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

Posted on August 10, 2005 by wendy fleet

If You Can't Get to a Peace March,

Carry Your Sign in Your Hometown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you can't get to Crawford,

make your own sign

& start walking around

your own downtown

a little every day!

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

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

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

rage on,

pogblog

info on dick cheney & ‘collateral damage’

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

ffwofw

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

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Below in HTML

If you Can't Get to Crawford,

Carry Your Sign in Hometown,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rage on,

pogblog

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

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

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

Vulture Culture

Posted on August 10, 2005 by wendy fleet

Vulture Culture
..

The Ords (who had shortened their name from Ordure) were odd ducks. Well, they weren’t really ducks, but they were damned peculiar. They worked for Lord Ord who was the Cosmic Keeper of the Odd, the Angels Too Fat To Dance on the Point of A Pin. His emblem was, proudly, a turkey buzzard in pink, rampant on a magenta field — the colors of entrails as the Lesser Ords scoffed cheerfully. Vultures liked guts and gluck; rot was ripe to them. Suppuration was succulent. The more stinking the ooze, the more toothsome.

Lord Ord had begun liking what the other Planet Designers liked. Babbling brooks. Roses, orchids, panthers, and emeralds. Smashing glorious snazzy gorgeous show-stoppers. But to have all the living things work, there was an engineering Unavoidable. Living things were lively, but in some span they ran down, wore out, fatigued. Their élan waned. Death was invented; despised, but required.

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.

Lady Onyx remembered fondly the morning when she and Lord Ord woke and she watched him gaze happily around the bustling planet which was getting quite habitable by now. He glanced up at the corner of their large sunny room and he was silent. He watched the patient tiny predator on its remarkable silvery web, the first spider seen by any other god than its designer. He shook his head in delight and applauded, “Wonderful, my dear Lady Onyx.” He leapt up to peek more closely at this new ingenious tiny toy.

Lord Ord and Lady Onyx had collaborated on the crocodile. Lord Ord had devised the massive musculature, the crushing jaws, whittled the interlocking teeth. Lady Onyx had devised the turreted hide.

The Lesser Ords were devoted to their Patrons. Once you got a feel for the Onyx and Ord touch, you could always pick out their practical, clever solutions. There was pride in dealing with ordure, preventing the spread of pestilence.

Much later after the planet’s bio-layer matured, Lord Ord and Lady Onyx were saddened to hear that their favorite, the majestic vultures, were no longer fed the felled biped. Strange religions had proliferated. The quarrelsome biped was the only creature which hid its dead in boxes. Few remembered that the path of the vulture was the only way to completely free the soul from its planet-bound bonds.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

My brother Sisyphus . .

Posted on August 9, 2005 by wendy fleet

My brother Sisyphus

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

My brother Sisyphus,

Cursed by, admired by gods,

He was chums of a sort

Eventually

With the damn boulder;

Like I am with you,

My damn boulder.

I have asked the ants,

Small industrious friends,

To lend me their industry to clear –

Over some no doubt considerable

Portion of eternity which will

Not pause –

To clear a small plateau that

Some aeon, my belovèd friend,

We might finally rest a bit

At the summit of the mountain

And take in the view.

This always rolling obdurately

Back down the mountain,

Is, frankly, mon cher,

A test already passed,

Already passed.

However, until the ants

Grain by grain,

Their own sisyphusean contribution,

Clear this patch for us,

I will lower my shoulder

To the boulder

And stagger it up the damn mountain

Again.

Eternity is very long,

So me and the ants have time

For this act of doggèd devotion.

Eternity is very long:

In the ancient aboriginal myth,

Time is a rock a mile long

And a mile high;

A tiny bright yellowbird

Sharpens its tiny beak on this rock

Once every hundred years.

When thus this rock is worn away,

One moment in eternity

Will have passed.

Eternity is very long:

I will love you

All that time,

Waiting for the ants

To clear near the summit

A ledge big enough to prop

The damn boulder

Of your rightfully bottomless

Distrust and pain and disdain

From beginning

All

The

Way

The

Bottom

Yet

Again.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

Please send pogblog’s link to friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Water . Muluc . The River . East tzol 69 08.09.05 tues

ffsb 263§8783§24d8h36m59sikhoudvanu

..
the pro-irony world begins today with you
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Dimensions of a Perfect Protest Sign .. Army-of-One Protesting

Posted on August 9, 2005 by wendy fleet

Have Protest Sign Will Travel .. draft

the pro-peace world starts today with you

You do not have to wait for some formal Protest March tho I go to those too as I can. Start your own army-of-one micro-protest march today.

As of 10.03.05, me & my Teach Peace Sign have been out doing our peace-abouts for 1090 days in a row. . It only felt foolish the first day.

The dimensions of the perfect Protest Sign that will work best for your protest over the longhaul. My 16″x18″ Teach Peace sign is on a 4' 7″ stick (stick = 1 ¼ ” x ½ “),

The reason for these dimensions is that they fit in your own space if you are on public transportation, going into a store, or putting the sign across the back seat of your car. The sign clears your head as you walk with the end of the stick cradled in you hand.

I used a kind of colored (apricot for some reason) mat board — the kind of stuff you get at an art store. After lettering, these twopieces of matboard got stapled back to back all around the edges.

I used black magic marker to do the letters which I'd pencilled in. Best to have just simple big letters. People are mostly driving past youand don't have timeto read or see any little decorative stuff. I picked the words Teach Peace because of the sentiment, and because of the size of the words. (I love a statement like Power to the Peaceful, but it won't workona daily sign — too many letters.)

Have sign awareness at all times. Be aware of whether the sign is up-right enough for people walking towards you to read it. If you're standing on a street corner, think about the angle of you sign towards the on-coming traffic.

Before you go into a store, turn your sign upside down!

Waving at & getting eye-contact with each passing car is advanced, but it increases your impact immensely.

Some Talking Point Tidbits. I stay relentlessly on message. Get your rap down & say the same brief thing to everyone. They've never heard it before. So you should make it brand new and impassioned for them each time. (I use the html here so you can just paste them in a comment on another blog.)

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In my continuing fight against TheoFascism, I have been using two numbers to great effect:

'As we speak, we are speading $14000 a minute on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars and $200,000 a minute on the Iraq QuagQuicksand Debacle.'

Also useful is to remind people is that one billion dollars is 1000 million dollars. ('A billion' is what I call a dirigible word. It is one of something that seems to float teflonally up there somewhere. 1000 million shocks people.)

I go back to the hell-years of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam when we heard the identical garbage about Vietnamization. I've stood by the Wall at midnight and seen by haunted moonlight what we paid for that hallucination.

“We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years if need be.” That’s what Ho Chi Minh, winning Vietnamese leader, said. Remember that figment Vietnamization? It didn’t work.

Iraqiazation will not work.

They have a 300 year supply of cheap explosives and young men willing to die. They live there.

What delusion allows any one to think it will get better?

My neighbor's 24 year-old son got his whole head blown off in Iraq.

Support our troops by Bringing Them Home Now.

It is not going to get better.

Who wants to be the last soldier to die in Iraq for a mistake?

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
ffwofw
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Sacred Honor Ground — Do NOT Move .. rules for peace protest

Posted on August 8, 2005 by wendy fleet

Sacred Honor Ground .. Do NOT Move ..

rules for peace protest

I have suggested to the protesters in “Working Vacation” Crawford on their website (below) some parts of these tactics gleaned from a life of protest since when I first had the discussion in Northern Vermont with my first husband Michael about whether I (the appointed wielder of the ax) would have to chop off one big toe or three of the lesser toes. He was not going to go to a land in civil war, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam, and kill people he did not know well enough to hate. Generically hating any Them was not in his nature.

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The key to this threat to Cindy Sheehan, a Gold Star mother protesting outside the Imperial Ranch is if the Crawford 50 protesters are threatened with arrest:

Do Not Move One Inch.

The last civil disobedience I had with being wrongly bullied by riot police a month ago (carrying my teach peace sign), I said, “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this city tonight and I am not moving.”

The hundreds of riot police in their black riot exo-skeletons milled around me and had both furtive & frantic conferences, hissed in my face, and threatened me with arrest, but finally they did not arrest me. For three hours, my stupid knees were shaking as they had their noses in my face, but there is something about stillness that doesn't activate the attack in the predator or something.

Several episodes in months before this, they slyly would get me to “just move over here out of the way” or “just come talk to the Captain so we can see what we can work something out.” They’d been trained. I hadn’t – yet.

Now, my old gams hurt so much that I shook my legs around like some dervish after a few hours, I was so tired, I just wanted to go home, but I did not move out of my Sacred Honor square. One police officer tried to tempt me to move by being nice and saying, “You must be so tired. You can go sit over there if you want. I would.” The one other nice officer offered me a bottle of water, for which I would have normally killed by the end of the third hour. No. Bad cop, good cop. No. Just don't move out of your Sacred Honor square.

Several would stride so close to me that the stiff starched sleeves of their uniforms brushed my face. It was pretty much their whole bag of intimidation tricks. Most of them were hissers or shouters or bullhorners. “This has now been declared an illegal assembly,” from the bullhorn and the black(!) heliocopter deafeningly clattering ominously and endlessly overhead, “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

The percussive noise of the heliocopeter is a very effective weapon. It instills fear at some level out of conscious control. “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

No. Be smart about where you're willing to stand for 3 hours, and you have to be willing to be arrested, but the stillness works.

And steal this line— it made me feel braver and it flummoxed them: “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this [city, town, road, &c] today and I am not moving from here.” I said it over and over, every time they tried a new gambit. Those darn long black riot sticks are scary. Do not move.

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

The following is how it felt to begin to Damn It do something on-going and local and not just go to the safety-in-numbers big marches. If we had just two in every town doing this, think of it. This was a Guest Opinion piece published Jan 31 2003

Why I walk for peace

How does it feel to go out the front door and put your heartfelt convictions into public action?

Since late September 2002 I've been a lonely nutcase wandering preposterously up and down Main Street carrying my 16”x18” “Teach Peace” sign on a 4'7″ pole. At first you feel darn silly. But finally, after 46 solo peace walks, the acute self consciousness is wearing off because it is of course not at all about me, but about the future and about not smithereening young folk just as treasured as my 20-year old coworkers Silas and Gareth, or your happily careening young folk Pete and Jim, only with Iraqi names.

A droll and unexpected tidbit is that I think it's important to smile the whole time so that any given person seeing me doesn't think, “there goes that ole crank walking for peace.”

Well, I've always thought of myself as quite a jolly and smiling person. But now that I have to smile for peace and the benign future of humankind, I've discovered that we do not smile for two hours at a time. In the early going, my smile ached so bad in the grin muscle that I had to take aspirin to get through the day. Now, with all this “working out,” my smile is getting more buff and there's hardly a twinge anymore. But who would have guessed?

One of the chastening lessons of public action is the overturning and overturning of these stupid little stereotypes that lurk in the underbrush of your mind. “This kind of person is going to hate my sign,” you think. As you gird yourself to pass by them, they smile and whisper, “Great sign.” Some dude you're sure spends nights tossing back brews and blowing people up in video games says, “I want to thank you for being out here.”

I hand out wallet-sized cards with Gandhi's nine steps for decreasing violence. I found these in Colman McCarthy's book I'd Rather Teach Peace, which shocked me into realizing that we never teach peace in our schools, only war after war.

Yet in spite of the gloomsayers, in my own lifetime — a quick blink of the historical eye — we have made real steps to get past segregation and the trivializing of women, for instance. One day we will be beyond war too. We will teach peace. We will understand non-violence as a vivid force.

We'll stop spending more than a thousand million dollars every day on the military. We'll stop calling mutilated civilians “collateral damage.”

I'm telling you about my small, very local public action in hopes of giving you the courage to dare to take that dreaded first step out the door. Even if you are the only one out there for awhile, you give heart to people who see you. Only two folks have sworn vilely at me. If we want a more tolerant and sane world, I think we must accept feeling awkward, must act one step beyond our comfort zone in order to speak out, to show up.

— pogblog is a 31-year local resident, a former high school English teacher and window washer, and has worked on three San Francisco ballpark campaigns. She has been an anti-war advocate since Vietnam and has walked out downtown in her small some of every day with that teach peace sign for 1034 days in a row now. Just do a little every day. It adds up.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

pogblog’s Glossary for many brave & nefarious words;

Cindy Sheehan & the Crawford Protesters

[This meetwithcindy website has been down, but should return.]

info on dick cheney & collateral damage;

democrats.com, on-going & real

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Rabbit . Lamat . South . tzol 68 08.08.05 mon

ffsb 1176 8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

Posted on August 7, 2005 by wendy fleet

Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki
..

I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

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

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes.

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.

pogblog

ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
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………….<^>……………..
If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67 08.07.05 sun
for jamie 981§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

08.06.05 .. unbearable echo .. Do one small thing

Posted on August 6, 2005 by wendy fleet

Friends,

2:13:36am.pdt.usa 08.06.05 . .

It is the unbearable echo-day of the first atomic vaporizing bomb being dropped on humans by humans.

I thought I bloody well better do some small thing to whisper, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. We have changed.”

Below is the short letter I sent to the News organizations emails I found at this Downing Street Memo url: http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/?q=node/1202.

I copied each email address into my yahoo address book because I've messed up my primary email sender somehow. But there is a big push to get reporters to DO something different in this Crawford “Working” vacation for the next 50 days. You're welcome to copy and paste this letter if you want. Even if you emailed ONE, it would be great. Thank you, pogblog

ps. You can do any subject with these addresses As Much As Possible forEver.

//////////

Dear [Newsperson or Organization];

Please challenge the Iraqiazation myth & delusion with hard and repeated and repeated questions steeped in simple historical understanding. If you could interview some knowledgeable people from the Vietnam era who aren't just doing the fortune-cookie Talking Points.
..

“We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years if need be.” That’s what Ho Chi Minh, winning Vietnamese leader, said. Remember that figment Vietnamization? It didn’t work.

Iraqiazation will not work.

They have a 300 year supply of cheap explosives and young men willing to die. They live there.

What delusion allows any one to think it will get better?

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

My neighbor's 24 year-old son got his whole head blown off in Iraq.

Support our troops by Bringing Them Home Now.

It is not going to get better.

Who wants to be the last soldier to die in Iraq for a mistake?

Thank you,

Your Name

youremailaddress

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

Posted on August 5, 2005 by wendy fleet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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13 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 65 08.05.05 fri

♫ffsk 790 8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

Posted on August 4, 2005 by wendy fleet

the dark Heartlessness,

the horror, the horror

in two parts

It is with woe that I confess to you that I had a hidden prejudice that I harbored all my life that came with karmic stealth back to bite me in my achilles heel a few years ago.

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I grew up in the American South when there were still water fountains that said ‘Colored’ and ‘White.’ I was luckily born knowing that that was balderdash. I didn’t have any of the reigning festering hates of my time. But there was one determined secret grudge I held: I could not forgive ‘the good Germans’ for not standing up and speaking out against the rising murderous fascist tide, especially before the tide of blood got too deep for many to withstand. Why, I would inquire of myself in anguished inner inquiry, Why did they not stand up, not speak out?

A few years ago, my breath was sucked out of my lungs in a karmic coincidence, my poor head caught between two giant invisible cymbals — lo, symbols – a silent percussive concussion, one cymbal from my uncompassionate past judgment and the other my own very self standing there on the street in GeorgeKarlCondiRumsDickica, a ‘good American.’ Now I knew how it happened to the ‘good Germans.’

What are we ‘good Americans’ doing? $14000 a minute is being spent on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. $200,000 a minute is being spent on the Iraqiazation Miazma. Dwight Eisenhower warned about the Father of this TheoMonoMonstroColossus. He spoke of the Military Industrial Complex and that has gigantized into a Theofascist Corporate Complex, a goliath against which we must david.

So I was chastened enough and on 10.09.02, 1031 days ago, I started walking out a little every damn day with my 16”x18” teach peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick. Yes, of course I felt like a bloody idiot when I began, but now I feel dumber when I don’t carry it.

Good Germans stood by. Good Muslims are standing by. Good Americans are standing by. Good Christians are standing by. It aztek-rips my living heart from my chest that we decent enough ordinary folk are not standing up for simple and shared Pursuit of Happiness with a living wage and universal healthcare and spectacular free education for every child.

Write a one-paragraph Letter to the Editor of your most local pennysaver paper — dying for opinions to print. Short is the key.

~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~.

When I read a gruesome quote from our Lizard Leader, “See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda,” my blood coagulates. 'Catapult the propaganda'! Or “You work three jobs? … Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that.” —George W. Bush, to a divorced mother of three, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005. Then I feel like my head is in some boschian horizontal pinwheelily spinning like I think may have happened in some Horror Movie I missed.

Hey, it's not like I'm some stinking amateur in political Horror. JFK murdered on my birthday and the whole ensuing list of death and outrages stealing from a shared Pursuit of Happiness we might have embarked on had Kennedys (J & B) lived; Martin lived; Jimmy, Walter, Michael — all smart & decent & not GigaGreedy. Dear Bill & Hillary, I am a devotee. And Al an environmentalist who Yes, GOT the internet (We'd clearly have universal healthcare and universal wifi by now.)

Instead, horrible ole Tricky (& Henry the K, a minion-creep); Ronald who made the first big fateful TheoFascist Bargains; Dad George had horrible slithery underlings (Dick & slithery ilk), and as Ann the Divine said, “George was born on third base and thought he hit a triple.”

It was bad enough I thought — the horror, the horror outside a book — but little did I know the Dark Heartlessness to come.

I'm a tough old buzzard, but these Present Menaces have got me spooked.

Not that I don't get up every day and fight the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

with all the unquenchable spunk I can muster,

pogblog

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12 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 64 08.04.05 thur

♫ffsk 790 8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

Posted on August 3, 2005 by wendy fleet

Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05

Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Only recently have Incarnates developed sufficient consciousness to be considered galactics rather than merely humans, the galactic slang for clever pets.

     The raging Question that divides the Galactic Council is where the line is drawn for full sentience privileges. Terrans have been considered spiritual chattel, and few of these Earthers are given more than minimal attention by their occasionally resident Ethereal or Noncarnate. Among those rare earnest Ethereals who do bother to honor and tend their Terrans, there is an outcry against Incarnate abuse — abuse of the human creature
    Most other Ethereals are indifferent to the well-being of their Terran hosts. Many Ethereals use Incarnates or solid Earth bodies as an amusement ride or as an experiment. Too few bother to weave a mutuality of experience that gives a steady and reliable élan to the Earthbound.
    It is inconvenient to tend your Terran creature. Their reaction time is slow. They do not speak Galactic which is an holographic multi-dimensional oneiro-language. Terrans can be — well, usually are — stubborn and sulky, and, in relative terms, it must be admitted that they are one degree or another of just plain stupid.
    It is hard to resist wanting to see them react in a frenzy to the most simplistic propaganda. It is especially fun to give them a jolt of cupid juice and watch them make fawning fools of themselves. If you have not forged an irrevocable empathetic bond, it is easy to dismiss them as a gaggle of clever geese.
    At best, most of the multitude of Ethereals can be brought to pity these Terran beasts, these vessels, but damn few respect the creatures.
    It is the contention of the Sentient Rights Party that Ethereals should be denied access to a personal Terran unless the Ethereal is willing to have some training and to sign a set of Incarnate Interaction Guidelines the flaunting of which incurs genuine repercussion.    The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

heed it, grok it —

The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition — in oneiro-density — can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

     Spiritual physics and spiritual psychology are very different in density, intensity, and consequence from those of the solid Earth Realm, and the Ethereal who thinks the Terran can recover from mayhem, mutilation, and misery with the quickness that it does in the more protean, less-dense lands is deluding itself.
    You enjoy the Terrans’ augmented sensitivity, and though you can, you may not torment these tender creatures for your own kicks. Perhaps worse is the boredom you inflict on your Terran partner when you erratically withdraw your attention in order to pursue quicker, slicker galactic games.
    No one requires that you partner a solid realm Terran, but if you do, you must comprehend at least the rudiments of how they experience time. To you, time is in most regards ephemeral and holospheric, a quixotic erotic zephyr. To them it is largely sequential, a river, and what to you would seem sluggish.
    If you spend some least effort, Terrans can learn some of your quicksilver ways, and you for your part can swim in delicious thick water that could actually drown you. The consequences of ethereal action and of the more dense incarnate action are so different. You give Terrans glimpses of a quicksilver and golden life and they call you angels who live in heaven and you are so flattered that you accept the superiority and bask in their adulation when in fact Terrans are better, more accomplished and more gifted and doggèd in their own dense realm than you can ever be.
    If Terrans had full Sentient Rights, if they joined the Galaxy, you could speak together in respect, you could each impart your special knowledge. Incarnate abuse poisons the whole Galaxy in the end. Incarnate abuse cannot be kept a filthy little backwater-world secret forever. It stains our souls.
    You don’t care if you slaughter them in warring herds, crush and splinter them in car wrecks, twist them with disease. It’s all a frisson to you: you get a buzz from their flood of adrenalin. You are detached from their terror; they are embedded in it.
    It is that creature’s only direct life, and there ought be limits to how you toy with that precious span. Terrans have become sufficiently sentient to deserve Galactic recognition as Sentients with Protected Rights.    Early on, it was a cool trick to inhabit the more dense realms and to discover the particular spectrum of experience that a solid body and linear experience gives. As the creatures developed culture, civilization, and history, you shifted from being their masters to being their partners, or those without hellish arrogance did. It became their world while we weren’t watching.
    The ethereal experience may be the pearl in the oyster, but when you’re hungry, it’s the oyster itself that gratifies.

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

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11 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 63 08.03.05 wed

♫ffsk 884 8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Ask Dr. Druid

Druid thought; obsidian humor; radically sane politics;

Monthly Archives: August 2005

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

Vulture Culture

My brother Sisyphus . .

Dimensions of a Perfect Protest Sign .. Army-of-One Protesting

Sacred Honor Ground — Do NOT Move .. rules for peace protest

Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

08.06.05 .. unbearable echo .. Do one small thing

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

the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets