Category Archives: Militant Pacifism

Hector & the Abolition of War

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pls read this as slowly as you can read

 

Hector and the Abolition of War

 

“It had been startling to discover that Hector had been a psychic assassin many hundreds of years ago when sorcery was in its vigorous prime. The vassal of a great king, Hector had been young, brilliant, sly as a snake, and beloved of the volcano goddess, Erif. The lava blood of the planet’s heart was imprinted in his psychic body like the vermilion signature of the volcano goddess’ favor. Thus, in the etheric realm, Hector’s psychic black-body was slashed with veins of the violent exuberant vermilion of the incandescent lava pumped, new and shocking, from the planet’s living heart. The etheric black-body was like looking at an x-ray of someone’s soul.

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“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.

 

“I told FerdeLance things about myself,” Gamma Ray wrote on. “If we were to play together at this Healing Game, he needed to know some things about me. Art, I told him, is perhaps to some healers an obscene intermingling of psychic bodily fluids. The acceptance of, the discovery of a different point of view than one’s own, a taking on of soul matter, the quivering naked stuff that the artist rips, aztec, from his or her own beating heart.

 

“Hector FerdeLance, the assassin, was interested in art and in the panvoyant, the what to do with yourself when assassinating vexing kings and fighting wars were no longer the way to ignite the impatient blood.

 

“In a few days more Hector spoke a truer name and his eyes turned as dark as and gleamed like obsidian when he spoke this name. ‘Vio Lence, my familiars called me, because I studied destruction,’ FerdeLance said blandly. ‘Along the way of learning what kills, I learned much of how we are alive. I have waited long to do penance, and you were the first one who might recognize that embrace of life with death, the breathless intimacy. Of course I lied to your class teachers or they would not have introduced me. It is true that I rejoiced in others’ pain. After I became vassal to the snake god king, Bothrops, and beloved of the lava goddess, Erif, I no longer lusted for the big and brutal pain my fellow warriors inflicted and endured.

 

“‘Bothrops, my king,’ he continued, ‘was so well warded by charms, by cunning, and by tall zealous guards that I was to learn more subtle arts than bursting joints and rending limbs and skinning men alive. I became the worm in the apple, the canker in the gift of sacred corn, the assassin in the summer wind. Until kings looked wide-eyed through me to see the face of Death, they never knew how I had come into their sanctuary. All their guard was girded against the marauders, the pillagers. I came to know that there is no reason enough to kill, but I was deep in blood debt by then.’

 

“Vio Lence gazed into the distant past and mused, ‘I remember the first person I ever killed mind to mind.’ He looked in the present at me and shrugged, ‘It was not casual or frequent, this phantom killing. And it was a work of art. Was it wrong? Who is to say. That is difficult to unweave. Was it evil? Yes.

“‘Because it is evil,’ Vio continued smiling, ‘you are reluctant to ask. Yet you want to know. What was it like killing a great king, from afar? With mountains and mists, rivers and corn fields between you? Well, it was a great undertaking. It was a dreadful and wonderful intimacy, all their life's lights gutter, their pictures go out like stars. That evanescent final moment when all that is alert quits.

 

“‘It is the finality, the irreversibility that daunts, haunts you. By the fifth and last king I slew, at least I knew some portion of what was lost. When I had killed by physical hacking and slashing, there was a certain bloodthirsty slaked satisfaction in surviving while they did not. In the chaos and risk, the adrenal fury singing through your veins. It was like gorging, like rape, it was a tornado screaming through the brain and blood. I howled raw like the jaguar at the moon. The amla, the spirit, the coherence, of the slaughtered would flee the butchered body in terror, cringing horror. Prince or peasant, all men die the same when they are butchered.

 

“‘It was not lovely or interesting. To kill as I did later, by stealth, by seduction, when I saw the breadth of a life, then I knew what I did. It was like walking through a pyramid-shaped tunnel, a pyramid on its side. Starting at the wide end, you saw the vast spiraling mosaic of their complex life, until you came to the narrow end where face to face at the top of the spine, you looked into the unblinking eyes of the life Snake. In the reptilian brain, their first and last light lay. It’s the place where consciousness is ignited. And quenched. The sixth king, Orez, I did not kill. I saved him instead. He knew I could have killed him, and when I did not, each picture, poem, song, from the least crumb of his all but lost life became precious, delirious to him. The great cruel king wept. I became a healer in that hour. Orez became a kind ruler, seeking to treasure his subjects’ days as his own.

 

“‘His rapture at being spared was so abundant, the great wave of it washed my soul clean of the greed for power. I was made humble by my knowledge of all the little sacred secrets, the precious and putrid moments of his intricate life. I could not but be guardian of his breath once I truly saw the exquisite radiance of even the most benighted life.’” 

 

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Hector, Psychic Assassin, my friend.  For those who grok it, this is my octessential statement for why I have resolved to devote my life to the Abolition of War, to the pro-peace world — because the psychic assassin become Healer, Hector, taught me why militant pacifism is the only choice . .. . . .. If you read this as slowly as you can read, you will funes¹ what a life is worth that you can not take it. . .. .

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

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¹ 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

6 Lizard . <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Kan . South . tzol 84  08.24.05 wed 

forfullersb 1036§8769§24d7h47m33s1049

zondaarheeltar 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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George Bush: Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump

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George Bush: Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump

 

Because my line is drawn at Death and Mutilation, I could care less how vehement people are in their speech.

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I could care less how violent movies or video games are, tho I'm happy to remark on their idiot tastelessness or wasteoftimefulness.

 

My laser focus is on actual Death & Mutilation about which there seems much less outrage — about which we speak in hushed tones.

 

I am happy to call Mr. Bush a Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump and consider it a sycophantic civility.

 

I suppose I can applaud “calm & peaceful foci” for those to whom that is a soothing m.o., but in the last decade, there's been far too much civility in the USofA Inc re these Death & Poverty-Dealing Bastards who are sucking human resources out of the human system like Monster BloodSuckers from the Planet Mortetsang.

 

Yes, I would prefer that Rudeness and Coarseness be wielded by folks of pogbloggian skill, but rather than one single bullet in one single brain, I'll take all the rampaging tasteless jerkoffs who want to piss on the tulips and call it wit.

 

The one-to-one relationship between violent speech and K1¹ (daily life) violence is, per se, zero. I can stem-wind trenchant loathing with the best of them and actually with dandelion-puff-preserving delicacy gently pick up flies so as not to bruise their tiny wings and let them go outside. I’m not the one who countenanced shock-and-awe with actual ordinance and called the resulting kids with arms blown off and eyeballs blown out, collateral damage. Pish-tush, I say. We’ve been under the thumb of Norman Rockwellism too unbloody long in this tepid nation.

 

The language of loathing has all been on the Right in the USofA Inc. Some tiptoeing girded-up soul from the Left pulls out a water pistol (with lukewarm water, “lest you feel a chill”) and the Right howls with rumpelstiltzkin indignation. My fellow citizens find Mr. Bush “likeable” because nobody has bothered to rip his masks off. There has been entirely too much apology and civility from the Left here. More people should be declaring, “Death & Poverty Dealers be Damned.”

 

Presidential candidate John Kerry had an excellent, detailed plan repeatedly and civilly laid out with complete sense and elegance, and the media and the public went Yawn. Did the Washington Post beat the drum for this civil and sensible, humane and far-seeing plan? Or even give it column inches and discussion? No. Every columnist at the Washington Post and other so-called major newspapers in this country slunk along with the war drums plenty tho.

 

If any major columnist had the spine he was born with, he’d stir up some loathing-hued ink for the appalling robbery – in broad day-light, thumbing their noses and laughing out loud – of lifesavings and lifehopes of the middle and lower classes. We need a lot more blistering loathing,  not less. Call a Greedy Bastard, a Greedy Bastard. The Left here has been gelded for at least decade. Gelded, hell – they don’t even bleat like sheep. In the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />UK, you cannot imagine the tedious tepidity of the American Left.

 

Finally one candidate, Paul Hackett, recently returned from Iraq and running for office in the rabid-Red Ohio hinterlands, called Mr. Bush ‘a chicken hawk’ and ‘a son of a bitch.’ Both true and long overdue for out speaking. Mr. Hackett suggested that some chicken hawk commander in chief who was so stupid as to inflame the enemy by saying, “Bring it On,” when it was the troops who would have to bear the mutilating brunt of his poll-raising bravado was a son of a bitch has got it exactly right and should say it loud and often. Louder and oftener.    

 

 The Far Looney Extremist Left does have an agenda: universal healthcare; superb K-college public education; a living wage; a treasured, revered environment; and broadband (ultraband) as widespread as phones – all five of which goals so Americans can join a sane and sensible future.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace 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

4 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 82  08.22.05 mon

ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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What's the Euphemism for Screaming?

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What’s the Euphemism for Screaming?

  

    Next time you hear the phrase 'collateral damage,' I want you to leap up out of your chair and start screaming.

   Too boat-rocking for you? Too impolite? People will question your sanity? Your urbanity?

   You get to scream. The dead are very quiet. Perfectly polite. Perfectly polite are the collaterally damaged. You get to scream the scream they can not.

   Doing what’s right ain’t comfortable, ain’t polite. Solidarity of the living. The civil right to remain unmaimed.  

    Well, if every damn one of us leapt up and started screaming any time we heard some obscene mealy-mouthed insane euphemism like collateral damage, may be we could make a dent in their denial systems that lead to mutilated children – not collateral damage – children mutilated.

   There came a time when you had to say, “No, you can’t say ‘nigger,’ it’s wrong, it’s evil, and I won’t stand for it.” Now many a cocktail party in the early ‘50s was ruined by someone boat-rockingly, impolitely, finally, speaking up, speaking out.

   Living is a civil right. War is the last insane bastion of the double-speakers, the lunatic justifiers. War is state-sanctioned murder. War is state-sanctioned mass murder. Ohmygods, the ‘m’ word! Murder.

    As a planet we must pick a day – 9.5.05 would be good enough. Before that day all of history people were blind, do not blame them. Move on past the past. Til that hour they have an amnesty.

    After that day call it what it is. Killing is killing. Dead is dead. Murder is murder is murder.

   We do this telling of the whole truth now on 9.5. Or some other day, some other year, some other century. The abolition of war can be delayed but it does occur. The sooner, the sooner we can look our species in the mirror and bear it. The abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you.

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     Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.

    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “You cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.

    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”

      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”

    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.

    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke he had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.

    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne Layers of Denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know. Collateral? Damage?

    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us. If you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace 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

14 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  79  8.19.05

ffsb 872§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Fight for the Soul of Earth

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Fight for the Soul of Earth .. slumped over keyboard . .. .

 

6:03:34a.pdt.us

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 Fight for the Soul of Earth .. Hmmm, found myself slumped over the keyboard of the Faithful Computer at Dawn, having, well, slumped against the wall of Castle Fati Gue apparently. The last thing I remember was at about 2:44am writing about us far-left looney left fringe left folk at a Solidarity with Crawford Vigil.¹ Then I was swaying & swooning trying to stay awake to do Preview at a Comment Screen one more time to make sure the html angled brackets were all closed.

 

Who even knew that in the Fight for the Heart of Earth one would learn some rudimentary html? It ain’t the Da Vinci Code, it’s HTML code in the <a href=>“http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/7/11/1018320.html”>noosphere</a>. No, no, no, I did not slump because I was ahopin’ beyond hope, that His Beastly Worship YouDon’tKnowWho would give me a buzz on Ye Olde Fashioned Phone Lines. It’s not that I actually long to hear his dulcet tones or nothin’ – nah, he can go sniffa sock for all I care, but we have a kinda deal that I won’t drink no beer unless he’s visiting or we’re aphonin’. Well, I really coulda used a beer, Boyo, after a hard 48Hours in a row Fighting the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

I have been derelict in my Task #1 on The Stay Outof the Culvert List which is finding an agent or publisher who would dare to handle my avant-reve giga-futur fractal-radical prose. You’re out there, or you, dear reader, know that person. Do by all means or by email contact me so we can begin that Publishing Adventure. (pogblog@yahoo.com) It would be nifty to be able to concentrate on the Writing rather than The Worrying about how long I can stay outa the Culvert² – or outa Gitmo for that matter. Financial Ruin Looms. I was clearly born to write a trenchant column, so somebody please hire me.

 

I have been derelict because I have been so offended. So offended that our country has been invaded by stenched souls willing to call dead &/or mutilated children, the born, collateral damage. Now, with my name-doppelganger Swift, I certainly ain’t against the occasional “stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled” plump milk-fed child. I am not a sentimentalist. But just blowing them to smithereens is an offensive waste in both nambi-pampi moral and strict capitalist Greedo terms. The least we could do is make tasty sausages out of the freshly killed. I mean where are the Entrepreneurs when you need them? Give the no-bid sausage contract to Halliburton.

 

Usually I am in a Rage against the LOML (Love of My Life – it may already be that acronym for all I know. I am not the LOHL –Love of His Life, but then nobody else is either, so it works out for the nonce), the Bringer of Beer, Harp preferably; or against the really rapacious Mr. Cheney, known not affectionately between me and my putative pal as Dick the dxxk.

 

 But the whole CollateralDamage Nation is rising my gorge this Dawn whose pearlescence they are spoiling because they Immensely Stupidly keep caterwauling on about The Far-Left Extremists. And we let them, friends.

 

Own the Far-Left Exremist Agenda. Say kindly and with patronizing patience and sorrow, “Yeah, that pesky Far-Left Extremist Agenda – We want [recite the List below] We need to learn a simple simple List and Stay on Message for 100 years if need be. Every question or challenge or insult is answered thusly: “Well, tho you may think that I am a far-left duck-billed platypus who is a danger to the nation, but the real far-left agenda we got is [see below]. Do not be derailed, do not be side-tracked into Talk about Homosexuality or Abortion. (Those are matters of Personal Ethics we will not solve here today. The Agenda we can fruitfully discuss is [re-state The List])

 

Remember, and tell ALL your friends, this is not about changing minds. Do you really think you are going to change Dick the dxxk’s heart with your Incisive Arguments? Well-observed, he doesn’t have a heart – I’ve seen the real x-rays – they take him in for a coronary lube job periodically. But even if he had a rudimentary heart, neither you nor I are changing his well-honed greedy and vicious mind. The political Trick and Task is to ID or identify your own voters and to energize your own voters. You peel off a few on the cusp or fence, but neither core group ever changes its mind.

 

We can de-fog the veils over the eyes of our natural allies, however. So, damnit, Stay on Message. What they know, and we’re tooo Damn Dumb to have figured out yet is that the audience that day or speech or chat at the coffee shop hasn’t heard The Message before or hasn’t heard it the required 10 times necessary for it to stick in the busy mind. And tho your friends may be ready for projectile vomit or projectile feces if you mention The Far-Left Agenda one more time, just bloody do it anyway until they too can recite it in their sleep.

 

Ye Owls, I just put “Gitmo” in my Spell-Check dictionary. Brave New World. (I’ve held out on “Rumsfeld.” Just can’t put it in the system as, like, normal.)

 

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¹ Below is the description of the Solidarity Vigil and includes a Handy Pocket-Sized Version of the Far-Left Extremist Agenda.

 

Flickering Candles, Steady Hearts

 

I wish everyone could have been here at the Mountain View CA Vigil — it was so touching.

 

There were 230-ish people gathered in our central city plaza at twilight.

 

One of the things that is so mis-reported is that the so-called 'far-left looney fringe' is an astonishing assortment of ages, races, creeds. I love looking across the earnest faces.

 

So many experiences shine like a lovely light from these folks, united in radically wanting an end to the killing; wanting wonderful healthcare for all our citizens, like the health care Mr.Bush and his family get; wanting an undeniably splendid K-college system in all 50 states; and a tended, treasured and revered environment. Real radical stuff. The “hateful, radical, looney left.”

 

Of course the 'looney left' stereotype is silly, but you look around and think am I really so crazy to want these things for our future?

 

(KIA 5.30.04) Lt. Ken Ballard's proud Mom, Karen Meredith spoke compellingly of the spark in Crawford; of all the amazing parents she's met in Gold Star Families. And of Ken, her beloved son. As she spoke all the candles flickered on the faces listening to her. She held a large photo of this handsome young man in his uniform looking out at you so intently. A young man, a consummate professional — who never gets a day older.

 

“What noble cause? What noble cause?”

 

“The idea of “staying the course to honor the dead” seems so absurd and obscene to a mother who knows the cost of that delusion.  More dead sons. “How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”

 

No occupier beats insurgents. Ho Chi Minh of Vietnam said, “We would have fought you for 300 years. We live here.”

 

Ken and his friends did their jobs and did not complain. There were a few odd bits that stick in the mind though. The troops resented that Rumsfeld would show up in new desert boots, when so many of them had not received those boots yet.

 

It was thoughtful, grieving, determined people who gathered to send Karen Meredith off to Crawford on this coming Sunday and to be deep in their thoughts about what it is to be a true patriot, to love your country with all your steady, faithful heart.

 

..

http://pogblog.myblogsite

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http://www.ltkenballard.com/

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace 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

13 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 78   08.18.05 

ffsb 1310§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

.. 

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Grave of the Known Soldier ..Save Juan Smith #1999 part 2

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The Grave of the Known Soldier..Save Juan Smith #1999

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What do we know about Sgt. Juan Smith who is doomed to die on Tuesday November 22 2005? 

 

Why does it bother me particularly that he is a huge fan of the fey movie Spinal Tap, a celebration if there ever was one of harmlessness? Perhaps because it is unexpected that a 26 year-old has such quirky taste. I like that in him.

 

Well, he'll be 26 when he is shot in the head. The left side of his head. His brains will splatter onto soldier Raymond Callahan, his second best friend, a 22-year-old from Alabama whose mother, Joyce Callahan, voted for George Bush in  2000, but will never vote Republican again. Mrs. Smith, Juan's mother, dwells in a twilight of sadness.

 

Juan Smith's birthday is on November 8, so he is 25 now as we watch in August, waiting for him to die. Just turned 26 when he dies. He is a Scorpio with Pisces rising. Brave, dreamy, very very smart about the conscious world of day and of tanks, RPGs and rubble, and of the unconscious world, which runs the whole shebang in Iraqi, but which is never spoken of. 

 

Juan Smith does not have to die. He does not have to be #1999. We could stop it at once. Someone will be the last man's name on a stark white cross. The last man on The List. Maybe it could stop at # 1888? Mr. Bush could see that piling up more dead in flag-draped coffins we are not allowed to view will not make the war end better. It is going to end badly. We know that. Nothing will keep the insurgents from blowing up American soldiers for the next 300 years. Cheap explosives. Countless idealistic young men, sold, like ours, a bill of goods.

 

There will be some morning when The Lizard Leaders lie no more. Because nobody's buying their snake oil — well, lizard oil, I guess.

 

Damnit, Juan, I don't know what to do to save you. I do not know what to do. We talk now a little. I'm psychic. I've seen his death. He's seen me seeing it. He's imploring me to turn back time before it is reached so he can go home, marry the very pretty — not beautiful, but very pretty, Felicia, buy the blue pick-up truck his cousin could sell him in the first week of December if he could only live that long. Their first child would be named Joseph.

 

Is it Baquba? Taji? Al Asad? Abd Allah? I cannot read the address of the bullet yet. He has written the name of Felicia inside his helment with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his toolled cowboy boots by her bed, waiting for his return. Which does not happen because we did not pour into the streets soon enough. We lamented, but did not act. As if our being embarrassed or discomfited was more unbearable than the death of #1999.
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08.16.05 98 days 141,120 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

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Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹

 

Is there ANY way we can save Juan Smith #1999 using the energy and the smarts of people like you and Cindy and me and any darnbody at all?

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

I actually asked myself when I woke up this very morning, “Would I sleep with Karl Rove if it would stop the war today?” I have to tell you it was a sobering question which I could not answer at once. You cannot possibly imagine how much I despise slitherer Karl Rove and how much stealthy evil he has done malice aforethought. But now after a few hours of thought, clearly yes, to stop the senseless death of another kid, I'd even do that.)

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq.

 

Can we possibly pull our ingenuities and resources together and save Juan Smith destined to be #1999?

 

That would give us 146 dead to wake up, write our Congress people, write Letters to the Editors. Save Juan Smith #1999. Or does the count drone on and we sit baffled, lamenting?

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

Put democrats.com on your Favorites/Bookmarks and visit every day. http://www.democrats.com/

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

 ² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

 

 

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10 Eagle . Men . West .  tzolkin 75  08.15.05 mon 

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..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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9 Principles of Militant Pacifism

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Herein be a sensible list of Gandhi's 9 Steps to Increase Cooperation and Decrease Violence, some illuminating diatribe, and some confections about mnemonic devices.

 

please post these on your website or email them ..

 

Gandhi's 9 Steps for Teaching Peace

 

Dancing Penguins Should Have Long Nights Doing Fancy Polkas

1. (D) Define the conflict.

2. (P) It isn’t you against me .. it’s you and me against the problem .. the problem is the problem.

3. (S)  List the things we do share. Need for food, shelter, water, safety, & art, for instance. Need cats too.

4. (H) Don’t ask antagonists for the self-justifying ‘What happened?’ Ask for a factual list of ‘What did you do?’

5. (L) Practice active Listening Skills..not passive brooding sullen hearing.

6. (N) Resolve conflict in a neutral  place. Treaties are not made on the battlefield. Too toxic & hot there.

7. (D) Proceed with doable steps. Don’t try to swallow the pumpkin whole..Have a single piece of pie to start.

8. (F) Practice forgiveness skills, not vengeance skills. Go quickly to neutral..on the way to eventual forgiveness.

9. (P) Purify my heart. Purify my own heart. Easy to see stubborn flaws, lousy attitude, & blindness of others…   

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />[10. Practice active Laughing skills. Sweet sweet irony cools the melon.This is a bonus step.]  

..adapted from pp.40-41 Colman McCarthy's I’d Rather Teach Peace

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Fierce pacifism. We're talking fierce pacifism. People annoyingly label pacifists as nice; namby-pamby; passive. Flay that. All I care about is that people aren't dead or mutilated while I stand by drooling in some theo-patriotic trance. So, not dead, not mutilated. Limbs and soul and heart intact. . . . I hurt your feelings? I'm too abrasive? I uncivilly trash the false use of Jesus? Who gives a fig?  I care about your still being alive to get all huffy. . . . It's like all the puritanical hoorah about Janet Jackson's bosom when we  have  people without healthcare. You don't seem to mind your children being exposed to images of Leaders who do not fight for a living wage. I'm a fierce pacifist not because I'm lilylivered but because I can't take how immensely stupid it is to kill strangers. . . Don't tread on me. Or I'll rip out your remaining eye. But metaphorically, pilgrim . . .

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙ 

These steps unfurled show you can teach peace indeed! I hope you'll copy & paste the little piece above & send it along to people. I make a copy of them 4 to a page (3.5″ x 4.25″) and hand them out to people.Fold them in half and they fit in the wallet.

 

 I’ll gloss this more or meringue this more soon. Am too sleepy at the mo. Whatever time of the 1440/86400 (minutes or seconds of your daynight) this finds you deliciously in, don’ let the 12 ftTall Lîzards getcha down. We do win. Because we’re more fun, & the multi-verse or many-poem place finds calculating-success-in-money bizarre and certainly unevolved and unintelligently designed! Eat lots of buttered toast.

 

mnemonic devices .. I was so flayed again today by the galloping greed of the 12 ftTall Lîzards, the have-mores, who are hoovering any confident pursuit of happiness from 90% of their fellows, that I needed a restorative spate of recreation with mnemonic(knee-mahn-ik)devices. A mnemonic device is some nifty trick so you can remember something. A lifetime later I still remember A Rat In Tom’s House Might Eat Tom’s Ice Cream as the mnemonic device whose first letters spell arithmetic. George Eaton’s Old Grandmother Rode A Pig Home Yesterday spells geography. Muy yum (the only palindrome I ever invented – a palindrome meaning that it reads the same backwards as forward, the most famous probably being Madam, I’m Adam.)

   The enduring quality of a mnemonic device speaks in miniature to the astonishing power of story to the human brain – we really prefer stories to crack or chocolate. The rat sentence is a tiny story. George Eaton, Granny & the pig. It is this bardic, storyness that makes us rich – those who spend their time accumulating paltry bottomlines wear emperor’s clothes.   

     As I  wander the Earth with my Teach Peace sign I hand out mnemonic device for remembering Gandhi’s 9 steps for decreasing violence, increasing non-violence or conducting cooperation. Gandhi was very practical, not mystical. In this case, the first letters highlight a key word in the practical steps  that increase cooperation.

 

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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10 Eagle . Men . West .  tzol 75 08.15.05 mon 

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

 

the abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you

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

If I may unexpectedly speak up for the dumb and tasteless. I have one friend on Earth with whom I have burrowed well-below Hell in our obsidian humor. Nothing has been more cleansing of neurosis, cleansing of the aegean stables of the soul. I never would have guessed, but the really darker and more preposterous we go, the more tender and softer and sweeter of soul we become — because we are lying a lot less.

As a small example, my dearish dead mother had the mildest almost unnoticeable case of german measles when she was pregnant with my older brother Peter. He was born a 100% vegetable. It was always a hushed-tones, look down pensively at your shoes family tragedy. (He lived with no function but breath & bowel in an institution until he died when he was 25.)

When my friend started to beat upon and mock my 'retard' vegetable brother in the crassest terms, I was completely shocked and offended. But this friend is very funny, and he was pitbull and would not over some weeks let it go. Finally, I really laughed and it amazingly released my wegetable brother from this grim prison of miserable memory and I could have the several pretty memories and not have to dwell in memory-hell. It was like bursting a festeringly secret bubo.

I'll admit there are Hells we've, he & me, harrowed that I would not dream of sharing publicly in this present world yet, but I

can say that obsidian humor will be a necessary psychic-medical technique to excise what is mostly prissy and janus-faces & rump-saving about our protections of the immobilized and fossilizedly Sacred Past.

Now of course we are not mean to the naive or unarmed. We are only that pristine and fiend mean to each other, as master teasers must be. But, in truth, I can hardly talk any more to those who can't be teased. EggShellism is so terminally tiresome. I have a very longstanding friend who is from the US MidWest and the slightest tweak gets a Kicked-Puppy look. Our real communication is significantly truncated.

 

I am convinced that art is the eventual primary substitute for war. Let’s posit as a thought experiment that we do get to, as I believe we must, the Abolition of War as we got the Abolition of Slavery. Now some very smart folks thought slavery necessary & inevitable, predicted economic collapse without it, &c. War is now the Inevitable Social Condition, the sine qua non of immutable human nature..

    Pish tush. Balderdash. Piffle. (That’s a hat-trick of disdain.) If we set our minds to the Abolition of War as a grail goal and we make every decision in its light, we will outwit the slouched Beast and spend out Lives, Fortunes, and Sacred Honor on the Pursuit of Happiness through Art and other Ingenuities.

    There are several Golden Keys. Art, about which more anon. But obsidian humor. Now that is what let’s you travel on the dark side of the moon and return intact. Traverse the bardoes from which have arrived these heartshrunk, serious Leaders who betray their humorless humanlessness daily more vividly. Laughter, dark laughter, is in my experience the final strength, the anti-gravity, the lead turned to gold.

      Obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

  [Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

   A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

   Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the  letter after zed. Few jeopard it. 

 


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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9 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 74 . 08.14.05 sun
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..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Alamo, Dead Children, & Dick Cheney

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The Alamo & Dead Children & Dick Cheney
   part 1
   Sometimes there are <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo moments that gain in icepick-in-the-left-eye piercingness. Other lines-in-the-sand crossed diminish in ferocity of ache, but remain iconic in the steles¹ of your own story.
    Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins.
   That you bastards could call dead, mutilated children collateral damage is a scarlet fact so disgusting, so repugnant to the human of heart that I have crossed into an incandescence of rage.
   I will not accept a world in which the hissing and falsely pious utter the phrase collateral damage. To whom collateral?
    I could, in concept, possibly bear it if you fell blubbering to your knees keening screaming, tearing your over-starched white shirts from your chests in grief. But this mealy-mouthed measured crap. It is cursed.
    I crossed a line from past which there is no return. If you can utter the phrase collateral damage when you mean bomb-shattered – your bombs — dead, mutilated children, you so dishonor the dead that I revile you. You do not get the life you lost; you do not grok the life you lost; you do not drink the tears of the dead. There are no obscure wars. There is no collateral damage.
    In the Alamo, there came a time of decision. William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword. Step across this line and you offer you life and your sacred honor to a Fate certain to be cruel.
    Unmasking your Big Lies, Collateralizers, and your Vicious Euphemisms is my duty to the Dream from the Land of Nightmare. I will not sleep.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
part 1 + 1
    Professor Quetzal said, “We’d better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.
    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed by the de-euphemizing vaccine all the sane are so panickedly trying to develop against this Plague of Addiction to Big Lies, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry.
     “If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted persons or armies to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your baleful creeds and greeds.
    “Face twisted in a simulacrum of sincerity, you cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.
    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”
      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”
    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.
    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.
    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.
    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.
    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us.
     “But if you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”
 
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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¹ stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be.
anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of  the forked tongue.
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace 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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8 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 73 . 08.13.05 sat  
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Futile, Ignoble, Murder, & Daleks

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Futile, Ignoble, Murder, & Daleks

 

I’m moving this blogversation Above the Fold. The first half is from friend of pogblog, nicodemus, and nic gives us the justly appalling perspective from the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />UK – see ousels as ithers see us.² The second ½ is pogblog’s response.

nicodemus:<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

 “Cindy's son died for an ignoble cause, peddled by a bunch of satanic minions, lusting for oil, gold and power, driven by hatred of humanity as their only god. Their weapon is fear which they used to stun good people of America to put them in charge of their destiny. Meeting with the soulless Dalek¹ asking it questions to which it has no answers would only deepen brave woman's grief and despair. The slave media would praise Dalek's answers, prepared by its spin-doctors and embargoed for the end of a 3min meeting. They would ridicule her questions and call her an enemy of the USA.

If Cindy's son had died defending his country and his family from an invading army, that could have been seen as a noble cause. But dying for a bunch of self-obsessed liars and their mad schemes is, to my mind, a murder and should be dealt with as such. Something the great and noble American people should seriously consider. Today, if possible, but tomorrow will do.”

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from pogblog

Thanks, nic,  for the savage eloquence.

Yet, the dictionary and all our distilling and training fails (or quails?) at the evilly symphonic menace of these bastards. It's like using brightly-colored cowhide shields against phalanxes of M16 wielding zombibots. Our words aren't horrible enough. We have words fit for a human world beset by the Plague and Plagues of Ignorance, Dark Hearts and Dark Ages. These clearly anti-human Menaci require colder, ruthlesser words. To even say cold or ruthless implies that they dwell where there may have been warmth to lose or pity to lose.

I've only slowly been realizing how much more infected we are, how far the societal blindness & hypnosis has spread in enervation. How neutralized our white blood cells were.

A few of us have had an immunity, but translating clear sight for clearish action is where the noos.blogosphere is going.

The Big Lie slouched its way toward America to be re-born.³ It is so simply difficult to believe the Lies as Big as the ones these brutes slide about, detectable only to those listening keenly for a tell-tale faint hissing-of-snakes sound.

……<>…………
My only reservation about using the conceptually-icepick spot-on Daleks is that even evil in Dr. Who had a comic quality and these Menaci are as absent comedy as they are pity. (Not whatever that we therefore should be. Obsidian humor is indeed our only Ultimate Shield.)

The theofascist menace is every bit as dangerous to the simple and delightful cause of humanity as nazism was. By theofascist I mean the unholy, the obscene ménage a trois of hyper-inflated Religion, Government, and Corporations, a purpose & policy meld of such power and reach that ordinary warm-blooded people mammals were not evolved physically, psychically, emotionally, or culturally to be as lidlessly vigilant as these Snakes require.

The theofascist menace is every bit as dangerous to the simple and delightful cause of humanity as nazism was.

 

People say Oh no, don't use that word nazism to compare. I mean this word theofascist to be more strong,, more fuerte, more strident of danger.

The deaths are billions of little lessenings of human cheer and prosperity that the Snakes suck out of the global system. It is its relative invisibility that makes it so hard to fight. The major weapons are mis-used words and twisted thoughts. They use our very cognition against us.

..

pogblog

 

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¹ from Wikipedia

The Daleks (pronounced “DAH-lecks”; IPA: 'dɑːlɛks) are a fictional extraterrestrial race of mutants from the British science fiction television series Doctor Who. The mutated descendants of the Kaled people of the planet Skaro, they travel around in tank-like mechanical casings, a ruthless race bent on universal conquest and domination, utterly without pity, compassion or remorse. They are also, collectively, the greatest alien adversaries of the Time Lord known as the Doctor. Their most infamous catchphrase is “EX-TER-MIN-ATE!”, with each syllable individually screeched in a frantic electronic voice (download sample). Other common utterances include “I (or WE) OBEY!” to any command given by a superior.

 

² from Robert Burns The Louse

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An foolish notion . . .

 

³ from Yeats — here's the poem I echo, one of the great poems of the 20th century .. and, forlorn it is to say, “the darkness drops again.” The emphasis below is mine.

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

 

Do visit nicodemus & be fascinated.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace 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:

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7 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol  72  08.12.05  fri

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..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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If You Can't Get to A Peace March .. Carry Sign in Your Own Town

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If You Can't Get to a Peace March,

Carry Your Sign in Your Hometown

 

Yes, just you by yourself . . read on ..

 

NOTE: Below the first post here is the same post in HTML so you can paste it or pieces of it on other sites.

 

Re rights of a protester , I always put it simply to the police when they harass me and threaten me with arrest.

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

“The United States Supreme Court Pruneyard Decision of 1980 gives me the right to protest in a place to which the public is generally invited.” [Like a mall, a festival etc. The equivalent of the  “public square” in our times.]

 

As I quietly carry my 16″x18″ Teach Peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick (stick = 1 ¼ ” x ½ “), I have been surrounded by police on four occasions recently and threatened with arrest, but as long as I refuse to move, AND clearly know about Pruneyard, I'm all right.

 

I've been to the City Council to speak firmly but not obstreperously about my rights to walk out and speak out via my sign. I finally spoke directly with the police chief about Pruneyard and the local police haven't bothered me much since then. My body language suggests I am not being moved off by the standard issue intimidation.

 

Though in a neighboring town I was surrounded by riot police in black exo-skeleton uniforms  a couple of months back.

 

I'm up to a 1035 days in a row going out with my Teach Peace sign.

 

Please note that I made my sign the exact size that would fit into my own space standing on a bus. I turn it upside down when I go into stores.

 

 If you can't get to Crawford,

make your own sign 

& start walking around

your own downtown

a little every day!

 

You'll only feel foolish in the beginning. Later you feel foolish when you don't have your sign!

 

If you need encouragement or tips, be sure to get in touch with me: pogblog@yahoo.com  

 

Tiptoe in. It's all about beginning, and suddenly it adds up to 1035 days.

 

rage on,

pogblog

 

info on dick cheney & ‘collateral damage’ 

 

 

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

 

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Below in HTML

 

<b>If you Can't Get to Crawford,

Carry Your Sign in Hometown,</b>

 

<b>Yes, just <i>you</i> by yourself . . read on ..</b>

 

Re <b>rights of a protester</b>, I always put it simply to the police when they harass me and threaten me with arrest.

 

<i>”The United States Supreme Court <b>Pruneyard Decision</b> of 1980 gives me the right to protest in a place to which the public is generally invited.”</i> [Like a mall, a festival etc. The equivalent of the  “public square” in our times.]

 

As I quietly carry my 16″x18″ Teach Peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick (stick = 1 1/4″ x 1/2″), I have been surrounded by police on four occasions recently and threatened with arrest, but as long as I <b>refuse to move</b>, AND clearly <i>know about <b>Pruneyard</b>,</i> I'm all right.

 

I've been to the City Council to speak firmly but not obstreperously about my rights to walk out and speak out via my sign. I finally spoke directly with the police chief about Pruneyard and they haven't bothered me since then.

 

Though in a neighboring town I was surrounded by <a href=”http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/8/1119017.html”>riot police in black exo-skeleton uniforms</a> a couple of months back.

 

I'm up to a <b>1035 days</b> in a row going out with my Teach Peace sign.

 

Please note that I made my sign the exact size that would fit into my own space standing on a bus. I turn it upside down when I go into stores.

 

<a href=”http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/5/19/874131.html “><b>If you can't get to Crawford, make your own sign and start walking around your own downtown a little every day!</b></a>

 

You'll only feel foolish in the beginning. <i>Later you feel foolish when you don't have your sign!</i>

 

If you need encouragement or tips, be sure to <a href=” http://pogblog.myblogsite.com”>get in touch with me</a>.

 

Tiptoe in. It's all about beginning, and suddenly <b>it adds up</b> to 1035 days.

 

rage on,

pogblog

 

<a href=”http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/6/23/967407.html

“>info on dick cheney & ‘collateral damage’</a> 

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com