Monthly Archives: December 2005

Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

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  Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

 

   “Spirit, mind, heart — this is the trinity that people seek to comprehend, to tend, to organize. Then their life will be sweet, will be serene, will be complete.

   ” Why is this not so?” Because of what no one can bear to attend to. Because of what seems ‘beneath us’ as civilized persons.
   “Viscera. We ignore or disdain viscera to our implacable, even ferocious danger.
   “By ‘viscera’ I mean ‘the guts.’ All the gluck under the heart. Forfend that our highfalutin' philosophy discuss intestines. We are too fine. We are evolved. We have a big brain, a Big Brain. We cherish our heart, we polish our soul.

   “Yeats speaks to the neglected viscera when he says that 'we end where all ladders start, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.' I would suggest that he meant the viscera here, the ‘basement’ of the heart. But ‘viscera’ doesn't fit the irresistible rhyme of his lines.

   “Tonight I come to laud viscera — where 'ladders start.' I suggest that unless we educate and placate viscera, we will only pretend to be civilized.”

   Risma smiled at the fashionably arrayed intestines seated before her in the Laugh Institute's lecture hall. The Laugh Institute had busts and statues of her heros in alcoves around the room. Rowan Atkinson, John Cleese, Dame Edna, Patricia Routledge. Risma had always said that she didn't quite trust the Christian Bible because it didn't have enough jokes in it. Risma smiled warmly at the audience and allowed herself an invisible shrug because in spite of the sartorial efforts of the humans she perused, none of them was as elegantly dressed a bag of guts as her perfect, silver Burmese cat companion, Frolic.

   “We want to be generous, kind, patient, even holy. These are not the top four words on Viscera's agenda.

   “In probably the dumbest and most dangerous move in human history, Christianity decided to divide the elemental forces into God and the Devil. Holy moly, what grotesque havoc and hypocrisy that has wrecked upon the hapless world.

   “Twenty centuries have been spent damning viscera instead of educating it.

   “Viscera cannot be defeated anymore than air can be defeated or water can be defeated.”

   Risma smiled, “Once I walked down a long wide hall in the old San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There were modern art paintings hung all along this wall. I noticed as I moved from painting to painting, my first response was what I began to understand as purely visceral.

   “I liked this painting. I didn't like that painting. I found myself nodding or shaking my head, making in my gut a mute, immediate, pre-verbal meeting with the painting. I could then go on to speak in heart, mind, or spirit terms why I liked the painting.

   “We are swept away on the tide or mud slide, avalanche or forest fire of viscera because in the aeons before words, viscera ruled our survival.

   “In the beginning wasn't the word. The word came very late. The viscera can still make a fool or monster of any of us.

   “Let's take a moment here to uproot a poisonous myth. We are typically taught that spirit is ‘finer’ than matter. That matter is coarse. That matter imprisons spirit.

   “We see tomes of charts which show spirit at the top of a line, and mind and heart below. Of course, few mention the viscera whatever.

   “A more useful, and truer, diagram would show a horizontal line with spirit at the left and then mind, heart, viscera.

 

 ♦ spirit  mind  heart  viscera ♦ 

 

With this horizontal template, we can begin to deal in our actual experience. God and Devil are not separated — as there can be no metaphysical separation. Now we begin to deal in truth, however awkward or even embarrassing.

   “If we only honor the eviscerated God, we end up with horrific spasms like World War II where the most intellectually advanced people, the Germans, fell into the grip of a visceral force they could not deny. They had training in the mind and spirit, but the non-linear, tricky and mischievous (at best), bloodthirsty and bestial (at worst) Visceral Forces overwhelmed their puny rational defenses and drowned us all in an orgy of devastation before those forces were sated.

   “These horrible collective devastations pale, to me, before the dread secret personal harm we, in visceral throes, daily wield upon those most precious to us.

   “Viscera fuels both wonder and terror. And in so far as you do not fill your life with wonder, both petty and enormous terrors will leech or lurch into the vacuum.

   “In my studies, I can say that viscera is willing to fuel wonder rather than terror, but it will burn.”

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postscript .. I call this fable Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts because we need to study these forces and patterns without prejudice. It is true that there are temptations to too much of this dark elixir, but too much of the thin abstinences of the spirit can lead to a spiritual anorexia which is disdainful of a fatter, a jollier ebullience — as if primness and grimness were more holy.

 

I use 'Obsidian Art' rather than Black Arts because Obsidian is the onyxiest black and doesn't have the historical baggage of the satanic studies. Obsidian is about the next quantum of humor, not about the study of hurt. Hurt already has its addicts. One of their favorite phrases is 'collateral damage' — as if such a thing were conceivable.

 

I'm convinced we can educate viscera to obsidian art — brutal art even. Art doesn't kill anybody. When we grok that difference, we might be out of the LithoDumbness Age. Viscera can be enticed to prefer very dark wit to physical pain, but you can't namby-pamby it up or it'll just jump the levee. And I think you're going to have to ante up more lust than your public probity has hitherto been willing to embrace. You have a choice: dead &/or mutilated people or obsidian humor, art, & lust. Until we are fiercely honest about this stuff, I hope you enjoy Taps.     

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5 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 187  12.05.05 mon 

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As Sad As You Can Get

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 As Sad As You Can Get

 

   Sometimes you think you’ve been as sad as you can get. Then you get sadder yet. Then you get so rage and pain and bleak and black past that sad that when you cry, tears of black blood run down your face  and the days of scarlet are gone like birds that sing. Into the silent onyx world, soundless memories of you hauntedly appear. You gave me over for what? A piece of silver?

    The sound track kicks in. You’re gone, you’re gone, all all gone, like a Roy Orbison song, the bitter way I was told,  dreams of a fool, but stripped of the melancholy poetry like a wolf strips the skin from a deer to eat its just stopped beating heart. You have taken cad or coward to a whole new level of marvel. Not that I would actively wish you unquiet dreams, forfend, but that your careless horridness foments them.

   So I’m exiled sans ceremony back to the Big Alone. Been there since I was six with this hiatus, this oasis, the shade of a palm, the chewy sweetness of dates, a cool, still pool. Et tu, Digrif? It was fated, you are gated – fat, old,  too big a leap for a companion in spite of the mad delight & delicacies of our affinities? You had to choose the cliché in spite of your being so original. What a jagged waste under the stars of belonging and longing. You couldn’t jump across the crack which seemed a chasm. Once upon a time you may grok the waste of astonishing affinities occasionally of a rainy morning or of a racked <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight. No, darling pal – I don’t don’t hurl a curse like a lightning bolt sear of pain – the circumstance is cursed. It’s like turning from art – you do it at charring peril to your truer heart.

     Regret is an egret. Fringed feathers, elegant, calligraphic of flight. In your next walk down by the river, you find the bird tattered, rent, eaten by a jackal. You cannot put the bits of bone and bloody feathers back together for flight and that dearth was your own flightless choice. That is what hurt. That you would choose the predictable was so predictable. How ever not? They all do. Eschew flight in the end. We had a few arabesques in the sky, thee & I. Couldn’t quite break the quantum barrier, the ionosphere, the last edge of air where Earth embraces space. I leapt as high & hard as I could with every levity and ingenuity of daring and caring I could devise, but in the end, the gravity of the expected sucked you back down to the ground. You let go of my hand and fell into the dangerless. That it will, all too soon, bore you to agony is only whispers in the wind, which will howl, now.

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4 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 186  12.04.05 sun

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Machiavelli, Karlsputin Rove, & Dick

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Machiavelli, Karlsputin Rove, & Dick

 

The key to AllPolitics (this is the Niccolo Machiavelli Standard, NMS, the political gold standard) is the fortune cookie and the acronym. Put it in a fortune cookie if you must be so prolix. “No new taxes” is a classic. Stupidissimo to the max, but velcroaic.

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Better tho is an acronym: WMD. Without WMD, we would never have gone to that quagsand war. Even a phrase or a word would have saved us all this chaos and blood. An acronym makes even stupid people feel in the know. Once you're an insider around the water cooler, you will countenance awful things — think fraternity initiations on steroids.

 

Now the gloss on the above. Niccolò was remarkably savvy. He knew how to codify wickedness or ruthlessness. He was kind of the satanic Hammurabi. The Perfect Pragmatist sans coeur. (Not that ole Hammurabi was warm & fuzzy. For instance: “The witness who testifies falsely is to be slain.” So ‘Bye bye, KarlBoy.’)

 

The Present Menaces are the genetic offspring of  the Inquisitor DNA Line and the Machiavelli DNA Line. They are half-living and half-dead which is why their auras are so grimy. I have described looking at them with eye3 as if one were seeing an oatmealy churn of clotted white Styrofoam particles with the ends of barbed wire floating in the turgid mix. In Dreamer’s Book of the Dead, Robert Moss describes the heavy energy of the unquiet dead as “dense energy stuff that looks to inner sight like gray, used chewing gum.”  In the gluck I’ve seen around Mr. Cheney, the key quality is its foul opacity – it is designed to hide and as one’s blood congeals in response, one fears to imagine what that sluggish though vigilant opacity conceals?

 

Power makes right. If you (Dick) are doing it – even torture – it is ispso facto right. Might makes right is a snazzier phrase, but misleading. These folks are largely in the shadows. It’s not the trumpets of armies, but an orchestrated secret ruthlessness that is the hallmark of their method. Make no mistake — Mr. Cheney is the Villain in Chief. No psychiatrist would not recoil if they could see the sociopath Mr. Cheney has become. He sees and feels himself beyond any normal moral rules. He can break the rules for ‘our own good.’ And he gets to decide which rules and when. Tyrants were always thus. They know better than we what’s good for us. If only we could see what they (madly) see, we would understand.

 

Mr. Cheney is apparently very convincing. I read a New Yorker article some years back. The author said he walked out of the first interview thinking what a fine fellow Mr. Cheney was, Until he got home and read his notes and saw the unspeakable things Mr. Cheney had said. Mr. Cheney has had Mr. Bush upon an hypnotic leash. (Anyone but his own father, whom Mr. Bush despises — unconsciously because his mother despises George1. She thinks of her husband as a weakling, a kind of daff.) George is thinking that Mr. Cheney seems fallible with the Gigantic Mess in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq. That he George could set out on his own, sans Karl, sans Dick. This is very dangerous too because most of the information which has been poured into George’s ear for years has come from a man avalanchedly going mad. (Note that life-long friend Scowcroft tellingly says he doesn’t recognize Mr. Cheney anymore.)

 

George’s quasi-independence, if it transpires, will not be a pretty thing to watch. He will not have moderation, balance, and sense. He’ll lurch too far in one direction and either obdurately stay on the false course or overcorrect. He is not independently developed as a personality. He has been a puppet and a husk, liking the post 9-11 adulation. He may feed upon the military venues, but his façade such as it was is busted and he is a spoiled adolescent – a popinjay — at best. He is more impressed by himself than he has earned.

 

I want to get to fortune cookies and acronyms, but that’ll have to wait for another night.

 

WMD .. Worms Make Dirt.  

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3 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 185  12.03.05 sat

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Death Penalty Kills Whom?

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Death Penalty Kills Whom?

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Housing revolting killers for their lifetime seems a cheap price to pay for our not becoming killers by proxy ourselves.

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I prefer to leave the Judgment of Death in the hands of Fate or the Universe rather than becoming a premeditated killer myself. 

 

And what do you do if you find out you had the wrong DNA after they fry? Say “Whoops”?

 

If the Death Penalty worked as a deterrent those people wouldn't be on Death Row. 

 

Given that in Death Penalty cases, we can't re-make what we break, it seems the place for the highest road. There are no errors in compassion. Wasn't that Jesus' point? Compassion isn't for when it's easy. It's for when it's hard. Love your <i>enemy</i>. Loving your neighbor and your friend is for Hallmark cards. Jesus was asking the radical — the hardest thing. As we ask for our worst sins to be forgiven, not our peccadilloes.

 

If I by proxy pull the lever or release the gas or drug, I do not see how I am any different in premeditated monstrousness from the villain I by proxy would kill. How is my soul then not condemned too? So who dies? In any of my innocence I am surely slain too. Lethal to whom?

 

Even if I could countenance this in some moral sleight of soul, suppose that man were later revealed as innocent? It could not be worth the killing of one innocent man. Keep people in prison for life. Like torture, the death penalty does nothing but coarsen and make cold and make hard our nation. Not strong, but cold and hard. It takes strength and wisdom to hold back from vengeance. Vengeance is the easy thing. One could imagine vengeance in the heat of the moment. But premeditated? I cannot see how it separates you by one iota from the jailed killer you despise. You just become an unjailed killer.

 

All of civilization has been slowly modifying the abuse of power and of murderous impulses. Sadly, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America is still steeped in blood. We are behind the vector of history however. The cosmos watches us sadly. We still think killing shows strength. Instead, it shows lack of ingenuity and patience and diligence. Diplomacy is the invention of our time. We seem to be the last to have gotten the message of civilization. It’s very painful to watch the people of the world recoil from our arrogance and bloodthirst.

 

I sometimes muse that perhaps the gene pool that manifest destinedly ruthlessed across the continent from sea to shining sea and perpetrated slavery and a particularly implacable rule-of-the-bottom-line cold capitalism was a gene poll of cutthroats and malcontents thrust off from the shores of their original homelands? That like killer bees, it has taken some generations for our aggressive behavior to be modified so we can contribute to making honey rather than stinging people to death?

 

The time of honey and genuine equality and happiness does come. We have to illuminate the shadow first though. The vengeful, greedy, selfish, grandiose jungian shadow qualities are perfectly manifested in our present leaders. We have to look at that maggot-writhing stuff before we can move on to the next quantum of integration. We cannot just educate the soul and the head and the heart – we must clean out the aegean-stables of the gut too. The viscera will always sully your fine ideas unless you alchemize its energies too. We like to indulge the gut, the viscera in America. Much better to holler at football games than to fry people in the electric chair or fight wars, sooth said.     

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2 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 184  12.02.05 fri

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Dream With George Bush

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Dream With George Bush

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I had a long dream in which I was being nice to George Bush. No, no, not biblically nice. We were alone in a rustic place. I was talking to him about the original simple palaver of radical Jesus before it got all hyped up with the poison of power. And most poignantly I was talking about 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.” Mr. Bush said, “He said that?”

 

What surprised me was how kind and warm I was – genuinely diplomatic – a whole lot more diplomatic than I feel in DayLand. I touched his shoulder and held his hand. Good for me for putting the cause of peace before the vain desire for vengeance.

 

You’d have to grok the rabidity of my disdain for the zealoted Mr. Bush to ingest the alchemical slow shock Day-I felt at Other-I’s diplomacy. It was a lesson, no question, to inhabit-observe a more sweetly and deeply accomplished self. I haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. Day-I is still fraught with venom. Other-I was sincere. It wasn’t an act she was using for purposes. Day-I did manage to anti-heisenbergally not interfere with all my pent-up umbrage and recoiling. The chance to do a purer act for peace was clearly too profound to fuck up with bile.

 

I can see and agree with the necessity of that transaction for peace, but tho I grok the revelation, I do not now inhabit that perspective directly — which is quite a bi-location phenomenon. I mean is it an attitude I can put on like a cowgirl hat? Or inhabit like a gehry house instead of my velarde st. house? How do Day-I relate to this clearly wiser, better-tuned, further, Other-I? She was centrally ‘me’ – it wasn’t that I was outside her watching her like she (or I) was a clone. The whole event is a phenomenon I don’t understand yet if ever – I’m just reporting to you as honestly as I can find the sentences for in a nation which doesn’t honor the daily experience of multiple dimensions unless they’re acceptably Religious.   

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1 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 183  12.01.05 r3 thur

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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The Real Pornography .. stynking synnes vile

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The Real Pornography .. stynking synnes vile

 

     Obscene Accumulation is the Real Pornography.

     Back in the also obscene nuclear-weapons accumulation days, I used to wail and rail, “Let them steal our tiny piggybanks to build enough nuclear weapons to obliterate all living things and reduce all human structures to vapor and/or pebble-sized rubble 5x over. I won’t even squawk about that. I am willing to go that far in assuaging their paranoid fantasies.

     But the 6th world-rubbling? The 7th? The 10th? No. They have powerful inner demons that have to be fed. But they don’t have to be fed our children’s education and universal healthcare (certainly a jesusian idea) and a minimum wage which does not bring us shame. $14000 per minute for the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars? $200,000 per minute for the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq war? Nope.

     So, there is a sin of scale. SUVs seriously suck, but Hummers are an Express Ticket to Hell.(Arnold has 8 Hummers – you do the Math on how fast he gets to the 10th Circle of Frozen Tears.) SUVs are the vehicular equivalent of microencephaly – the smaller the brain (& no doubt the dawg), the more bizarrely enormous the vehicle.

    I’m hoping to get us to think about not an Utopia, but rather an Buenopia – not perfect but good enough. In that world which will be wrought by the progressive work we begin and continue now, we will have solved the pathology of the real Pornography: Obscene, Filthy Accumulation. How? Well, the main task of artists is to show the Frantically Rich that those riches, like ole Midas did find out, don’t ultimately satisfy. There is enough money that makes you and your family comfortable and safe. Massive accumulations of Money that sit in your bank account fester spiritually. You don’t earn or need $33 million dollars in some year. It’s sick. You don’t need $90,000 bucks a day. You don’t need a tax break. You need prayer. That the poor sonsabitches whose lives and labor you hoovered all that lolly from don’t wake up and think “It’s a lovely day for a Guillotine.”

      It absolutely earthquakes my mind that people are offended by a glimpse of Janet Jackson’s bosom or the burning of a flag, and we are talking Mt. Everests of Bosom & Flag Dudgeon here and Congressional Hearings with pompous and pious speeches, — and somebody gets 33 million bucks and the minimum wage is 7 bucks an hour and nobody twitches? My mind-heart struggles with the human Math – how much does what matter what?

     I have to recommend to you an always free consultation with my friend Dan Gero, a journalist and philosopher from Mars. Of course he’s in disguise. He doesn’t want to get incinerated, smithereened, or dissected. I can get you in touch with him though if you’re earnest. A long chat and a cup of cocoa with someone from another planet is very sobering. Excruciatingly illuminating. You try to explain that a free market (hahaha) always brings the best result. It doesn’t. It brings random and insane and clearly stupid results, but it’s an article of  economic theology that it always works better than, say, that Satan of Capitalists, the Government. I got a Rapture Ticket I can sell you if you believe that.

   Explain slowly and clearly to a patient philosopher from another planet why we get so twisted in a nutknot about Janet Jackson’s bosom or some such and the polite sympathetic look in his kind alien eyes is unbearable. When you see your species from the vantage of someone from another planet whose insight isn’t clouded by tribal prejudices (the human tribe), there’s a fair amount of nonsense that’s too ludicrous to defend.

   “Well,” I said, “in the dominant Religion in my nation . . .”

    “Excuse me,” he will say softly, “What’s a nation?”

   “Uhh. Well, it has a square rectangle of colored cloth that you wave on a stick or run up a pole. Your rectangle of striped colored cloth tells you which nation is yours, sort of. You have a special rousing war song. You hardly ever kill people who wave the same colored rectangle of cloth even if you hate them. If they have a different colored rectangle of cloth and your government says to, you kill them even if you like them. Or you kill them even if you don’t have a clue whether you would like them or not if you sat down together to have a burger and a beer. You kill people who step over your border if your government is really mad at them.”

   “What’s a border?”

   “Uhh. Well, it’s a line that separates my nation from Juan’s nation.”

    “We have very powerful holo-telescopes on Mars. I’ve never seen such lines. We can count the trees in your forests, but I have never seen these lines?”

   “Uhhh. Well, they’re there. Uhhh. Well, they’re on pieces of paper we call maps. They matter. We kill for them. We die for them. I’ve never seen one either. But. But they’re there. They’re very real to us. I don’t know why.”

   “So you were telling me about the dominant ‘Religion’ in your nation, now that I understand what a nation is.”

    “Yeah, in the dominant Religion in our nation, they have one special day a week where they go drink the blood and eat the flesh of their God’s Son.”

   When you tell these kinds of things to a philosopher from another planet, and you see the politely veiled recoiling look on his face, it’s hard to want to have ‘Human’ stamped on your Galactic Passport.

    As a friend of mine says, “We have our work cut out for us to get 'equality of human value' around our whole spaceship. Capitalism has significant strengths. One of the great flaws of untended capitalism, however, is its collateral-damageizing of workers. Stupid becomes bad becomes evil when you aren't watching. It'd be better to go back to beads and barter if paper money and then just chicken scratches symbolizing paper money become more important than the people.”

    The idea that unless people are motivated by Continually Basted and Stuffed (like the Thanksgiving Turkey) Greed, we will devolve into uninventive sloth is absurd, but it is an Article of Faith justifying the Grotesque Accumulations Of Cold Gold. Let’s take three counter-indications. Most artists make zilch until after they die and then all the Richies buy up these symbols of something more meaningful than that Bottom Line. Us artists work like dogs for zilch.

    Legions of  women before the modern era did godszillions of useful volunteer work for centuries without money remuneration. Similarly almost all of the people who labor like dogs in non-profits are lousily underpaid, but they do the work passionately anyway.

    Europeans who are hugely more taxed manage to have verve enough to continue to be entrepreneurial at a rate comparable to America’s verve — with much more public accountability.

     So we can take ‘greed as necessary motivation’ off the table. It’s a hoary crock that gets hauled out in these arguments and somehow stops all further thought. Forget it. It’s stupid. It’s not true. 

    We’ll explore more of the solutions to the Real Pornography of Obscene Accumulation under the kind but relentless gaze of our Martian friends, unblinded by economic creeds, but for the moment, begin to study and dream and mull over a future in which you cannot feel or be lionized as powerful and successful if the planet, our Buenopia, is not pleasant and prosperous for also the least among us. Where you don’t get to have Two Mansions until everyone has one Swell Hut with indoor plumbing. A kind of inner gyroscope of justice, or a  justice-cap to Obscene Accumulation. I am not, by the way at all against your having a lot more than Mark or Mary, but there is a sin of scale — what they called in 1450 AD, stynking synnes vile. Along with them 3 Rs, we might want to start also teaching one J – the simple human math of justice.

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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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1 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 183  12.01.05 r3 thur

ffwofw 364§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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