Author Archives: wendy fleet

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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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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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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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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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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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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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 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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Year Zero With Blood – Y3000 Sans Bullets

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Year Zero With Blood – Y3000 Sans Bullets

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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 ∞.  

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Insurgents Will Fight Us for 300 Years

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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. 

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

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Cheney viperiens extremos & the Humor Transplant

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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.

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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.  

 

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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.”

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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. 

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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

 

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Black Candle, Meat Puppet, Insane Dancers

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Black Candle, Meat Puppet, Insane Dancers

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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.

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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