Author Archives: wendy fleet

Not One Centavo on Bullets

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

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    I saw a tv program on grisly diseases like river blindness and malaria. River blindness gets into your blood and causes constant horrific itching – to the point where you just peel pieces of your flesh from your body. And then when you are about thirty, you go blind and hold the end of a broomstick with a child holding the other end, leading you around for the rest of your life. Until that child goes blind and so on and on. It costs a buck a year or something to prevent this. You probably make 50 cents a month in this country so you brutally itch and go blind.

    Where does the list have to end for you, pilgrim, in order for you to throw up your guts and say FUCKING STOP spending money on weapons? I try to avoid swearing on pogblog because profanity is usually just a failure of imagination, and when you really need it like here, its impact is diluted. But the Military Budget madness is what swearing is for.

    As I said to chancelucky: Dwight Eisenhower pushing the massive interstate highway system was justified on national defense terms tho it actually benefited commerce. The idea was that troops could be shuttled around the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />US better, were there a need.

     The point about universal ultraband and cheap tough cool laptops (wolfbooks I call them 'cause it's cool) is that they'll explode cheap trivial low grade crud, yes, <b>but they'll also explode invention.</b>

    It is invention which will preserve America and a decent standard of living — not more destroyers and fighters.

    Yes, it will take us time to buy out this idiot war in Iraq and all our obligations to its mutilated and their dependents, but at $820,000 per minute for the Military Budget and $200,000 per minute more for Iraq (It's 'off the books'), we can make the transition to an education-invention economy forthwith if we just change the meme or the controlling idea.

  This invention and the savings on destructive projects could be flooded into education and health.

   What BushCo & Ilk completely miss is that we win both allies and friends with spreading what you might call ‘practical love.’ Instead of multiplying vengeance, we would multiply affection. Train paramedics instead of soldiers – the same people, folks, the very same people. Train para-engineers instead of soldiers. The same recruits. The same team work, the same camaraderie. Minus the future nightmares that we bequeath to so many of them. We should use our massive strength (tho we’re owned by the Chinese banks & it’s hard to know when that bubble bursts?) to build for the downtrodden, champion the sick. The Earth is pleading for peace in broken people — they are the runes, the hieroglyphs. You just have to have another tank — and you let another sister go river blind? These things are connected.   

    Is our legacy as America all this hell and hate? I don’t believe it. I believe that we can export engineering and education and medicine — and movies and cruddy hamburgers.

 

    Take a deep breath – we are going to have to believe in actual democracy for better or worse. The Security Council has got to go. No veto. We have to educate an international multilingual police force to do actual peace-keeping. With ceaseless citizens' oversight. Not power decreed by the Old Guard, but elected. We have to stand for our beliefs. It can’t be democracy except when that doesn’t suit us and we go all Adolf Stalin. We have to put our sword in the pit of fire and strike it ourselves into a pen and a plowshare. We cannot tyrannically declare our belief in democracy. We act it or we do not. People can see. Unilateral action can’t be countenanced because all peoples are created equal and have a right to the pursuit of happiness. We are supposed to help with that. Bombs are not help, ever. 

    How can you imagine that corporations should less than tithe? I have a real question as to why a genuine and humble leader needs to make one centavo more than the janitor – what real leader would not want to raise up the janitor and share his bread & or cake with her/him? (I just don’t recall Jesus being into aggrandizement, but maybe I missed that gospel? Maybe the Gospel of Greed was left out of all 36 tapes worth of the New Testament I listened to? Can you imagine Jesus being elected to office in USofA Inc with his platform? I think someone should comb the New Testament and update the language, chapter & verse & try to run on that.)
   Our leaders are supposed to be citizen servants – not bloated have-mores. How can we empower and include more citizens in a relative abundance of education and happiness? How can a leader call themselves prosperous if there are poor, unhoused, unhealed, unhappy? How can we trust any leader who rides in a phalanx of gas guzzlers? Is where they are getting to more important than where you are getting to on the 32 bus? If the leaders rode the bus and lived on minimum wage one week a month, I could listen to one syllable they have to piously mouth. Otherwise it’s all hot air and broken wind.
     Please, some leader, dare to try it. Try it and write a blog about it. We would rally around you like the whirlwind. One week a month. Then testify. Tell the other leaders how hard in fact it is. Put your life where your mouth is, Mr.Bush. Do democracy. Do humanhood.

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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:

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3 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 159  11.07.05 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

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    Friends, I hope you escape this very sudden and very harsh presumably non-avian sore-throat-from-hell Event that attacked me a few days ago & felled me for awhile. I wouldn’t mention it, other people's misery in specific being tedium times ten, except that after a few days of a throat so sore, I was wavering – (I haven’t been to an MD since 1979 except once to get an inch long splinter pulled out from under my thumbnail – yes, you would say anything if they started shoving splinters under your fingernails – an answer I could have let someone else discover) – I thought, maybe, you old fool, this is the dreaded avian flu or who knows. But a friend suggested gargling dissolved Bayer aspirin in water – which I take every day any way. Willowbark is the miracle drug for sure, but chalk this in its column too. As an aspirin junkie for 15 years, only Bayer aspirin has the magic. Sorry, something is missing from the generics in this case. Anyhow, gargle away. I am not cough or other revolting drooling symptoms free, but the scary sore throat is Gone, hallelujah, bro & sis.

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But to the real subject du jour.

 

Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

 

    We either pursue the Burning Child shifting of the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex or we end up, baffled, as a backwater in history. We are spending our $820,000 per minute on an absurdly, obscenely obsolete model of dominance. The new dominance is invention for fun and for survival.

     Thomas Friedman’s China’s Little Green Book, a Nov 2 NYT column, tells how the Chinese are putting a giga-press on getting green. Not because it’s a nice idea, but so they don’t choke to death on the effluents of modernity.

    <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />South Korea, or SoKo as I ultramodernly call it, has grokked that nationwide ultraband is the kiss the frog & turn it to a prince smartest move. The frog being stuck in the past troglodytism and the prince is the collaborative and colludenative future 

     And we are stuck with a bellicose Administration all hopped up on the drugs of weapons and war. Everyone else is looking at us with horror tinct with pity or pity tinct with horror. Ye gods, I’m ashamed for our de-evolution, and a different thing, I am skin-crawlingly embarrassed that we are so belligerently and theistically stupid. We actually, tho admittedly barely, elected Al Gore an environmentalist and futurist who grokked green and the noosphere, the internet change from the competitive model to the instant and intimately collaborative, colludenative model. It is catastrophic to America’s hopes for joining – yes joining, what a novel, almost Navaho idea! — the future that we are stuck with an entire administration with at least three fatal flaws.

    The whole BushCo mindset is a throwback to anti-ecumenicalism in its many useful varieties. First let’s take a breath, as dear Fitz would say. I am not a communialist at all. I like my little personal space without having to pretend to like people’s company more than I do. I like it sometimes, sometimes I don’t. I like have a lair to retreat to – my garret as it were I suppose. I am not a happy hive person, always rubbing and buzzing like in bars on Friday night. So don’t think I have some sloppy sentimental notion of us all hunkering down in some loving commune. Piffle. However, we could care what happens in the next hovel, I think.

 

     How, for instance, does someone get to take their second dwelling off their taxes before everyone has a first dwelling? And tax payers should subsidize mansions? Really? No one makes their f***ing fortunes in a vacuum. You wouldn’t be so damned rich, FattHoggist, if the janitor weren’t making an impoverished wage. You are not worth 431 times more than your secretary per hour.

    So Robber Baron greediness and a complete gelding of the Labor Movement are flaws which pit us in the US against the future.

   In the general BushCo backward-looking, I see no one who groks the niftiness of technology. And, be sure, it is its niftiness which is what wins you over. Anyone who does not have access to home broadband is crippled. If that sounds like a blunt statement, it is from experience that I speak it. I had an overlap of dial-up and broadband. The broadband crashed one day (a rarity) and I discovered that the dial-up was all but useless. You cannot go back without feeling like an exile. All people who do not have a decent exclusive personal  computer and at least our clunky USA broadband are parapeligic, period.

     Going from broadband (as embarrassing as our USA broadband is – more like teaspoon-band compared to SoKo’s gallon-band) back to dial-up is like going from a fine 10-speed bicycle back to a tricycle. Yes, they both have wheels, but they aren’t in fact comparable.

    Please don’t be swayed by people who are not happy computer nuts. What do they know? I have the zeal of the converted. In 1988, I was still sure computers would be depersonalizing tools of an inhumane Corporate Structure. Maybe someone meant them to be, but trippingly around the gigantic feet of the dinosaurs, the tricksy lemurs began dancing under the moon after school.            

    A greatest fear I have is that with the changes happening so rapidly, those kids without computers or broadband, those not rhapsorg, are dusted into a different social species faster than could have happened before in history. The ability to augment your thinking with access to much of the world’s greatest knowledge all-but-instantly makes you different, more concrete, more specific – not disconnected, not more abstract. Now, obviously the same kind of training that a giga-reader of poetry or of the world itself is fortunate enough to get ought be vouchsafed to all these burgeoning brains so that they don’t only get addicted to cotton candy and giddy trivia. But the wonderful possibility of the noosphere is that you can pinball around from profundity to trivia in a trice.

    The freedom I feel as a writer now that I can check up on every nuance of what I’m writing about makes me just plain better in a substantial way. The melody is a gift I’ve practiced and earned, but the ability to check that SoKo has ¾ penetration of 4 times to 64 times faster broadband from an 11.05 article is a micro-solidity I can pass along that is both bloody cool and also makes us both smarter.

    I use rhapsorg instead of cyborg because the word rhapsody means woven song at root. And this future is orgged or organized more like a woven song than the cybernetic-org – helmsman-org model. There is no helmsman. Yet it is not chaos; there is an anti-entropic tendency to melody; therefore, woven song.

   So the kids (or any of us, really) not wired into the symphony are, ipso facto, deprived.

   Please don’t waste our time listing all that’s stupid and wrong with the internet. The same things that are stupid and wrong with people’s private minds – just the old mind was less on display to the non-psychic. Us psychics don’t notice so much difference, sooth to say. The vast garbage ground of pretentious nonsense and davidletterman sophomoric proto-humor is now in every Comment column of every blog that the generic imbecile-redneck-dave can find to bray on. However, I have found more thoughtful and resonant moments than ever I might have before. It requires a rhino-hide for a writer and super-quik junk-thought filters – like surfing the tv if you’re the one used to holding the remote – at a glance you see that it’s just britneyesque or whatever ain’t your poison.

       So the Chinese are doing giga-green and SoKo is leading the probably unwired way. We have got to instantly get this nation to have universal hotspots – the whole damn nation, like the MoonShot. Why were we woken up by Sputnik and not by SoKo? This is an Emergency & it is not a Test. You should hear that noise of alarm This is an Emergency until you shout at your Representatives urgently and constantly. WiFi this Nation Now.

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collaborate = working together;

colludenate = playing together;

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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

1 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 157 11.05.05 sat 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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The Psychic Spy & the Cure for Milito-Theism

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oneiro is the Greek root for dream

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the Psychic Spy

& the Cure for Milito-Theism

 

 

      Two of the main projects on pogblog are the Burning Child .. Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex (Let’s spend the $820,000 per minute on education instead). And the Integration of Lucid Waking & Lucid Dreaming.

   The hope is to pry open your mind for the pearl of wisdoms and delights that you hide from yourself because you were brought up in a culture which never taught you about Dreaming in the way that it taught you about riding a bike or how to decipher these black squiggles on a page. Both worlds are actually your birthright – an integration will make you happier, saner, and startlingly aware of your true equality in the cosmos.

   One of the immediate benefits of attending to your OtherLand experiences is the disappearing or radical diminishment of envy or feelings of deprivation. When you have such spectacular  inner riches, you don’t fuss yourself about needing another Hummer.

    Another benefit is a quantum leap in humor. A pleasure in sloth and silliness. Below is an instructional confection for your Clown Mind.    

 

     One of the most festive ways to change the outer reality is to plant clown flowers and clown forests in OtherLand. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Clown School taught silly songs to eager plants who were sick of being solemn. To wheat and rice, they implanted a flavor of the absurd so that the new bread from the Clown Bakery made people chuckle. Cows who ate giggle grass gave milk that allowed people to laugh out loud so cheerfully that it was called the full montypython syndrome. The Clown Oneiro Products were so popular that Digrif and Flan could afford to subsidize oneirotists who were searching for a vaccine to wipe out the Serious Disease and the Megalo-religiophoid Disease. These epidemic diseases destroyed the natural happiness of billions of Earth inhabitants on every continent planet-wide.

     Alohaha was Digrif and Flan’s favorite parrot friend and an absolutely brilliant oneirotist. “Pina colada,” said Alohaha when Digrif asked what was her favorite flavor of the new ice laughter made of the thick cream from cows grazing on the lush giggle grass. “Coconut and pineapple, muy yum.”

     Just as all the creatures had been asked not to harm Baldar in ancient times, all the furred and feathered and finned and even the cosmically retarded bipeds were asking the local plants to mutate their genes to montypythonize themselves – thus giggle grass and anti-ava-rice and chaffing wheat. Black Adder Beer made people drunk with laughter, hopped up on fun. People were laughing themselves well. Guffa Wing products flew off the shelves. Joy was ordinary. Salacious, delicious, topsy-turvy, somersaulting joy. You could infect people with it. It was great. The Giddy Revolution had begun beyond the rainbow, turn sharp left at the left-most star of Gata Grande’s constellation.

     Alohaha ruffled her shocking feathers. Her head feathers and ruff were a glistening green, her wing shoulders scarlet, her long wing feathers alternating scarlet and ripe banana yellow, her soft belly feathers a shimmering chartreuse. “These pious suckers earthside are seriously serious,” Alohaha said, rolling her eye. She probably rolled both eyes, but you never saw both of her eyes at once so she often seemed to be winking at you. “We’re trying to cleese the vaccine – it needs to mutate its wit at lightning speed to outwit the ever-dirging seriousness of this megaloreligiophoid virus that is epidemic on Earth. Brave Pog surreptitiously collected some, ahem, ‘samples’ of Fuller’s genetic material from some rags in his trash and we’ve been trying to isolate that radiant hilariens mutation so we can graft it onto our virus for our vaccine. We re-hydrated his, ahem, fluids and put them in that new clownclone holofuge that Aunt Silly designed.

     “Homo hilariens. Viv Id said he was new. Homo hilariens. I like it,” Digrif gave a quick private glance at Flan. He continued, “Alohaha, we can’t emphasize the urgency, the panic really to develop this vaccine.” Flan grinned and grimaced, “No joke, Alohaha. Earth is fucked if we don’t figure this out and soon.”

     Alohaha stretched her shocking wings, “No clown rests. All of Gata Grande is tinkering and napping and puttering. And vats of ice laughter are being licked and spooned. With you two as, ahem, exemplars, there is giga-mating going on. All creative resources are being brought to bear. Everything to stir the dream, bestir the dream.” She clicked her bright blue beak three times which is how you know a parrot is laughing.

     “Flan did a vision for us which we put on holovid. Now we can study the frightening pathology of their auras.”

     Flan shuddered. For a clown to get that close a sample of the radioactive aura of a person afflicted with full-blown megaloreligiophoid was completely dangerous. She still had flashbacks she hadn’t told either Digrif or Alohaha about.

    “Tell us again, honey,” Digrif said softly, his turquoise eyes watching her with special concern. He knew something was wrong. “Maybe we missed a clue.”

     Flan flicked her deft to the megaloreligio she had deliberately encountered for study. Like many beings brought up by animals, Flan used her sense of smell in a symphonic spectrum that people brought up by bipeds could never fathom. It was partly why she was so smitten with Digrif who smelled of late summer grasses and salty waves splash and the bittersweet smell of their mating. Gods know that was better to swim in than the sickly sewage stench of the fear-sweat megaloreligios.

     “Unnatural fear,” Flan murmured. “Unnatural fear. That’s what hunts and haunts them. Natural fear alerts and protects you. It has a real beginning and a real end. Unnatural fear is self-generated and self-perpetuated and the copious stale adrenalin toxic-rots the flesh, the body-flesh and the psychic-flesh. These poor pizzles are rotting alive – you can smell it. That’s what we need – in addition to the cleese hilariens element, a vulture element to clean up the rot at the molecular level so the hilariens can take hold. That’s what it smells like.”

     Digrif put his fingers on her forehead and moved them slowly and lightly. Flan far away heard the whisper of his fingers on her skin and her nausea at the grim smell subsided.

     She said, “A megaloreligio’s aura looks like a dense layer of grimy white coagulated exhaust with many prongs of barbed wire flailing in it. A ‘normal’ aura has huge varieties of weather, of flux patterns but it isn’t this styrofoamic foot-thick mummy wrapping of frantic static and flak that isolates them, insulates them from fun or spontaneous thought. They’re safe from the challenges, the choices good and bad, of the novel, the quixotic, but they are the living dead. And anyone different from them is a menace to them whom they hunt down in slavering hyena packs. They are so fear-ridden, so fear-laden.” Tears ran down Flan’s still face. She fainted. Digrif looked at Alohaha, “Do you have what you need?” “Yeah, some new clues. She’s never fainted at anything. I don’t like it. Getting too close to the megaloreligios is damned dangerous. Put somebody else on this until Flan clears up. Give her some ice laughter. Some sunshine. Take her to the damn beach.”

     “She’s the best and toughest psychic spy we’ve got,” said Digrif. “She has to foray again soon.”

     Alohaha clicked her bright blue beak three times. Except for the connoisseur, it was hard to tell the difference between parrot-laugh beak-clicking and parrot-vexation beak-clicking. But this time Digrif had no doubt and was chagrinned. “Take her to the beach, Digrif. She won’t do you or us any good dreared and dimmed, heart-dead. She needs to breathe salt. Do you hear, take her to the beach.”

     “I hear. I will,” said Digrif as Flan woke slightly and looked at him dully. Digrif felt a chill crawl his skin as he thought of the mind parasites infecting their beloved Earth. The clowns would win. But at what cost, at what loss? Pizzle the megalos. Grinning, he put his finger in the carton of Pina Colada Ice Laff and wiped it across Flan’s lips.

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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

12 Eagle . Men . West . tzolkin 155  11.03.05 thurs

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Alito .. More Promiscuous Piety

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Alito .. Sick at Heart .. More Promiscuous Piety

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Preliminary thoughts on Alito.

 

Oh good, another old white guy. Go Guns(especially machine guns) & constrain them uppity womens. If you don’t have enough money for Health Care, give ‘em some tuff luv. “It’s tuff that you don’t have Health Care, but God luvs you anyway, even diseased, in pain, or, better, dead.”

 

My clarion North Star is that the poisonous, pious suckers do die off. Sadly not in my lifetime. I do dream of the Rapture when all the Interfering Pious vanish in 43 seconds or what ever snippet of time is required for them to be whooshed into the Lovin’ Arms of an Angry God. They don’t know the LambChop Plans, but who am I to tell them?

 

When you see yourself sliding back down into the sulphurous pits of the Middle Ages with “Ask Your Husband Before You get An Abortion & BTW, Walk Three Feet Behind” Alito, it's about not just reproductive rights but the right not to be a slave to any other human being.

 

Ask Your Husband?! Ask Your Husband??!! Ask Your Husband???!!! Shall we return to Wives & Husbands drinking fountains too?

 

A return to the chattel mentality is a storm the battlements fight. I'm not sure even wise and thoughtful men can imagine what it feels like to face a return to this repugnant world and cocoon some of us spent a lifetime battling out of. Let them eat communion wafers.

 

Sharpen the guillotines.

 

????????????????????????????? 

 

A friend said “I’d personally like to see Roe v. Wade upheld, but it’s far more important to me that whoever serves on the court have both wisdom and vision.” Way too rational a view, my friend.

 

I gotta say that losing Roe v Wade means hacked-up young women, often self-mutilated. “Far more important” seems odd to me. I personally can't imagine wisdom or vision overturning Roe v Wade. But then I'm a woman who lived thru the era of hacked-up young women — friends of mine even. Not anecdotes, but first hand watching the blood pour onto the floor. I’ll never forget the smell of all that blood.

 

//As for the present court — nothing harmed the whole sacred(small 's') concept of  the rule of law beyond influence more than the completely wretched decision to stop the votes being counted. Never can we claim purity again before the developing democracies. Nepots will always go 'Wink Wink — oh yeah, you gotta count the votes even if you don't like the results, nudge, nudge.' This was a catastrophically short-sighted decision.

 

People said to me then that my frantic concern was because Al Gore didn't 'win.' I said NO — it was because the sacred (small 's' — no voice of God) idea of democracy itself had been indelibly defiled.

 

+++++++++++

I always thought that if each of the Ranters outside a Planned Parenthood would hand each young woman a check for the child's upbringing through <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Princeton, I might think about taking them seriously. (A Pro-Decent Life Account?)

 

I went to a boarding school in the 1950s. One night when I was a sophomore, my roommate & I woke up and a friend who was a senior was bleeding to death on the floor of our room. I have never seen so much blood. We soaked it up with towels and towels which we later buried. I can still remember the smell of all that blood.

 

Our friend Jane (not her name) had tried to do an abortion on herself with a knitting needle. I swear — we were all so incredibly ignorant. Of course we didn't call for help or a doctor because pregnancy was such a Terrible Thing.

 

I always shudder when I think that we would have let her die. It never occurred to any of us to tell anyone — so dread was the secret. (Which is why this parental notification is SUCH a bad idea.) Jane just barely didn't die. Her naturally olive skin was white as chalk for two months. I'm not sure if she ever could have children later in life. She butchered herself pretty badly in her panic. (She may not even have been pregnant — she might have just missed a period and freaked out, tho we didn't know that word then.)

 

The idea of losing Roe v Wade gives me very personal & vivid nightmares. I know better than many what we could go back to. 

 

The hideous hypocrisies of these ‘pro-birth’ folks are chilling.

 

Karl is clearly back. Alito has a list of revolting Inquisition Ideas. Keep your mind and ears open.

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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 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 154  11.02.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Fencing .. the Duel For Deftness

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Fencing ..

the Duel For Deftness

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Sam Breeze throttled back on his snazzy new HelioJetter, the latest two-seater sport jetabout. He settled the tiny craft on the rooftop jetter pad at Max Thorn's InnerSpace MindGym, ISMG. Sam's previous full-passage Earth Trip had been in a cruder era, but he had made his useful mark in that lifetime. He'd been a pretty good portrait artist and had invented the telegraph which had revolutionized outer-world communication at the time. He came out of each lifetime with a deeper conviction that art had an essential part in any constructive endeavor.

 

Art, fencing, and invention all shared a creative quality or posture that Max coaxed into your body's and psyche's muscle memory by merrily hollering or hissing “Au point” at you for an hour every instant your body and mind lost the perfect deft balance good fencing requires. “Au point.” (Oh pwa-n. The 'a-n' sound is like the beginning of 'angle' just before you put the 'ng' sound on.) Poised. Equally ready to pounce or to retreat. Not relaxed, but not tense. It is this deft state that Max cajoled and bullied his fencers into maintaining. Properly performed, it became nearly effortless.

 

Sam grimaced cheerfully at the memory of the early days when he'd all but collapsed from the effort to make no effort. Learning like a butterfly to let his attention alight on things,  to hover like a hummingbird sipping nectar.

 

 “Breeze,” Max would hiss suddenly behind his left ear, “Are you a humming bird? Do you skim like a swallow? Are you a zephyr?” Christ no, Sam would think, I'm a waterlogged, weak-kneed, lily-livered lump. At first, all these alertness exercises made him feel even less competent, kindergarten awkward. Perhaps it was not worth feeling this ridiculous?

 

“Dogs waste effort, cats waste none,” Max would insist. “Purr. Cats are always balanced, au point, poised. Watch them and admire. Learn.” The thing Sam liked best about Max was his refusal to guru. “I'm just a technician, kid. A batting coach. Keep your eye on the ball. Everything is a ball,” he'd cackle. Wise guys always cackle.

 

In fencing, your weight is not on either foot. It goes straight down from the top of your head through your spine down between your two widespread feet. Though this position is physically useful in fencing, the au point, poised attitude is also always required in order to live vividly. Alert.

 

With his white canvas fencing jacket open, Sam waited for his turn on the piste, the arm-span-wide special fencing strip laid out on the Gym floor. He recalled when he had learned to fly in his own body in the less-dense Realms of Experience, and the first time he had levitated in his own room at home. What both adventures had in common was an un-gravity, a not-grasping, a not-clenching.

 

Levitating, he had floated up like some large Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon and bounced gently off the ceiling, feeling at once delighted, incredulous, and entirely a fool. He was like a baby in this action. He couldn't control his motion yet. When he flew in dreams, he had careened and hurtled, and when he was about to run into a wall or a mountainside, he would flinch, duck, but dream-crashing never hurt anything except his terran pride and expectations. He got grace when he stopped trying so hard.  

 

ISMG, the InnerSpace MindGym, was for people who found samuraiing a tad belligerent. All the disciplines and arts sought the Zone. The monk who illuminated the manuscript, the baseball player who had to concentrate but must not squeeze the bat too tight, the fencer on guard. The Zone.

 

ISMG with a certain glee disdained 'peak experiences,' that treasure hunt of the previous century. Max had put his huge ruddy hooked nose up to the end of Sam's aquiline one and gazed owlishly at him, “Bloody hell, kid,” he whispered, “I want a peak life.”

 

ISMG made every client keep a journal to remind them that all action, all repose was equally a chance to practice or perfect being au point, lightly intent. “If you can't do it washing the dishes, y'ain't gonna suddenly do it here on the piste,” Max chided. Like a photograph, each action has to become focused.

 

Sam thought that perhaps our blessed eyes were too well-engineered for our own good. If we actually had to “manually” focus our nifty dual full-color, 3-D bio-cameras on the front of our faces, we might better appreciate the infinite adjustments of attention required to really focus on each thing. Visually we are lazy because it is done for us so automatically.

 

As Sam took his place on the piste, the special fencing strip on the Gym floor, drew up his fencing foil before his face, Max cried gleefully, “Au point, Mr. Breeze, au point! Deftly, please.” 

 

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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.blogharbor.com

Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 153 . 11.01.05 tues

ffwofw 808§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1119

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

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obsidian is shinier & blacker than coal .. & never capitulates to diamond.

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

 

    A crow’s wing must read the ebullient air, that grail, like braille? Feeling a bosomy intimate terrain we cannot even see. That crow, my obsidian bird, can see where I’m going, tho I, more landbound, take the, if lucky, meandering route; if not, the jagged route.

    I am well into my third Great Experiment. Certainly the most damned dangerous in daylight terms – I mean, I could get run over by a train I can see.

  The first Great Experiment is chronicled in 800 words in a fable called Justice.  I find out through 20 years as a window washer that the fortunate super-educated could do their share of the grotty jobs so we would not have to have an invisible undereducated class of which we never speak in order to get the latrines cleaned.

   The second Great Experiment is mostly unchronicled except in the blognoire, the akashic record, a few sketches here on agogblog, and the posthumous papers. An intense and immense decade of my tender battle with Digrif, a demon with whom I’m addicted. (Well, you like breathing too, don’t you?)  Across the timescapes, it is fascinating, elating. Here in this cul-de-sac of time, it is sometimes so painful, my bones bleed. Monde tordu. Wry world. Twisted world. If I only get to keep the memory of one thing, I trade off the possibility of Justice for the whole world for our implausible story, him & me. 

   This Third Experiment is in the dark arts. Not wicked, though wicked people have plied them. Dark like night is dark. It’s a calculated madness. I am navigating the last third of my life by poetry, by synchronicity. Reading the runes. Like the crow’s wing upon the courtesan air, I am allowing myself to be blind to the modern exhortations of necessity. Listening so carefully, watching like the fox the rabbit, or the rabbit the fox, breathing in the hieroglyphs of scents,  I am sensible to the signs – not in some, I like to think,  cult madness, but in a keenness of attention to the poem into which Fate is writing me. The metaphor from the inside.

    It is a certain enchanted view, as we shaman are taught to recognize and endure, and, even, procure. But this is different. More abyss. More quicksand. More much more vertigo.

    To say that synchronicity is a slippery slope is a bad time-rider’s joke. Am I really going to trust quixotic, clearly psychotic-able Fate to laying out clues like crumbs for the little bird? And am I supposed not to end up as rot-swollen body floating face down on the flood-sewage of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New Orleans?         

    Writers are used to being in the hand of Fate. When you get your own voice for sure at last, it’s like being knighted. You never need doubt the holy voice again. Soon tho, you realize that you are really an amanuensis for Something Which Speaks. The Ego does not write. It receives, like a pagan communion, the elixir. You are alive in the runes, the 3D of your sentences as they unfurl, the sentiments into images, around you. It is the alchemy.

   But to trust this impulse in your own living story with its bank accounts and rain and culverts as well as the parrots’ feathers is nothing if not risky. It’s being risqué may well not make up for how risky it really is.

     People who deny synchronicity are the wooden people who clodpatedly pay little attention. Synchronicity can be sly. Or Shy. Or bloody undeniable. As an example, a few years back, because of the crush of time, I had decided to stop taping my tv show of twn years, the Rhapsodic Life, where I performed 22nd century philosophic fables. I was very sad. I was parked in the Wells Fargo parking lot, crossed the street to the bakery for a consoling banana nut muffin, and as I passed the windows at the back of the store, this woman came running out of the store and grasped my hand with both hers, and said, “Your show saved my life.” Well, I guess I’m not quitting my show,” I laughed to myself. Manypoem (the multi-verse) can give you answers or nudges or kicks in the trousers, but 30 seconds later? It was compelling.

    Earlier this evening as I was fending off a bout of (financial) panic, actually behind this same bakery I swear – a vortex I guess & I haven’t been there in six months – the car which had pulled up next to mine had the license plate QUNTUM. Those of you who follow pogblog know that this Quantum motif is all over the blog. Quantum Schools etc. The thing that is hard to describe objectively is the precision and intimacy these bigger synchron moments can have.

    As you hang on a vine over the edge of a cliff, you say ok ok, I won’t panic yet.

    (I’d appreciate it if you don’t pipe in with rational advice because it only spooks me from the wild path I’m going to explore. I am convinced that as we clamber along in this next decade more & more sychron will appear and the parallel worlds will interinfluence each other more consciously. I’m a scout. Always have been a scout.)

 

Clearly there is gonna be a lot more about DUIS – driving [a life] under the influence of synchronicity, but I gotta go write some bilious romantic nonsense to Digrif.    

 

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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 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 152  10.31.05 mon

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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the World Government Game

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Profounder Flounder

& the World Government Game

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

This piece starts fable because if you don’t playful-up your mind, you won’t grok the quantum leap-frog to a new model near the end. Lube your mind.

 

   Profounder Flounder often preferred resting in the mud to being a super-hero. She liked lying in the mud thinking, like Faberge eggs, small great thoughts. Interwoven with sophisticated fishy erotica. Piscine eros was all about brushing one another with melodies of fins.   

    Her beloved, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was also a super-hero. It was easier, frankly, to fin with someone who grokked the difficulties and addictions of tovenaar rescue. There was much promiscuity among the 27,000 poikilothermic species, but Profounder was a faithful flounder.

    “Admit it, Profounder, it gets you off that he has a title,” said Clod Cod, one of their retinue. Profounder glimmered her dappled hide, the fish-equiv of a blush.

    “Yep, it’s slick. He’s so flagrant of fin.”  She nestled deliciously into the squishy mud.

    In spite of his royal heritage, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was legendary fish-freedom-fighter. “Dolphins, dolphins,” he would say. “Howsa ‘bout the tuna?”

    Side-butting was the octessence of erotic fishy action. Reproduction had zero to do with eros in the carnival of fishes. One laid. One sprayed. It was a function. But side-butting was a conjunction of hilarity and eros that humans had never joined. Side-butting was rather like jousting under the sea. Sir Cuss would coyly present his magnificent side to her. She would swim full-speed into his side, pushing him through the water and tumbling him over. Only in a supporting yet yielding medium like water would this be so violent, so playful, and cupidesque at the same time. One took turns. Part of the leisurely pleasure was the waiting while the slow motion sleersh and tumbling bloomed arabesquely in the quicksilver water and so slowly slowed. ‘You bowled me over’ has more meaning in the sargasso depths.

    The last time Sir Cuss 'Cuda had been home, they’d had a fairly hut discussion about the lot of psychic tovenaars, a kind of wily wizard. Most of their discussions were gehry or calatrava, more baroque and cognac in force and feel, though streamlined. The architecture of their conversations was one of their gifts and treasures.

        “What I’m worried about, Profounder,” said Sir Cuss, “is this epidemic of Nero Flu on Planet Paisley. I'm not sure what us tovenaars are going to do about the Nero Flu?”

     Planet <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Paisley is what we call Planet Earth, but seen in its expanded etheric dimension.  The Nero Flu is an astonishingly contagious and debilitating condition. It got its name from an ancient character in Paisley’s exoteric history, an emperor who was said to have shrugged and plucked his lyre as his great city burned. The catchphrase was ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned.’ Nero Flu led to chronic defeat. Keep your head down, loot what entertainment and distraction you can on the sly, and hell with heroism. Heroes have to hero; hero moles get whacked. The Nero-afflicted were pre-wounded. They’d seen the ruthless usurpers, the bloated corporate gloaters, and had learned to hide in the shadows or blend with the fog.

    “Well,” said Profounder, “the young on Paisley have watched the middle-aged and old capitulate to gigaGreed, gigaCreed, and methed theoMilitoPatriotism. Who stands up? Who hollers? Silence of the Sheep – Obedient Americans is the longest running reality show they’ve seen. Who needs the SS? Malls, mortgages, football, and petty political bickering on cable tv quell the masses just fine.

    “Everyone who squawks at all is just twiddling around the edges of change. The difference with these young and the hippos is that these ones aren’t dis-illusioned . . .”

     “Hippies,” said Sir Cuss, “I think they called them ‘hippies,'  the ones hopped up on hope. Hippies, not hippos.”

   “All this shapeshifting from planet to planet, from dis-ease to un-ease, from pretty to giddy, from eyes with lids to eyes without lids. Do I have claws this week or fangs or fins? I’ll confess that keeping the lingo pristine irks my spleen,” said Profounder.

      “So, in the next triad of months, the otromundo themes are Ignite hope in the Apathos. Join Myrth, Salma Nella, The Blue, Quetzal, and pogblog in the Militarism to Educationism/Burning Child project. Backlight the Lizards with Ridicule. And do the odd torvenaar psychic rescue gig.”

    “And plot in some delicious squish in the mud time for you,” said Sir Cuss.

    Profounder Flounder fluttered her fins. It was so thoughtful of him to say that. He was a BarraCuda, a Lord of the Ocean, so silver and sleek, the handsomest fish in the sea. Mud was for vassals. But love does stranger things than make us cherish mud-dwellers.

    “You think you got if not a cure, an ameliorative for this Nero plague?” asked Sir Cuss.

   “Yep, sweets. I duz. The Apathos I know are so smart and so ingenious. And they have no interest in wielding blood-violence – violence that actually draws blood. I say we get them to invent a World Game. Like Sim City, except they would have to deal with the actual conditions in actual regions. They would get to run the virtual World. The Rebels would be the Builders. The CreedoGreedos would run things in the beginning. The Game task would be to transform the world from Creed n Greed to Equality & Happiness.

    There would be 3 World Games running simultaneously. You would be assigned to one randomly. There would be running counters of the EHQ, Equality & Happiness Quotient of each model.

    For every certain quantum of gained E & H, you’d get to spend time Through the Looking Screen in virtual Movie Houses where you’d enter sub-games of giga-GTAesque intrigue and violence and lust. We’d get them to design ways of getting credits from actual action in a local community to give you access to Game-in-Game powers.

    “Fuck, if I may say so, nation-building. Nations should be neighborhoods. World-building is the name of the future. As our R.Bucky says, ‘You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.’”

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Frank Gehry architect .. scroll down when you get there.

Santiago Calatrava architect .. clik slide show when you get there.

piscine = fishy.

poikilothermic .. unlike mammal blood, blood temperature changes with environment.

otromundo = OtherLand; lit. other world.

tovenaar = wizard, shaman.

GTA = Grand Theft Auto, a classic video game.

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 151  10.30.05 sun

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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“George Bush is a hard little man . . .”

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />“George Bush is a hard little man . . .” 

 

A few years back there was a famous photographer on Charlie Rose. (Forgive me — I forget his name.) This man had taken iconic shots of everyone of celebrity or infamy from Winston Churchill on. If you've ever been a photographer or a videographer, you know what an intimate process shooting someone is.

 

Every single person interested this photographer. Even the villains. He grokked and savored their uniqueness.

 

This was back in Charlie Rose's era of having swilled the WMD-9/11 terrors koolaid. If not quite a toady for the Bush Administration in that timeframe, he, like Ms. Miller, was a bit of a chalabi. (If I may update quisling.¹)

 

This was a confection show as was appropriate. A lot of stunning portraits. Tabloidism at a caviar level.

 

Friskily with a certain sycophance like a Golden Retriever puppy, Charlie asks Mr. Photo, “You shot a portrait of our (sic) President when he was governor of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Texas?”

 

All the air went out of the room. The amusing flock of anecdotes all fell out of the sky like dead birds. There was a long silence, ghastly on TV. Mr. Photo's voice lost all its buttery over-&-undertones, and he said with flint, “He's a hard little man.”

 

The president, George W. Bush was the only  figure of the past 54 years that this observant photographer had not either loved, liked, or been interested in. It was that moment, I think when I felt the rising menace of this cold and colorless of soul Administration most starkly.

 

Mr. Photo, pressed for more comment, said, “We were alone in a room in the Governor's mansion and as I was setting up the shots, Governor Bush just watched me warily through slitted eyes. He is a hard little man.”

 

Mr. Photo did not say it except between the lines. But Mr. Bush was right to be wary. As many tribes in less modern lands knew, a photo can show your soul. Awkward if you don't have one.

 

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 ¹ There are a few notes on this piece, amigoas.

 

Quisling is one of those words that starts as a name and becomes a lower-case generic word like kleenex, xerox, sandwich, and google. Quisling was Norwegian who collaborated with the Germans in WW2 and was firing-squadded. When I’m feeling more than usually betrayed by Digrif, I call him a quisling. Note that in the Land of Euphonies, or delights of sound, quisling is a word that hisses like a snake. The sibilance or hissing underlines the subliminal feeling of treachery. (Not fair really to snakes which just have the misfortune not to be furry and not to blink. We feel odd around the blinkless.) That sound which is resonant of a feeling or thing is called onomatopoetic – and the classic is murmur & the tintinnabulation of the bells bells bells

 

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. EA Poe

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Koolaid. A undrinkable drink. Cloyingly sweet with cheap imitation flavors. Lots of people like it. But as an eponym or word from a name, to drink someone’s koolaid comes from the hideous Jonestown event where all these followers of Mr. Jones, yet another religious charlatan, a tautology if there ever was one, who took all these folks to Guyana in 1978 and they obediently drank the poisoned grape koolaid he passed around and 900 of them died. It was horrible, but in a humor so dark that it’s almost obsidian, the term has become more of a banter. “Yeah, well, she drank your koolaid.” Meaning that she swallowed your silky jive. 

 

Chalabi is the slitherer to whom we owe the Iraq war. He was an exile of such snake-oil persuasion powers that the BushCo Cabal not just hook & line, but sinker too swallowed his fishy bait. He was the koolaid purveyor to Ms. Miller who used the New York Times to give credence to the Chalabi-BushCo fantasies of Sadam making nukes at the bottom of secret wells behind palaces. So I update quisling by using chalabi who is a conman’s conman.

 

sycophant .. ‘an informer against those who stole figs’ – in other words, a rat. Someone the prince can count on to fink slimily. It has gotten generalized to mean a vile flatterer, a smoocher of royal rumps – or in our day, trumps’ rumps. Obsequious – a word oilily worth saying.

 

sic .. sic means thus. It's used literally to say that some misspelling or bad usage was in the original statement — kind of puffed-uppedly noting that cool you noticed that it was wrong because you're not so much of a rube as the original writer. Or as in this case I am highlighting that Charlie, supposedly a journalist, uses 'our' rather than 'the' as an unnecessary fondness. Charlie, by the way, has regained some spine or at least a few vertebrae lately as the war spirals into perpetual hell.

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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

5 Rabbit . Lamat . South . tzol 148  10.27.05 thur 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Rosa Parks. Weasel TV. .. from the sublime to the silly

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Rosa Parks. Weasel TV.

.. from the sublime to the silly

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I was writing some stuff to some swell folks in the bloggosphere & I realized it was the kernel of stuff I wanted to share with you dear pogblog readers. The way the bloggosphere works is that you may write a Comment about something sublime and then in a few moments about something sublimely silly. That’s why I like it, the O'Sphere. It, like life itself, is fractal. We like to tidy up our memories into faux linearities. These two pieces met at the same dawn while I’m drinking organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />darjeeling tea and eating 72% chocolate. That is vie.   

 

I’m still up for dawn; not getting up.

 

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Rosa Parks Dared.

 

I grew up on a farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland in the Fifties. There were the water fountains with 'Colored' & 'White.' The only place a traveling 'negro' family might rest their head along the several hundred miles on the Big Highway was down a dusty dirt road with a peeled and faded sign — not even Dew Drop Inn, but only 'Colored.' What most folks not from those places or times cannot begin to imagine was how utterly brave 'just staying seated' was in those years.

 

Some might say Ms. Parks is remembered “solely for refusing to give in to injustice” — there is no “solely” about it. 'Nice' southern white men could be so suddenly vicious, she could well have been followed off the bus and beaten to death or raped. The bitter meanness of many of the white people with whom I grew up is all but untranslatable in our time now. The gracious, mint-julep-sipping southern gentleman would turn into a slavering pitbull if crossed by a 'colored' person. It was jekyll-&-hyde.

 

You can see in the wonderful pictures of Ms. Parks in her youth how grounded she was. There are few enough among us who would possibly have dared to “sit our ass down” in a society like the underbelly of the American South back then. The things I saw 'nice' upper middle-class white people do and heard them say in those years were bloodcurdling. There was no recrimination whatever for perpetrating the vilest of the Shadow upon 'colored' people. It was terrifying and disgusting. (Think Abu Ghraib being done by your neighbors & nobody blinking an eye.)

 

Having done a fair amount of civil disobedience, I can tell you that the hardest thing is to just not move. Where is the three-square-feet of  the United States of America where you will take your stand as you are surrounded by policemen in black exo-skeletons and 2 ft long night sticks? It's the quintessence of non-violent action, not moving, but if you're standing, your knees go to jelly. Those kind of 'authorities' are very used to having intimidation 'work.' It not working is a real big threat to their pipsqueak bully self-grandiosity.

 

What Rosa Parks did was not just thrust upon her. She deeply dared. I will always be inspired by her turning rage into courage. Thank you Rosa Parks.

 

We surely must 'continue the work.'

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For Rosa Parks, please see chancelucky & Natalie Davis.

 

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Weasel TV

I had a nice flashback to my 5 years of doing televised improv with ordinary people off the street. I was talking to chancelucky's blog about saying that what he called re BushCo as Surreal Life should be SursurReal Life. I haven't quite coined a term for weirderthanDali or morepitchforksinrumpsthanbosch, but we're definitely there with these skincrawling lizards.

 

As for names like Chuzzlewit, Dickens is in a tie with Tobias Smollett (a heck of a name itself) for Name God. Smollett has Roderick Random & Peregrine Pickle. (On my Improv show, Weasel TV, my doppelganger Dame Polly Pickle [pronounced pick-kell] was a tip of the hat to Smollett as well as to Dame Edna & Hyacinth Bucket pronounced Boo-kay. Apropos of nothing, Weasel TV was the first galactic TV channel, as CNN was the first global one. We had time travel facilities and a lot of other cool stuff. We would go back and interview the babysitter of Genghis Khan & so 4th.)

 

One of my favorite planets we visited with Weasel TV facilities was the planet Nedrag (‘garden’ backwards for the anagramically impaired). On the Planet Nedrag, they had Zoos of Humans. We had two humans on and two of their zoo trainers. The Sentients on Nedrag were pretty disgusted by the hairless bipeds, but they enjoyed watching them mate (a la PBS documentaries, all very tasteful and narrated by deep-toned famous people you can’t quite recognize) They also like to watch the humans and eat and lie slothfully around. The Nedraggians would toss them peanuts — and cucumbers for some odd alien planet reason.

 

Dame Polly who uses my body when she visits, but likes hats and lipstick and enormous pink plastic shoes, is richer than TrumpGatesPerotTurner all in one bank account. Her cause celebre was Two, Then Adopt, a meme she promoted for a long time to get around some women’s baby addictions – Raise all you can afford if that’s your gig, but only two flesh + blood kids.   

 

I used to think we on Weasel were outre — but that was before the BushCo Administration came a long as a Category 666 of bizarre. Of course we were never in competition. We had a lock on warm-hearted & pithy outlandish. They have a lock on coldhearted kukluxklan without the sheets.

   

A friend the other day said, “Well, they, [the Bushoids], really haven’t got this oppression thing perfected yet. They don’t have the SS.”

 

I said, “Merde, man, they don’t need the SS. They got malls, football, and Humvees to keep people exhausted and drugged. You don’t need the SS when transmitting the Bread & Circuses directly into the home is so dead-cert easy. Honesty in blogalism, I am a pro-football nut having been a Johnny-Unitas Colts fan and a 49er fan in the glory years. Malls have just never gotten me, but not because I have any virtue, probably more because I don’t have any money.

 

Humvees. Well, the first Humvee is a felony. The 2nd Hummer is death penalty, against which I am in most other circumstances. (People who chew gum are on the cusp death penalty-wise.) Orange Arnold Schwarzenegger (orange from too many years of ManTan) has 8 Humvees, so poor ole Dante has to take a break from Heavenly concourse with Beatrice to invent a new and special circle of Hell for Arnold. What woeful oceanic inadequacy must a man feel who must have the ultimate codpiece vehicle, a Humvee? And eight of them?  Welcome to Planet Asylum where the inmates clearly are running the whole hebang. Duck & cover.

 

ps. Remember, those of us who wield Ridicule do win in the end eventually someday not soon enough but never despair because despair is never a lollipop flavor.

 

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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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4 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 147  10.26.05 wed 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Clone the 3 Best Schools .. The Burning Child

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Clone the 3 Best Schools ..

The Burning Child

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   The Burning Child ..  Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Industrial Complex. That’s how the title began. That’s the idea. I was vexed by the second ‘industrial’ but couldn’t grok something else with the proper cadence. I asked some wordsmith friends. Nada. Time floated by. Waiting for Godot. Waiting for Indictments. Waiting for the Rapture to Lighten the Piety Load on the Beloved Planet.

    Then Dear The Blue, my second best pal after Spiteful Puffy – The Blue and me ain’t Biblical or nothing, we just hang out a lot – Dear The Blue dropped a present into the air just in front of me like a hummingbird hovering, iridescent. “Instructional.” Ah. Aha.

   The Burning Child .. Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Instructional Complex. Sweet. It works.

    Child, child burning bright in the forests of delight. Every child has the civil right to a superb education. We shift the $820,000 per minute over to a Manhattan Project of funding to provide an explosion of education in our nation.

     So, let’s for a few moments leave all the objections to the side and assume as a thought experiment that the ATBs, the Aliens with Tractor Beams are saying, “You Hairless Bipeds have five earth years to provide equally superb education to every single child from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border or we will incinerate your whole lousy belligerent species.” So, we have to do it. How then?

    I imagine a team of  Smart Good Hearts flying over the country in Education Force One looking down at all the schools in the country. We find the 3 Best Schools. We clone them. We buy out the remaining military obligations like veterans health care and so 4th.  We re-write the contracts with the DDX destroyers and A22 fighters and Robust Nuclear Earth Pentrator and Star Wars people so that they re-tool to research and build cheap, mobile, indestructible laptops and the infrastructure for free nationwide wireless ultraband and the best new schools gehryesque architecture can cathedralesquely create.  They do this shift as if their hair was on fire – which it will be if the ATBs get pissed.

   This is our Moon Shot. This is our Manhattan Project. If immediate profit weren’t any object, how cheap and fabulous could these tough thin fastest nifty laptop WolfBooks become? We put the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars into WolfBook research. We have the forbidden socialism for the Military Budget now. We just re-allocate those resources to the Education Instructional Complex. We export education systems rather than weapons systems. If we can have the darned nanopod, thin and sexy (tho not so tough apparently), we can have a cheap fabulous laptop WolfBook for every citizen, child and Granny.

    This is an emergency for our very survival as a viable species. The planet is going to buck us off until we grok it. We do destruction; it does destruction – tho lots better. We do construction and fruitfulness; it will do construction and fruitfulness.

     All this is a national effort like WW2. This is WW3 – except that we fight for the future instead of smashing the present. Bloodshed will be considered Losing.

    Always look back from Y3000. Imagine where we are as our better angels in Y3000. How do we get there? That’s what pogblog wants to challenge and cajole you to think about. Not why we can’t. Because we do. So how do we get to the constructive, fruitful world? The more you bring to the table if even just in your mind and heart & not yet the street, the sooner this more delightful, smart inventive stuff can manifest. You dream about it every night. It just isn't manifested yet. We're the midwife people for the education dream. You can be a raving nutcase militant pacifist epistemologist like me, or you can be milder, cogitating in your living room. The NaySayers do not contribute. They just slow it down. We have to live with them until they shapeshift. Don't let 'em fuss you. Press on, regardless. ///<^>/////

   

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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

3 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 146  10.25.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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