pogblog because profanity is usually just a failure of imagination, and when you really need it like here, its impact is diluted. But the Military Budget madness is what swearing is for.

    As I said to chancelucky: Dwight Eisenhower pushing the massive interstate highway system was justified on national defense terms tho it actually benefited commerce. The idea was that troops could be shuttled around the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />US better, were there a need.

     The point about universal ultraband and cheap tough cool laptops (wolfbooks I call them 'cause it's cool) is that they'll explode cheap trivial low grade crud, yes, <b>but they'll also explode invention.</b>

    It is invention which will preserve America and a decent standard of living — not more destroyers and fighters.

    Yes, it will take us time to buy out this idiot war in Iraq and all our obligations to its mutilated and their dependents, but at $820,000 per minute for the Military Budget and $200,000 per minute more for Iraq (It's 'off the books'), we can make the transition to an education-invention economy forthwith if we just change the meme or the controlling idea.

  This invention and the savings on destructive projects could be flooded into education and health.

   What BushCo & Ilk completely miss is that we win both allies and friends with spreading what you might call ‘practical love.’ Instead of multiplying vengeance, we would multiply affection. Train paramedics instead of soldiers – the same people, folks, the very same people. Train para-engineers instead of soldiers. The same recruits. The same team work, the same camaraderie. Minus the future nightmares that we bequeath to so many of them. We should use our massive strength (tho we’re owned by the Chinese banks & it’s hard to know when that bubble bursts?) to build for the downtrodden, champion the sick. The Earth is pleading for peace in broken people — they are the runes, the hieroglyphs. You just have to have another tank — and you let another sister go river blind? These things are connected.   

    Is our legacy as America all this hell and hate? I don’t believe it. I believe that we can export engineering and education and medicine — and movies and cruddy hamburgers.

 

    Take a deep breath – we are going to have to believe in actual democracy for better or worse. The Security Council has got to go. No veto. We have to educate an international multilingual police force to do actual peace-keeping. With ceaseless citizens' oversight. Not power decreed by the Old Guard, but elected. We have to stand for our beliefs. It can’t be democracy except when that doesn’t suit us and we go all Adolf Stalin. We have to put our sword in the pit of fire and strike it ourselves into a pen and a plowshare. We cannot tyrannically declare our belief in democracy. We act it or we do not. People can see. Unilateral action can’t be countenanced because all peoples are created equal and have a right to the pursuit of happiness. We are supposed to help with that. Bombs are not help, ever. 

    How can you imagine that corporations should less than tithe? I have a real question as to why a genuine and humble leader needs to make one centavo more than the janitor – what real leader would not want to raise up the janitor and share his bread & or cake with her/him? (I just don’t recall Jesus being into aggrandizement, but maybe I missed that gospel? Maybe the Gospel of Greed was left out of all 36 tapes worth of the New Testament I listened to? Can you imagine Jesus being elected to office in USofA Inc with his platform? I think someone should comb the New Testament and update the language, chapter & verse & try to run on that.)
   Our leaders are supposed to be citizen servants – not bloated have-mores. How can we empower and include more citizens in a relative abundance of education and happiness? How can a leader call themselves prosperous if there are poor, unhoused, unhealed, unhappy? How can we trust any leader who rides in a phalanx of gas guzzlers? Is where they are getting to more important than where you are getting to on the 32 bus? If the leaders rode the bus and lived on minimum wage one week a month, I could listen to one syllable they have to piously mouth. Otherwise it’s all hot air and broken wind.
     Please, some leader, dare to try it. Try it and write a blog about it. We would rally around you like the whirlwind. One week a month. Then testify. Tell the other leaders how hard in fact it is. Put your life where your mouth is, Mr.Bush. Do democracy. Do humanhood.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 159  11.07.05 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

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    Friends, I hope you escape this very sudden and very harsh presumably non-avian sore-throat-from-hell Event that attacked me a few days ago & felled me for awhile. I wouldn’t mention it, other people's misery in specific being tedium times ten, except that after a few days of a throat so sore, I was wavering – (I haven’t been to an MD since 1979 except once to get an inch long splinter pulled out from under my thumbnail – yes, you would say anything if they started shoving splinters under your fingernails – an answer I could have let someone else discover) – I thought, maybe, you old fool, this is the dreaded avian flu or who knows. But a friend suggested gargling dissolved Bayer aspirin in water – which I take every day any way. Willowbark is the miracle drug for sure, but chalk this in its column too. As an aspirin junkie for 15 years, only Bayer aspirin has the magic. Sorry, something is missing from the generics in this case. Anyhow, gargle away. I am not cough or other revolting drooling symptoms free, but the scary sore throat is Gone, hallelujah, bro & sis.

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But to the real subject du jour.

 

Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

 

    We either pursue the Burning Child shifting of the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex or we end up, baffled, as a backwater in history. We are spending our $820,000 per minute on an absurdly, obscenely obsolete model of dominance. The new dominance is invention for fun and for survival.

     Thomas Friedman’s China’s Little Green Book, a Nov 2 NYT column, tells how the Chinese are putting a giga-press on getting green. Not because it’s a nice idea, but so they don’t choke to death on the effluents of modernity.

    <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />South Korea, or SoKo as I ultramodernly call it, has grokked that nationwide ultraband is the kiss the frog & turn it to a prince smartest move. The frog being stuck in the past troglodytism and the prince is the collaborative and colludenative future 

     And we are stuck with a bellicose Administration all hopped up on the drugs of weapons and war. Everyone else is looking at us with horror tinct with pity or pity tinct with horror. Ye gods, I’m ashamed for our de-evolution, and a different thing, I am skin-crawlingly embarrassed that we are so belligerently and theistically stupid. We actually, tho admittedly barely, elected Al Gore an environmentalist and futurist who grokked green and the noosphere, the internet change from the competitive model to the instant and intimately collaborative, colludenative model. It is catastrophic to America’s hopes for joining – yes joining, what a novel, almost Navaho idea! — the future that we are stuck with an entire administration with at least three fatal flaws.

    The whole BushCo mindset is a throwback to anti-ecumenicalism in its many useful varieties. First let’s take a breath, as dear Fitz would say. I am not a communialist at all. I like my little personal space without having to pretend to like people’s company more than I do. I like it sometimes, sometimes I don’t. I like have a lair to retreat to – my garret as it were I suppose. I am not a happy hive person, always rubbing and buzzing like in bars on Friday night. So don’t think I have some sloppy sentimental notion of us all hunkering down in some loving commune. Piffle. However, we could care what happens in the next hovel, I think.

 

     How, for instance, does someone get to take their second dwelling off their taxes before everyone has a first dwelling? And tax payers should subsidize mansions? Really? No one makes their f***ing fortunes in a vacuum. You wouldn’t be so damned rich, FattHoggist, if the janitor weren’t making an impoverished wage. You are not worth 431 times more than your secretary per hour.

    So Robber Baron greediness and a complete gelding of the Labor Movement are flaws which pit us in the US against the future.

   In the general BushCo backward-looking, I see no one who groks the niftiness of technology. And, be sure, it is its niftiness which is what wins you over. Anyone who does not have access to home broadband is crippled. If that sounds like a blunt statement, it is from experience that I speak it. I had an overlap of dial-up and broadband. The broadband crashed one day (a rarity) and I discovered that the dial-up was all but useless. You cannot go back without feeling like an exile. All people who do not have a decent exclusive personal  computer and at least our clunky USA broadband are parapeligic, period.

     Going from broadband (as embarrassing as our USA broadband is – more like teaspoon-band compared to SoKo’s gallon-band) back to dial-up is like going from a fine 10-speed bicycle back to a tricycle. Yes, they both have wheels, but they aren’t in fact comparable.

    Please don’t be swayed by people who are not happy computer nuts. What do they know? I have the zeal of the converted. In 1988, I was still sure computers would be depersonalizing tools of an inhumane Corporate Structure. Maybe someone meant them to be, but trippingly around the gigantic feet of the dinosaurs, the tricksy lemurs began dancing under the moon after school.            

    A greatest fear I have is that with the changes happening so rapidly, those kids without computers or broadband, those not rhapsorg, are dusted into a different social species faster than could have happened before in history. The ability to augment your thinking with access to much of the world’s greatest knowledge all-but-instantly makes you different, more concrete, more specific – not disconnected, not more abstract. Now, obviously the same kind of training that a giga-reader of poetry or of the world itself is fortunate enough to get ought be vouchsafed to all these burgeoning brains so that they don’t only get addicted to cotton candy and giddy trivia. But the wonderful possibility of the noosphere is that you can pinball around from profundity to trivia in a trice.

    The freedom I feel as a writer now that I can check up on every nuance of what I’m writing about makes me just plain better in a substantial way. The melody is a gift I’ve practiced and earned, but the ability to check that SoKo has ¾ penetration of 4 times to 64 times faster broadband from an 11.05 article is a micro-solidity I can pass along that is both bloody cool and also makes us both smarter.

    I use rhapsorg instead of cyborg because the word rhapsody means woven song at root. And this future is orgged or organized more like a woven song than the cybernetic-org – helmsman-org model. There is no helmsman. Yet it is not chaos; there is an anti-entropic tendency to melody; therefore, woven song.

   So the kids (or any of us, really) not wired into the symphony are, ipso facto, deprived.

   Please don’t waste our time listing all that’s stupid and wrong with the internet. The same things that are stupid and wrong with people’s private minds – just the old mind was less on display to the non-psychic. Us psychics don’t notice so much difference, sooth to say. The vast garbage ground of pretentious nonsense and davidletterman sophomoric proto-humor is now in every Comment column of every blog that the generic imbecile-redneck-dave can find to bray on. However, I have found more thoughtful and resonant moments than ever I might have before. It requires a rhino-hide for a writer and super-quik junk-thought filters – like surfing the tv if you’re the one used to holding the remote – at a glance you see that it’s just britneyesque or whatever ain’t your poison.

       So the Chinese are doing giga-green and SoKo is leading the probably unwired way. We have got to instantly get this nation to have universal hotspots – the whole damn nation, like the MoonShot. Why were we woken up by Sputnik and not by SoKo? This is an Emergency & it is not a Test. You should hear that noise of alarm This is an Emergency until you shout at your Representatives urgently and constantly. WiFi this Nation Now.

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collaborate = working together;

colludenate = playing together;

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 157 11.05.05 sat 

ffwofw 1321§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1121

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

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obsidian is shinier & blacker than coal .. & never capitulates to diamond.

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

 

    A crow’s wing must read the ebullient air, that grail, like braille? Feeling a bosomy intimate terrain we cannot even see. That crow, my obsidian bird, can see where I’m going, tho I, more landbound, take the, if lucky, meandering route; if not, the jagged route.

    I am well into my third Great Experiment. Certainly the most damned dangerous in daylight terms – I mean, I could get run over by a train I can see.

  The first Great Experiment is chronicled in 800 words in a fable called Justice.  I find out through 20 years as a window washer that the fortunate super-educated could do their share of the grotty jobs so we would not have to have an invisible undereducated class of which we never speak in order to get the latrines cleaned.

   The second Great Experiment is mostly unchronicled except in the blognoire, the akashic record, a few sketches here on agogblog, and the posthumous papers. An intense and immense decade of my tender battle with Digrif, a demon with whom I’m addicted. (Well, you like breathing too, don’t you?)  Across the timescapes, it is fascinating, elating. Here in this cul-de-sac of time, it is sometimes so painful, my bones bleed. Monde tordu. Wry world. Twisted world. If I only get to keep the memory of one thing, I trade off the possibility of Justice for the whole world for our implausible story, him & me. 

   This Third Experiment is in the dark arts. Not wicked, though wicked people have plied them. Dark like night is dark. It’s a calculated madness. I am navigating the last third of my life by poetry, by synchronicity. Reading the runes. Like the crow’s wing upon the courtesan air, I am allowing myself to be blind to the modern exhortations of necessity. Listening so carefully, watching like the fox the rabbit, or the rabbit the fox, breathing in the hieroglyphs of scents,  I am sensible to the signs – not in some, I like to think,  cult madness, but in a keenness of attention to the poem into which Fate is writing me. The metaphor from the inside.

    It is a certain enchanted view, as we shaman are taught to recognize and endure, and, even, procure. But this is different. More abyss. More quicksand. More much more vertigo.

    To say that synchronicity is a slippery slope is a bad time-rider’s joke. Am I really going to trust quixotic, clearly psychotic-able Fate to laying out clues like crumbs for the little bird? And am I supposed not to end up as rot-swollen body floating face down on the flood-sewage of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New Orleans?         

    Writers are used to being in the hand of Fate. When you get your own voice for sure at last, it’s like being knighted. You never need doubt the holy voice again. Soon tho, you realize that you are really an amanuensis for Something Which Speaks. The Ego does not write. It receives, like a pagan communion, the elixir. You are alive in the runes, the 3D of your sentences as they unfurl, the sentiments into images, around you. It is the alchemy.

   But to trust this impulse in your own living story with its bank accounts and rain and culverts as well as the parrots’ feathers is nothing if not risky. It’s being risqué may well not make up for how risky it really is.

     People who deny synchronicity are the wooden people who clodpatedly pay little attention. Synchronicity can be sly. Or Shy. Or bloody undeniable. As an example, a few years back, because of the crush of time, I had decided to stop taping my tv show of twn years, the Rhapsodic Life, where I performed 22nd century philosophic fables. I was very sad. I was parked in the Wells Fargo parking lot, crossed the street to the bakery for a consoling banana nut muffin, and as I passed the windows at the back of the store, this woman came running out of the store and grasped my hand with both hers, and said, “Your show saved my life.” Well, I guess I’m not quitting my show,” I laughed to myself. Manypoem (the multi-verse) can give you answers or nudges or kicks in the trousers, but 30 seconds later? It was compelling.

    Earlier this evening as I was fending off a bout of (financial) panic, actually behind this same bakery I swear – a vortex I guess & I haven’t been there in six months – the car which had pulled up next to mine had the license plate QUNTUM. Those of you who follow pogblog know that this Quantum motif is all over the blog. Quantum Schools etc. The thing that is hard to describe objectively is the precision and intimacy these bigger synchron moments can have.

    As you hang on a vine over the edge of a cliff, you say ok ok, I won’t panic yet.

    (I’d appreciate it if you don’t pipe in with rational advice because it only spooks me from the wild path I’m going to explore. I am convinced that as we clamber along in this next decade more & more sychron will appear and the parallel worlds will interinfluence each other more consciously. I’m a scout. Always have been a scout.)

 

Clearly there is gonna be a lot more about DUIS – driving [a life] under the influence of synchronicity, but I gotta go write some bilious romantic nonsense to Digrif.    

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

9 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 152  10.31.05 mon

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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the World Government Game

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Profounder Flounder

& the World Government Game

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This piece starts fable because if you don’t playful-up your mind, you won’t grok the quantum leap-frog to a new model near the end. Lube your mind.

 

   Profounder Flounder often preferred resting in the mud to being a super-hero. She liked lying in the mud thinking, like Faberge eggs, small great thoughts. Interwoven with sophisticated fishy erotica. Piscine eros was all about brushing one another with melodies of fins.   

    Her beloved, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was also a super-hero. It was easier, frankly, to fin with someone who grokked the difficulties and addictions of tovenaar rescue. There was much promiscuity among the 27,000 poikilothermic species, but Profounder was a faithful flounder.

    “Admit it, Profounder, it gets you off that he has a title,” said Clod Cod, one of their retinue. Profounder glimmered her dappled hide, the fish-equiv of a blush.

    “Yep, it’s slick. He’s so flagrant of fin.”  She nestled deliciously into the squishy mud.

    In spite of his royal heritage, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was legendary fish-freedom-fighter. “Dolphins, dolphins,” he would say. “Howsa ‘bout the tuna?”

    Side-butting was the octessence of erotic fishy action. Reproduction had zero to do with eros in the carnival of fishes. One laid. One sprayed. It was a function. But side-butting was a conjunction of hilarity and eros that humans had never joined. Side-butting was rather like jousting under the sea. Sir Cuss would coyly present his magnificent side to her. She would swim full-speed into his side, pushing him through the water and tumbling him over. Only in a supporting yet yielding medium like water would this be so violent, so playful, and cupidesque at the same time. One took turns. Part of the leisurely pleasure was the waiting while the slow motion sleersh and tumbling bloomed arabesquely in the quicksilver water and so slowly slowed. ‘You bowled me over’ has more meaning in the sargasso depths.

    The last time Sir Cuss 'Cuda had been home, they’d had a fairly hut discussion about the lot of psychic tovenaars, a kind of wily wizard. Most of their discussions were gehry or calatrava, more baroque and cognac in force and feel, though streamlined. The architecture of their conversations was one of their gifts and treasures.

        “What I’m worried about, Profounder,” said Sir Cuss, “is this epidemic of Nero Flu on Planet Paisley. I'm not sure what us tovenaars are going to do about the Nero Flu?”

     Planet <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Paisley is what we call Planet Earth, but seen in its expanded etheric dimension.  The Nero Flu is an astonishingly contagious and debilitating condition. It got its name from an ancient character in Paisley’s exoteric history, an emperor who was said to have shrugged and plucked his lyre as his great city burned. The catchphrase was ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned.’ Nero Flu led to chronic defeat. Keep your head down, loot what entertainment and distraction you can on the sly, and hell with heroism. Heroes have to hero; hero moles get whacked. The Nero-afflicted were pre-wounded. They’d seen the ruthless usurpers, the bloated corporate gloaters, and had learned to hide in the shadows or blend with the fog.

    “Well,” said Profounder, “the young on Paisley have watched the middle-aged and old capitulate to gigaGreed, gigaCreed, and methed theoMilitoPatriotism. Who stands up? Who hollers? Silence of the Sheep – Obedient Americans is the longest running reality show they’ve seen. Who needs the SS? Malls, mortgages, football, and petty political bickering on cable tv quell the masses just fine.

    “Everyone who squawks at all is just twiddling around the edges of change. The difference with these young and the hippos is that these ones aren’t dis-illusioned . . .”

     “Hippies,” said Sir Cuss, “I think they called them ‘hippies,'  the ones hopped up on hope. Hippies, not hippos.”

   “All this shapeshifting from planet to planet, from dis-ease to un-ease, from pretty to giddy, from eyes with lids to eyes without lids. Do I have claws this week or fangs or fins? I’ll confess that keeping the lingo pristine irks my spleen,” said Profounder.

      “So, in the next triad of months, the otromundo themes are Ignite hope in the Apathos. Join Myrth, Salma Nella, The Blue, Quetzal, and pogblog in the Militarism to Educationism/Burning Child project. Backlight the Lizards with Ridicule. And do the odd torvenaar psychic rescue gig.”

    “And plot in some delicious squish in the mud time for you,” said Sir Cuss.

    Profounder Flounder fluttered her fins. It was so thoughtful of him to say that. He was a BarraCuda, a Lord of the Ocean, so silver and sleek, the handsomest fish in the sea. Mud was for vassals. But love does stranger things than make us cherish mud-dwellers.

    “You think you got if not a cure, an ameliorative for this Nero plague?” asked Sir Cuss.

   “Yep, sweets. I duz. The Apathos I know are so smart and so ingenious. And they have no interest in wielding blood-violence – violence that actually draws blood. I say we get them to invent a World Game. Like Sim City, except they would have to deal with the actual conditions in actual regions. They would get to run the virtual World. The Rebels would be the Builders. The CreedoGreedos would run things in the beginning. The Game task would be to transform the world from Creed n Greed to Equality & Happiness.

    There would be 3 World Games running simultaneously. You would be assigned to one randomly. There would be running counters of the EHQ, Equality & Happiness Quotient of each model.

    For every certain quantum of gained E & H, you’d get to spend time Through the Looking Screen in virtual Movie Houses where you’d enter sub-games of giga-GTAesque intrigue and violence and lust. We’d get them to design ways of getting credits from actual action in a local community to give you access to Game-in-Game powers.

    “Fuck, if I may say so, nation-building. Nations should be neighborhoods. World-building is the name of the future. As our R.Bucky says, ‘You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.’”

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Frank Gehry architect .. scroll down when you get there.

Santiago Calatrava architect .. clik slide show when you get there.

piscine = fishy.

poikilothermic .. unlike mammal blood, blood temperature changes with environment.

otromundo = OtherLand; lit. other world.

tovenaar = wizard, shaman.

GTA = Grand Theft Auto, a classic video game.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 151  10.30.05 sun

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Clone the 3 Best Schools .. The Burning Child

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Clone the 3 Best Schools ..

The Burning Child

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   The Burning Child ..  Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Industrial Complex. That’s how the title began. That’s the idea. I was vexed by the second ‘industrial’ but couldn’t grok something else with the proper cadence. I asked some wordsmith friends. Nada. Time floated by. Waiting for Godot. Waiting for Indictments. Waiting for the Rapture to Lighten the Piety Load on the Beloved Planet.

    Then Dear The Blue, my second best pal after Spiteful Puffy – The Blue and me ain’t Biblical or nothing, we just hang out a lot – Dear The Blue dropped a present into the air just in front of me like a hummingbird hovering, iridescent. “Instructional.” Ah. Aha.

   The Burning Child .. Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Instructional Complex. Sweet. It works.

    Child, child burning bright in the forests of delight. Every child has the civil right to a superb education. We shift the $820,000 per minute over to a Manhattan Project of funding to provide an explosion of education in our nation.

     So, let’s for a few moments leave all the objections to the side and assume as a thought experiment that the ATBs, the Aliens with Tractor Beams are saying, “You Hairless Bipeds have five earth years to provide equally superb education to every single child from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border or we will incinerate your whole lousy belligerent species.” So, we have to do it. How then?

    I imagine a team of  Smart Good Hearts flying over the country in Education Force One looking down at all the schools in the country. We find the 3 Best Schools. We clone them. We buy out the remaining military obligations like veterans health care and so 4th.  We re-write the contracts with the DDX destroyers and A22 fighters and Robust Nuclear Earth Pentrator and Star Wars people so that they re-tool to research and build cheap, mobile, indestructible laptops and the infrastructure for free nationwide wireless ultraband and the best new schools gehryesque architecture can cathedralesquely create.  They do this shift as if their hair was on fire – which it will be if the ATBs get pissed.

   This is our Moon Shot. This is our Manhattan Project. If immediate profit weren’t any object, how cheap and fabulous could these tough thin fastest nifty laptop WolfBooks become? We put the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars into WolfBook research. We have the forbidden socialism for the Military Budget now. We just re-allocate those resources to the Education Instructional Complex. We export education systems rather than weapons systems. If we can have the darned nanopod, thin and sexy (tho not so tough apparently), we can have a cheap fabulous laptop WolfBook for every citizen, child and Granny.

    This is an emergency for our very survival as a viable species. The planet is going to buck us off until we grok it. We do destruction; it does destruction – tho lots better. We do construction and fruitfulness; it will do construction and fruitfulness.

     All this is a national effort like WW2. This is WW3 – except that we fight for the future instead of smashing the present. Bloodshed will be considered Losing.

    Always look back from Y3000. Imagine where we are as our better angels in Y3000. How do we get there? That’s what pogblog wants to challenge and cajole you to think about. Not why we can’t. Because we do. So how do we get to the constructive, fruitful world? The more you bring to the table if even just in your mind and heart & not yet the street, the sooner this more delightful, smart inventive stuff can manifest. You dream about it every night. It just isn't manifested yet. We're the midwife people for the education dream. You can be a raving nutcase militant pacifist epistemologist like me, or you can be milder, cogitating in your living room. The NaySayers do not contribute. They just slow it down. We have to live with them until they shapeshift. Don't let 'em fuss you. Press on, regardless. ///<^>/////

   

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 146  10.25.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

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Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

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The gigantic & glorious & terrifying planetary changes of the next six years or so will be a lot more, well, fun for you if you both frantically and serenely gobble down the glamorous and nifty tricks, slick & delicate & brazen, of interweaving lucid waking & lucid dreaming, amigo, amiga.

 

In the juggling integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the octessential leitmotif epistemological or practical trick is being deftly intent. The following tidbits give you a gist of what deft grokkedly means. You can always check with pogblog’s Glossary to see what other coined words or unexpected usages mean.

 

I have linked the essays/stories/articles so you can read the rest of them as you wish. 

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from Eclectic .. muy yum

. . . really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

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from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

It was ridiculous to take drugs in the Sixties – an invitation to synapse-snafu, but the impulse was completely understandable. People knew immense amounts of experience were being neglected or ignored. With proper training, you can be lucidly awake – deftly intent – all the time and see that the whole world is burning in the forests of the night and of the day. With proper training you can lucidly do alternate experience without crapshooting your faithful synapses – you can learn to shift gears or shift dimensions.

    There are a lot of vaganzas we can have for some practice and if lucky some instruction. (Avoid serious instruction like the plague. Serious instruction must be false. Carpe comedy, however obsidian.)

     Ah, extra vaganzas. Muy yum. Starting with licking everything  as if it were an ice cream cone which is what good poets do and is a good beginning. 

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Homo Hilariens .. obsidian humor .. we evolve at last ..

 

Flan flicked her deft to the megaloreligio she had deliberately encountered for study. Like many beings brought up by animals, Flan used her sense of smell in a symphonic spectrum that people brought up by bipeds could never fathom. It was partly why she was so smitten with Digrif who smelled of late summer grasses and salty waves splash and the bittersweet smell of their mating. Gods know that was better to swim in than the sickly sewage stench of the fear-sweat megaloreligios. 

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Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

    Great education is like putting a permanent IV in your arm renewing you with a plasma of fascination, with an ignited enthusiasm. Great education doesn’t teach you anything except how to learn, an earnest deftness of mind and heart which you can apply to the electric present. It’s splendid and lucky to be confidently curious all the time.
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Brown Bird of Happiness

 

    Of course. I knew at once the breathtaking truth. Our ideas of happiness are quite rigidly conditioned. We are all searching diligently or frantically for versions of happiness, items of happiness, that are imposed upon us by the subtle tyranny of the past. Birds of happiness are blue, we are quite sure. This tyranny is distinctly insidious. It prevents what’s happening right under our noses from being happiness. Instead we have restless, inchoate longings for happinesses defined, not by our own present deft attention, but by other agents. Parents, friends, movies, books, religions, the patterns of our own past. 

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50.5% Crazy

 

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

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Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

    He had powerful benefactors, did Hector FerdeLance whose knowledge of subtle neurotoxins became legendary in rumor. He played the stringed zambal, attended the king, was a pretty, winning youth. Who was to know for sure that he wielded death so deftly? He was not employed to snuff the sparks of little lights, there were crude minions enough for that. His use was to outwit the shielding wards, those protecting woven words, that rhapsody of other kings.

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Fegg .. Quantum Perception

 

   Fegg. F[aberge]egg. Fegg. Simple, splendid, extravagant, delicious, reverent, jeweled. Fegg. It is seeing and tasting that richness in the little world that is fegg. One of the Earth Decorator's most fegg is, of course, the hummingbird, an outrageous jeweled miniature envied on all planets of all stars. “Ah, Madame Deco,” an offworld Designer would sigh, hardly concealing stark envy, “How did you do it!?” Planet Designers are a good lot on the whole in spite of their universally being riddled with admiration twinned with envy. It's just that when you see something unbearably well done — the concept, the craft, the flash, the diligence, it haunts the heart with gratitude that it has been done–and envy that you didn't think of it first. Gratitude and applause minutely outweigh envy. .. .. The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin) are fabulous, and the notion of fegg derives a portion of its charm from the pleasure that human artisans can be so deft. But the planet's Designer has simply strewn our path with marvels upon marvels, has all but stuffed riches down our throat like fat corn down the foie gras goose's gullet.

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the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

    Pal Ace said, “Between us we might be able to make the chariot and the black and the white horses tangible enough that our audience can actually get the lively sensation of the Third Thing. We can explain that all great thought is in stories because people there get images which give force and vitality to ideas. Abstract ideas are about as attractive as plucked chickens.”

   Ri laughed. “I know, abstraction is so false, so tepid, so pallid. The darling universe itself couldn’t stand the emptiness and loneliness of concepts. It poured its lonely heart into the violent and vivid art of the stars and the jewels of foxes and cats. It adores its creation. You can hear it purring on the cosmic subsonics. 

   From the audience Sherrard Gray said, “I watched you and Pal Ace give a Third Thing demonstration. I was astonished at the quick bright deftness of your shared creation. It was as quick and layered as seeing a magic deck of cards shuffled — two halves swiftly, layer after layer, became one thing.

    “I just wanted to know how the interaction felt for each of you subjectively? I wondered if we Earthers could get accustomed to that brisk, maybe brusque exchange — if it might not be too strong for us?.

    Pal Ace answered smiling, “That’s a perfect question. The Third Thing provides protection from personal injury.

    “It’s true that Risma and I know that, often, the stronger we are there in the Globe, the sooner the chaff of our personal thought blows away, and we’re both left with a truer kernel.

    “We are focused on the Third Thing, not ourselves.” Risma smiled at Sherrard Gray, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />NorthEast Kingdom, Vermont, USA. She said, “The way it feels is that there, between us, is a land ne’er seen, an air pristine, in which we two can now create a new wonder to fascinate our fellows later. This place alive, this Third Thing is our refuge from our only selves.

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Church .. deftly intent

 

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.


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 the Universe Moved or reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .

 

    I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.

     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.

     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.

….

     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.

    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.     

    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly. 

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You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.

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Vulture Culture

 

    Lord Ord became, reluctantly at first then ravenously, rapturously interested in the Behind-the-Scenes necessities that support the splendid on-stage Show. When he had invented the vulture, he had felt a deep marrow-tingling pride. There are many quirks in the solid Earth dimension. There were surprises such as the glamorous peacock’s awful cry. Lord Ord’s ugly vulture of ghastly mien could soar so sweetly that all gaped, envied. It was sufficient recompense.

    When the gods wished to soar, they became vultures, effortless, cloudstalkers. Hot sun on the top of the bold broad feathers, the rise of the ebullient air under your wide wings. If you wanted to do enormous, you did elephant, hippo, rhino, whale. If you wanted to soar, you did vulture.

    Some gods were too fastidious, too tepid of imagination to pay the gustatory price. Lord Ord’s sense of humor escaped many. Putting the galaxy’s most fabulous soaring with the galaxy’s most repulsive and rancid cuisine was a mobius twist trick that the prissier gods couldn’t follow.

    Lady Onyx, his brilliant deft partner, had also become intrigued by the design of the Odd. Her tour de force had been spiders. The challenge had been to devise a vertigo-less creature whose webs were art and worked as well.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Jane the 4th Coming, the BeelzebuB Gospel

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Jane, the 4th Coming,

the BeelzebuB Gospel

   

    Ace could not believe that he’d bagged Jane, the 4th Coming herself for another interview for Carpe Comedy, his rowdy and a little raunchy holozine. Jane had told him, “Zebras & warthogs, Ace, I’ll keep coming back until they finally figure out that 'Yep, this is she tho we expected a he.' Just like poor ole Migs Jagger – nice bloke at the bar, a tad tepid in the sack – has to sing Satisfaction over and over. They, the herds, the hordes, the sheep want the same scenario, the same drama. Tho JC and I talk about how if he ever came back himself in a robe and sandals with a gleaming halo and an entourage of angels, they’d freak out.

   It could be a little disconcerting talking to Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings. She was often on the telepaphone, espering away while she was chatting with you and so there was a sense of the music of the spheres surrounding her. Not that she didn’t give you her whole attention. It’s hard to explain. But,thought Ace, that’s what we’re trying to explain multimind.

     “Well,” said Jane, jolly deity, “the first trick to multimind is to unclench your mind. There is no difference between your fist and your useful hand except that you unclenched it. The clenched mind causes no bloody end of harm.

    “Oh but Ace, I wanted to remark on the travails and trawoes of that creep Karl. If you don’t get him, we will. We just slap the Empathy SlashVolter into his brain and turn on the rerun of his life. Aw, it’s great. He feels everything the folks he villainized felt, but just slightly slowed down so the molecular drip of the shame and agony plays its full neuronic amplitude through his sullied synapses. No compartmentalizing here. Karl cannot partition off his lousehood in the full Quark Activation of the Empathy SlashVolter. The villainized get to download all their distilled dismay into his circuits. Fair is fair. He can’t run; he can’t hide. The Truth Dawg has got a perfect nose. And nothin’ is hid from the Record. Every gasp of joy and wonder is recorded on the Akashic Vinyl, and every putrid moment. Ole Karl has to re-eat his own vomit.

    Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings gazes at Ace. Was it worth getting a crush on another mere? The meres. Yeah, they could be daggone cute and a heck of a roll in the straw, but they had the attention spans of fleas and the depth of a puddle. But this one was funny. That mitigated the other merenesses somewhat, maybe. Mere mortals – ho hum, or fa la la – that was the question. Multigonads. Well, they weren’t ready for that yet. That would have to wait for the 8th Coming or later.

    “Multimind. Now we’re pretty much stuck in cerebro izquierdo – the left brain. What we neglect except on more hidden and forbidden occasions is the cerebro divertido, the droll brain, the right brain. The trick is to be niftier hopscotching back and forth. The transitions, the warping and wefting, the gliding and sliding betwixt and amongst are too sluggish for major splash and glee and knife-keen seeing. Integration is elation. We’ll talk about seeing with poetry next time.”

   “Next time?” thought Ace. The challenge with gods, however pan and dionysian, was that the beginnings and endings could be abrupt. They appeared. Then they unappeared. There was a lot of poof and presto and arbadacarba. It was like a secret handshake this prestoing and poofing and arbadacarbaing, and you were supposed to laugh in a most jocular manner. Out of the blue, it occurred to him. Tapas. That was it. He hadn’t remembered to provide a spread of snacks. So instead of accusing him with that piercing emerald gaze, she’d just decided to romp off and have a few tacos al pastor. She liked him tho, he thought. She refused to hang out with the BloodDrinkers. There could be worse things than being a toy boy to a goddess.        

        

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Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a joke ..

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   Jane never set out to be the 3nd Coming, anymore than she set out to be fat or a redhead. She chuckled frequently when she told Ace, her chubby chum, that she understood why Buddhaha had laid on the lard – it was the laugh ratio, the ratio of chuff to chaff. You can’t trust thin people to be seriously funny.

    Jane had met Ace when he’d interviewed her for Carpe Comedy, a holozine he started on 02.11.2011, at the height of the planetary turbulence. “Well,” said Jane The Messiah, “ever since they so screwed up the reporting on the 1st Coming and now there's the entirely unnoticed 2nd Coming — so we are never ever doing Coming gigs without holovideo. You gotta actually see my lips move so you can’t lie about what I said.

    “The Nazarene was an OK guy, but without the holovideo, he got seriously tabloided throughout a gore-fest of history that he never had in mind, nor in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke to get some guffaws around the supper table! Only crazy people would, like, do it. Yuck.

    “The point of the 1st Coming was supposed to be to perk up poor people – to sock it to the stupid greedy who were pointedly un-invited to the stupendous party in heaven.”

    “Mz Messiah – may I call you Jane? – are you going to offer a less distortable delusion to pleasure the masses.” 

      Jane gazed at Ace for the first time. Sexy. Very sexy, she thought idly.

    “A less distortable delusion. That’s our scheme, that’s our dream,” said Jane T. Messiah, laughing like a bowl of strawberry jello. “Not kill is, ah, hmmm, let's see — not kill. Not not kill with codicils. Not Not kill except if you've got on a different colored uniform (Murder by fashion offense?). Not not kill except when I hate your guts you stupid foreign (different [ skin; accent; taste in good cheese; quality of ululation. Check one]).     

     “Thou shalt have much more fun. Thou shalt not interfere with the fun of thy neighbor or of thy enemy. The endlessly tedious & unfun white aka pink splotched christians in the USofA Inc left out the very very funny Gospel According to BeelzebuB, the only non-sycophantish, non-power-serving Gospel that J.C saved for his own scrapbook. The others he turned into confetti — 'Who writes this kind of pious rubbish? They should take their meds,' JC told me before he left soon after the denouement of the 1st Coming for a refreshing galactic gallivant. 

    “One of the white christians' 10 Greatest Sins — the real pornography — is that they are as terminally unfun as they are greedy. Note, Ace, that the ultra-holy Americans don't put the chiselled list of their 10 Greatest Sins of Seriousness on the CourtHouse Lawn.”

   Ace said, “By the way, all I ask is that in even years, we change out the word God for the word Zeus on money, prayers, and in any pledges of allegiance so us good American polytheists get our turn. Fair is Fair.”

    Jane impaled him with a green-eyed look. A nerve, he thought, I've struck a deitific nerve. He quickly said, “I hadn't heard of the Gospel According to BeelzebuB?” hoping to deflect a present but unclear danger.

     “Of course JC was a polytheist, Ace. Not that you could call him a theist really, but he sure was poly. Poly and pan. All of his frisky and cheerful and artist-eye stuff got cut out of everything but BeelzebuB's Gospel. All this monotheism crap was a pure power-grab by the 12ftTalk Lizards in Human Disguise of the day. Had there been the Cuneiform Times back when, the Country Club Set is pretty much the same from millennium to millennium. Especially the simply ghastly nouveau riche like your present Bushes. There's nothing so agonizingly awful than a parvenu. These pipsqueak people have no class, only faux piety and genuine pretension. How one's skin does crawl at the idea that the Bush & ilk are allowed in the front parlour. They are all noise and graceless greed.

    “After a large and fattening lunch, we'll get to what a crock the creed of gigagreed is. But I want to say a bit more about poly and pan before smorgassnacks. Monotheism is as ugly an idea as ever reared its scaly head in the pantheon of Religious Wrong Turns. JC wasn't an Exclusivist. Never. He was genuinely generous and gentle of mind. He knew that a simple holiness was tricky to come by and that everyone had one pretty piece of the Giant Spinning holoKaleidoscope. Nobody has it all. And nobody has none. Ye owls, Ace, I'm hungry. Waffles, eggs, bacon, syrup, himalayan amounts of butter, french toast stuffed with hell, and even an honest omelette to finish. Muy yum.”

 

 

 

Swords into laptops — $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> Swords into laptops —

 $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

 

 In my experience of so many schools, they are afraid to have their kids' fingers in the socket of the universe. I know that kids have a right to a radiant, mischievous, surprising life and that such a life can be more or less sensible.

Just like electrical engineering can be taught so you can get your house and town wired, radiance engineering can be taught so you can get your inner mansion lit.

We use at best 10% of our on-board computer. Quantum Schools will shoot for 20%. Double the capacity to seamlessly handle experi-data — the intoxication you mention as a foundational, steady state, the base rate, drunk without slurring or hangovers.

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Adding the first 2% is already exhilarating & somersaulting. Getting high on 'air' will put a hole in alcohol & drug sales but is otherwise quite benign.

The neonutcon lizards are a drainingly dreary distraction from the future much more ruled by art than by commerce. When artists and teachers are applauded & paid, not so obscenely as the Corp-Hogs were, but well — and mainly the art in EVERYone and I mean YOU too, pilgrim, whoever you are — the art in EVERYone will be the duty of the society to foment & ferment & tend. We're only a decade or two from that. Ultraband, free wireless very broadband, will bring the art-in-each revolution to a simmer which then Educationism will bring to the lovely boil. People will not ask What do you do for a living? — but rather What do you do for a living?

Once we start the Big Turn from all the resources being poured into the rathole of Militarism to the same bounty being poured into Educationism, the world will begin to bloom like a fxxg flower. When you look back from Y3000 you can see the faintest of the dawning flower light — or flowering dawn light — rising in our time. I am not seer enough to see the exact timeframes from that distance, but the collective unconscious is harrowed of these unfun fundamentalizms — the shadow, fear-ridden — that we have to salve & solve while we can more merrily press on, regardless.

Basically we change out violence for art and eros. We still have lots of invigorating violence, but not not not in K1. (see pogblog's Glossary for definitions.)

I am always amazed by how someone like Peter Jackson (love-slave material) can orchestrate so much cathartic violence & no one gets hurt at all. Sweet.

As long as violence remains in a medium (dreams for instance) that allows for all but instant regeneration, who cares what consenting adults do?

You could say that this K1 masterpiece of reality engineering is just a dingy Dungeon & Lizards and that we signed on for a bit of bleak & high-moral dudgeon in the dungeon — but see Ethereals on that nasty & brutish hobbesean theory.

 

More Island time & less RatRacery.

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Some more on art and violence. We’ve talked before on pogblog about the addiction-survival-circuits along which run all but irresistible desires to drink, gamble, snort, whatever. I think it’s safe to say that in general artists don’t use Uzis – except maybe Norman Mailer. (Just a joke, Norms.) The kind of fierce and controlled or even chaotic zone-energy that addicts soldiers with a sense of meaning and aliveness is found in art in a less ragingly virulent form than bloodthirst. Your brain on art. Now, there have been stupid cultural cross breeding with art and drugs or drinking or smoking. I myself recall that when I quit smoking cold quetzal in ’88, my bigger fear than weight gain was the loss of some creative intensity. To which I can now say Nonsense. A clear brain is fiercely lovely to live in. A half-gallon a day of Carlo Rossi white isn’t necessary fuel. Air does work fine.

   But these are niceties. The big militant pacifist cause celebre is getting us off the death &  mutilation jag. I use Sandy Calder of mobile fame and myself as examples that artists can manage to lead a life of intense and fruitful art without have to drink or drug themselves into stupor or death. Rather like Gandalf’s Shadowfax, the wild horse can be honored and partnered with.

     The connection of great art and misery is a crock. Many artists of a certain era were conned into that semi-tragic pose. Now, sooth be said, the loneliness of being out on the edge is an acquired taste. But not all art has to be philosophic or psycho-illogical or psychic edge exploration. The zone is a swell invigoration. And when more of us are doing it instead of just being corporate mules, we’ll have the chuffy fellow obsidian humor that illuminates the darker passages of art’s delving.

    Vivid life on Earth is at risk with these theopatriot cogists in league with militarism to the tune of $820,000 per minute. I don’t know the tax break to the midasses making over $600,000 per year exact figures, but they’ll congeal your blood. Alchemy rises: change militarism to educationism.

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9 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 139  10.18.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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