Plunder Wonder 2006 + post-11/7 postscript

Posted on December 13, 2006 by wendy fleet

Jolly Solstice (or whatever winter holiday floats your boat) to you each.

the google, paulaltobelli

Herein follow my tra la las, vintage + new, for your diversion:

Plunder Wonder 2006 + post-11/7 postscript
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In a sugar plum-colored daze,
May the bounty of days amaze.
The sheep's plush fleece, the gossip of geese,
The cat purrs, licking her elegant whiskers.
Clowns somersault, salts clown around.
We're lucky to have towels and trowels and vowels.
Pluck luck from your pudding like plums.
Succumb to plums. Steal style.
Flaunt jauntiness. Hail heartiness.
Be tickled by pickles, relish fellowship.
Butter is better. More butter is best.

When you feel insane,

Butter your brain.
Pirate the treasure of pleasure.

Happiness happens.
Saddle up, pard, and rope them days,
A hot bath, forgiven wrath.
Club a sandwich, belly up to a sandbar,
Have a fine purple purpose,
Flout and rout pouting.
Ponder wonder.
Remember vermilion, the color of embers.
The gilt lilies frothing the field have no guilt.
Ponder only wonder.

Be harmless and warm, eschew other arms.
Praise the prize of days, the surprise of days.
'Frolic' means 'swift gladness':
May your gladness be quick and tricksy.
Be facile with docility,
Salacious for salad. Prefer tortes to torture. Wreak wreaths, not havoc.
Have more siestas, more snoozes, more muses.
Be kind to your kind.

Under the grime of habit is the original shine,

Polish your time.
As you get old, pick courage, not rage.
The cartography of the heart
Is it a maze or a map?

Perhaps it's better to be polite than right?
Get stunned by fun.
With gusto and lusto, be happy, be sappy.
The solstice, the return of light,
The retreat of night
Shining on us all, the same sun
Makes us one;
Equal under the high and shining sky,
All our hearts are star bright.
The only task is to bask
In the holy glow of the fruited earth.
Linger, watch, admire. Remember.
Be a barnacle to your day.
There's lavender, provender, talent, gallantry,
There's silk, salt, and succotash
Be bold, be brash,
Plunder the days for wonder.
****

post-11/7 postscript

After the appalled derisions

With which we watched The Decider’s decisions,

At last this year we surface from the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Sea of Fear

Utterly playful again, like besotted otters;

gastonlebrave

“Hoppy Holidays, as a frog might say,” I scribble daffily,

Drunk sans liquor with glee,

Ah, ahhh, we can tell stupid jokes again, verily.

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At least

Mount Rushmore and dimes are safe

From George’s pipsquawk unsage image,

His flaws so fatal to so many who emptily died

For preemption, that rabid abstraction;

Heinous Cheney is deflated, if not checkmated.

Remember, friends, the useful nostrum,

‘Don’t let the Perfect

Become the enemy of the Good’:

Our dear Demos will lurch and blunder

But the massive hemorrhaging is ceased;

From the baleful rise of the 4^th Reich,

That fathomless fright –

From their full frontal affront,

War as a codpiece,

We are released;

The Shadow, as Jung might have it,

Is revealed so it can be healed.

It is a scrumptious time,

Do savor it!

Mirthfully yours,

pogblog

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Please forward this if you like; it’d be an honor.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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13 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 39 12.12.06 tues

ffwofw 341§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1525/770

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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The Lapidary View

Posted on November 29, 2006 by wendy fleet

The Lapidary View

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My dear Colin Wilson, a brilliant surveyor of human possibility, often speaks of the exhilarating ‘hawk’s eye view’ which liberates us to our purposeful strengths. For myself, I have settled upon the Lapidary View. I like to treat everything as if it were a jewel. Or rather more shockedly, sudden, surprised – everything as geode.

The first time I saw a geode, I fainted. The idea that in that apparently dreary rock gleamed this staggering dazzle of crystals like a cave a wizard must live in goaded my heart and brain to permanent agog. I knew at once that the geode was one of these ravishing runes the multiverse loves to spring on you. “Dja get it? Did you get it?” Well, it’d be tough to miss the delectable pagan message of the burning geode. “Everything is jeweled inside, dumbbell, if you crack it open and notice.”

The second factor for sustainable surprise is the necessary separation of the dependable, the trustworthy, the adorable world from the traitorous tho (sometimes often occasionally) interesting realm of people. The world, grokked, cannot be boring – only people and their hideous and petty betrayals, the dread thereof or the breath-taken recovery from.

I am happy to shapeshiftilly fling my perception into the dangerous brute beauty of a hawk, as <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Hopkins might have it, but the littler attention is essential for daily and constant surprise.

flowerphotographer roth

The druid secret is to read all those darn oak leaves, a true unlieable text with their audio book of whispered gossip, zephyr-flung. We are immersed in the 3-D, 10-D runes of the great immersion language of the universe.

I prefer to call the uni-verse, the multi-verse, the many-poem place. This poetical existence, this living devotedly, deftly alert, tigerfirefierce within the daring, darling poem is untarnishable delight. Very merry. One herein lives on dappled glory – you have the companionship of the whole world.

This deep sustenance allows forays into the treacherous Land of People as subjects. (People as objets are a whirl & blur, a fine ballet.) What protects you in this plutonium-fraught people environment is the animist strength of the very dust and the languor of the willow, ever faithful, thy sword obsidian humor, your armor the affection of all your utter pals, like Air who never entertains despair.

The difference between people and the Radiant Daily is that the Radiant is always pure of intent. If it is a sabertooth tiger from the night forest, it may eat you, but it doesn’t deceive you. It is what it is and you can discern it, learn it. People, on the other hand, may pretend to be a lamb when they are really a sabertooth. You pat the soft fleece, sweet and trusting of heart, humming a lullaby, and, crunch, you are become lunch in the sabertooth jaws. You writhe in psychic agony from the slavered pain of unspeakable betrayal.

You say a preserving detachment is unnatural, blasphemous to the normanrockwellian creed of sentimentality, that fraudulent charade we ought in hallmarkian duty parade. Nay, chivalry itself suggested a preserving distance which allowed an amusing artifice to overlay with pearl of poetry the gruesome cruelty that deceit, if they even bother to bother, that the beloveds will otherwise wield. Homo &/or homa deceptiens.

I must hasten to insist that I am the last to allow least of all laud the cynical view. I am daffily baffled at the torrential antics of the human. I am fond but wary.

Being a poeticist takes some heat off the relationship melon. Like a scientist, a poeticist discovers, studies, researches.

So we have the untarnishable searing little joys of the lapidary view and the courteous separation of persons and naïve trust. This existential combination makes for a wildly happy and hilarious life.

The deft attention I refer to in the sustainable surprise part of your perception life is magical in the sense of how many fascinations can be writ on the head of a pin. When you pay deft attention, you are magnemagically drawn to what you see/touch etc. Consider dear Blake’s ‘universe in a grain of sand.’ Consider Borges’ Funes’ stark and ennui-shattering dog named Spot, named Speck, named Spark. Consider the 25 different words for snow that the Eskimos discern. Consider Keats’ wild surmise.

Let’s start with attention itself, this precious elixir that makes you an artist in your life. Attention is a substance. You can send it out to touch apparently external objects in the way that an amoeba sends out a pseudopod or false foot. Next time you are deftly intent in noticing something, observe how your attention caresses the tree trunk or flower petals or kitten or whatever. This zephyr attention or deft attention can be sustained all of your life lucidly waking or lucidly musing or lucidly dreaming. This attention is not quite effortless – it requires just the amount of energy that keeps a butterfly from crashing into the flower it’s landing on. When you know that you can be limitlessly devout to this artistry of appreciation of the non-people world, you can, using Beauty, the 8^th sense, grokkedly gaze upon your life’s scene with “wild surmise” as Keats has Cortez and his men seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time – your heart becomes indigo, glistening, and oceanic.

The aleph immensity and intensity of each ‘grain of geode sand’ ignites a tenderness and wonder that cannot be tarnished unless your inner hohum imbecile sets out perversely and deliberately to poison your experience with petty and putrid cynicism. Cry “Piffle” unto that lowlife thief and have the discipline to remind it that you have not yet begun to see the sea or whatever you’re perusing.

It is very important to me to remind us that, with the slightest practice, this deft attention can be as constant as breathing and as given as breathing. Every darn thing which dwells in the many-poem place wants to preen for you. Masterpiece things like trash and topazes and all else are so used to being ignored by the semi-comatose herd that when someone notices in a lively way, it all wakes up and chatters at you like bright green parrots in the rain forest. Anyone who isn’t an animist just isn’t paying attention. It’s all chortling, clucking, caterwauling, whispering. Oh the sly gossip of the wall and of your dirty dishes.

Certainly the great perception story of all time is Borges’ Funes the Memorious. Funes is shocked that the dog sleeping in the road at 2:15 in the sun-hot afternoon has only one name. It should have a new name at 2:14 pm and at 2:16 pm. It is this Spot Speck Spark dog that makes you sheepish that you thought you’d seen anything and could file it way as ‘seen.’

Deft attention is the Celtic druid secret. Attention is the treasure. You always carry it with you. You are always rich beyond measure.

We can name a few kinds of snow if bestirred, but the Eskimos have twenty-five words for snow because they have seen it more intently and reverently.

You learn to levitate by being besotted with the masterpiece of reality engineering in which you are immersed. You get so pleased and startled that you simply find yourself rising.

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If you know or are an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com. Please put ‘agent’ in the subject line.

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12 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 25 11.28.06 tues

784 days/2y1m23d left of the pipsqueak despotism/1511

ffwofw1201§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

mozart..9.77g

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

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Tierra del lollipop

Posted on November 2, 2006 by wendy fleet

Tierra del lollipop.

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Beseechment for November 8. Please let me wake up in lollipop land. There is a unicorn where where she walks music plays in the air and where her hoof falls the grasses are not bruised.

Déjeme por favor despertar en tierra <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />del lollipop. Hay un unicorn donde donde ella camina los juegos de la música en el aire y donde cae su enganche las hierbas no se contusiona.

macula, tv

It’s time I think to frabjous some joy, to no se contusina the grasses, and to sing a lullaby to our precious planet Vuravura, our precious planet Jeegoo as we walk.

Has not your heart been trampled on, bruised upon bruised these six years? Beneath your feet are caverns of ruby, great rivers of emeralds, inner constellations as brilliant and real as the stars above. The stars below, the stars below shine when you admire them — your marveling ignites them. As you walk, you surf slightly and lightly on the great jeweled light which rises in ruby and emerald waves to uplift you. Legerdetopaz.

It’s time to frabjous some joy and to rise on the raven’s strong obsidian wings out of this valley of darkness. Like the Northern Lights, the great waves of jewel light rise from the earth in rhapsodic patterns of sweeter duty and beauty. Satan the Silly watches over our laughter with a tenderness the coldblooded religions which made cruel bargains with power eschewed. They would kill people to save them. They would kill people who erred. They would kill people who strayed. I’m a non-kneeler and I will never recant.. The first fox I met as a child in the forest where I walked at night when my parents thought I slept, the first fox I met was as black as a panther. We gossiped of forest secrets.

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12 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 259 11.02.06 thur

810 days/2y2m18d left/1485

ffwofw666§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

mozart..9.77g

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

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Vote or Get Leprosy

Posted on October 27, 2006 by wendy fleet

Vote or Get Leprosy

10.27.06 thurfri

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Mon un et seulement pal putatif,

Vote or get leprosy.

One is, one supposes, with you and all the others, on the fulcrum of history, the cusp of history, a new constellation fraught with gigantic meaning, the blood, the song, the champagne in the blood, the sorrow as long as the shadows of late twilight.

On est, un suppose, avec toi et tous les autres, sur le point d'appui de l'histoire, le tranchant de l'histoire, une nouvelle constellation chargée de la signification colossale, le sang, la chanson, le champagne dans le sang, la douleur aussi longtemps que les ombres du crépuscule en retard.

There are signs, portents of import. Twenty-two bright white cockatoos facing West on a telephone line along Foothill Expressway far above the dusty green olive trees lining the center of the road. “Are they doves?” “No. Oh, ye gods, they are – they are little white parrots! No, cockatoos. They have that pointed crest. It must be a sign.” “It is obviously a sign.”

travelblog

Il y a les signes, augures et présages significatifs ou dangereux ou merveilleux. Vingt-deux cockatoos blancs lumineux faisant face à l'ouest sur une ligne téléphonique le long d'autoroute urbaine de colline loin au-dessus des oliviers verts poussiéreux rayant le centre de la route. “Sont ils des <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />colombes?” “Non. Ah, dieux de ye, ils sont – ils sont de petits perroquets blancs! Non, cockatoos. Ils ont cette crête aiguë. Ce doit être un signe.” “C'est évidemment un signe.”

Then in the early afternoon waiting at the stoplight on El Camino Real at Shoreline next to the garishly pink Baskin and Robbins ice cream store – in the cup of the red stoplight rested a pigeon. Truly. It was clearly a sign. Fate is moving the markers along the grand three dimensional board. The answers are already arrayed if we could but attend and translate. Fewer children would have their arms ripped off and their bright eyes blinded with the white phosphorous which does not stop burning until it reaches the bone. So it matters. Vote or get leprosy. Does it matter, however, to the butterflies?

Alors dans l'après-midi tôt attendant au feu d'arrêt sur le EL Camino Real chez Shoreline magasin à côté de Baskin et de Robbins de crême glacée d'une manière voyante rose – dans la tasse du feu d'arrêt rouge a reposé un pigeon. Vraiment. C'était clairement un signe. Le destin déplace les marqueurs le long du conseil tridimensionnel grand. Les réponses sont déjà rangées si nous pourrions mais être présent et traduire. Peu d'enfants feraient déchirer leurs bras au loin et leurs yeux lumineux être aveuglés avec le phosphoreux blanc qui ne cesse pas de brûler jusqu'à ce qu'il atteigne l'os. Ainsi il importe. Votez ou obtenez la lèpre. Importe-t-elle, cependant, aux papillons?

Entonces por la tarde temprana que espera en la luz de parada en el EL Camino Real en el litoral al lado almacén del helado chillón rosado de Baskin y de Robbins – en la taza de la luz de parada roja reclinó una paloma. Verdad. Era claramente una muestra. El sino está moviendo los marcadores a lo largo del tablero tridimensional magnífico. Las respuestas se ponen en orden ya si podríamos sino atender y traducir. Pocos niños hicieron sus brazos rasgars apagado y sus ojos brillantes ser cegados con el phosphorous blanco que no para el quemarse hasta que alcanza el hueso. Importa tan. Vote o consiga la lepra. ¿Importa, sin embargo, a las mariposas?

As one asked each thing to gently tend the beauty and the innocence of Baldar, missing only the unmenacing mistletoe, I will go ask them, the butterflies, in my dreams, if it matters to them? The great silence is a great drum about to be struck.

Comme on a demandé chaque chose pour tendre doucement la beauté et l'innocence de Baldar, s'ennuyant seulement du gui sans menace est-ce que, j'irai les demande, les papillons, dans mes rêves, si elle importe à eux ? Le grand silence est un grand tambour presque cassé.

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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.

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6 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 253 . 10.27.06 fri

817 days/2y2m25d left/1478

ffwofw666§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

mozart..9.77g

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

………….<^>…………….

pogblog Glossary .. [on-going .. update 09-19-06]

Posted on August 14, 2006 by wendy fleet

pogblog's Glossary .. updated 09<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />-19-06

pogblog's Glossary amplifies pogblog's fierce & droll vocabulary — both the coined or invented stuff & the nifty or nefarious words you may not have discovered yet; for people who love words as much as mangoes or a great forward pass or an icepick in Dick Cheney's right eye; or for the just plain baffled .. With obsidian humor and assorted other confections and delicacies of a certain melodious madness ..

includes: àdroit; aleph ocean; amethyst; anodyne; après; assonance; Big Lie; blogovel; blood-dimmed tide; Blue/Bleu; Bush html stop; carpe comedy; cf; chatoyant; clint; clive/full; contest(pogblog Glossary Game); crapaud; Digrif; e=mc2; eclectic; enfers sanglant; enriched light; filigree; FixedIntelGate; frabjous joy; frisson; full clive; funes; gallynipper; gateau; grb gamma ray burst; grok; gwatwareg; hasyasattva; hoi polloi; holosphere; karlsputin rove; legerdelengua; lq/lizard quotient; luddite; Mardi Gras; masochists; maw; meme; mobbal; multiverse/many-poem place; mystery; nada; noosphere; obsidian humor; oneiro; passive belligerence; perfect pain; pinguid; pog; political engineering; polyglot; reagan's law; riro/reptile in reptile out; spooner; spiteful puffadder; stele; stynking synnes vile; suburbanality; sursurly; third base; toot doot; tzolkin; vouchsafe; vrai; wmd brain; warp-rinth; wolfofwolfs;

05-05-05 dedicated to obsidian fuller, an daily birthday present tinct with whimsy — enfers sanglant, amigo lobo, ami de ma vie, toujours et un jour ..

andy goldworthy please see dvd rivers & tides

àdroit .. clever or nifty from French; C’est àdroit – That’s clever. (Sorry about this recent obsession with àccènts – I just learned the trick of doing the accents on the keyboard in balky, not-so-friendly usually, mostly passive-belligerent MS Word. I’m in a zèal; no worries, it will pass. [To do the backward accent, it’s Ctrl, accent /on key left of the number 1/, then type the ‘e’ or ‘a.’ To get the other accent, it’s Ctrl ‘ (apostrophe), then the letter.] Actually the root of the word is à droit. Droit = right in French. Gauche = left.) I’m going to add ‘agauche’ to ‘adroit.’ One could say “That was a tad agauche perhaps” and have it be more a glancing blow than declaring, “You are clearly an imbecile.” (Yes, yes, I know ‘gauche’ exists, but it’s more harmful and doesn’t have adroit as its escort to the Word Ball.) Très àdroit .. very clever .. trezahdrwah. 06.05.06

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. 10.22.05

amethyst .. The OED entry is:1580 SIDNEY Arcadia II. (1654) 141 The bloodie shafts of Cupids war, With amatists they headed are. //Oh my. Beastly Cupid’s arrows are tipped with amethysts? That explains it. My heart is stilled. 06.18.05

anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of the forked tongue. 08.13.05

après .. means after in French, as in après-moderne which is what comes after post-modern; will probably get gutterized as après-modern, but I'm fond of the French flair; ah-pray-moh-dare-n; 06.03.05

assonance .. is the vowel echoes, often internal that give a phrase or a sentence its full-bodied richness. Consonance is the consonant equivalent. Both these elements of the music of writing comprise alliteration. 05.30.05

Big Lie .. The Big Lie was perfected by the Nazis and slid into American politics in a brazen way in the 2000 coronation. The basic idea is that you can say something even the opposite of the truth often enough and with convincing conviction enough and the innocent will believe it. WMD. Healthy Forests Act. Clean Air Act. . . .How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fablet, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced — your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

“On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil. And even Dick Cheney sounds avuncular so they say.

The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like with a killer, we're sure we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 20 years until this very day that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. . . Cynicism is not the response though. Alertness is. Trust but verify. 07-31-05

blogovel .. a blog novel — like pogblog's ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul — a mad dickensian masterpiece of serial venom. We coined the word as far as we know. Read ToadSpawn, Be Gone! 05-05-05

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blood-dimmed tide .. from Yeats, The Second Coming; http://www.well.com/user/eob/poetry/The_Second_Coming.html The ‘slouches’ in the last line is also echoed in the beginning of pogblog’s Love letter to Lewis H. Lapham, June 2, 2005.

The poem’s “The best lack all convictions, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity” remains as forlornly chilling as when he wrote it. And “…but now I know/That twenty centuries of stony sleep/Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle” describes the present berserk jesus-mania with a grim precision.

Blue/Bleu .. the Blue, as in ‘it came out of the Blue’; le Bleu (lu[r] Blu[r]), cf sacre Bleu! in incestuous permutation leading to diabolique (devilish) Bleu or diabol Bleu – to whom/which one is damned grateful for the shower of present it suddens upon lucky one. Bleu happens. Suddenness is its mischievous leitmotif, its signature. It’s the opposite of an iridescent, a chatoyant big floating soapbubble popping & pooff, it’s gone, nada, nothing. Pooff, presto, magic, the Bleu arrives chatoyant with no unsightly gestation & no annoying labor pains. (Things may arrive out of the Glum, the gelatinous color of mucus, but not with the pristine delight of the ohyippee presents the tricksy Blue abounds upon you.) 05.30.05

</bush> .. my favorite bumpersticker of late. (Tho I was pretty chuffed by Is it 2008 yet?)

The Bush thing is an inside joke and it’s probably evil of me to explain the punch line, but this is how it works. In html, the behind the scenes code which allows you to make things bold or italic, for instance, it goes like this: begins the bold. Everything is bold until you put which stops the bold. So </bush> would be stop or end Bush. Droll. 01.29.06

carpe comedy .. seize comedy. If I were to have some leitmotif other than besottedness with beastly Digrif, it would be carpe comedy. My good friend jeweller, Mark, who has his cool stuff in the SFMOMA, made me a silver dogtag that says carpe comedy. 10.22.05

cf .. means compare;

chatoyant .. is from the reflection in a cat’s night eye; it is that strange glistening eerie-descence that tiger’s eye stones have; a luster like shot silk or oil on water; 05.30.05

clint; clinting; clintful; clintness .. My thoughts about “Clint” have previously been unprintable because I was one of the unfortunate thousands who saw that denture film-noir, Bridges of Madison County, a penance for some unknowable wrong. This wretched film in which Meryl Streep did star shows you can do a silk-purse turn in a pig's-ear flick. ¶ At least as comiko-horror films go, the shots of Clint in the bathtub with his crêpy neck wattles are memorable if only one were into gigadizzguzzt. Not because he was old and horrible (gee, we all will be & will want to have been kinder), but because of his ineffable, upwelling-of-stench clintness — he whittles his lines. Wattles and whittling — what a treat. With the shower-stabbing scene in Psycho, we can induct the infamous Clint's-wattles scene into the Horror Scenes Hall of Fame. ¶ Usage: It was so clint, so skin-crawling to have to see Karlsputin Rove gumming up the phosphors on my tv screen. The overflow of sewage onto the street was clinting with the eerie glisten of mucal rot in an oily corruption attended by those paparazzi of insects, the dung-eating flies. (for cedral755 who planted the first pogblog poster across the Pond!) 6-25-05

clive, full .. many centuries ago, or tomorrow depending on where you are in elegantly celtic-knotting time, there was a bloke from Avalon, the mystery island of magic off the British Isles where the air always smells like sun-hot ripe apples — a bloke named Clive Owens who was a ‘movie star’ with well-more than his share of smouldering élan, and the damned English accent. There was some woman I talked to who said, “Oh, him, he never moves his face.” Well, that’s because he can move what’s between him and your face, you stupid cow. // There was a slangy phrase at the time, ‘the full monty’ which meant you were willing to take it all off and show your dangly bits. A step up the Michelangelo’s-David ladder is, luckily preserved on celluloid, the full clive. So if one is willing to go full out, (and I like you), it’s full clive. You don’t use it for bastards like the Maggoty Minions. 06-12-05

coin .. to mint or invent a new word or a new usage of an existing word;

pogblog poster Global-Game-CONTEST: you can email pogblog@yahoo.com & we’ll send you the template for the small two-to-a-page pogblog ToadSpawn Be Gone! posters. Or make up your own. (Be cool.)

Send us a pict of pogblog poster in any place and you’ll win a PRIZE, and an automatic entry into My Own Custom Entry in pogblog’s Glossary – you pick the topic, pogblog writes the entry for YOU.

Wall Drug was this “mega-tourist trap” in South Dakota. It had signs for a hundred milesevery 200 feet saying “See the prairie dogs at Wall Drug.” The prairie dogs were mangy stuffed things, but as it was the only place to get a root beer in the hellsummer heat. You went to Wall Drug , or died. Wall Drug had this global sign game going for years and they even ended up with someone holding up a Wall Drug sign on Mount Everest. Pogblog wants Mount Everest too, but also Vermont and the Gobi desert or wherever you’re going. Pictures with cows get bonus points, as picts with giraffes or cats. Gehry’s museum in Bilbao gets, like, an entry in the Glossary AND in the Love Slave Hareem. Yo Yo Ma, Bela Fleck, or Clive Owen holding a pogblog poster, and well, gee. 06-25-05

crapaud .. toad in French; crah-poh; as in C'est crapaud, mon cher .. That's really rather toad, my dear. 06.03.05

Digrif .. an on-going character; the word means laughter in Welsh; 05-05-05

e=mc2 .. the formula is wrong which is why they can’t understand the 90%, all that dark energy and dark matter !haha!; all that extra stuff that they don't grok is the tissue, the fabric of your dreams and imaginations — standard science is still looking through the wrong end of the telescope so it cannot measure this substance yet; the formula is really e=mc8 (infinity sign) because anything that ‘exists’ has a nanomicro signature that makes it unique; cf no giraffes, only one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe; 05.30.05

eclectic .. if you only get one word, take this one — it means taking the best from all possible sources; so you get wide-hearted; rich (not the greedy kind but the embracing kind) the golden rain of abundance; and oh frabjous joy, you get the somersaulting luck of having to pay lots of attention so you can separate the chuff from the chaff; 06.03.05

enfers sanglant .. Enfers sanglant, visages des porcs! means Bloody Hell, face of pigs. I’m mostly in the inventive invective mode of William S. who could swear at you in more vivid guises than a porcupine has quills; ohn-fairs sang-glaw(n), vee-sahzhuh day pork; 06-11-05

enriched light .. the CatsPurrDynamagik Machine uses the more elastic lights as you come and go from sleep or, if you're a little used to it, in blissfully slothfull musing states. This is cheaper than Walmart — free! and no exploited labor. The whole point of the coming ahaus and quetzals in the next five years and onward is to give the alchemic techniques of 'turning lead to gold' to everyone. Pb–>Au. Once I get Zin Nia & Fucky's Manual amanuensissed out, just reading and re-reading the pieces will switch on the patterns of energy dynamiks as much or as little as you want. Like the crop circles, the healing is a kind of anti-congealing or unclenching of intellectual and emotional toxins — a fountain of truth if not of perpetual youth. Amused truth.Cheaper than Ginzu knives. It's as if the vrai or true crop circles are miniatures of the gobos of enriched light that are being pulsed into the EM grid of Planet Home.A gobo is a patterned filter you put over the end of a spotlight, say, to make patterns of light & shadow fall on the stage. Thus, the shaped light that is coming into the planet is phototuning your dna et cet. Some of the enriched, shaped light inpulses will have a hummingbird quality, others will be slow and serene as a swan swims. It's all free and yours all yours if only you pay some deft attention and relax your eyes — and unclench your mind + heart + viscera. 09.19.06

filigree .. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigree is a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell. 07-11-05

FixedIntelGate .. Please remember that this outing the identity of Joe Wilson's wife is just one big spoke in the wheel the hub of which is FixedIntelGate. We sent people to war on 'intel fixed to fit the policy' (Downing St. Memo) a facet of which Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.' . . .FixedIntelGate is a deep shame and danger to our freedom. Going to war on what the rest of the world clearly sees as fixed intel will increase the recruiting terrorists for generations.

frabjous joy .. from Jabberwocky, LewisCarroll; 06-11-05 http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html

frisson .. (free-zzaw[n]) frisson, or French for shiver, is a sort of onomatopoetic (cf buzz & murmur) kind of word – if you say it out loud in what you imagine is a very French manner, you will feel cool. 05-05-05

full clive .. see clive, full;

funes .. Funes is the borges character who remembers everything in a blakean heart-exploding honor of universe-in-a-grain-of-sand detail. The key image is that Funes cannot understand not only how any 'dogs' can be lumped together, but even more, how dog, Swen, asleep in the idle sun-blasted afternoon street at 2:13 pm can be considered the same dog as that dog at 2:14 pm.

We smear and lump and clump stuff to a dimmed degree of dullness that we surely live in the back broomcloset of Plato's cave, unalert and unillumined. Anyhow I add funes to grok as a more whole and paganly holy embrace of perception. I will, thus, give myself this credit: te funes — I 'get' rather a lot about you, tho I forlorn of painting your portrait as it really deserves in any medium except my curiosity and devotion. 5-18-05

gallynippers .. are faeries, they floppily fly between worlds, appear & disappear. They look like enormous mosquitos (as if they could drink or nip a gallon of blood, hence gally-nipper), but they are achingly harmless. They are preposterous – their legs are so long & spindly. It’s a sin to kill a gallynipper.

gateau .. means cake in French; gah-toe; 05.30.05

ginger rogers .. “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels.” One of the greatest drolly liberating lines of all time by the treasured Ann Richards, 1988 Democratic Convention keynote. Succinct. 06.18.05

grok .. indispensable Martian for ‘understand in a way that you utterly drink deeply’; from Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein, an very interesting old sci-fi, sadly steeped in an appalling misogyny, but there it is. 5-18-05

grb .. stands for gamma ray burst – discovered in the 60s; “exotic, mysterious flashes pack the output of many galaxies into a single pulse that lasts seconds or less” – and that is exotic on any plane, http://www.space.com/scienceastronomy/astronomy/mystery_bursts_020516.html;

cf “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center” [http://www.calleman.com/– This relates to the Mayan energy-matrix calendar which pogblog honors because the path forward is holospherical not linear like the cursed Gregorian calendar and that ‘convenient’ atrocity, the metric system, may it boil in many liters of oil, which has taken measurement of distance and quantity out of poetry in one fell fell swoop. “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely miles, oh my beloved?” “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely kilometers etc.” I wasn’t trying to defend ‘good poetry,’ just the on-the-endangered-species-list poetic impulse. A poetic impulse looks not unlike a zebra. They tend to be solitary animals. They don't do herds. ‘He inched across the searing sand on his belly, a pilgrimage to an oasis, a mirage no doubt like other wet heavens.’ You can’t 'centimeter across the searing sand.' It’s a sin to kill an inch. 06-18-05

gwatwareg .. means irony in Welsh; 05.30.05

hasyasattva or silliness warrior; increase the gladness of all sentient beings by as many very tiny kangaroos as can waltz on the head of a pin; pogblog coined this hasyasattva word because the notion of ‘decreasing suffering’ breaks the hypnotic suggestion rule of putting the ‘command’ in a positive cast. “Don’t fall off the ladder!” is an embedded command to fall off the ladder: in order to comprehend the statement you have to imagine falling off the ladder. “Hang on to the ladder” is the better form of the statement. So kind folks wandering the Earth talking earnestly about 'decreasing suffering’ are causing all of us to gloomily, if unconsciously, contemplate suffering, oh woe is we. On the other hand, if you talk about ‘increasing gladness’ — in order to understand the statement you have to imagine some facet of gladness, a step on the somersaulting path. 06-11-05

hoi polloi .. the many, the unwashed mere mob before whom one ought not to cast one’s pearls; not the elite like us; it really should just be the polloi, but this is the way it slid through history; cf the El Camino; Greek; hoy puh-loy; 05-30-05

holosphere .. The next quantum in élan, in vivid being, is the holosphere. Right now as you read this, out of your noosphere hearing is whalesong, the infrasound that drones magnificently, often plaintively, sometimes mischievous, from planet side to planet side in the depths deeper than Everest is high – below the abysmal depths are the hadal depths, Hades deep, miles upon miles down and dark. According to both bizarre and fairly measured traditions, we are coming to the ‘end of time.’ Soon. This does not mean the end of being. It means the expansion into the wider holosphere. The end of the dominance of linear time. And of patriarchy, hierarchy, the exploitative models. We won’t give them up just because they are bad and sodden with shortsighted ignorance, but because they are like looking through the wrong end of the telescope – they’re limiting. It will feel awkward to give up the familiar boxes, the comforting structures and become aware that we all look at the same moon and are held from escape velocity by the same molten core. Under all our feet are twinkling jewels and lots of irony, I like to think….When we quantum to holo, we will be appalled by some things we stood by for. Allowing the mutilation of children in the name of any jingoistic fervor, for instance. We will not be hypnotized by moving striped pieces of cloth no more. Sometimes it’s hard not to be a lemming when all the little rushing furry bodies are flashflooding toward the cliff – how could so many fellow lemmings be wrong? . . . One of the swell things about the holosphere is that if you want to tune into the whalesong, you’ll be able to. Like after the telegraph, your reach of attention and perception will be augmented. It will be like the aliens landing, but they land inside your understanding and whether they are allies or demons entirely depends on your filter, your translator. See also noosphere. 07-31-05

Karlsputin Rove .. 'nuff said. (cf Rasputin, the creepily evil powerracker who actually ran the deaththroes of the czars); 06-26-05

legerdelengua .. slithering sleights of the forked tongue; cf calling mutilated children collateral damage; or the Clean Air Act, that boondoogle for major polluters (aka campaign contributors);

LQ .. Lizard Quotient; If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee. When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in your insight, one by one we see clearly, the ghastliness is that his scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on. [This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.] 06-14-05

luddite .. a luddite is someone who sees machinery and technology as dehumanizing. In reaction to the industrial revolution in the early 1800s, the actual Luddites homecrofting textile lace & knitter folk were precursors to the Union movement. But the notion of luddite has an undertone of being against progress, against the newfangled. As a gizmos-geek, I tend not to be a luddite tho I am strongly pro-Union – I love weekends which they brought us, and the middle class, sadly fast disappearing into the maw of the FatHog Cogists. 07-31-05

Mardi Gras .. “No Mardi Gras,” sez the sursurd and vile and vapid Rev. Shanker. ‘It was God’s magnificent mercy that wiped out the City of Sin and Mardi Gras.’

Me, I say, Mardi Gras? Why not Lundi Gras, Mercredi Gras, Jeudi Gras, Vendredi Gras , Samedi Gras, Dimanche Gras? Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, Fat Everyday. All days Yippee & Yummy. God forfend we have fun, I suppose. Pffffttt, I say to these Reapers of Grim. 9-10-05

masochists .. ‘For masochists in Hell, there is no suffering.’ Ye owls, that’s droll. It is not original to pogblog, but is one of three jokes I’ve ever been able to remember. Don’t know the adroit devil who made it up, but bless them. Lucifer loves you. 06.05.06

maw .. gaping mouth; dragons who gobble maidens have maws; gobbets (or large hunks of as yet unmasticated maiden) often stuck in the jutting teeth in a dragon’s fetid maw; cf corporate maw: you are devoured by the corporate maw; you disappear into the corporate maw; 06.04.05

meme .. a meme is the idea equivalent of a gene or virus; it’s an idea (good or offal) that spreads around the world; e.g. “the world is round.” For a long time, the prevailing stench was that the world was flat. Then the meme of the world being round infected the general understanding. I’m not sure it exactly fits in with meme – I never thought about it til this very moment, but that picture of the planet from space had meme qualities; also that horrific picture of the napalmed little girl as if a sane species could drop jellied gasoline on people. me-m(uh).

¶ One concept I want to have be a world-sweeping meme is the idea of 2ThenAdopt. Now the world population is 6,446,038,867. Please every-sparrow-fall recall that one billion is 1000 million. Projected in 45 years about 9 billion. It’s absurd, friend, it’s obscene. We can’t take care of all these people. Our sweetly blossoming good will and lessening prejudices and ignorances keep getting tsunamied by a population running amuck. If the notion of 2ThenAdopt could spread, then people could have whatever sized families they wanted or could afford, but we could stop flooding away all the progress by holding the biology at a standstill, behind a dam of good sense until the social systems could catch up. 2ThenAdopt. Think about it. Pass it along. 06-06-05

The more people you ask, “Did you know that we are spending $200,000 per minute in Iraq?” – the more people can be disgusted by the waste of human and financial resources in this benighted war. Disgust can lead to action finally. (The real figure is more like $416,000 per minute, but I use the $200,000 per minute as a figure that no one can argue with. See the Math, sources, and more detail.) This way we can spread the $200,000 per minute meme and accelerate the process of Declaring Victory & Coming Home – the true support of our troops – wanting to save their lives from death or mutilation.

Beat the drum. Tell one friend or colleague. No one believes it. They shake their heads and say, “Really?” 09-10-05

mobbal .. mah-bull, of the mob, also euphemistically called tribe, nation, town; 06-30-05

multiverse .. multi-verse or many-poem place; where we live. The fables often refer to manypoem as the blossomer-forth of all this fascinating tinder in which we are immersed. 05.05.05

mystery .. Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins. 08.13.05

nada .. means nothing in Spanish; nah-dah; 06-04-05

noosphere .. Our lively mote awash in galactic seas is waking up. There come big surge-times in our story – the invention of the printing press, the steam engine, the telegraph. Expanding our attention-point, turning on more of our transformer, our brain and bones. We are presently in a crescendo of rising, of brightning energy, élan. . . .The Next-Age weirdos, of whom, like of the Democrats, I’m wryly and proudly one, are attuned to various facets of this shimmering phenomenon. I don’t cleave to any version with the zeal of a convert, but I can feel the stirring, the purring of the planet and its denizens awakening quantumly to a new holo-mosaic of how consciousness is patterned. One can literally feel this alchemic symphony of pulses in one’s bones. If you don’t notice it yet, you will. It is both fuerte or strong and dulce or sweet. . . . . Dear Teilhard de Chardin, mid last century philosopher, spoke of the lithosphere, the biosphere, and the noosphere. To which I, with humble glee, add the holosphere. . ..Litho means stone The lithosphere was the primeval furnace, lava rock of the planet which dreamt and cogitated and desired for a long long time and blossomed forth the biosphere which is the lichen and the lemurs, the octopuses, oaks, giraffes, and us. (Culminating in cats, the quintessence of terrifying design.) This all rambled around, raucous and timid, amoeba, hippopotamus, and condor, until forth was effervesced the noosphere, a knowledge sphere, a heady stew of trivial and stupendous information. (Sadly, you cannot call the noosphere a wisdom sphere, yet.) See also holosphere. 07-31-05

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

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

A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the letter after zed. Few jeopard it. 5-18-05 1:49:06 pm ..

oneiro .. (oh-nigh-roh) the Greek root for dream; 05-05-05

passive belligerence .. passive agression on steroids; deeply, sometimes slyly sullen; one of my favorite coinages — you know people who are passive belligerent; you may even live with one, and, if so, may gods help you in your hours of need for universal mercy. 06-25-05

perfect pain .. perfect pain is an intensity of grokking and intricacy of affinity coupled with a helplessness — as if you must be on parallel tracks, always together, never touching. And eternity is very long. 10-10-05

pinguid .. 'fat, unctuous, greasy' from 1828 Webster's; its root meaning is roughly fat juice or fat sap — the sap of fat. Fits Karlsputin's pinguid pipsqueakery. I first came across it a 100 yrs ago in the secondbest book in the universe, The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary, a book about an old artist, Gulley Jimson, who has to paint walls — with heroic paintings of feet. Gulley saw an oil slick on the Thames and used the word 'pinguid' as I recall. Though I'll admit that the word does sound more Nabokovian. All artists must read Horse's Mouth which taught me to see and to take laughter as my highest value, tho often obsidian. (The movie has zero to do with the book to which the plot is adjunct. It's the sentences the sentences and the raw seeing.) 07-21-05

pog, pogs .. This word pog is coined to escape all the labels for all the organized Religions. The acronym of People of goodwill and good works only –> POGWAGWOs – pogwagwos — pogs for short. (Only should really probably be often . . .); 05-05-05

political engineering .. I heard this from either Eugene Jarecki of Why We Fight (which I tenter-hookedly await) or Franklin Chuck Spinney, a Pentagon insider who says we’re spending the ½ trillion Military Budget for – not much. The notion of political engineering in this case is that the fabulously clever manipulation of, say, the B2 bomber. Instead of building & assembling it in one locale which would be efficient, every single state has a piece of building the B2 bomber. Thus when a new generation of the B2 bomber comes before the Congress OR the notion of stopping the program entirely as being obsolete, everyone has a stake in maintaining it. Jobs in the district. Money dispersed.

The tentacles of the Military Budget Colossus Octopus are so entangled throughout the nation that the Gordian Knot seems simplicity to cleave compared to this Octopoid sucking the lifeblood from our future. To supply gigaTaxCut payola to the gigaRich, medicare, school loans, and food stamps were gutted – yet the gargantuan $820,000 per minute Military Budget is never mentioned, like the Seventh Name of God. The fake Big Boy Republicans bathe in the midal gold which they send in geysers and gushes of ye Olde Faithful — the Military Budget she nevair go dry, swig down the Dom Halliburton champagne, Big Boys, theys macho mucho more where that came from, Ponce de Military Budget, the Perpetual Fountain of Graft.

Then my dear Democrats are gonadsless – afraid to be seen as soft on Killing & Dismembering & stomachless for Collateral Damage. (That the Republicans are soft on healthcare, soft on education, soft on the environment, soft on the future no one seems to be able to say out loud.)

“The military industrial Congressional complex is a political economy with a big P and a little E. It's very political in nature. Economic decisions, which should prevail in a normal market system don't prevail in the Pentagon, or in the military industrial complex.

“So what we have is a system that essentially rewards its senior players. It's a self… what we call it, we call it, we have a term for it, it's a self-licking ice cream cone. We basically take care of ourselves. And that's also why we have this metaphor it's Versailles on the Potomac.” Chuck Spinney in interview with Bill Moyers on NOW. [http://www.pbs.org/now/transcript/transcript_spinney.html]

“Have you seen these figures that CEO pay at Lockheed Martin went up from $5.8 million in 2000 to $25.3 million in 2002. I mean, that's five times increase in less than three years. CEO pay went up at General Dynamics from $5.7 million in 2001 to $15.2 million in 2002. It went up at Honeywell from $12.9 million in 2000 to $45 million in 2002. It went up from Northrop Grumman from $7.3 million in 2000 to $9.2 million in 2002.” Bill Moyers, same interview. pog entry 01.29.06

Reagan's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a Child Mutilator's Registry is the coinage of chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/), a frequent pogblog commentator. It is a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.” Goaaaal! chancelucky! Pogblog tels us that “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re freakin’ insane.

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

Please read the whole Child Mutilator Registry piece called Blog Throat, Radical Pacifism, & reagan’s Law, the Child Mutilator’s Registry on pogblog’s Main Page.06-25-05

riro .. reptile in, reptile out . . .Sad to say, once you've 'seen' the Lizardry in Our Leaders, you simply cannot unsee it. I've tried, longing to sleep better. I reckon it's like seeing auras or something, once you can see in that spectrum of light, you're stuck with that new knowledge. //There was a time about four years ago when I saw a pict in a newspaper of Mr. Bush in profile. I gasped. there it was — the unmistakable resemblance, the reptile profile. Holes in moles, I thought, maybe this rumor about the super-scientists in Atlantis doing dna experiments of reptile human hybrids wasn't just some gaseous New Age crock. (Now, now, a lot of New Age stuff is rivetting and inspiring; you just have to keep your discernment.) No doubt about it, riro –> reptile in, reptile out. 06.13.05

spooner .. as in darling spooner. Spooner was a daffy if not daft professor who had a legerdetongue which led him to transpose initial sounds in a phrase; the most famous is blushing crow for crushing blow; spoon, spoonerism; cf quisling & google which have also become lower-case ordinary words – sometimes a nifty, & sometimes a dubious alchemy. A quisling is a traitor (you know who you are who broke my heart, you quisling) — interesting that it never became benedict or arnold who was much more famous really. 06.05.06

stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be. 08-13-05

stynking synnes vile .. from OED, 1450 NE. Stynking sublime phrase. 12.01.05

suburbanality .. To torment a friend, I thored the word ‘suburbanality’ at him, as the master of lightning wielding, dear Thor might have, had anything in his experience prepared him for suburbs or banality. It was part of the patois of devoted mean by which we communicate in our obsidian way. There is the Golden Mean, a pleasing & harmonious proportionality. There is our Obsidian Mean, a pleasing and reckless splash in the sea of ebullient chaos and returning, so far, to the Shores of Reason with barracudas of odd truth.

Because my putative friend is an original in so many ways, it irks him no end to be lambasted with suburbanality. It would be one thing to be called a hick or a hillbilly or a rube, a kind of reverse pride of which one might preen. But suburbanality? There is no pretzeling which can make that in any iota cool. Just as it tickles him secretly to be called an original, it prickles him to be dubbed suburbanal. Even Achilles had that pesky heel, dear. 01.29.06

sursurly .. cf sursurreal .. sometimes a word needs some steroids to possibly comprehend the horribleness of the totalityranny of the Reign of the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised As Human Beings. It surboggles the surbewildered mind, not sursurprisingly. 06.18.05

third base .. “George Bush was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple.” A line from the splendid Ann Richards, ex-governor of Texas, in her 1988 Democratic Convention keynote speech. As nifty a remark about the presumption-of-privilege have:mores as one might whittle. See also ginger rogers; 06.18.05

toot doot .. A silly rendering of ‘without any doubt’; sans toute doute – without all doubt. Either avec (with), pron avek; or sans (without), pron saw(n) – you just think the ‘n’, you don’t really nail it. (Anglicized it’s sans—like sands without the ‘d’. 05.30.05

tzolkin .. roughly, a tzolkin round is a 260-day piece of the Mayan energy matrix (which we mis-name a calendar); it’s like setting out a new holo-chess board; each day has its own pulse or energy or note or pitch which shimmers through that day; a tzolkin is a gobo – a gobo is a cutout shape in tv & theater that goes over the end of a ‘spotlight’ and as the strong light is shone thru, that shape is cast on the curtain or on the stage – spinning stars, say. 06.01.05

vouchsafe .. means that you grant me a special privilege; can have hints of ironic undertones; it means that you ‘trust me with x or z, or even with your ecstasy’; is very formal & medieval – the kind of way knights talk – ‘If you vouchsafe me with your honor, cousin, I will defend it unto the death’; 06.03.05

vrai .. vrai is true in French; pog uses it also as truly – which is a tad fractured, but c’est la vie; pron. vray; 05.30.05

wmd brain .. if pogblog has an “accident” or an “heartattack” — it isn’t an accident; it isn’t an heartattack; pogblog drives very carefully and hasn’t been to a non-chiropractic doctor since 1979. Pogblog does have a wmd brain and the Lizardos are not going to like it! I’m under the radar now, but they’ll be hauling out the hemlock soon enough and I want you not to fall for their lizardiavellian lies. Keep up the fight after they get me: Duelling epic poems, dueling satire, the clang of unsheathed irony. We’re better armed than they are for the battle of wits which will appear slowly in the next decade like a polaroid developing. But they are exceedingly cunning and they hunger after our warm-blood. Never underestimate a cornered Lizard. 06-14-05

wolfofwolfs .. mon lobo suave, mon lobo feroz hecho del agua, .. .. .. In the waters of delight, honey, you is the waterfall, all lavish splash. In the forests of delight, you is the wolf of wolfs, all silver danger under the moon. In the cosmi-circus, you is a four-trick pony with hoofs of gold and a mane of fire. Kismet dealt me a hard hand with thee, a new and terrible tarot And the reason I cannot leave or deceive is that it would be like betraying dawn or a fawn – done by some but it would be wrong. The fun we get to have is so damned earned. Our relationship is distinctly, probably entirely, medieval. It’s like open-heart surgery before anesthetic. The pain is profound; the laughter can be as bright red as blood and pure. Pure laughter is the lead turned to the gold. .. .. .. ps. Like Clive Owens, you have a sudden stillness which is all potential – you could explode in a any direction at any time. (With you behind your lazily easy façade, it’s strobed – sequential sudden stillnesses.) It is a very dangerous and distilled and compelling quality. It is why you are both so unbearably sexy. It is achingly rawly male. It is feral barely cloaked with civilizedness. You are both brothers of the Great God Pan – nothing remotely Christian about you. Untamed, and untameable. Damned dangerous is what you both are. Luckily I am a mutant with a very high tolerance for brutal radiation. o8.27.o5

warprinth .. warp-rinth ..Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s. .. A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces. .. Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell. 11.13.05

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8 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 216 09.20.06 wed
854 days/2y4m01d left/1441
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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..
.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead
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Dlareme Grade Planets

Posted on March 26, 2006 by wendy fleet

Notes:

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

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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 …

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

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Plunder Wonder

Posted on December 7, 2005 by wendy fleet

Jolly Solstice (or whatever winter holiday floats your boat) to you each.

Herein follow my tra la las for your amusement:

Plunder Wonder
.

When you feel insane,

Butter your brain.
Pirate the treasure of pleasure.

Under the grime of habit is the original shine,

Polish your time.
As you get old, pick courage, not rage.
The cartography of the heart
Is it a maze or a map?

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Mirthfully yours,

pogblog

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7 Water . Muluc . The River . East . tzol 189 12.07.05 wed

ffwofw 341§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1151

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

Posted on December 5, 2005 by wendy fleet

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.”

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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.

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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

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Hinged .. How to Survive Art

Posted on November 14, 2005 by wendy fleet

Hinged

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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 7^th & 8^th 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.

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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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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

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

Posted on October 31, 2005 by wendy fleet

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

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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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

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Ask Dr. Druid

Druid thought; obsidian humor; radically sane politics;

Category Archives: Planet Beauty

Plunder Wonder 2006 + post-11/7 postscript

The Lapidary View

Tierra del lollipop

Vote or Get Leprosy

pogblog Glossary .. [on-going .. update 09-19-06]

Dlareme Grade Planets

Plunder Wonder

Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

Hinged .. How to Survive Art

Crow-Fly by Synchronicity