Dlareme Grade Planets

Notes:

Dlareme is the galactic name for the Sol planet Earth, Tierra, Vuravura, Pamint, Aarde, Zeme, Toka, Ddaear, Daidig, Zemlja, Jeegoo.

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

K = Kinesthetic. A = Auditory. V = Visual. G = Gustatory in context or a unit of gravity. O = Olfactory. K1 = the powerful & reliable persistence of the kinesthetic, the feeling of ‘solidity’ in a moving rather linear present moment. The K component of our dlareme experience. The persistence of the kinesthetic is the signature, the leitmotif of this dlareme realm. 

 

Dlareme Grade Planets

   Dlareme, Earth, is a masterpiece of reality engineering. Sadly, most of its religious legions, aka its religious scams, exalt the non-K so-called spiritual realms. What makes Dlareme fascinating and profound and almost unique is a quite accumulating quasi-linear experience writ in a strong persistent K – K1.

   The K Zone – think of yourself as a magic piano being played by the subtle pressures of air & its temperature as well as the internal slosh of your own blood and the dear radiant temperature of your own clever hemoglobin furnace. Keats speaks of “a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery.” This is all of the exquisite details of your experience which should startle you like the sudden sight of a butterfly with its preposterous stained glass wings. It’s all sudden if you’re deftly intent.

   The ‘Penetralium’ of mystery is that secret innermost part of a palace, the palace of mystery, our life. In this particular Dlareme masterpiece, all these fine isolated verisimilitudes are notes played on your enchanted piano of material awareness with a holdable treasureness that no other degree of K can invoke so sweetly or terribly or completely.

    The sin of the earth-disdaining religions is that instead of the rapt study of each darling fine isolated verisimilitude any and all of which one might adore achingly, we are exhorted to distant Heavens less ‘gross and dross.’ Piffle. K1 is the gold standard. K1 Dlareme is an achievement of reality engineering so astonishing that why your eyes don’t explode after holding one dandelion puff or dirty sock or glass of milk is beyond me. Notice your own hand, clench and unclench your hand, and stop breathing with the impossible shock of it. You could and would if you were a happy pagan undimmed by the damned pieties which rob you of the raw verve, nerve, and delicious and dainty vigor of your days.

   I have been fortunate to travel to the edges of the galaxy and back &4th. Riveting indeed. But Dlareme, our earth, our vuravura, our jeegoo is so splendid and special that I am felled with awe everysingletime I get home.

   It is true that with religion, war, greed, and patriotism, we bipeds have seriously fucked up. But there is a paradise here to honor and build and admire and tend soon enough when we quit the bizarre crap that no other place I’ve been would tolerate for three minutes. Bam into the stocks would go Darth Dick et donald, et conda, et karl, et al where they would be pelted by marshmallows until they cried, “Uncle.”

 

continued anon …

 

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

12 <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 37  03.26.06 sun

ffwofw715§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>…………….

sentiment & anti-sentiment or cynicism

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

Note: I learned from a reference to Swift in S. J. Gould’s Dinosaur in a Haystack that sweetness & light refer to honey & wax, what bees make.

 

sentiment & anti-sentiment or cynicism

 

   After our post-midnight palaver, a sweetness & light treat to be sure, honey & wax, patience of candles, I was musing upon the held thought, (thoughtus interruptus?), about sentimentality, and I was compelled by honesty( a pestilence) to look at our treasured anti-sentimentality and its perils.

   If sentimentality – or as the Brits would have it with ever so slightly raised eyebrow, “How wet . . .” – if sentimentality is false feeling, derivative feeling, canned feeling, bland feeling, or even rabid feeling of herds, then there is also a slippery slope of anti-sentimentality which can become yet uglier because the dry one-who-feels should have wit and sense enough to know better: cynicism.

   Cynicism is a fetid sin. In a world of grains-of-sand worlds, not to say also feathers, the turquoise of your eyes, and organic Silver Tip tea, what can be said of anti-sentimentalists who indulge cynicism? As Swift might have it: Plague upon you, scurvy dog, eat worms, and, fraught with excrement and venom, roil in the malignity of your own bile & so4th.

   Worse, dare I say it, than cynicism is romance, is love. Romance is just another rut like religion & patriotism. Gods know it feels synaptically divine, but it’s very hard to keep it authentic, creedless. Any feeling religious or romantic that has a creed, a word like God or Love is dying if not stonedead already. We cravenly want the stamped & sealed word or gesture, ratified by hallmark or the priestgururabbi, but every indulgence of these stiffens the animated actual fresh, surprising feeling. (Which is why music is so dangerous, our song to reset the broken record back into its groove. Notice one’s postjudice to songs from the past – the attempt to re-beat the drum, re-ignite the desire. Cutting these sentimental umbilical cords is daring.) It would be finer by far to say “I left-big-toenail clipping you” one day and “I tawny you” the next – anything to really re-notice the unquenchable absurdity of  the ballistic marvel of you, peculiar and my only-once-sung song of delight and horror. The horror, the horror. The delight, the delight. The delightful horror, the horrible delight.  Flame and worm dung. Te quiero demasiado. It sounds rarer and rawer in another language. Less typical and tepid.  

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

3 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 249  02.06.06 mon 

ffwofw715§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;  

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>…………………..

Odious George Bush et Ilk & Nicer Nancy

Odious George Bush et Ilk & Nicer Nancy

 

Why am I so nice, sensible, strategic? It’s driving me nuts.

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

I had the dream with George Bush I told you about where OtherLand-I was so much more civil and diplomatic and, yes, wiser, than DayLand-I am about the loathsome Present Menaces. DayLand-I  hate that odious-they are rapaciously aforethought stealing from pleasant dear ordinary people — crippling & delaying the constructive future. (The mantra: $820,000 per minute/Military Budget; additional $200,000 per minute.)  

 

To add insult to insult, I had a dream yesterday in which I was telling Nancy Reagan about the $820,000 per minute/Military Budget & etc. I was being so charming and affable. In my dream notes I said, “I was very respectful and friendly. I told her I knew people who ‘simply adored her.’” Ye gods. This is the woman who chewed each bite of food 35 chomps. Yowsa. Yet I have to say that in terms of our getting our butterier world, it’s a much better tactic than my blissed-out but self-indulgent rampaging in venom.  (She did have the guts to stand up to the Right Wing Bleats about stem-cell research.)

 

This dual consciousness of me & my dreamself is fascinating. Me & my brightness, I guess? Or me & my glistening shadow?

 

It is an odd sensation to ‘wake up’ or return to K1 – our DayLand, the Land of the persistent kinesthetic, and be still of two brains or two beings in terms of immediate action for world cooperation v. world domination. Neither of me feels like a role. I feel of a piece, yet I act in these different ways? Is there a hub of the jewel of which these intimate identities are facets?

 

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

5 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 226  01.13.05 fri

ffwofw577§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>……………

The Perception Beast

The Perception Beast

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

I’m interested in following my shapeshifting Perception Beast forth & back across the border from DayLand to OtherLand. I am a perception addict. The kaleidoscopic infinitude depends on being deftly intent all the time.

 

Because we only honor and teach DayLand perception in the West for the most part, our OtherLand awarenesses tend to be less willed and more sporadic when we have them at all. (Please start asking your kids, “How was <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Dream School last night?”)

 

You can either consider my Perception Beast to be a shapeshifter or a menagerie. Vivid perception is the key that unlocks empathy, the grokking of  the pulse of the so-called Other – it is only Other so we can love it without being hopelessly narcissistic, perhaps?

 

Anyhow, in a Dream which is to me just an OtherLand experience as real or maybe realer than a trip to Safeway (except when I’m buying Butter Pecan ice cream which is as real as it gets.) In a dream, I found myself sitting in a seat in the back of a theatre and then in a seamless re-location I am sitting more over on the side nearer you. So we have seamless re-location.

 

Also in this episode, “I” have a variable perspective – sometimes eye-centric & sometimes out-of-body. Or a variable view. (EC, OOB, VV). My perception beast roams around the dimensions. I need to be a better cartographer and zoologist. I need to map and catalog the qualities of perception in the whole HoloLand which includes the whole shebang, all the precious pulses, repulsive and charming alike.

 

With the delicacy of a butterfly, the quickness of a hummingbird, and the ferocity of a jaguar, my perception beast hunts the wild perception, knowing Blakily that it is all and any always new and shocking. Anything less is my tarnish – it is always polished.

 

Probably it would be wise to intracede (cf pre-cede) every contemplation with a startled ‘oh my gods!’ Ohmygods, shadows & shine; spleen & tenderness; leathery bat wings and Frolic’s downiest belly-fur which is as near to warm, soft, cloud-like nothingness as something can be. It’s recklessly ravishing. I am besotted.

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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.blogharbor.com

10 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 218  01.05.06 thur

ffwofw355§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>…………….

Ode to Intestines

Pls note that in the following Ode to Intestines, ‘intestines’ is always pronounced ‘in-tes-tie-ns.’ The second 'i' is long. Droller.

 

Ode to Intestines

  

   We’re all intestine-casings, nada mas, nada menos – ICs, that’s we. Fancyish perhaps, but intestine-casings nonetheless. So there’s not so much to get huffed up + puffed up about. Intestine cases, crawling, winging, galloping, strolling, hopping, slinking, finning, tangoing – it’s all a fancy dress ball for the kissable, &, for most, the not-so-kissable ends of the churning, peristalsizing digestive tract.

   None of your strutting and eyelash fluttering, lust-thrusting, bombast-delivering-forth would be vouchsafed thee, pilgrim, without the ceaseless and diligent squishing and dissolving, sucking and glucking of your brilliant intestines. You couldn't figure out how to get your Mona Lisa or Mano Louis smile out of a chomped turnip end and a licked strawberry ice cream cone. You dumb, intestines smart.

   If you waltzed into the finest Chemistry Lab on Earth – some MIT equiv – with a bucket full of carelessly ground smorgasbord slop  – steak, peas, caramelized onions, 4-crème brie, argula, chocolate pecan pie, brandy mimosa – and gave a pint of it to the previously puffed-up, white-coated, erudite Lord of the Universe chemist and demanded s/he extract the constituent nutrients in an hour &1/2 to pearl forth Einstein’s Theory of Relativity or a design for a better skateboard or my uselessly clever heartbreaking poems to you – piffle, s/he is baffled. Compared to intestines, s/he is a lousy chemist and a lousier alchemist. Intestines rule. Do your intestines proud.

   I know it is less romantic, less picturesque to imagine yourself a Mobile Intestine Unit, but evolved or intelligently designed, even in a scarlet sequined ballgown or a denim workshirt and beat up <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Levis, you’re still a Mobile Intestine Unit. You may be a fine Intestine Casing, but preening is perhaps a tad unseemly?

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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.blogharbor.com

6 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzolkin 214  o1.o1.o6 sun

rabbit rabbit rabbit

ffwofw§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 1180;

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>…………….

Instinct is like salt, cinnamon, or cilantro

Instinct is like salt, cinnamon, or cilantro

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

    About 90% of the time 'trusting your instinct' is a ghastly idea. Usually a cover for some hideously narcissistic perpetration upon someone. My instinct is always to have another piece of Chocolate Cake & Chocoearly Cake. Trust your instinct at your peril. 

   In Viscera, the Obsidian Arts, it says, “By ‘viscera’ I mean ‘the guts.’ All the gluck under the heart. Forfend that our highfalutin' philosophy discuss intestines. We are too fine. We are evolved. We have a big brain, a Big Brain. We cherish our heart, we polish our soul.

   “Yeats speaks to the neglected viscera when he says that 'we end where all ladders start, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.' I would suggest that he meant the viscera here, the ‘basement’ of the heart. But the word ‘viscera’ doesn't fit the irresistible rhyme of his lines.

   “Tonight I come to laud viscera — where 'ladders start.' I suggest that unless we educate and placate viscera, we will only pretend to be civilized.”

   Instinct is viscera lite. Instinct is the bongos.  Viscera is the big drum. Viscera is profounder. Viscera is the ground for instinct. Or maybe you could say the instinct is the swallow, the hirondelle. Viscera is the condor.

    The reason I’ve never ‘trusted my instinct’ without reservation is that it is capricious. It tends to dip its quill in desire –sometimes fun and smart. Other times instinct’s bright ideas distinctly stink. You follow its urging and splat, into the mudpuddle. Left cold and wet – and it has no regret. You pay the consequences and it shrugs. It is linked much more closely to the collective unconscious and therefore it has archetypal powers of persuasion. These archetypes (the inner hero; the inner romantic; the inner scoundrel; et al) have aeons of practice at cajolery or bullying or the false as hell appearance of sweet reason. But the concrete consequences aren’t so much of an interest to your instinct. Instinct knows how to wheedle.

   I’m not suggesting that one should default to100% reason or its facsimile. Instinct is like salt, cinnamon, or cilantro – damned tasty and essential, but you can’t live on it. Listen, sure, but consider before you heed. Most people are afraid of any instinct because it can have embarrassed them or impoverished them or made them join patriotic or religious groups and kill people in the Name of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America or some such ghastliness. Keep your discernment. But if it passes the reasonably harmless test, do be swayed. Just beware that it has a lock on charm and it can convince you that it is harmless or even noble.

   Perhaps you can say that viscera is the whole tide and instinct is a wave.

   I haven’t ever murdered anyone, but I would reckon that murder would be a deep visceral driven act.

    Instinct if it joins with our art can be an amazing ally. It has better senses than reason – keener, quicksilveryer. Now I didn’t say it was more sensible. Nope. Because it isn’t linear, it can make connections that would never occur to reason. It follows the scent of desire like the panther as dark as the night, of the night, or even the hawk, high, of the light, under the sun, but it isn’t wise. The trick is to put some modicum of wise in the game. The old endless, always new, promethean task, is to hold the fire lest the whole forest burn, and then after, with a shudder you say, but Why? Hold the fire.

   The best game is to ride the fire just short of real maiming pain. It’s tricky.

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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.blogharbor.com

8 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 190  12.08.05 thur 

ffwofw 611§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1155

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

  Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

 

   “Spirit, mind, heart — this is the trinity that people seek to comprehend, to tend, to organize. Then their life will be sweet, will be serene, will be complete.

   ” Why is this not so?” Because of what no one can bear to attend to. Because of what seems ‘beneath us’ as civilized persons.
   Viscera. We ignore or disdain viscera to our implacable, even ferocious danger.
   “By ‘viscera’ I mean ‘the guts.’ All the gluck under the heart. Forfend that our highfalutin' philosophy discuss intestines. We are too fine. We are evolved. We have a big brain, a Big Brain. We cherish our heart, we polish our soul.

   “Yeats speaks to the neglected viscera when he says that 'we end where all ladders start, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.' I would suggest that he meant the viscera here, the ‘basement’ of the heart. But ‘viscera’ doesn't fit the irresistible rhyme of his lines.

   “Tonight I come to laud viscera — where 'ladders start.' I suggest that unless we educate and placate viscera, we will only pretend to be civilized.”

   Risma smiled at the fashionably arrayed intestines seated before her in the Laugh Institute's lecture hall. The Laugh Institute had busts and statues of her heros in alcoves around the room. Rowan Atkinson, John Cleese, Dame Edna, Patricia Routledge. Risma had always said that she didn't quite trust the Christian Bible because it didn't have enough jokes in it. Risma smiled warmly at the audience and allowed herself an invisible shrug because in spite of the sartorial efforts of the humans she perused, none of them was as elegantly dressed a bag of guts as her perfect, silver Burmese cat companion, Frolic.

   “We want to be generous, kind, patient, even holy. These are not the top four words on Viscera's agenda.

   “In probably the dumbest and most dangerous move in human history, Christianity decided to divide the elemental forces into God and the Devil. Holy moly, what grotesque havoc and hypocrisy that has wrecked upon the hapless world.

   “Twenty centuries have been spent damning viscera instead of educating it.

   “Viscera cannot be defeated anymore than air can be defeated or water can be defeated.”

   Risma smiled, “Once I walked down a long wide hall in the old San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There were modern art paintings hung all along this wall. I noticed as I moved from painting to painting, my first response was what I began to understand as purely visceral.

   “I liked this painting. I didn't like that painting. I found myself nodding or shaking my head, making in my gut a mute, immediate, pre-verbal meeting with the painting. I could then go on to speak in heart, mind, or spirit terms why I liked the painting.

   “We are swept away on the tide or mud slide, avalanche or forest fire of viscera because in the aeons before words, viscera ruled our survival.

   “In the beginning wasn't the word. The word came very late. The viscera can still make a fool or monster of any of us.

   “Let's take a moment here to uproot a poisonous myth. We are typically taught that spirit is ‘finer’ than matter. That matter is coarse. That matter imprisons spirit.

   “We see tomes of charts which show spirit at the top of a line, and mind and heart below. Of course, few mention the viscera whatever.

   “A more useful, and truer, diagram would show a horizontal line with spirit at the left and then mind, heart, viscera.

 

 ♦ spirit  mind  heart  viscera ♦ 

 

With this horizontal template, we can begin to deal in our actual experience. God and Devil are not separated — as there can be no metaphysical separation. Now we begin to deal in truth, however awkward or even embarrassing.

   “If we only honor the eviscerated God, we end up with horrific spasms like World War II where the most intellectually advanced people, the Germans, fell into the grip of a visceral force they could not deny. They had training in the mind and spirit, but the non-linear, tricky and mischievous (at best), bloodthirsty and bestial (at worst) Visceral Forces overwhelmed their puny rational defenses and drowned us all in an orgy of devastation before those forces were sated.

   “These horrible collective devastations pale, to me, before the dread secret personal harm we, in visceral throes, daily wield upon those most precious to us.

   “Viscera fuels both wonder and terror. And in so far as you do not fill your life with wonder, both petty and enormous terrors will leech or lurch into the vacuum.

   “In my studies, I can say that viscera is willing to fuel wonder rather than terror, but it will burn.”

…………<^>…………

postscript .. I call this fable Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts because we need to study these forces and patterns without prejudice. It is true that there are temptations to too much of this dark elixir, but too much of the thin abstinences of the spirit can lead to a spiritual anorexia which is disdainful of a fatter, a jollier ebullience — as if primness and grimness were more holy.

 

I use 'Obsidian Art' rather than Black Arts because Obsidian is the onyxiest black and doesn't have the historical baggage of the satanic studies. Obsidian is about the next quantum of humor, not about the study of hurt. Hurt already has its addicts. One of their favorite phrases is 'collateral damage' — as if such a thing were conceivable.

 

I'm convinced we can educate viscera to obsidian art — brutal art even. Art doesn't kill anybody. When we grok that difference, we might be out of the LithoDumbness Age. Viscera can be enticed to prefer very dark wit to physical pain, but you can't namby-pamby it up or it'll just jump the levee. And I think you're going to have to ante up more lust than your public probity has hitherto been willing to embrace. You have a choice: dead &/or mutilated people or obsidian humor, art, & lust. Until we are fiercely honest about this stuff, I hope you enjoy Taps.     

……..……<^>………..…..

……….……<^>…..……..…..

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.blogharbor.com

5 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 187  12.05.05 mon 

ffwofw 789§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1151

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Hinged .. How to Survive Art

 

Hinged

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

   Part of the point is to do as much art as you can and stay hinged. The temptation is to dali or bosch and pterodactyl into the paisley skies of a benign madness.

    One of the rottenest and stupidest things is that people have attached success in art to frilthy lucre. Pifffle. Start your damn art today and be awful at it in the beginning. Bloody persevere. Eventually you get better. I think everyone should have an art that no one will ever see so they can just putter happily making mudpies in it and not worry what the spouse or the neighbor or any bloody anybody will say. People are so horrifically judgmental. Please allow yourself to be in kindergarten.

    The tender bud of creativity is snuffed out by other people’s Idiot Perfectionist, and your own. Not that they have ever even probably done any foray into the forests of art. Or maybe you’ve got them in the one they have a knack for. They should be required to try something they ain’t so handy at. (Like baseball players trying to play golf. Or in a class of 7th & 8th graders I had 38 years ago – all the language-kids wrote this riveting prose and when they read their stories out loud, the non-verbal shrank back into their shells. There was this kid in the fartherest away back corner who doodled fabulous flame-burning cars all day. I had the inspiration to have everyone illustrate their stories. From being the helpless worst, this kid was the fabulous best. When I stood with him showing his brilliant drawings at the front of the class, everyone got a glimpse of how we are all gifted and all clumsy. I always honor most the folks who lurch out of their comfort zone and take a chance on that awkwardness of actually learning something entirely new.

    I will give the evidence another night, but I know as a teacher and as a learner, everyone can learn everything. Drawing was my one exception. And Dear Rafaello in one weekend tricked me into my drawing brain and there is my running shoe, laces, holes and all still on a page to prove that anybody can learn anything. Now I didn’t stick with that trick, but I know it’s there. And you can be tricked by a nifty teacher into learning anything if you just unclench your brain and say, “By Golly, I will persevere until I figure this out.” It may take a long time, but you can get Very Good.  

    When I finally figured out how to teach writing, every single kid ended up writing killer stuff. Because I learned how to trick them into being real, not derivative. There was one kid who wrote about stereo components every night. I couldn’t wait for the next installment. Of course you can’t give a damn about grammar and spelling in the early going – any clod can fix that. What you want is their reality on the page, not yours – their passion for stereo components.

    There only a few tricks to learning to write. First, you need to write every day. Make a vow. Put the whole date. (I have boxes of stuff that are dated May 6 or Nov 14. When I wrote it, I knew what year. Uhh, but now I have no clue. So 11.14.05 is good. I like to put 11.14.05 sunmon 2:14am. The day is necessary. The rest is idiosyncratic. Your vow is to write something every day even if it’s “I’m too darn tired to write.” I have never actually written that though I have permission in my vow.

    Now I’ve done this vow for about 30 years so I ought to have it down. (Because I write allegorical philosophy, I wanted to make sure what I was saying would turn out to be true in a life before I foisted it on the public. I’m in a foisting mode now at last.)

   So, write every day. And never write when you can’t write. If you can’t write it down, don’t think it. You’ll never get the pristine phrasing back. When I’m out and about, I’ll jot down a phrase or two, but I’ve trained myself not to indulge in turning the faucet on. I wait until I’m at a page or computer screen. Of course I often go out to write. That’s fine. I’m talking about when you’re driving or walking with no notebook. Observe. Don’t write in your head. Jotting is OK, but not full-fledged open the flood gates.

    You write every day. You don’t write when you can write it down.

    Some days you write literature. Some days you write glorified shopping lists. It’s the keeping faith with the Muse that counts. She (or he) ruthlessly believes in your honoring the relationship. You will be rewarded for faith. This is a grail quest and you got to be pure of heart. You don’t have to be smart or a natural sentence-slinger in the beginning. You do have to keep faith.

   Write for yourself and the Muse. Your horrid friends seldom have anything useful to say. You’ll find your writing friends along the way and they only whisper sweet somethings into your ear. Say what you like about someone’s work and elsewise Shut Up. You’d be amazed at how many ‘friends’ read with a machete and think they’re being ‘helpful.’ Oh Gods, ugh.

   Then, the best proofreading and editing you can do of your stuff is to read it out loud to yourself. Then you’ll see where it doesn’t work.

    Remember, editing is easy. Flame for ink, ice for ink, blood for ink – that’s the trick.

   …………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

10 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 166  11.14.05 mon

ffwofw 945§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1131

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

      

All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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

    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.

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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.”

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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.blogharbor.com        

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

ffwofw 272§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1129

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

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

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

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.    

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

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

ffwofw 913§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1118

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….