Author Archives: wendy fleet

Dick Is the Octessential Villain

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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.
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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.”
 
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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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.
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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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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
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the education-obsessed world begins today with you
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Back Down the Coal Mines

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Back Down the Coal Mines

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    In order to study the possibility of having a just world – could 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.]

          

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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.

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

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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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

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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.”

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

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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 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Mountain View & Google Make Knowledge History

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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;

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

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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 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Glorious Move by Google

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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.


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
…………….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
11 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 167  11.15.05 tue 
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the education-obsessed world begins today with you
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Hinged .. How to Survive Art

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Hinged

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   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.

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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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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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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   Psychic Forensics pursues crime with tools unavailable in 2005. The ability to use these tools through warp-rinths mapped through the Akashic Record didn’t get discovered til 2211 by Myrth, part of the S. Finley Breese Morse communications-inventions bloodline.

   Before we begin our story about the horrific discoveries about Karl Rove’s diseased brain using Psychic Forensics, let’s clear up some lingo for you.

    The Akashic Record is that indelible record (or imprint really) of experience upon the all-senses papyrus of the multiverse. It’s all there in infinity for those who can read it. Your cat can’t read a book, but that doesn’t mean that a mammal (you) with a different skill set can’t decode a myriad of information distilled in those squiggles.

    There is no thought, no envy, no patience that can be forged (faked) or forgotten. The multiverse is an incomprehensibly gigantic information system. You are embedded in the multiverse – it’s not like you can step out of it, have a rotten thought or action and step back in — in disguise by deceit. Yes, it is all recorded. A sobering thought.

   Anyhow, Myrth was into maps. Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s.

    A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces.

     Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell.

   Myrth and Quetzal were time-riders and psychic detectives. They returned through a warp portal to confer with pogblog, an early 21st century bloggelist.

    When you deal in nanotime (later called luzime or light-time), it’s a question of angles, not of distance. It’s very origami, very folded. It’s all potentially immediate.

    Karl Rove was a very nasty piece of work. He derailed planet progress, equality, and happiness, and added to the sum of human misery as much as any sick villain who ever trod the dear earth.

        Psychic forensics examines crime with a psy-ray. A psy-ray is like an x-ray in that it reveals interior things. It just reveals mental/psychic realities (shapes, forms, sequences) rather than bones and tissues. All a matter of tuning frequencies – and what isn’t?

    Instead of wanting to tenderly and effectively do good, somehow there came to pass a group of greedy and empty people who wanted to aggrandize and rule.

    The question in 2211 was no longer how to psy-ray a deviant psyche, but rather how to translate the forensic info back into the less holospheric 2006 brains.

   Karl Rove stank. His diseased mind fed on misery, on the pus of fear. Pain, especially humiliation, tasted good to his herzgeist, the spirit of his cold heart. Deep in his dna, he was not a mammal. He was cold-blooded. The only way he could feel warm was to drink the blood of the mammal – of the kind, the tending, the care-full.

    In addition to being inherently cold, he shared dna with a long bleak line of cold creatures which were anti-empaths. They invented the rack and burning people alive. They rose in the Dark Ages in the Inquisition, justified their atrocities in the Name of God and of protecting the world from sin and sinners. That strain of cunning and sickness went recessive in the dna until it exploded back on the scene in about 1950 in a batch of killers born on Earth in those years. Karl Rove’s birthday was <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />12/25/50 – an anti-christ indeed – in deed.

    Karl Rove likes to humiliate people. He so resented not being the romantic lead, the handsome swaggerer, that he is making the planet pay. The reason madmen often come to power is that they have no doubts. Sane people have doubts. It is very hard to avoid being swayed by coherence (cf a laser) – it is simply a stronger signal. The form is strong. People are convinced by the form, the conviction – amplified by mob effects. It takes serious discipline to see that the completely convincing form may be a vial of poison – what it contains may be evil. (What do you do anyhow if you look behind the curtain and see the maggot-writhing corpse of Dick Cheney pulling the levers? The potent hallucinations of patriotism and religions are certainly more apparently comforting that the bizarre and terrible and lonely truths.)

    Karl Rove is psychotic. “But he doesn’t look psychotic,” you cry. They seldom do except in movies. The real nutcases have perfected cunning to a degree that mere fairly sane you can not conceive. Look, we all have some complex, hidden peculiarities or worse. But you’re just milling around in the wooden handle of the ice pick, vanilla in your deviance. Karl Rove is the very tip, the perfectly piercing sharp tip of the ice pick of dark and grotesquely disturbed. What is your swath of destruction? Your own peace of mind? Your family’s peace of mind perhaps? You’ve stolen from yourself, your family, and your community your fruitfulness you might have more developed if your hidden deviances hadn’t stolen so much of your better discipline.

     But Karl Rove’s swath is the planet. The creeps he’s enabled have derailed all of America’s crucial collaboration in tending the health and education of its own population. It has poisoned the international atmosphere not only Kyotoill, but in its paranoid and hysterical response to 9/11. (3000 people died. It sucks, but 485,000 people die of tobacco-related deaths every year  and there’s no comparable hysteria about that – we don’t do shock and awe on Philip Morris and invade North Carolina.)

    We were on a relative fiscal even keel in 2000. Obscene and abzurd kick-backs to the Have-Mosts capsized the fiscal ship with no lifeboats for the poor. Let them swim.

   The outer world deeds are catastrophic and your children’s children will still be paying for the Have-Mosts self-centered profligate indulgences. But the ugliness of Karl Rove’s cold soul is a genius of anti-pity stealth. He is a hungry ghost. He is a ravenous ghost. He always goes for your strength: he cuts your balls off. The thing you honor in yourself; the thing you did that was good. That’s what he twists and pisses on. And he doesn’t just twist it into a bad light – he triple twists it into a disgusting, into a shameful light. And if you retort, you are deepened into the shame. It is not ever unproveable.

    Dick Cheney is severely psychotic, which we’ll talk about another night, but Karl Rove is even more dangerous because he’s trickier. Cheney is less skilled at the façade. Karl Rove is a supreme shapeshifter. (A tragic shame that he is a wounder rather than a healer.) He never wastes effort. As with all consummate psychopaths, he can ape rationality with all but seamless conviction. (You have to have been repeatedly lied to by a professional liar like a compulsive gambler to have a glimpse at how good these people are at deceit – deceit fits them like their skin. There is nothing tentative about their deceit. They have learned that boldness works. The Big Lie works. They enjoy jerking you around – stupid, honest, ordinary you. You may be smart enough in your day job, pilgrim, but they’ve got you completely smoked in cunning.)

    People like Karl Rove who get addicted to other people’s extreme humiliation can wreck a world. You must remember that nothing is what it seems with him. Even then you’ll be conned – again. Don’t look at him and his legerdeflak – look at the consequences.

   End of preliminary KRB Autopsy Report.      

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

9 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 165  11.13.05 sun

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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    The reason I like to use the allegorical essay rather than the strictly formal and putatively rational essay is that there is a part of the mind to which you as a reader get access if there are story elements. It engages all four quadrants of your brain and the collective unconscious. It’s a way of giving philosophy its juice and its irony back.

    I read linear essays with admiration, but I always feel like I need to have better posture when I read them. As if I were having tea with the Queen.

    I happen to have always had an inclination to the sort of Celti-sci-fi version of allegory because it makes an end-run around the reason I’ve never been so much of a devotee of post-Faulkner American Literature: neurosis. Pieces set in the semi-quasi-future obviate neurosis because they aren’t worming over one’s narcissistic melancholies with as confessional or thinly veiled confessional modes. There was a kind of perpetual adolescence to so much 50s + literature.

     I like the more angular, odd, well, allegorical stuff.

     The following piece is certainly as important a piece as I could either think or write, but I like to think it has a defter touch – is less sledgehammery when it’s set in the future. It’s less directly judgmental. And though it is mind, heart, soul-bogglingly serious, it doesn’t take itself seriously. I like droll.

     Part of pogblog’s job is to make the ‘horizontal’ point both clarionally and subversively. We only fool ourselves that we aren’t still fascio-feudal with different clothes. Democracy comes eventually, but not before we grok and contain and maintain the horizontal model.

 

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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        

7 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 163  11.11.05 fri

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Obsidian Affinity

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Obsidian Affinity

 

Sometimes you've been so bleak that you conclude that there is too much tunnel and too little light. Then vicious and cunning Fate arranges a tryst so sweet and funny that you figure you will forgive her one more time for her unfathomable treacheries.

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Affinity is not on the Periodic Table of Elements. But it is elemental, yes, and sublime in its alchemies. There are all kinds of magnetisms that Science don’t scio, but something keeps the kaleidoscopic patterns of dust adhering to butterflies’ wings through storms. (Touch a wing carelessly and you can see how easily this could be smudged, gratuitously wrecked) – somehow in all our fond and fierce bashing of each other’s sensibilities, the patterns remain pristine, though changed. It is a magic. Obsidian humor. Ours is always an Orpheus and Eurydice story, though who is lost and who is found varies. The dark and the danger, the precipitous, the quicksand, the changes of danger – the flak of ancient stories, the skein of  dreams waiting to be dreamt – the druids invented us and tell our tales, our infinity of affinities, in Faery.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 162  11.10.05 thur

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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IBM vs Education

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IBM vs Education .. a melodrama

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   If you send your people to an IBM Leadership Seminar, the instructor will guide and prod, say, 25 people through a highly distilled and interactive experience. All applaud, eat expensive boxed lunches, and may heed a point or two.

   Bill Blarney is a famous well-paid instructor whose renowned programs are available in boxed sets on DVD.

    As the IBM events planner, you go up to Bill Blarney at the end of the day as the late light filters through the graceful weeping amber trees beyond the huge picture windows into the plush seminar room. “Fine job today, Mr. Blarney,” you say. “I want to talk about the terms of your next engagement with IBM.”

      Deeply at ease with his fine status, fine suit, and porsche reputation, fat-cattish, post-canary, post-saucer-brimming-with-thickest-cream, Bill Blarney beams all but beatifically at you.

     “Well, Bill, next week starting Monday at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />8am, we want you to teach five different seminars before 3pm.”

     “What!?” Bill expostulates, snorting like a startled stallion, “That’s absurd!”

     “Additionally,” you add, “each 58 minute seminar will have between 30-40 students, a different group each hour. Between most of the seminars, you will have no break whatsoever – one group will file in as the other files out.”

    “What?!” Bill’s eyes begin to bulge. A vein on his sweat-slicked forehead visibly pulses. “That’s absurd!”

    “Moreover,” you continue, “each seminar plan involves completely different material.”

    “Well, I, well, er, I – I guess I could do that on Monday if absolutely necessary to keep the lucrative, I mean important IBM account, but well, but it’s overwhelming, it’s unprecedented,” says Bill.

     “And,” you say, “you must do the same pattern with all new materials and enthusiasms on Tuesday and then Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.”

     “What!? You mean I can’t just repeat Monday’s materials? This is preposterous. I’m a leading professional. This is not humanly possible.”

     “Well, you must also give assignments each day which you must correct and comment upon each evening – from at least 150 daily participants.”

    “Nonsense,” barked Bill. “You’ve lost your mind.”

    “Yes, and you will be paid 1/5 of your current salary and have no car allowance.”

    Bill could no longer speak.

     “And after next week’s five days, you will do five days a week thusly every month for nine & ½ months of the year.”

     Weakly, licking the froth off his lips, Bill said, “No business could possibly demand this level of performance from any imaginable instructor. The energy, the organization, it’s simply inconceivable. You couldn’t pay me enough even if I could handle it for one single marathon week, least of all 36 weeks in a row. What has American business come to?”

    “Not American business, BillBoy,” you say, “you’ve been made an American high school teacher.”

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pls send this to your dear teacher friends as a holiday confection from both of us .. if only there were a way to thank them enough.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzol 160  11.08.05 tues

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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