Monthly Archives: October 2005

Rove, Libby, & the Hubris Band

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> Rove, Libby, & the Hubris Band

 

10 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzolkin 140  10.19.05 wed

  I think about power and its temptations.

   Here at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />2:41am early Wednesday morning we don’t know what Mr. Fitz is going to do. The fate of the Pretty Planet is in unusual flux tonight under a Taurus full moon. Has hubris dented KarlBoy, the serial rapist of reputations? Going after people’s families is Karl’s lifelong ugly m.o. “Cross me and you really pay.” It’s not hardball, it’s evilball. I. Lewis Libby (Irving Lewis Libby – interesting how he disguises the ‘Irving.’) is more of a cipher, but he clearly managed to hijack the front pages of the New York Times to give credence to the WHIG (White House Iraq Group) WMD hysteria. Judy Miller – she fell for insidership – so so seductive having access, having a key to the executive washroom. I wonder who paid for those two-hour breakfasts at the St. Regis? Her? Him? Dutch? How does that work? Do you entwine aspen-root ankles under the table hidden by the heavily starched white linen table cloth?

    I wouldn’t care three figs about their poorly-scripted (aspen roots!) little power games or perks if they weren’t stealing the future blind and deaf and dumb with this monstrous Military Budget of $820,000 per minute, not including the extra $200,000 per minute for the Iraq debacle.

    But tonight I’m interested in the machinations of Fat E. We’ll know something soon, but this calm before the storm is always a fascinating phenomenon. You can almost hear the pressure wave advancing from the future, but we aren’t attuned so well to those registers. For instance we can’t hear coal being patiently crushed into diamond. Is there an instant when it goes from coal-black to startling clear? Or does it go from black to grey to clear over millennia? Why hasn’t all coal at a certain depth turned to diamond?

    Why can’t we hear the astonishing furnaces of photosynthesis enchantingly alchemming sunlight into apples? Into pears? And pears into bears? Does the pitch of photosynthesis change from dawn on through to twilight? Is it like the 15 lbs per sq inch that we’re so perfectly adjusted to that we simply don’t notice it? If you were a photosynthesis maestro, would you hear a different note from a palm frond than from a gingko leaf? What an instrument, the photosynthesizer.

   I do know that, when you think of them, the gems in the earth flicker or flash or glimmer depending on their mood and yours. I can see them and the green light of emerald or the shine of amethyst, the color of Cupid’s eyes. But I haven’t heard them before tonight. I hadn’t thought to listen. I was so pleased when The Blue, my pal, sent me the billet doux of noticing them under my feet, riches always, wherever I walked or danced or somersaulted or napped.

    So, clearly, curiosity should always remain pesky and cat-like. (Do you know the second line to the nostrum? “Curiosity killed the cat.” But the line nobody know is “Satisfaction brought her back!”)

    The people who taught me most about curiosity were Blake, Hopkins, Nabokov, and Borges. The universe in a grain of sand. The tyger and you my obsidian cruelty and the sentinel oak tree burning bright in the forest of the night. Gashgold vermilion –the flash of the back-lit wings of a wheeling hawk. Gashgold vermilion – the color of lava and of an embering coal covered by soft gray ash, gashed to show its vermilion heart.  The pattern of the mane of a pony galloping in a storm. If your heart isn’t always about to burst with desire and dazzledness, you need a transfusion.

    So here I am tonight and Fat E is unfurling the scroll. Who knows what turns of the screw she has feyly and slyly plotted? (Sometimes I think that it is because someone like you, mon chou, broke her heart that she plays such wicked tricks upon us?)       

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In this week of October 17 2005, it's time to re-view several mid-summer thoughts and refresh our memories on the real essential rottenness of Mr. Rove & how many people he has hurt — with premeditated malice.   

 

    [07.26.05] What worries me now is the New Pearl harbor booster-shot. Clearly their Crying Wolf and the We’ll be greeted as Liberators like in the streets of Paris at the end of WWII (dubya dubya 2) – the New Streets of Paris gambit – is wearing off. You beat the Fear Drum long enough and people just learn to live with that level of Fear. It’s clear we need a booster-shot of New Pearl Harbor. Remember the Enron-summer 2001,the Shrub poll numbers are being defoliated with the agent-orange of Enron/World Com. Boom.

   I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, New-Pearl-Harbor fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.

     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight?

 

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Karl Rove .. serial Smearer ..

.. thug psychology ..

 

This gets us up-to-date and gives you something to copy to friends who may not be hip to these sad and dreadful underpinings to the Present Scrupleless Folk who sadly have our sweet future under their heels. 

 

The hydra-headed info about Mr. Rove's unfettered willingness to smear people is remarkably chilling and under-reported. There are people twisted by power throughout history who we remember for centuries. I think when the full story is known of Mr. Rove's deep willingness to go after people's actual strengths with outright lies and ruin their reputations and lives and say as Mr. Bush did to Mr. McCain with a shrug, “It's politics, John,” Rove will be remembered with the Torquemadas and Machiavellis. Even if you don't know exactly what they did, your skin involuntarily crawls. They were willing to be inhuman or anti-human in a way the rest of us cannot fathom.

 

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 fixed intel  which Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.'

 

Mr. Rove is a serial Smearer. He gets worse and more bold as he keeps getting away with it. And it often has a peculiar sexual innuendo — his male political consultant rival who supposedly made a pass at a young man at a Republican bbq; Ann Richards as lesbian and lesbian sympathizer; the judge with children's charities as pedophile. Accusations where the poor deny-er gets in a “Have you stopped beating your wife' circular hell.

 

I am sick of someone who acts, in  Josh Green's phrase in the Nov 2004 Atlantic, “where conscience forbids most others” getting cut such slack in the media. At the very least this person should be shunned, not lionized. (He certainly should also be on administrative leave with no security clearance.)

 

Of course, I would be completely happy to have the wonderful Ann Richards be a lesbian or whatever the heck she wants. But in Texas at the time, this untruth was spread as a 'dirty secret.' Some parts of Texas are lagging in their ability to encompass variety.

 

It is impossible to get the Smearodent Toothpaste back in the tube. What is John McCain to say? “No, I didn't father a black baby with a prostitute.” Then just even more people hear about it and wonder. Or John Kerry and the Swift Boat ads. “No, it was dangerous as hell and I could have died and I was really brave, unlike you, you chicken hawk.”

 

You can't rebut this garbage without sounding defensive or vain. The victim of these tactics is in a serious trap.

 

yours in distress, pogblog

 

These details of thug psychology come from years of studying this, beginning with the ruthless mentor Lee Atwater, way surpassed by his disciple Karl. A very good recent look is Josh Green's Nov 2004 Atlantic article. (Mr. Green has zero association with the opinions in this post, of course.)

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

10 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzol 140  10.19.05 wed

ffwofw 637§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1106

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Swords into laptops — $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

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

 $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

 

 In my experience of so many schools, they are afraid to have their kids' fingers in the socket of the universe. I know that kids have a right to a radiant, mischievous, surprising life and that such a life can be more or less sensible.

Just like electrical engineering can be taught so you can get your house and town wired, radiance engineering can be taught so you can get your inner mansion lit.

We use at best 10% of our on-board computer. Quantum Schools will shoot for 20%. Double the capacity to seamlessly handle experi-data — the intoxication you mention as a foundational, steady state, the base rate, drunk without slurring or hangovers.

.

Adding the first 2% is already exhilarating & somersaulting. Getting high on 'air' will put a hole in alcohol & drug sales but is otherwise quite benign.

The neonutcon lizards are a drainingly dreary distraction from the future much more ruled by art than by commerce. When artists and teachers are applauded & paid, not so obscenely as the Corp-Hogs were, but well — and mainly the art in EVERYone and I mean YOU too, pilgrim, whoever you are — the art in EVERYone will be the duty of the society to foment & ferment & tend. We're only a decade or two from that. Ultraband, free wireless very broadband, will bring the art-in-each revolution to a simmer which then Educationism will bring to the lovely boil. People will not ask What do you do for a living? — but rather What do you do for a living?

Once we start the Big Turn from all the resources being poured into the rathole of Militarism to the same bounty being poured into Educationism, the world will begin to bloom like a fxxg flower. When you look back from Y3000 you can see the faintest of the dawning flower light — or flowering dawn light — rising in our time. I am not seer enough to see the exact timeframes from that distance, but the collective unconscious is harrowed of these unfun fundamentalizms — the shadow, fear-ridden — that we have to salve & solve while we can more merrily press on, regardless.

Basically we change out violence for art and eros. We still have lots of invigorating violence, but not not not in K1. (see pogblog's Glossary for definitions.)

I am always amazed by how someone like Peter Jackson (love-slave material) can orchestrate so much cathartic violence & no one gets hurt at all. Sweet.

As long as violence remains in a medium (dreams for instance) that allows for all but instant regeneration, who cares what consenting adults do?

You could say that this K1 masterpiece of reality engineering is just a dingy Dungeon & Lizards and that we signed on for a bit of bleak & high-moral dudgeon in the dungeon — but see Ethereals on that nasty & brutish hobbesean theory.

 

More Island time & less RatRacery.

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Some more on art and violence. We’ve talked before on pogblog about the addiction-survival-circuits along which run all but irresistible desires to drink, gamble, snort, whatever. I think it’s safe to say that in general artists don’t use Uzis – except maybe Norman Mailer. (Just a joke, Norms.) The kind of fierce and controlled or even chaotic zone-energy that addicts soldiers with a sense of meaning and aliveness is found in art in a less ragingly virulent form than bloodthirst. Your brain on art. Now, there have been stupid cultural cross breeding with art and drugs or drinking or smoking. I myself recall that when I quit smoking cold quetzal in ’88, my bigger fear than weight gain was the loss of some creative intensity. To which I can now say Nonsense. A clear brain is fiercely lovely to live in. A half-gallon a day of Carlo Rossi white isn’t necessary fuel. Air does work fine.

   But these are niceties. The big militant pacifist cause celebre is getting us off the death &  mutilation jag. I use Sandy Calder of mobile fame and myself as examples that artists can manage to lead a life of intense and fruitful art without have to drink or drug themselves into stupor or death. Rather like Gandalf’s Shadowfax, the wild horse can be honored and partnered with.

     The connection of great art and misery is a crock. Many artists of a certain era were conned into that semi-tragic pose. Now, sooth be said, the loneliness of being out on the edge is an acquired taste. But not all art has to be philosophic or psycho-illogical or psychic edge exploration. The zone is a swell invigoration. And when more of us are doing it instead of just being corporate mules, we’ll have the chuffy fellow obsidian humor that illuminates the darker passages of art’s delving.

    Vivid life on Earth is at risk with these theopatriot cogists in league with militarism to the tune of $820,000 per minute. I don’t know the tax break to the midasses making over $600,000 per year exact figures, but they’ll congeal your blood. Alchemy rises: change militarism to educationism.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

9 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 139  10.18.05 tues

ffwofw 839§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1105

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Get Addicted

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Get Addicted!

the unicorn of addiction

 “Please get addicted. Just say yes. Please get addicted quickly. Them as have tut-tutted about your addictions were way wrong, dood and doodette. Addiction is cool stuff if you’re addicted to licking the blue sky like an ice cream cone with your eyes. Addiction is delicious if you bask in the sea of bright air like a dolphin lazing luxurious in the ocean.”

 Immersed in the topaz shimmer of twilight, some rhapsodists were gathered at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />FortItude for a potluck summer supper. Cha Racter was regaling them with tales of a whole world hooked on raw radiance. Cha was a very fat, very chic black lady whose soul was rich and baroque with intriguing decoration. She sang so sweet and compelling, your heart unfroze. “Hey, baby,” she would whisper huskily to you, “I sing the blues, the peaches, the pinks, the greens, the aquamarines. You gonna know from ‘color’ when I get done with you.” Cha was wearing a tight scarlet satin jump suit which left no doubt about the intimate geography of her mountains of flesh. “Tough to trust the thin ones, honey,” she would confide, “they can resist stuff.”

 Cha crooned on, impelled by scattered applause and appreciative laughter, “We have spent a lifetime perfecting our pernicious habits. If we could apply a modicum of that zeal and cunning to crafting positive addictions, we’d thrive, we’d soar, we’d gambol.

 “Frankly, on the face of it, the mystery is not how to get radiant, but rather how we get ensnared by the stupid blandishments of boredom, guilt, and self-pity, those life-wasters.

 “Once you have turned on the radiance, it is the essential and immutable condition of your life. You cannot deny it, cannot defy it. The ice in your soul is melted. You know the sun will rise in the pearly morning. Once you have the knack, you cannot unsee the inner light in each thing dwells, you cannot unfeel the pulse of each living thing—each existing thing. The stone, the wall, as well as the polished leaf, the glistening crow wings.

 “Go on. Swallow radiance, guzzle radiance, snort radiance, shoot up radiance. Air should sear your soul; that you can breathe, that your eyes blink should shock you with glory and raw joy. Once reverence has gotcha, once reverence is your modus operandi, once you’re hooked, you can just get on with living your life in a lively, passionate, sensible way.

 “Once you get the balance point, you cannot unride the bicycle. Once you get the balance point, you cannot unswim. Once the black squiggles coalesce, crystallize, you cannot unread.

 “There is a twofold trick to ‘seeing’ radiance. One aspect is like sending out your attention through your eyes to touch and taste all the objects you perceive ‘out there.’ Most of us do this automatically when we see an adorable kitten or a scrumptious smorgasbord. We know how to do this radiance trick. We just severely, I would say pathologically, limit the objects of our wholehearted attention, affection, and delight. If we’d find it all interesting, riveting, galvanizing, we’d be rich in radiance.

 “The other aspect of the raw joy trick is to open or widen your eyes and let more of the radiance in. Each pulsing ‘object’ and ambience emits a particular fragrance of light which we can inhale through our eyes.

 “Let’s not deny we’re addicted. Let’s proclaim we’re addicted. Then we can get all the garbage out in the open, out in the light. If we can examine how we so loyally and perfectly perform our present de-structive addiction, we realize with the stark clarity of a bolt of lightning that we already own the tools, the accomplished skills to perform con-structive addiction.

 “It may well be that some of you need a gap, a synapse of refusal of your present addiction-content in order to bring the pattern into your consciousness long enough for you to watch it and capture it for happier uses.

 “Pretend that your addiction is a unicorn, this elegant, brilliant, fabulous creature, elusive in the dappled shadows of your inner forest.

 “When you finally contrive to gently capture the unicorn, you look into her (or his) eyes, look into her eyes, those deep golden eyes and with a shift in your very molecules, you swear you will never feed this exquisite creature anything but beauty and whatever wisdom you forage for with all your whole devotion.

 “Would you feed this belovèd, blessed unicorn the poisons, the toxins of gambling, smoking, drugs, gorging, or alcohol? Would you? Could you?

 “This is not a moral issue, my darlings, it is an issue of beauty, of sanity, of well-being.

 “In ancient Chinese legend, the unicorn is the colors of the rainbow. Where her hooves fall, no blade of grass is bruised. And music is heard in the air as she passes.

 “Destructive addiction is a darkness. Constructive addiction is in light, is in a sweet song.

 “A lullaby?

 “My pal, Toby Morton whose addictions led him to the slammer asked himself how in the world he would deal with his drinking buddy, George, when they got back together after Toby gets out? I said, ‘Toby honey, it ain’t your friendship on the line, it’s your life at stake.’”

 Cha Racter continued, “Sweethearts, if Toby were lucky enough to be out here with us in this sweet free air, he would tell us that we don’t have a clue, not one clue, how deep free is, how deep beauty is. His world is heavy, metal doors and cinder blocks. Do you think that when he gets back out here in our carnival, our Mardi Gras, our Fat Tuesday, our Fat Wednesday, Fat Thursday, our Fat Days, he’s gonna soil and spoil this free, this glee with destructive addicted garbage? Or is he gonna fall to his knees and kiss the free Earth? And rise a knight of light?”

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 138  10.17.05  mon

ffwofw 1000§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1100

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Karl Rove .. serial Smearer.. thug psychology ..

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In this week of October 17 2005, it's time to re-view this mid-summer article and refresh our memories on the real essential rottenness of Mr. Rove & how many people he has hurt — with premeditated malice.   

 

Karl Rove .. serial Smearer ..

.. thug psychology ..

 

This gets us up-to-date and gives you something to copy to friends who may not be hip to these sad and dreadful underpinings to the Present Scrupleless Folk who sadly have our sweet future under their heels. 

 

The hydra-headed info about Mr. Rove's unfettered willingness to smear people is remarkably chilling and under-reported. There are people twisted by power throughout history who we remember for centuries. I think when the full story is known of Mr. Rove's deep willingness to go after people's actual strengths with outright lies and ruin their reputations and lives and say as Mr. Bush did to Mr. McCain with a shrug, “It's politics, John,” Rove will be remembered with the Torquemadas and Machiavellis. Even if you don't know exactly what they did, your skin involuntarily crawls. They were willing to be inhuman or anti-human in a way the rest of us cannot fathom.

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

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 fixed intel  which <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.'

 

Mr. Rove is a serial Smearer. He gets worse and more bold as he keeps getting away with it. And it often has a peculiar sexual innuendo — his male political consultant rival who supposedly made a pass at a young man at a Republican bbq; Ann Richards as lesbian and lesbian sympathizer; the judge with children's charities as pedophile. Accusations where the poor deny-er gets in a “Have you stopped beating your wife' circular hell.

 

I am sick of someone who acts, in  Josh Green's phrase in the Nov 2004 Atlantic, “where conscience forbids most others” getting cut such slack in the media. At the very least this person should be shunned, not lionized. (He certainly should also be on administrative leave with no security clearance.)

 

Of course, I would be completely happy to have the wonderful Ann Richards be a lesbian or whatever the heck she wants. But in Texas at the time, this untruth was spread as a 'dirty secret.' Some parts of Texas are lagging in their ability to encompass variety.

 

It is impossible to get the Smearodent Toothpaste back in the tube. What is John McCain to say? “No, I didn't father a black baby with a prostitute.” Then just even more people hear about it and wonder. Or John Kerry and the Swift Boat ads. “No, it was dangerous as hell and I could have died and I was really brave, unlike you, you chicken hawk.”

 

You can't rebut this garbage without sounding defensive or vain. The victim of these tactics is in a serious trap.

 

yours in distress, pogblog

 

These details of thug psychology come from years of studying this, beginning with the ruthless mentor Lee Atwater, way surpassed by his disciple Karl. A very good recent look is Josh Green's Nov 2004 Atlantic article. (Mr. Green has zero association with the opinions in this post, of course.)


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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
………….<^>……………..

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

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

 

The Universe Moved ..

reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

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


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

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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to be continued .. ..

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

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

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Judy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie, & Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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This is all pleasantly vicious gossip from the last few days. If you're too fine for that sort of thing, skip this. We'll be back to being high-minded tomorrow. 

 

Judy Wudy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie,

& Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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

I thought this last paragraph of the permission-to-talk-to-the-grand-jury letter to NYT's chief shrill shill for the Iraq war (she gulped down slitherer-in-chief Ahmed Chalabi's koolaid) Judy Miller in jail from vice president UnLiving Dead Chenoid's Chief of Staff Scooter Libby was an urban myth made up by some enterprising blogger, but no, he really wrote it to her. Very very odd.

“You went into jail in the summer. It is fall now. You will have stories to cover — Iraqi elections and suicide bombers, biological threats and the Iranian nuclear program. Out West, where you vacation, the aspens will already be turning. They turn in clusters, because their roots connect them. Come back to work — and life. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts and prayers — With admiration, Scooter Libby.”

All the bloggoagoggosphere is speculating that it's code for “if you don't stay connected (& on connected message), look out, cowgirl.” “Thoughts & prayers” — ???? Sounds a tad hazily gazing over a glass of champagne in low light to me. Not exactly a source to a journalist. Too many trysts under the scowling portrait of Uncle Dick in the outer office after hours? 

////

 

It was EMBARRASSING to see Judy Wudy Miller on Lou Dobbs — she was being so girlie and flirty and submissive and sychophanty, I all but womitted. “Oh Lou,” bat eyelashes (I didn't know real people actually did batting eyelashes — I thought it was only Barbie in some pubescent guy's fevered imagination) bat eyelashes, “oh Lou-ie, your littly whittly calendar counting my days in jail gave me so muchie wuchie hope!!!” — bat eyelashes, sigh, sigh. One could all but see the hearts as 'i' dots. Groan — took woman-kind back at least 2 centuries. I wanted to say Get a Room.

 

It was ghastly.

IF Cheney were indicted, I would spontaneously bust into a bloody confetti of Compleat JOY

 

//////////

Chancelucky wrote a very droll piece on his chancelucky blog about the NeoCon's Poets Society which you'll enjoy. To which I added the following Breaking News.

 

In the interests of Image Warming, ChanceLucky, I too have been hired by an increasingly, if I may say so, frayed Karlsie Rove. Karlsie and I had a little fling once upon a fairy-tale time, oh my, but we're all back on a pretty professional basis now that he took up with that <b>Scooter-leavings slattern Judy Miller</b>. I heart Karlsie, but he's trying to keep her from talking by doing her favors, nudge, wink.

I am negotiating for a new Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream to be called Karl Roves Band: NeoNutCons, 10% of the profits to go to the Scooter-Karlsie Defense Fund — ScoKaDefenFu. It will be a Noble Cause. This delicious vanilla ice cream will contain peanuts, walnuts, almonds, cashews, pistachios — the leitmotif of this wonderful new ice cream is NeoNutCons — Lots o' Nuts!

I am including an excerpt from the super double secret transcript I found on pogblog that gives further info on the Judy A. Miller complex of infatuations. I'm not trying to suggest that she slept her way to the top of the DC Mis-Info Chain — I'm stating it baldly — including my once-squeeze Baldy Karlsie, may he live an eternity of conscious torment!

I think Chalabi just unzipped & she went all girlie & believed him about the non-existent nukes. “Oh Ahmed, you are so strong. Please tell me more.” And kinda like Mata Chalabi, he plied her with fantastical tales.

Next day phone call to NYT, left on private phone message machine — “Miss Judy, I will not see you again and show you my Saddam-sized weapon of mass distruction if you do not print my stories on the front page of the New York Times. Why do you think a flighty birdbrain like you was ever planted on the NYT staff in the first-place? It's pay-up time. This is Ahmed. 555-555-3450.” [The zero where the 'six' should be is a code for 'no sex' according to my college prof talking about 'A Perfect Day for Banana Fish' & the 507 number on the hotel door. Who knew?]

Return call, on machine “Please no, please no, my Chalabi. I must see you so our aspen roots can intertwine. Please be mine. I cannot print your stories on the front page because they do fact checking! Of course, unless I slip some on the side to the fact-checker. Who is a burly brute. Please no, please no, my Chalabi.”
Well, the rest is, as they say they say, history.

There is a subsubsubunder-alles rumorrumorrumor surrumor that the Lurker In Your Dreams, Dr. Lurker could take an indictment in the neck. But I don't think even Fitzgerald The Noble would have the huevos to do that. He wouldn't live through the afternoon. Dr. Lurker would cue Armageddon for sure & go off to the underground Dr. Lurker Haven under that mountain in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Colorado. My fear is that he is already there with his pus-dripping finger poised over the Armageddon Button.


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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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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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5 Eagle . Men . West . tzolkin 135  10.14.05 fri
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The Horizontal Model & the art of collaboration

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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

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The Land of the Dead is Lively

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

The Land of the Dead is Lively

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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The Part of Art

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The Part of Art

What part does art play in solving the quantum equations of the next human leap into a kinder destiny?

Idyll # 1

I wanted to tell you about the kilim exhibit. Some years ago in the De Young, I think. I wandered through the immense marbled halls hung with remarkable kilim or ‘Turkish rugs.’ The work, the dedication. They were beautiful. They were compelling. Their symmetry spoke of a holy determination to honor God. Everything had to be tended — the sheep, the thread, the dyes, the wood of the loom. The apprentice becomes the master. How many moons rose gold and set silver? The songs chanted. The water fetched in a battered wooden bucket after morning prayers. The rugs appeared in a powerful and obedient symmetry.

There were rugs more than 700 years old. Some men worked on cathedrals. Some men worked on kilim. Honor was paid to the Creator.

After more than an hour of rapt contemplation, I came around a corner and saw yet another kilim. It hit me with such a shock, like I’d been struck by lightning — seared like that. From the 14th century, there like a message straight to the secret center of my heart was this magical, astonishing, asymmetric kilim. It was wildly celebratory, and broke all the rules. I felt a surge of joy so deep and fierce I wasn’t sure I could live past that very moment. Yes, oh yes, one could be different. I was not ever completely alone again. He dared. I dared. As long as we sought as much beauty as we could stand, it was wonderful. Tears just ran silently down my face in greeting, in gladness. People swarmed thru the galleries, but somehow I was alone around this corner as if the universe wanted to grant me this special audience with this kindred spirit from the deep past.

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Addendum tothe Part of Art


I should add a sentence or two about the symmetry vs asymmetry.

The key is that all of the other kilim or rugs “appeared in a powerful and obedient symmetry.”

'My' kilim, on the other hand, was “magically & astonishingly asymmetric kilim. It was wildly celebratory, and broke all the rules.”

The symmetry of the others was a visible & outward & deliberate & expected sign of the obedience to God, presumably Allah. The exquisite and intricate care taken to have the left side mirror the right side and the top mirror the bottom was part of the woven reverence itself. This as the way it was done.

And all the symmetry was either completely or very abstract & symbolic, also part of not daring to suggest any imitation of God Allah.

Whoever this other weaver was, s/he wove a scene which would be quirky avant garde genius even today. It had bold birds and vines, not photographic, but filled with juice and mischief and coyness and just verve. It was sophisticated, funny, brilliantly wrought and utterly against the tide of the time. Dangerously so probably.

Having never myself danced to my time's tune, I felt this savage sudden kinship with a fellow spirit across the centuries. It fortified me and gleed me too in my quest for the grail of untamed truth.…………….<^>……………..
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for wonder, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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1 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 132  10.10.05 mon      
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