Category Archives: Photonic Physics .. the post-Quantum World

Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

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Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

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

 

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

 

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

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from Eclectic .. muy yum

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

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from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

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

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

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

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

 

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

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Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

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

 

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

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50.5% Crazy

 

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

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Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

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

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Fegg .. Quantum Perception

 

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

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the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Church .. deftly intent

 

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

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

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


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

or is ..

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

 

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

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

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Vulture Culture

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

ffwofw 855§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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weather report from the aleph ocean

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note: sometimes in life, you get very lucky & you happen upon a unicorn.

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weather report from the aleph ocean

 

yo swine-swill,

 

   If my fury at you were a wheatfield or the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Aleph Ocean across which the winds strode and showed the fierce or soft flames of the wind on that golden sea of the grain or the indigoes and the amethysts of that molten Aleph Ocean. Thus fury. Zephyrs of fury. Furacaos of fury. It is always fury with us, however hidden or forbidden, limpid or opaque. The storm or the eye of the storm, gored by eros, chaste, the assault, the salt, the insult, the tumult, the stealth of the obsidian sea.

    I am occasionally exempt from your contempt. You do not much reveal how you feel in the Land of Sweet, tho you eclair your whimsical affections in the words of small birds and other jeweled winged things, the visible notes of a melody of mystery, a treasure hunt clued across a maze of times, obsidian & amethyst, cursed & blessed, insane with pain, and memory in the rain, of mirth.

    Some day this times-juggling will be routine, it will be overt, not covert. Still, few enough will be expert at it, have the psychic circus athleticism, the mastery, the danceryness to careen or dervish, pirouette through the portals as they randomly appear. It requires a deft concentration & an hilarity of mind, the new spherical empirical, skidding, skating, scudding, there is rhyme in time, and season, but no reason. Or rather the reason occurs – it is not pre-ordained. You must dance – poorly or surely, times do not stand still.

 

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the aleph ocean .. the aleph ocean is where we live when we seemingly sleep or when we dearly & daffily muse or other meanderings of consciousness from the rigider paths of sense and logic . Its leitmotif, its signature feel is a melodic celtic knotting of times and of densities.   

 

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

ffwofw 326§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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New — The Universe Moved .. reality ain’t what you think – or is ..

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note: this whole piece has been re-done as of 10.16.05

 

The Universe Moved ..

reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 


 
   About 15 years ago I was washing windows one autumn afternoon. I was a self-employed window washer. It was a job. I was simply wide-awake, sober, unstoned, normal. The house was a one-story house two blocks from where I live now. I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.
     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.
     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.
    For those of you not from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Northern California, there was this nifty item called a Berkeley Farms milk crate that most everyone had stolen at least one of from outside a market. A Berkeley Farms milk crate is a 5-sided blue heavy-plastic cube that they put ½ gallon cartons of milk in to deliver them uncrushed to the grocery stores. The sides were not solid – they were a diamond lattice in the plastic. In the good old days they had a strong metal bar bent around the top outside edge of the cube to strengthen it. People used them to build furniture, to store things in, to prop all manner of things up. I used mine as a light box I could put a towel and some sponges in and also use as a kind of quick stool to stand on. You need to stand somewhat cleverly on the edges of the crate so as not to bust its sides and to be balanced so as not to ankle-bustingly tip the crate over. I bopped up and down on the thing a hundred times a day, so was definitely milk-crate savvy to the max. I, by the way, was given mine by a Berkeley Farms driver and was the one person on the planet who had not stolen theirs.
    Another piece of equipment we need to understand for the story to be clear is the squeegee. A professional squeegee is not one of those plastic hunks of junk that people use at a gas station to wash their car windshield. A proper Ettore squeegee is a sturdy handle with a straight solid brass metal blade into the groove of which fits a rubber strip which can be changed out as its rubber edge dulls. Accept no substitutes.
    You need to know that, unlike amateurs, professional window washers never wash the inside and outside of the same window at the same time. It’s extremely annoying and distracting to have someone else fussing with the same pane of glass you’re cleaning.
     What else is up on this day when I’m about to step on a metaphysical landmine? Well, you need to understand window screens a little too. The usual window screen is a metal frame with a screen stretched across it. You can take off the screen and lean it against the wall. Oh, yeah, and there is what’s called a sash window. A more old-fashioned window now with a top half and a bottom half. The bottom half slides up.
    When you wash a window as a pro, there’s none of this water and vinegar and crumpled newspaper nonsense. You have a fabulous potion of chemicals – ‘wetners’ – designed by brilliant bald chemists named Howard who wear coke-bottle-bottom, owl-eyes glasses. You apply this sudless solution with a fake lambs-wool scrubber sleeve which also is on a t-shaped wand handle arrangement like your squeegee. After you wet and scrub the window, you stick the wooly scrubber handle back in a loop on the left leg of your denim overalls.
   You take, in this case, your 12″ stiff, solid brass squeegee, ‘cut’ or swipe with your tipped squeegee end an in inch of dry glass across the top edge of the window pane and draw your squeegee at just the correct firm pressure down the stiff smooth sheet of glass to sweep the water off.   
    Back in my window washing heyday, I used to charge $50 extra if I had to listen to gigastupid blusterer Rush Limbaugh but when this incident occurs, BlowHard Rush hasn’t been loosed upon us yet. This was in the era of charging $25 extra if someone played 3rd rate rock & roll too loud for the several hours I was there, disturbing my intelligent musings and noticings.
   This day the jagged rock & roll was severe ear-drum-pain loud, blotting out all other sound – a full sound eclipse. I could have asked 'em to turn it down, but didn't.
   So we have the elements for the metaphysical drama about to unfold in the light of day. I was standing on my trusty milk crate. I’d deftly squeegeed hundreds of thousands of panes of glass before this late afternoon on the southwest side of the house #403 at the corner of Hope and California Streets. I drew my stiff squeegee down the stiff glass when suddenly the glass bulged out into a deep curve as my squeegee pushed against it, almost causing me to lose my balance on my trusty crate. “What the heck?!”
    The glass stayed transparent and smooth and shiny and the  same thickness. Its hard, shiny, transparent self just stretched into a deep curved valley of glass about 4″ deep – and not just the 12″ where the squeegee was pressing, but evenly across the 2 ½ feet of the pane. I was completely alice-in-wonderlandedly shocked .I held onto the squeegee’s swooping stroke into the half-pipe of the wave of glass. I steadied my balance.
     This was 2 seconds? It was very detectable & stunning & definite – clear like a thunderclap. I stood straight up on my crate, staring at the window. What the hell happened? This was hard apple-clunking-the-head fact. What everybody thinks is real and how it’s real — isn’t.
     OK. I sherlocked it. Here’s what happened. All sound cues were drowned out by the ear-blasting 3rd rate rock & roll. I was looking up at the top edge of the window frame. Unbeknownst to me, my assistant who could have been anywhere on the outside of the house had unloosed the bottom of this window screen of a type which I had never heard of before. This particular kind of rare, old-fashioned screen had no stiff metal sides. It had a band of metal at topand bottom and was held taut by small lever fasteners at the bottom corners.
     When my assistant loosed the levers, with the tension released, the screening sprung into several deep waves or troughs of screening.
     My brain or reality-projector had no notion of screening-in-troughs in such a circumstance so to account for the visual troughing, it allowed or made the glass go into a trough shape. Of course very quickly, its reality-logic-earth-physics-scanners caught the error and the glass righted itself. 2 + 2 had = 5 for a few moments in the stern light of day.
     One isn’t supposed to see behind the stage-set – the damn flats are supposed to stay flat. The universe giggled, shrugged, said Whoops, and we both carried on.
     But I was never the same.
     I have had a bunch of fascinating standard-reality-defying experiences but never so simple, so stark in the stern light of plain ole day.
    I had, of course, as a serious, highly-trained metaphysician and epistemologist since I was 7-years-old, to re-consider every thing.
    I had incontrovertible experiential evidence of a brain-matter connection and collaboration that proper Science did not account for. It was a knowledge-quake, the universe moved.
    My 7-yr-old’s vow to stay alert and to not pre-deny any experience had been redeemed in 2 agogging seconds on a late afternoon at the corner of Hope & California.
    I was ‘in’ shock. When everything you’ve been told in school, by your parents and teachers may be wrong, you are in shock. This was the seed moment, the big bang of a totally new knowledge that would bloom like nebulae through the coming years, having been vouchsafed this spectacular nuclear dear grail moment of intimacy with the universe – entrusted really. I knew I’d been entrusted to handle it with beauty and glee. Because it so easily could have been wiped, amnesiaed, clouded with doubt or confusion.
     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.
    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.      
    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly.
    Notice that if the timing and the conditions hadn’t been exactly right, I would have missed the grail. The sound; where I was looking; stiff-hard squeegee, stiff-hard glass (no maybes about this experience); standing on the tippy milk crate so I would be unbalanced — all of it conspired to bolster the grail truth of the occurrence. You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.
    In my experiences, those extra-vaganzas never happen in places prepared to capture them – churches, meditation. They are too mischievous. They thrive on surprise. Shyly expect surprise.  
  
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
…………….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
4 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 134  10.13.05 thur
7 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 137 10.16.05 sun 
ffwofw 1758§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1099
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

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    Purrs Nicety addressed a seminar of clowns about to be deployed into the Dream Scheme to terrorize the Insane Leadership of the USofA Inc with sneak barrages of marshmallows.

     Purrs was a master strategist of guerilla Ridicule. “The RovBuCondRumsChenian Ilk can be howitzerily guarded in the K1, the full kinesthetic, solid-density, daylight plane,” said Purrs with a sly, if not snide, chuckle. Purrs sported the Puss in Boots look, complete with large blue hat with swashbuckling pink feather. Feline-pirate chic. She was, however, a Ridicule Assassin who fought fang and fought claw to embarrass the Putative Mighty.

    “Do you realize,” growled Purrs, “that they steal the happiness of their kittens to build weapons systems?” Her hackles bristled with furry fury. “No one – and I mean no one – dares speak out against the bloated, obscene, insane military budget. Not a chirp, not a squeak, not a bark, nor a howl. Either the hypnotism or the intimidation is complete.

    “Last class I told you all to memorize the Far Looney Bleeding Heart Extremist Agenda. Lobosuave, can you recite it for us?” Lobocake was something of a teacher’s pet, it must be said. Purrs clearly preferred him to any other comrade-in-marshmallows.

    Lobocake gave her his taunting wolfish grin, “That pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband. We’re asking those who generally agree to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Ultraband.”

   “Thanks, Lobo,” preened Purrs who was clearly smitten. “Now, these jerkbeciles are talking cutting Medicaid and the prescription drug benefit, closing schools, and gutting American civil rights, and we may not talk about – even mention – the next-generation DDX destroyers or more Trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or F/A22 fighters or V-22 Osprey aircraft or the strangelovian Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program? Their present destroyers, submarines, aircraft, bombs are going to be challenged by whom?

    “We could put a non-maintenance moratorium on all Weapons of Mass Mutilation development for 5 years. Simply buy out all the workers and companies affected and re-deploy them to build super schools and the infrastructure of the WiFi Nation. We’re spending $820,000 per minute on theoMilitarism, not counting the extra $200,000 per minute on rubbling the rubble in the quagsands of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq.

     “Fundamentalist Christianity is an anti-jesusian, virulent sidebar. The real 8000 lb gorilla in America is the Church of Militarism. To speak out against it is a burn-at-the-stake heresy-equivalent. They do you with the gatling gun and finish you off with a flamethrower.

    “Dare to suggest that 99% of military spending is a colossal waste of money and in come the bunker-busting bombs, soon to be nuclear for cruds sake.” Purrs derisively settled her bright silver fur with a quick shake.

    “Sir Nickety,” said Lobo with that insolent droll drawl, “Before you outline the Dream Scheme marshmallow raid, Operation Pelt, can you elaborate on the stealth psychology of theoMilitarism in 21st century USofA Inc?”

    Purrs cheshired. The clowns at Clown School InterD were a droll rowdy and raunchy lot. The nice thing about traveling in OtherLand was that you could change your body style as handily as the earthbound could change from a denim workshirt to an Hawaiian shirt. Last night she and Lobo had shapeshifted into human guise for some claw hammer and tongs recreation. Because their passions were medieval, he called her Sir Nickety as a kind of petitchouism.¹ Last night between bouts of smackdown, they’d discussed the sickening dangers of theoMilitarism.

    “ It’s probably easier to use the magic glasses of the view back from Y3000,” said Purrs. “In the Year 3000, we do not mutilate the children of strangers to solve adult disputes. We do not allow overwrought young men to drive suicide cars, the cheaper death, nor suicide tanks, the expensive death. The accumulation of stockpiles of WMM, Weapons of Mass Mutilation is seen as obscene and stupid.

    “The cult of Militarism is a very very virulent disease, and sadly its extirpation takes all of human and cosmic ingenuity to accomplish. It takes a drug cocktail of 3 parts Ridicule, 1 part Kindness, and, for the caretakers, huge doses of Vitamins OH and DD. Vitamins Obsidian Humor and Vitamin Damned Doggèdness.

    “All addicts’ hallucinations hijack the basic bio-survival circuits. Similarly the paranoid is unshakably convinced of the perils because the seamless internally-generated evidence is so intimate. External evidence does not access the theo-romanti-spiritual-sublime circuits where the self-generated molecularly-intimate tinctures are enzymily oozed, igniting a conviction for which people will actually end their existence. When these constellations of hallucination are lemming-amplified by fellow cultists, koolaid will be swilled.

   “Even most of the white-hats in 21st century America are either semi-infested themselves with milder forms of the theoMilitarism disease which are still potent enough to distort vision — or are clear-eyed and justly damned afraid.

    “Luckily, in OtherLand, Marshmallowists can be deployed with Weapons of Mass Ridicule and begin the psychic rehabilitation these hijacked entities, the Ilk, need to begin recovery. Their oneiro-security is negligible. We invade their sleep with our improvised marshmallow devices, our IMDs. Into each doppelsleeper’s gaping and snoring mouth, the Ridicule Counter-Militarism squad leader drops a marshmallow. The rest of the clown troops glide by, and marshmallow by marshmallow bury an Ilk’s dreambody in derisive marshmallows. The caboose or last clown out leaves a small keyring-sized plastic pineapple as a sign that it could have been grenades instead of marshmallows, but the uninfected soul goes for k-suave.

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to be continued .. ..

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quik Glossary .. petitchouism = petit chou is little cabbage in French, an endearment; extirpate = uproot; k-suave (k = K1 or solid earth day-density/suave – soo-ah-vay  = sweet, mild, smooth, gentle, harmless, uninjuring);

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6 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 136  10.15.05  sat

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The Horizontal Model & the art of collaboration

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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3 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 133 . 10.12.05 wed

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The Land of the Dead is Lively

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The Land of the Dead is Lively

 

    The first one who died, my father, I was numb. The second one who died, my first husband, I screamed. By the tenth big death before I was 29, I was pissed. Furious, not drunk.

    This heaven-and-hell folderol is a misleading way to talk about the Land of the Dead because though the heaven-mongering Christians, who began as a simple religion of the powerless, have had the power, the press, and the propaganda for a lot of centuries, the AfterLife Truth is much more complex, and, luckily, a ton more fun.

    I didn’t think when I was a child feeding the shiny newborn black-and-white Holstein calves their buckets of faintly pink milk that I would grow up to become an expert in death. It just happened. There’s no degree you can get in this one. The Major Universities don’t have Death 101 on the curriculum. The Major Religions Lie because they got detached from Mystery. The Other Side, the non-carnate, the less dense — of which the AfterLife is but a facet — is often too raunchy, sly, anarchic, boisterous, and fragmented to be a useful example for a solid, sequential existence. Thus the preachers and teachers, seldom lit from within, hid the truth, abridged it, sanitized it, pietized it, forgot it.

    When, to my shock, I met my disoriented father shortly after he’d died, his color was quite blue. He was swaddled in bandages, and was being cared for by bustling midwife-like beings who were tending his unreconciled passage from the solid carnate world to the non-carnate realms. They were kind. He had died too young at fifty-two. The hospital had killed him with misdiagnosis. The doctors said Whoops, shrugged, looked abashed, and then down at their brilliantly-shined shoes. When I first met my father in OtherLand, of course I just thought I was crazy.

    When I met my first husband, Michael, who had died too young at twenty-eight — his car slid off an icy Vermont road into a tree — When I met Michael in an other-density garret, cooking a hamburger, the fat sizzling loudly in the frying pan, I was just utterly glad to know that he hadn’t vaporized into some black hole of nothingness. The black hole of nothingness being the most cruelly unbearable. I still thought I was probably crazy.

    Depending on who you are hearing this, you either think I’m still crazy or are holding your hand to your mouth grateful that it happened to someone else too or you’re so used to this inter-realm stuff that it’s not exactly ho-hum, not really old hat, but it isn’t molecularly shocking nor bone-marrow creepy, throat-clutchingly terrifying anymore either.

    Father, husband, brother, stepbrother, stepfather, mother, mentor, headmistress, eighteen-year-old cat, all the eight grandparents of course. By now my horror has transmogrified to raw rage. Higher realms indeed. Our dear Earth realm is so high and glorious that non-carnates, responsible and derelict alike, shove and claw to get a ticket on this most intriguing of galactic roller coaster rides. I distinctly blame religions for grabbing power by devaluing this solid terrestrial experience.

    Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful for my non-carnate and semi-carnate experiences. Learning to fly, walking on water, floating through the ceiling. Giddy stuff. But I will not have us be a colony of heaven. We are the experts on relatively sequential time, on solid experience, on being able to actually eat a whole chocolate chip cookie, to drive where we’re going and not end up somewhere else.

    Our beloved realm is a masterpiece of reality engineering — there is no higher place to be. Different, just different. I sometimes think that if I could get that single point across, I could be at peace. Of course that single point would change the world. We would know that every daily thing is holy, radiant. Awe and delight would be our steady state, daily little explosions of radiance. We could then greet heaven with the strength of our own earth beauty and stand in the galactic councils not as slaves or puppets or children, but as tellers of our own tales, proud and various.

    I had never met my ex-husband's parents when they were alive. Mr. Martin was a high school principal in a medium-sized <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iowa town. Mrs. Martin taught home economics and was a devout Christian. I was a vivid redheaded pagan. They would have disapproved of me mightily.

    When I met Mr. Martin in OtherLand, however, he was driving too fast in a bright-yellow open touring car, had on a loud black-and-white-checked sports jacket, a jaunty hat with a sprightly red feather, and a tiger lounging in the back seat with whom I sat. We got along famously to my huge and relieved surprise.

    Mrs. Martin when I met her was almost nun-like in her retreat and shyness of soul. I think Earth had been too rough and ready for her. But she loved her brilliant, vulnerable son, and could, freer of Earth's particular prejudices, honor that I loved him too.

    These pow-wows with the dead are not frequent; we don't hang out. My dead, anyway, do not hover. I think it is wicked that the veil is so impenetrable. When I get the chance to rail at heaven's haughty hierarchy, I shall.

 

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2 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 132  10.11.05 tues    

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa! .. a newer, funnier physics . .

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

Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa!

part 1 .. otter around in the utter .. a newer, funnier physics

 

     The Nobel Physics Prize people are sweet, but antique in their visions and versions. One of the recipients of the Nobel Prize for ultraviolet laser short-pulse-light study , Dr.Theodor Hänsch of Max Planck Institute of Quantum Optics in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Garching, Germany and a professor at the Ludwig Maximilians University in Munich, says, “Eventually, we may be able to enjoy 3-D holographic movies.”

    Eventually, like last night?

    Oh, oh, oh, these pesky physics prof lads are so behind zee times, golly. Our brains do the 3D holographic movies we call dreams every night, physics doods.

     Holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino – holosentido — movies around in which we walk every night. Nobel Prize that, profs. Put on your dreaming caps and do the pioneering study on the semi-permeable filter that separates the actuality planes so niftily for us and which we call the brain, de hersenen, le cerveau, el cerebro. Those photonic physics punks called artists and shamans otter around in the utter (study the exotic physics of  iziz, all-of-it) with considerable skill. Now we all need to get our terms of engagement more intratranslatable.

     The first of the 9 Gandhi-King Steps to nonviolence & to collaboration is to Define the Conflict. Peeps are often fighting about totally different stuff. You think we’re fighting about money; I think we’re fighting about whether you care about me vividly enough. So we need a rapprochement between repeatable science and photonic science.

    To be blunt, mon amigoas, what we’re doing ain’t working so good for millions of fellow sentients on our Planet Home. Planet Home could be a garden if we turned militarism to educationism, from lead to gold indeed. But the meta-physics matters – the what we allow to be really real – to count.   

   The scientists have got to belly up to the UniekBar, the Unrepeatable Bar, the thrilling and chilling realization that because Eternity is so long or vast, only the unique can in fact actually exist, tho there are bands of areas where the similarities work as repeatable for all macro-practical purposes. Scientists already know this but it’s awkward doctrinally when “repeat the experiment’ is like ‘Jesus is the only way to Heaven,’ not true but theo-bolstering to the exclusivity of one’s views.

     So there needs to be more truth in advertising from the scientists, and some more occasional semi-sobriety from the mystery-surprise-drunk photonikists who need to be better journalists of the otter-in-the-utter experiences and quit being boors and borrachos to the dear scientists who just rightly wanted to cool down the chaos from their own fundamentalist-religions-ridden era, cerca 16th c.

    Ole Plato had the quintessentially useful construct: the charioteer. You are the charioteer and your chariot is drawn by the white horse of reason and the black horse of passion – and if you do not get them pulling together, you just go around in a circle, one way or the other. Both horses being dappled is the eventual burbanked hybrid solution. Integrate lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the two sides of the brain, all the false dichotomies that keep us blindered if not blinded to the holospheric and presently vertiginous truth. There’s no way out of the reality sea, you might as well swim. Sulking only curdles the blood.

    Some general advice – the scientists need to burn their neckties and only do science in hawaiian shirts and Bermudas, and the photonikists need to quit always wandering around in their not recently washed boxer shorts idly itching their gonads – or the female fashion equivalents. There is peace possible in this Valley of Earthly Delights if we each have to learn a good deal about the language of reality with which we’re uncomfortable and less fluent. Multi-lingual, lasses & lads, that’s our figging salvation – more physixes, more ecumenical.

     And we have to with our eyeballs bleeding with misgivings and raw hope make the photonic leap to grokking that our real security is not in militarism but in educationism. We need to teach people to build and invent, not kill. It’s the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant.

 

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Quick glossary.. holosentido – the inhabited senses, the senses we can dwell in & not just view from outside like tv. Our earth experience is holoV, a holograph in which we dwell, except that it includes all the senses, not just seeing. Auditory/hearing; gustatory/tasting; olfactory/smelling; kinesthetic/feeling; Therefore holosentido includes holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino. /// link to the 9 Gandhi-King Principles of Pro-Peace Collaboration; /// grok = deeply understand, drink in understanding; /// photonic physics &c = the post-quantum physics where the physixes of  all our experiences are integrated. /// borrachos = drunkards; /// Uniek = unique in Dutch; I like the polyglot or many-tongues feel – it makes me less parochial or narrowly local; /// peeps is affectionate slang for people; /// amigoas like felinoas sapiens is trying to balance up the gender wrongs embedded in the language; It’s not ideal, but it’s a start; /// Iz Iz, iziz,  cf Is Is .. the only completely true thing you can say; /// the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant – all of them mean future, except ‘le jour suivant’ in French literally means ‘the day which follows.’ /// dichotomies are divisions into two; /// burbanked is a tip of the sombrero to Luther Burbank who was the wizard of hybrids and who talked some roses out of their thorns, for instance.

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10 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 127  10.06.05 thu  

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The Blue out of which .. (in pagan female form here)

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The Blue out of which ..

(in pagan female form here)


note: The Blue out of which like bright parrots appear ideas, sentences, niftinesses is always a pagan male pan-genius to me, but I wrote this for a man and realized that for him The Blue was likely to have this pagan female pan-genius feel. Change the pronouns to suit you.

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />
    The very <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />California painter of '67 Chryslers, Gran Torinos, and plastic-webbed deck chairs, Robert Bechtle became PhotoRealism, but that's way misleading. He (and Wayne Thiebaud of cakes & pinball machines & lollipops fame) wrestled with the angel of paint and light with devoted obsession. The holo-masterpiece in which we're immersed is so infuriatingly casual, abundant, — no, profligate with its seamless genius that a human artist is forced, like a lump of coal under diamond-making tons of not-ever relenting pressure, to hope for one homage at last, inevitably mere, that might merit a glance from the Queen of Creation as, with her dazzling entourage, she sweeps by.
      One may foul oneself as one will with post-pubescent-fuelled concupiscence, but Mama Earth is your mother and your lover and she is also the cackling crone whose pudgy thumb and forefinger snuff our candle. Art is incest in the most private seduction and rage. Devotion and hate so close they kiss.
      Using sharp focus at all depths of the image as our eyes do and a camera can't, Bechtle finally gets his homage, skin and auto-metal-skin reflections become eerily present; he handles the alchemic illusion with mastery, not overreaching, not distorting, — displaying like a slave who's seen glory – touched glory even – displaying the preferred façade (flesh, chintz, aluminum, stucco, garish cheap plastic back-yard chairs, asphalt) of the Goddess. “Yes, yes, Beloved who Breathes Us, whose luscious air dances in our baffled blood, I was your perfect servant

this afternoon. I wash my paintbrushes tenderly and will stretch a new canvas tomorrow. I noticed with astonishment. I noticed with devotion.”
     It is all you can say that ever gets heard. The rest is will-o-wisps and The Blue cannot hear it. She reads your heart like braille and knows if you are true or false.
 
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You see, to grok photonic physics, you cannot just use reason-sight. You have to train your art-sight too. 
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note: re seamless. In a biology lab class, I once drew a diagram of an amoeba I'd seen under a microscope, and I was marked down by the grad student who checked these lab papers because I had not carefully closed the amoebic oval. “Living things cannot have gaps in them,” she told me, “Nature cannot be so careless.”   Hmmm, I thought – seamless.
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Of course there’s no way to see the luminousness of these paintings unless you go to a museum, tho the 3 zoomable*  paintings give some notion.
  
Bechtle .. ’68 Oldsmobile*; Alameda Chrysler; Alameda Gran Torino; Sunset Intersection; 
Thiebaud .. California Cakes*; Big Suckers*;
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58

A Handful of Air .. Photonic Physics

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A Handful of Air .. Photonic Physics

    

    A single handful of air doesn’t weigh much, but you surround a planet with an atmosphere and it adds up. Similarly (tho not identically), your memory of, imagination of, dream of a landscape has a photonic mass that has to be accounted for – it is most of barklian existents.¹ Most of what I ‘know’ and experience has no K existence whatever. It may or may not have had a brief K component. (K1 is the kinesthetic or standard e=mc² daytime physics about which narrow-end¹ physics obsesses and to which it grants sole proprietorship of the reality label.)

     Repeatable science is important essential work. It should have funds and university departments up the yang. However, the 90% of our experience which has no immediate K1 component (& may indeed never have had a K1 flint moment of tactile, olfactory, gustatory or t-o-g interface at all), that 90% is all but discounted in its mass qualities. Masses of this photonic water flows through the brain pipe and does have complex physiological effects, but the correlations are hard to measure and impossible to repeat.

     So we diss &/or ignore the physics of 90% of our real if glancing and evanescent experience. Chaos theory legitimizes the study of the turbulence of water through a K1 pipe, but we aren’t even at the stage of accepting the vast photonic universe at all, least of all allowing arcane or niche creeks of study off an established river of flow.

   Our established Theoscience is very papal and dogmatic, and I think the initial insistent separation from other magics was a very good and necessary clarity at the time. But it is false – the baby was thrown out with the bathwater. It all interdwells and until we add the fabulously vast sea and the dainty filigrees of photonic science, we will know least of all honor little of the seamless truth. It self-evidently is unified whether we can explain it or not.

     It is no doubt true that it is very hard to stay objective when studying the mischievous, seductive photonic realm. You can ask for smart and for wise perhaps — but objective, nah.  (Objective is a crock anyhow which Heisenberg got.) You only get to study tame stuff in the repeatable-is-real mode. If you want to study tigers burning in the forests of the night you need different scopes.

    So what do you want in a photonic scientist or knower? I would say that an affection for the abzurd is handy. And especially useful is dear Keats’ Negative Capability: “ . . . which Shakespeare possessed so enormously – I mean

Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason — Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge . . . .” 

     In my experience, K1 science is dog-like – predictable, obedient. You can put a leash on it. Photonic matter or e=mc∞ or photonic mattergy is like a cat – it purrs, it likes to be stroked, but obedient? Repeatable? ¡HaHa! Nada, nunca. Never. There are patterns and fields one can discern and mention – but the sensitivity and malleability and shapeshiftiness of the photonic mattergy, the holopaint,¹ makes and creates so sleekly and rapidly and rampantly that you can’t bottle it.

    You can, however, teach people to keep some of their wits about them while exploring and studying it. First, we’d have, in the West, to learn to honor play as much as work. Of things useless or criminally-insane-equivalent in PhotonicVille is the Protestant Work Ethic. We’d also have to recognize the flak of a huge and often appallingly puerile, sometimes enticing amount of raunch.

    We are not souls trapped in gross earthly bodies. That’s way too staid and prettyfied. We are rambunctious, fractal holokaleidocopic coalescences of energy & pattern inhabiting an unexpectedly stable bio-suit for a tidbit of time. The linear qualities of ‘our’ life are a useful fiction. I am all for lucid waking, defined and refined by science and art. We need to add lucid photonics (dreaming; memory; fantasy; imagination &c).

     We spend a lot of tasty fluids and other substances to relax or vanish the walls between us and the wilder sea. (These walls or levees are very darn useful – full-bloom schizophrenia or helpless dimensions-confusion isn’t fun. If, on the other hand, we are taught whole life skills (which I would dub hololife skills to more pointedly include the whole 24 that we do indeed live), we can have choices of walls or not — just like we put up and down the venetian blinds on the sunny side of the house.

    In 50 or 100 years, all these skills will be taught in Quantum Schools, but for the nonce, I’m plunking the more oneiro-skills,² the photonics into Clown School InterDimensional. The <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Quantum School stuff will take a smaller leap into schooling many more people better, but closer to the best of the prevailing model. Those of us who particularly love the future and the dear Penetralium of mystery can work on getting these fractal photonic science skill-sets translatable to those linear folk still made vertiginous by free fall. The coming time will not allow them to remain in their familiar mode; there will be vortexes and torques of mind&emotion that require the new skills.

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

¹ + barklian existents – Irish Bishop Berkeley (pronounced Barkly) thought & I agree with him that all we could testify to were mental constructs of one kind or another. But there is the semi-consensual hallucination and then there are the photonic realms where we don’t yet share enough conscious experiences to make a lot of tests and claims tho we can poetically attest and resonate.       

+ narrow-end physics – narrow-end refers to the narrow end of the telescope. A wry tho not unkind suggestion that standard science is leaving out a whole lot of reality in order to preserve this repeatable thing. Damn, us poetry witches & wizards either got burned or spurned. But our time is comin’, darlin’.

 

+ holo-paint .. The photonic worlds are as if magically painted into existence by a paint which is 3D rather than 2D. It paints landscapes you can walk in rather than lookat on a wall. Very tricksy stuff holopaint.

 

² + oneiro-skills .. oneiro = dream in Greek.

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What Does Your Mind Weigh?

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What Does Your Mind Weigh?      

    What does your mind weigh?  Do some thoughts weigh more than others? Do thoughts of hummingbirds weigh less than thoughts of Sisyphus' damn boulder? Where's the Periodic Table from Imagining a Slow Dance With You to Planning  French Toast to Obsidian Humor? This stuff is anti-entropic. 
    I can't wait for the extra-physics to be contemplated, pursued with the lithe zeal that we had with Fig and other adventurers in K1 physics. (K1 is the full K or reliable kinesthetic solidity we generally experience in our Day Life. The sturdy persistence of K is the notable genius of the masterpiece of reality engineering we call Earth. Other densities and dimensions have their quirks and charms, but have less stable K.)  
    Many of the great scientists freely admit that they received their Central Insights from The Blue who pretty benignly rules  DreamLand. Yet they never grokked that different extra-physics that they traveled in and inhabited as often as the interstate highways and byways of the Day Planet. It's very curious. It’s like the odd blind spot where the optic nerve hooks up –you can be looking directly at a star at night and simply not see it unless you look slightly to the side.
    All  the rich stew of memories and alternate experiences that you have and I have are called the Collective Unconscious by Jung and the Akashic Record by others. Nothing disappears. Nothing. Yeah, contemplate that. Oh dear. Woe is we. We must end up pretty humorous and forgiving in the very long run because all of our [poetic, exquisite, petty, filthy, venomous, sweet, raunchy] flickers and twists tattoo the perfectly sensitive hide or emulsion of the multiverse who can’t forget. This is all that missing stuff right in front of their noses (or above their noses) that they can’t account for. Maybe its too scary to go “Whoa all that stuff I haven’t any control over or clue about! Gee, I’d have to start in kindergarten and here I am so smart and accomplished.
    “You mean that scrawny old kook in a loin cloth in some cave in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Tibet is actually a zillion times richer than me in the currency of the Night? And he can take it with him?”

     Until we integrate lucid waking and lucid dreaming, we will be driving our maserati minds in first gear.

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

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

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

 


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