Year Zero With Blood – Y3000 Sans Bullets

Year Zero With Blood – Y3000 Sans Bullets

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

The time is Y0, the Year 0. (Not really Y0, of course, as there had been fabulous human history for more before the so-called Year Zero than after.) Still to come is the Inquisition, the Crusades. The manifestly destined wrecking of the Native Americans North & South from sea to shining sea. The importation of human chattel as slaves from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Africa. The on-going oppression of women as a subtler chattel, or cattle. A myriad of ultimately aimless named-slaughters and unnamed dismemberments and indentures. A myriad is ten thousand so 4.9875 Stupid Slaughters a year is about right. The singed shuddering stench of the electric chair. Ah the glory of mankind.

 

Of course there was real and sweet and tender glory of dappled things seen by poets and notes written, mozartian and billets doux. I talk heartbrokenly about the smoky turquoise of your eyes and that is science and jazz, worth the synapses being arranged more complexly than mollusks’.

 

But I’m trying to compare for you that things can change in a few thousand years. Not the lyric and empiric, but the stunningly stupid. So by Y3000 we have plank-alongside-of-the head finally gotten some crucial things.

 

 It is insane to spend $820,000 per minute on weapons systems and other modalities of destruction.

 

Whoops, I forgot the extra $200,000 per minute on ‘off-the-books’ Iraq. We figure that out considerably before Y3000. Education R We, Yippee and glee all around. We get it in a flash flood down the arroyo of the collective consciousness and conscience around 2033. Oh, it would serve the world, the turquoise spaceship, better if every single centavo of our resources were devotedly devoted to education and fixing tsunamis, avalanches, quakes, and furacaos and so on. It seems so screamingly obvious from the vantage of Y3000. Just as we recoil from slavery, they recoil from our malignant waste, our belligerent narcissistic aggrandizement. And if not you directly, pilgrim, nor me – yet we allowed it. We were cowed. We were buffaloed. Apathy seeped into our unwary marrow.

    Further yet though, we wake. We refuse. We refuse to be duped. We refuse to be corporate cogs. We demand equality and happiness. We tend the planet and its denizens, very much including each other. Not in some simplistic norman-rockwell, hallmark card sappy way, but with respect and good humor and some semblance of sharing.

   We take responsibility – the ability to respond. We buy out all our military obligations to veterans. We train all those military age young folk to build and repair. They extend the wifi infrastructure and teach computers to young and old. We use people skillfully. We employ people in creating a planet we can be proud of in Y3000. As if the planet were a pearl and your soul a jewel I hold in my hand.

  

appendix: There is a tricky journey between here and there because we don’t all get sane at once. We have to have ingenious substitutes for aggression and belligerence to which many are adrenally addicted. Let them design very violent video games. You don’t prefer that to one single actual amputee where the stupid sods actually blew someone up? For gods’ sakes get the porn less hidden so we can hose it down with some dark humor.

   The more you fight, the more they fight. There is no victory that way, no matter your determination. It simply doesn’t work. They don’t bunch up conveniently in armies on fronts. Those days are long long past. You have to do an alchemy and shift their murderous intentions to tending. Teach them to protect rather than to destroy. It works sooner than you think once we get the line down the rapids. Education ∞.  

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

12 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 181  11.29.05 tues

ffwofw 622§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Insurgents Will Fight Us for 300 Years

Insurgents Will Fight Us for 300 Years

 

I'd be honored if you would borrow this, use it as a template, or use it as a spur for your own Letter to the Editor. I just sent this to our paper today. It's 139 words.

 

Editor:

   I always remember Ho Chi Minh, the winning <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam general, saying, “We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years.”

   The Vietnam Memorial with its 58,000 forlorn names is 150 yards long. If there were a memorial to the Vietnam dead of the same scale of writing etc, it would be nine miles long. We're not going to “beat” this insurgency in Iraq. There is no front line, no identifiable uniformed army to crush by might and determination. There are nine miles worth of IED (Improvised Explosive Devices) planters. Their young men suicide with cheap bombbelts. Ours with expensive Hummers and tanks. They'll die nine miles worth. They'll fight us for 300 years.

   The Murtha Option of immediately re-deploying a quick-strike force to Kuwait and otherwise taking the fuel of Occupation out of their fire seems sensible. 

…………….<^>……………..

Remember that you always have to submit your name, address, and phone number with a Letter to the Editor.

………….<^>……………..

…………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

13 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 182  11.30.05 wed

ffwofw 181§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Cheney viperiens extremos & the Humor Transplant

Nov. 05. In my hapless and indelible optimism, I keep waking up like Pippa believing that !today! we'll get it and proceed to the Frabjous Projects of silly abundance. Let's build stuff. More bilbaos please. Cathedrals of Education and Art. But Mr. Cheney abides so far. I am trusting he ain't Methuselah, however.

…….

Today <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />10-28-05 7:20:54 am Friday, we are awaiting Mr. Fitz and the FixedIntelGate Report. I’ve been up for the many hours and will be adding material at the bottom of this essay-which is an hub of the Obsidian Humor series.  

 

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

Cheney viperiens extremos & the Humor Transplant

 

     Myrth said, “In ClownSchool InterD, we don’t just get to indulge in fugu. There is fugu discipline. Fugu is the expert filleting of the exceedingly poisonous Hypocrisy fish, especially those found in the Religious and Political Oceans of Hubris. Gods alone know that our keen tools and our only wyrd and terrible weapons – Be ye terrified ye 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings – our wyrd and terrible weapons are words. It’s necessary and fun to kebab the 12ftTall Lizards. I love weapon-words third only to the silver cat and the feloniously handsome Fuller. But we need to turn sword-words into plowshare words after we’ve welcomed the unfanged and unblinded, reasonably cheerful and modest 12ftTall Lizards back into the gallivanting human family. We need to explore with you students of comedy how people live in the aprèsWar world.

     “First let’s remind ourselves of the three great Greek philosophic constellations of inquiry: metaphysics; epistemology; ethics. Metaphysics deals with what is real. Epistemology with how we know. And ethics with what is good. The epistemology, the how of thinking, being, seeing is a lot of what ClownSchool InterD is about.

    “What do you do when you’re not gnashing your teeth; not wasting obscene sums of money on megalomaniacal weapons systems like the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars; and not lashing out at people who snog a Different Deity than you do?   

    “Sursurprisingly, there is a way to live fruitfully and passionately and cheerfully without waking up in the morning rarin’ to perfect more Schemes to mutilate children.

    “But first, the ClownSchool InterD psybio team works holoday round perfecting the Humor Transplant operation that deflates the crazy hubris of the 12ftTall Lizards to bring them back into genuinely empathetic human scale. The radical and aggressive treatment probably necessary for cheney viperiens extremos is emergency splenectomy. The metastasized spleen just has to be hacked out on the spot—at the bus stop (As if any of them would ever ride a bus!) or at the dinner party with the butter knife or at the humvee sales lot.

   “Hustle ‘em off to the ClownSchool ER and stick an Irony Transfusion IV into the soft skin inside the crook of their left elbow (the one nearest their vestigial heart) and play Mozart, Yo Yo Ma, Bella Fleck, and Hui Ohana til you see them giddy with grin. For a Cheney or Rove equivalent, this treatment could take years.

     “For people in less acute stages of satanically septic Reptilianosis, a course of ironyotherapy treatments are critical to recovery. Severe religiopatriosis is, like stroke, an attack whose redemptive recovery is long term – you’re never cured, you’re always a religiopatrioholic in recovery. The high the 12ftTall Lizards get is so fauxEupho that you have to kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least to protect yourself from the toxic effects of the effluvius and supperating contact corruption.

   “ ‘What!?’” you 12ft Lizards cry in unbridled disbelief. ‘What?! kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least?’

    “ ‘What!?’ the clowns cry, ‘You’re sharing our supersecret occult ritual with the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings? Not. You can’t. It’s our, well, our thing, our secret handshake.’

   “Shhh. It’s ok. They won’t be 12fttall Lizards any more. Their swollen spleens will be removed or de-inflamed. The kissing the left little finger 8x will help them keep on the yellow brick path to recovery.”

   “Well,” Salma Nella groused, “ok, I guess. I liked having one exclusive thing. They had the Jesus blood-drinking, fleshing-eating thing; cathedrals; heavy bishops’ rings that clunk on your head at your first communion; psalm books; hymn books; stained glass windows. I wanted some gear, some paraphernalia, a hash pipe equivalent or two. But at least our Kiss8 secret. Dammit all, Myrth.” Salma glared. “Oh, ok, go ahead and spill the bloody beans.” 

   “Here goes, ClownSchool InterD clownfants. Kiss8.”

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

……

ClownSchool InterDimensional .. Where we learn at the interface between lucid waking & lucid dreaming. And have conscious forays into OtherLand. 

 

From the musical South Pacific, a daring song for the time:

 

“You have to be taught, carefully taught, to hate all the people your relatives hate¹, but you could be taught, carefully taught to dare like a columbus to set sail on the seas of your own art. Nothing could be more of a preposterous chance than those abzurd ships, the Nina, the Pinta. They dared and you can too. And the gold you find by doing your art is more pure and tarnishless than any treasured metal. 

…………….<^>……………..

 

¹ You've got to be taught
To hate and fear
You've got to be taught
From year to Year
It's got to be drummed
in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
To be Afraid
Of people whose eyes
are oddly made
And people whose skin
Is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
Before it's too late
Before you are 6 or 7 or 8
To hate all the people
your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught

from South Pacific 1949

 

………….<^>……………..

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

6 Water . Muluc . The River . East . tzol 149  10.28.05 fri 

ffwofw 771§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1115

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………

Black Candle, Meat Puppet, Insane Dancers

Black Candle, Meat Puppet, Insane Dancers

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

Most of you know The Blue. He drops off Unbidden Presents. If you’ve been writing a long time, you’ve figured out that it ain’t you who is so fine – all your original stuff was plunked into your sky by The Blue. Anyhow, The Blue and I have been pals for so long I forget the beginning. Of late he’s vouchsafed me the beastly and sublime Digrif, a clown with a humor so dark I had to coin the phrase “obsidian humor” to describe it. Of course there’s Frolic, the plush silver Burmese cat.

  

I can give you a tip or twain. The Blue is way partial to appreciation. And yet more partial to Surprise. Being deftly intent works well. The Blue hates to have the little in-between presents missed because you are a boor and a yawner. The little presents in-between the Smashing, Jaw-Dropping Presents. I’ll tell you more another time. In the meantime, notice. You must notice everything, lest you miss a present. The Blue will sulk if underappreciated. Happiness is not increased by a sulking The Blue. Do your part.

 

This evening’s presents were a poem by a friend in which she “stood at the door with one black candle.” One black candle is how we spectrally wander the halls of our dismay with Dick the dick, the Inquisitor from Mordor who slouched toward <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Washington and was born again. One black candle with its obsidian flame; we have to learn to see in the dark.

 

Tom Tomorrow, comicstripist, did a piece the denouement of which is that George2 is Cheney’s “meat puppet.” The phrase is new to me and grisly in its blood-dimming truth. Pipsqueak and ghoul. You can feel your blood paling as you are impaled by more sursurreal news of The Ventriloquist of Vice and his Meat Puppet. How did we come to this pass? My Thanks I Gave were that Dick the dick hasn’t incinerated us yet. We could never have guessed These Times. It was supposed to be Gore instead of gore. But apparently Fat E means us to deal with the shadow (jungian, among others) before we can be released from the Asylum into the nail-biting cosmos?

 

Dear Rob Brezsny, astrologer extraordinaire, delivered a Nietzsche quotation for The Blue: “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” So for those of you who dance to a gallivanting belief in a quirky and amused and illuminated future anon if not apace, I hear that music too and don’t let the leaden bastards tarnish your dear and brave dance.

 

By the way, if you’re still locked into linearity, quantum out of it quick. Astrology is the collected wisdom of the ancients according to Jung. Not the daily predictive stuff so much, but the mosaic patterns of personality and possibility. It is depth psychology comparable to the great Indian and other Eastern mind maps. All tidbits which can nudge or bludgeon us to the appreciation of individual differences are profoundly to be embraced.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

11 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzol 180  11.28.05 mon

ffwofw 509§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Dick Is the Octessential Villain


Dick Is the Octessential Villain
 
   Am still lurching unilluminated tho somewhat enriched thru the bardoes of exhaustion. As I plummet into the Great Ha! Ha!, the only bird which flies across my Exhaustion Sky is the distant memory of obsidian laughter — but otherwise the big Indigo is rippleless except for despising Dick Cheney who is so creepy that one's bone marrow crawls.
 
One wonders at the gods nibbling truffles and sipping a fine hoppy IPA (India Pale Ale) as they giggle and quill the script we're fated to play out in this gigantic EarthSide SoapOpera out of which one may not opt. “Golly, Fat E,” I cry, “Couldn't you write out Dick the dick for a nice solstice present?” Of course then I just get irritated that the xtians who are perfecting hypocrisy stole our nice raunchy and revelried unholy day first from the solstice and then our spring joliday too. Piffle. Rapture them up soonest.
   Dick is taking this villain-thing too seriously. It's not possible to be that Return of the Inquisitors without hours of perfecting the scowl and the smirk and the snarl in front of the mirror. Ick.
   Below is the essential Cheney piece  — worth visiting or re-visiting. We is had.
  
The Alamo & Dead Children & Dick Cheney
   part 1
   Sometimes there are <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo moments that gain in icepick-in-the-left-eye piercingness. Other lines-in-the-sand crossed diminish in ferocity of ache, but remain iconic in the steles¹ of your own story.
    Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins.
   That you bastards could call dead, mutilated children collateral damage is a scarlet fact so disgusting, so repugnant to the human of heart that I have crossed into an incandescence of rage.
   I will not accept a world in which the hissing and falsely pious utter the phrase collateral damage. To whom collateral?
    I could, in concept, possibly bear it if you fell blubbering to your knees keening screaming, tearing your over-starched white shirts from your chests in grief. But this mealy-mouthed measured crap. It is cursed.
    I crossed a line from past which there is no return. If you can utter the phrase collateral damage when you mean bomb-shattered – your bombs — dead, mutilated children, you so dishonor the dead that I revile you. You do not get the life you lost; you do not grok the life you lost; you do not drink the tears of the dead. There are no obscure wars. There is no collateral damage.
    In the Alamo, there came a time of decision. William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword. Step across this line and you offer you life and your sacred honor to a Fate certain to be cruel.
    Unmasking your Big Lies, Collateralizers, and your Vicious Euphemisms is my duty to the Dream from the Land of Nightmare. I will not sleep.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
part 1 + 1
    Professor Quetzal said, “We’d better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.
    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed by the de-euphemizing vaccine all the sane are so panickedly trying to develop against this Plague of Addiction to Big Lies, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry.
     “If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted persons or armies to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your baleful creeds and greeds.
    “Face twisted in a simulacrum of sincerity, you cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.
    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”
      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”
    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.
    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.
    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.
    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.
    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us.
     “But if you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”
 
…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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.
∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
¹ stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be.
anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of  the forked tongue.
…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 178  11.26.05  sat
ffwofw §8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/
..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….

Back Down the Coal Mines

Back Down the Coal Mines

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

    In order to study the possibility of having a just worldcould everyone have the luck and luxury of a superb education and we still get the grotty jobs done – I washed windows from 1979-2000. I proved my point. (See below in fable Justice.)

    I then taught community tv to amateurs for five years. Last February I got laid off with three other folk as a fairly desperate cost-saving measure. I got all my remaining 17 teeth extracted, have dentures now, started my blog, and am pursuing getting my book published. Dentures are obscenely expensive even with the dear help of a great dentist who is a friend of a friend of mine. I’ve been spending my meager savings.

   My old window washing partner is a housemate, and recently I started walking door-to-door flyering to help him build what became his business when I went to the tv station.

   It made sense to have both of us squeegeeing in this big seasonal push til Dec 24. I put on my overalls, bought a new bucket, and a few rolls of Select-a-Size Bounty paper towels for mopping up. My first job back was construction clean-up on a mansion. Holy Moly. Construction clean-up is three times harder than window washing because all of the razor-blading and super scrubbing.

   Painters, by the way, who say through their rovianally deceitful lying teeth that the overspray they have mangially managed to get on 90% of the windows inside and out “is water-based and washes right off.” No X 1000. But of course they are gone skulking and cackling off to the next job, leaving the hapless window washers to scrape and scrape, ever unable to get all the damn specks off. There are as many micro-specks of paint on an over-sprayed window as there are visible stars on a clear night. Just it ain’t poetical.

    There was one painter “who could paint in a tuxedo” so fastidious and blessed was he. Most of the rotters don’t want to take the time to mask off the windows – time-consuming, profit-eating, it’s true. But the windows can never look really right, so it’s slimy of them. My line about painters is that they “go on the down-escalator.” (In case you don’t do cryptic jokes, as apparently many don’t, that means “go to Hell.”)

   You cannot properly wash windows with vinegar and water and crumpled newspaper. Cheez, where that old moldy chestnut got started, I don’t know. You can’t wash windows at all, truth be told. There are guild secrets, and I ain’t telling. I will tell you that you have to use the only true Ettore brass-channel squeegees. You’re on your own from there. Ha Ha. I like thinking about the mess you’ll make – especially the pompous blowhards among you. My petty revenge on the far-right Limbaugh knockoffs tinct with their nouveau grandiosities.

     Where I grew up we had the most sublime snobbisms about the nouveau riche. Boors who had in the last generation or so come into big money with no corresponding big heart or decent manners. You could always spot them by their volume, their dreadful clothes, and the way that they treated the ‘servants’ like ‘servants.’ Old money knew how short was the march to the guillotine – that they depended upon the servants, and they treated people like treasured companions, never like ‘servants.’ It was always so intensely embarrassing to see some nouveau porker ordering people around instead of asking them gratefully.

    We now have a passel of hideous nouveaus like Limbaugh and others with no graciousness nor rapier wit neither. It’s all bludgeon and holler with these people and the skin crawls. They bluster because they sense that they’re missing some secret handshake and they are. Like mosquitoes with bullhorns, they’re irritating. They never have anything compelling or memorable to say, but they sure are loud about it.

   Anyhow, this mansion was one of these great toads that squats upon the landscape without grace. (I’m not against big in dwellings, only ugly.) It’s the kind of place Arnold Schwarzenegger would live in. On steroids.

   It’s like going back down the coal mines again. It’s very hard work. I am sore in parts of my aged body which I didn’t know were there to ache or stab or creak. I’ve been so exhausted that I couldn’t even write except scurrilous stuff in my log to my fav pal who can take obsidian humor almost as good as he can give it. (He whimpers some, glassjawilly, when I strike back without pulling my punches. But give him credit, generally he can follow any thread and take any sharpened darkness.)

    I’ve been living on Stilton cheese with mango and ginger bits, — ye gods, how dee-lectable. And on milky organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Darjeeling tea. If you’re going to drink fifteen cups of tea a day, it needs be clean and clear. (I get so happy when I can go to an ordinary supermarket and buy Horizon organic milk. Back in the ‘50s, my dad was a pioneer in commercial-scale organic farming and gosh would he be thrilled to see it hit the Safeways. Having been raised by cows rather like Mowgli was raised by bears and tigers, I only drink whole milk. Whole milk is naturally about 3.4% butterfat. People think that they’re saving all this fat by drinking 2% milk. Ha ha. It’s good marketing, but silly. The whole milk does allow for better calcium absorption tho. Holsteins, which we used to milk, give about 3.4% butterfat milk. Holsteins are the black and white splotched ones – modern art on the hoof.)  

   My housemate's and my big push is to wash as many windows as we can between now & Dec 24 because for a month after that, it drops off to all but nada. I presume that somewhere in here I get back in squeegee shape. I’ll let you know.

   [I hope you’ll check out Justice below. If you grok it, you can help change the world.]

          

………….<^>……………

Note: This deceptively simple fable is what I paid my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor for. Learning the answer to the question of Whether we can have a just world – not whether we will have a just world —  is one of the big questions of history, and I answered it with my sinew and blood .. ..

Justice 

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

The first paper I wrote in college was “What is Justice?” I never guessed I would spend or pay my life and my very teeth to answer that question.

Somewhere in the Pleistocene of my twenties, a stone-tablets question appeared to me with an eerie and wistful persistence: Can we have a just world? Can we really ever have a just world or will the elite, mainly white, always have to have a filthy little secret, a permanently under-educated class, mainly non-white, to get the grotty jobs done?

I believed that education is the highest value and riches. Education was my mansion, my bullion. I lived a life of astonishing – thunderstruck — vividness because education opened my mind, my heart, stuck my fingers in the socket of the universe. Raw joy. Wild joy. Delicious joy.

A human right, I thought, this simple untarnishing joy. A self-evident human right. The key to this joy, the necessity to this joy, its breadth, delicacy, and leopard strength, is education.

So, I asked, could a person have the best possible liberal arts (tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences) education and do one of the non-glam jobs? Or, again, would we have to have this unspoken-of-class to wash our windows and collect our garbage?

I’d been a high school English teacher for ten years when this question appeared like Excalibur in the stone. Could there be a just world?

As the universe unscrolled for me the layers of this question, I wondered who I could ‘study’ to the True Answer? Eventually I knew it was true that I could only know the sinew and blood of the answer if I studied myself.

I could not go into the dear Peace Corps or Vista for two years and then back again after this useful dabble to the luxurious enclaves of academe or corporate, the gated worlds of group health plans and pensions.

Was education sufficient? Was it the highest value? Could I demand the inalienable right to a splendid education for every human being on Earth?

Well, twenty-one years as a self-employed window washer later, like the Ancient Mariner, I can hold you, hapless Wedding Guest, with glittering eye and say, adamantine and emerald, “Yes. Education is the Grail, does suffice, is armor, is amour, is hope, does not rust.”

Every hour of all those days was made more lively and tender and delectable because of the mirth, courage, insight, and wonder that education offers.

There is no smidgen of a question that education guarded me in dark nights and brought holy mockingbird song to my dawns.

I bought the answer to this great question, the Justice question, with the hours of my life. If I had it to do all over again, I was asked recently by a handsome rich Canadian who had drunk six martinis and was eating pistachios, would I do it over again? Lose my teeth, not go to the doctor for twenty-six years, face this pensionless old age?

I considered his question soberly. “To have earned in my flesh the burning answer to one of the great questions of our new millennium, it was worth my life. I can say ringingly to my species that every single human being’s life time is just as valuable to herself or himself as any other human being’s. That tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences is the daily lesson and the ‘point.’

Education can make the life hours even more fun and more searingly interesting. Curiosity is tasty. You don’t have to ‘follow your bliss’ for money.

Of course it’s absurd and obscene that the poor and the self-employed have no health insurance. Of course eventually we have to figure out how to share around the grotty jobs. Of course poverty utterly sucks. Of course I’d rather have a car with air conditioning.

If I hadn’t been so distilledly educated, I probably wouldn’t be besotted with the etymology of words and wouldn’t have known that ‘frolic’ means ‘swift gladness’ or that ‘rhapsody’ means ‘woven song.’

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 173 . 11.21.05 mon

ffwofw 1004§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

 

     Small, plushly-furred silvery cat, Frolic, was a spy – a tender and wry observer – from Noilednad, the hub of Universe 58, the one in which Asylum Planet Earth floated, a turquoise jewel, around that vermilion temptress, that furacao furnace, the Sun.

   Most of the bipeds on planet Earth are inmates. Without a single exception, all the bipeds owned by dogs are inmates. The bipeds owned by cats are in advanced recovery. All people owned by SUVs are psychopaths. A few people partnering with Burmese cats are clowns – healed but hanging out to help with the recovery of the lemming people who dwell in humorless gigagreed, drink blood on Sundays and other feast days, and pauperize their fellow inmates.

    Frolic, her bittersweet-chocolate colored pal Jester, and pogblog were watching Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, talking on an ancient televid device. Gyatso was musing about science. He said, roughly, as we recall it, that there was nothing wrong with science – it was just a method. there was nothing wrong with a religion – just some people went too far. There was nothing inherently wrong with politics, just some people got all zealed up and did ‘dirty politics.’ He then coalesced that thought into that you could have dirty politics, dirty science, and dirty religion.

  “Now that’s as tasty as a mouse soufflé,” said Frolic. Her words were secondary to the powerful holothought projections the felinoa fabulosiens could project into the left eye of the holofi enhanced. Most felinoa art-thought is daliesque – except animated. One could see the mouse soufflé rising in an oven where upon it daliesquely mogrified to a low serving table where with a crowned mouse head adorning it, the soufflé dish ran up and down the table on centipedal little mousefeet. Cat humor, like Rat Sauce, is a developed taste.

   “So,” continued Frolic, “Dalai’s meme is Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science. It gives us a handy, mouse-soufflé-tasty way to comprehend the wrongness and the rightness – to see the ideas of politics, religion, and science through a prism with the light broken into its constituent parts. The ignorant excesses distort the possibly noble pursuits.”

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

1 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 170  11.18.05 fri 

ffwofw 359§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1136

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>……………

Mountain View & Google Make Knowledge History

Mountain View & Google

Make Noos-History

 

11.15.05  

  What a sweet night. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Tuesday, November 15, 2005. A huge full moon floated in an indigo sky. The Mountain View City Council unanimously voted to lease light poles to Google to put up their synapse-devices to knowledge-cast the world’s information, the world’s eccentric and fascinating library, into people’s houses, apartments, schools, and parks.

   History. We lucky few who were there will remember that the next quantum step into the future for humankind began tonight. Daggone – how swell. How intensely cool. It is well wrought.

    You no doubt remember Teilhard de Chardin, a French philosopher from mid-last-century. He talked about the lithosphere or the original seething rock of our Earth. The lithosphere exudes a biosphere — you, me, leopards, and lichen. He predicted that the biosphere would exude a noosphere or knowledge-sphere or a world brain. In the early '90s as a zealous convert to the brilliant intimacy of computers, I hollered, “The noosphere, the noosphere! The internet. Teilhard just never imagined that there would be a technological interface!”

   Well, tonight at 37.3932N, 122.0778W, the noosphere, the knowledge-sphere took a quantum leap into the exhilarating future. Congratulations, Google. Congratulations, Mountain View. Somersaults all around. Sweet.

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

noos-history pronounced new-ohs-history;

the moon-landing & telegraph & Agincourt echos are deliberate;

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

11 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 167  11.15.05 tue 

ffwofw 202§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1131

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>……………

Glorious Move by Google

Google has offered to put wifi up all over Mountain View Ca (my hometown and Google's) for a no-cost hot-town. They will “attach wireless 'access point' devices to hundreds of lampposts throughout town.”

 

 I wrote the following Letter to the Editor of our local paper, the Mountain View Voice. This is intensely thrilling. Readers of pogblog know how long I’ve been on & on about this. (I had nothing to do with this step except pyschically.) Good for Google. Now the next step too.

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

Editor:  

   Standing ovations to Google for the farsighted gift of wifi to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Mountain View. This is so smart and so urgently essential to a knowledge-enhanced future that I'm elated. Hurray and thank you!

   But — in order to “make the world's information universally accessible and useful,” we must collectively let the Other Shoe drop. We must get a cheap, tough laptop to every single Mountain View child K-12 so that all that knowledge brought by wifi can be received regardless of income. We must not have a digital divide, but rather a digital multiplication starting with the poorest children and rapidly expanding to all children.

   The explosion of innovation that could and should be America's future requires both the universal ultraband wifi and the universal laptops. Google has made the fabulous big first move. I call on our City Council to instantly begin the laptop project with other equally visionary Silicon Valley companies and foundations. Mountain View is the perfect place to incubate this full-force exhilarating knowledge revolution that will become a national model.


…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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
11 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 167  11.15.05 tue 
ffwofw 945§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1131
..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….    

 

Hinged .. How to Survive Art

 

Hinged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   …………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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

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

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….