Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets
 

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05
 

    Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Only recently have Incarnates developed sufficient consciousness to be considered galactics rather than merely humans, the galactic slang for clever pets.    

     The raging Question that divides the Galactic Council is where the line is drawn for full sentience privileges. Terrans have been considered spiritual chattel, and few of these Earthers are given more than minimal attention by their occasionally resident Ethereal or Noncarnate. Among those rare earnest Ethereals who do bother to honor and tend their Terrans, there is an outcry against Incarnate abuse — abuse of the human creature 
    Most other Ethereals are indifferent to the well-being of their Terran hosts. Many Ethereals use Incarnates or solid Earth bodies as an amusement ride or as an experiment. Too few bother to weave a mutuality of experience that gives a steady and reliable élan to the Earthbound.
    It is inconvenient to tend your Terran creature. Their reaction time is slow. They do not speak Galactic which is an holographic multi-dimensional oneiro-language. Terrans can be — well, usually are — stubborn and sulky, and, in relative terms, it must be admitted that they are one degree or another of just plain stupid.
    It is hard to resist wanting to see them react in a frenzy to the most simplistic propaganda. It is especially fun to give them a jolt of cupid juice and watch them make fawning fools of themselves. If you have not forged an irrevocable empathetic bond, it is easy to dismiss them as a gaggle of clever geese.
    At best, most of the multitude of Ethereals can be brought to pity these Terran beasts, these vessels, but damn few respect the creatures.
    It is the contention of the Sentient Rights Party that Ethereals should be denied access to a personal Terran unless the Ethereal is willing to have some training and to sign a set of Incarnate Interaction Guidelines the flaunting of which incurs genuine repercussion.    The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

 heed it, grok it —

 

The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition — in oneiro-density — can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

     Spiritual physics and spiritual psychology are very different in density, intensity, and consequence from those of the solid Earth Realm, and the Ethereal who thinks the Terran can recover from mayhem, mutilation, and misery with the quickness that it does in the more protean, less-dense lands is deluding itself.
    You enjoy the Terrans’ augmented sensitivity, and though you can, you may not torment these tender creatures for your own kicks. Perhaps worse is the boredom you inflict on your Terran partner when you erratically withdraw your attention in order to pursue quicker, slicker galactic games.
    No one requires that you partner a solid realm Terran, but if you do, you must comprehend at least the rudiments of how they experience time. To you, time is in most regards ephemeral and holospheric, a quixotic erotic zephyr. To them it is largely sequential, a river, and what to you would seem sluggish.
    If you spend some least effort, Terrans can learn some of your quicksilver ways, and you for your part can swim in delicious thick water that could actually drown you. The consequences of ethereal action and of the more dense incarnate action are so different. You give Terrans glimpses of a quicksilver and golden life and they call you angels who live in heaven and you are so flattered that you accept the superiority and bask in their adulation when in fact Terrans are better, more accomplished and more gifted and doggèd in their own dense realm than you can ever be.
    If Terrans had full Sentient Rights, if they joined the Galaxy, you could speak together in respect, you could each impart your special knowledge. Incarnate abuse poisons the whole Galaxy in the end. Incarnate abuse cannot be kept a filthy little backwater-world secret forever. It stains our souls.
    You don’t care if you slaughter them in warring herds, crush and splinter them in car wrecks, twist them with disease. It’s all a frisson to you: you get a buzz from their flood of adrenalin. You are detached from their terror; they are embedded in it.
    It is that creature’s only direct life, and there ought be limits to how you toy with that precious span. Terrans have become sufficiently sentient to deserve Galactic recognition as Sentients with Protected Rights.    Early on, it was a cool trick to inhabit the more dense realms and to discover the particular spectrum of experience that a solid body and linear experience gives. As the creatures developed culture, civilization, and history, you shifted from being their masters to being their partners, or those without hellish arrogance did. It became their world while we weren’t watching.
    The ethereal experience may be the pearl in the oyster, but when you’re hungry, it’s the oyster itself that gratifies.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

………….….<^>……………..

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 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 63  08.03.05 wed

♫ffsk 884  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

the Third Thing . .. .. Photonic Physics

the Third Thing  .. Photonic Physics

.

    Imagine between the two of you a translucent globe in which your conversation emerges like a play, a terrain, shifting and embellishing as each of you speaks. It has a softer lucence than a crystal ball. Roughly two feet in diameter, it is bigger than a snow globe. It is not you nor him; it is the Third Thing.

    The Third Thing floated between them like a continent seen by a hawk. The Third Thing, an aleph, was detailed as you dove in closer like the hawk for a fish. The Third Thing was a mystery. It was sacred and thrilling.

    Risma and Pal Ace were mulling over the talk they were giving at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />ContactCollege the next evening. ContactCollege had been established to promote tolerance for individual differences, the tolerance Earthers would need in a big way when the awaited, the expected they finally arrived, or, as was more likely, revealed themselves.

     The Third Thing, Cosa Tercera, had been invented on Bylar, Risma and Pal Ace’s planet of origin. The Third Thing was one of Bylar’s greatest inventions, their e=mc2. Another dazzling Bylar invention was the whimsical wind toys that they designed during their lives and placed on their graves as a droll reminder of their playful attitude to both life and to the death swan- dive into a different sea..

    As they discussed their talk, the Third Thing, luminous between Risma and Pal Ace, changed and glimmered as their mutual creation took place before their eyes. On Bylar, the Third Thing had been as visible and tangible as, say, a cloud. Like a cloud, the Cosa Tercera was light and it floated. Like a cloud, it was substantial but changed shape beautifully and easily.

Bylars could make their thoughts substantial because they were trained from small children to be precise and actual about their thoughts. And they thought about their feelings and felt about their thoughts.

    “We’ll talk about Plato and the black horse and the white horse, Risma said. “And about the ‘celtic knotting’ or interweaving of subjective and objective, of how the Third Thing is a shared ‘work’ or ‘play’ of art between two people. The Third Thing allows, indeed requires passion, but keeps that passion from knocking the nodes or chakras out of kilter.

    “Of course the discarnate have a fluidity and immediacy of thought because of the medium in which they dwell. The Bylar legerdelight was to accomplish that liberty and art for the bodied who had different rules.”

    Pal Ace watched the play, the drama in the Globe between them as Risma presented her thoughts in a holographic form on their shared ‘stage.’ He said, “Between us we might be able to make the chariot and the black and the white horses tangible enough that our audience can actually get the lively sensation of the Third Thing. We can explain that all great thought is in stories because people there get images which give force and vitality to ideas. Abstract ideas are about as attractive as plucked chickens.”

Ri laughed. “I know, abstraction is so false, so tepid, so pallid. The darling universe itself couldn’t stand the emptiness and loneliness of concepts. It poured its lonely heart into the violent and vivid art of the stars and the jewels of foxes and cats. It adores its creation. You can hear it purring on the cosmic subsonics.

    “Now, let’s say the white horse is reason and the black horse is the more chthonic or earthy, the passions. If one hopes to depend on only one horse, the chariot will veer in a circle. You must get the two horses to pull in equal measure or you won’t get anywhere.

    “You might also say that the white horse is the objective force and the black horse is the subjective force, and you have to get those forces and horses,” she laughed again, “to pull together as a team.”

    Pal Ace said, “Let’s make sure they realize that the Third Thing, the Cosa Tercera Globe is ‘outside’ them both. This crucial spaciality allows them to have an argument without it getting ‘personal.’ It allows the catharsis we get from seeing passions played at a ‘safe’ distance on the stage. The Third Thing is the stage ‘out there’ that we use to play out the drama of this conversation. Of course this Third Thing process is already happening on Earth in a fragmentary and cloudy way. Because the process is unconscious here, it is incomplete and not artful.”

Pal Ace continued, “At first, as with any art or craft, participating in a Globe feels awkward and slow. Eventually it’s like a dance. It feels melodic, indeed, rhapsodic, a woven song. And the Third Thing is eventually much quicker because people don’t come to these unpredictable grueling stops or lurches as suddenly their feelings get hurt and they balk or sulk, and the conversation, the shared creation, comes to a dead halt.

    “The Globe teaches you and allows you to adjust the amount of subjectivity and objectivity you mainline, as it were, so that you stay comfortable and can enjoy the appropriate exhilaration of artistic thought.

    “It is as if detachment were one wing and attachment the other. You glide or fly according to the needs of the winds on your way. Sometimes you need a stronger effort from detachment, sometimes from attachment in order to bank and wheel with or against the winds.

    “You cripple yourself, you cannot take flight, without both.”

Risma added, “The genius of the Third Thing is that it doesn’t achieve peace, a lively calm, or an exhilarated serenity by denying or withdrawing passion. Passion need not be buffered, extirpated (uprooted), diluted, or amputated.

    “No, the Third Thing gives passion an honored and essential job to do. Passion provides the colors, the radiance, to the forms in the Globe.

“Passion runs amuck when it has nothing to do. The thing passion wants is to bring to bear is its unquenchable vitality, its fabulous force. It can be directed. Its danger or waste is when it’s loosed too long in mental realms where it serves nothing but thought or fantasy, where there is no resistance for it to match or accommodate.

    “The Third Thing insists that passion create. Passion can kick over the sandcastle in the air, but then its willfulness is obvious.

    “Neurosis and selfishness are a personal, interior condition. The Third Thing Globe requires attention out of the self, shared responsibility, and keen listening to what the partner in creation is actually doing. It is a living chess game with unexpected pieces played on a terrain instead of a board.

    “Meditation can develop, perhaps, the skill of personal imagination, of creating the holy holograph, but the drawback is that one may get puffed up or even lazy, have self-pride or self-humility rather than shared pride. The mutuality of the Third Thing keeps both artists honest.”

Risma asked Pal Ace, “What was it like when you first came here and discovered that they hadn’t even a clue about the Third Thing?”

    “Well, at first I couldn’t believe it. I kept putting out my impressions and energy offerings in the Globe Field. And then like — you remember Sarabel? Sarabel would suddenly get all huffy, self-righteously indignant, and wounded. In amazement and eventually some exasperation, I’d plead, a hundred hundred times, “Sarabel, it isn’t about you, it’s about it!’

    “The dear lady didn’t know what the blue blazes I was talking about because she and hers had never heard about the Third Thing. Our conversation kept getting shipwrecked on the shoals of her personal feelings.

    “One of the limitations’ of solipsism, of any self-referent system is that it always works! It feels so sweet and sleek and inevitable. Not unlike the illusion of being In Love,” he added wryly.

    “The beauty of the Third Thing is that it allows perspective, a different point of view, to nourish the design.’”

    A tall bald man in the audience raised his hand. The anti-grav mike was moved above him remotely by the AGM tech in the holovision truck out back.

    “Sherrard Gray from the NorthEastKingdom, Vermont, USA. Earlier in this Third Thing Conference, I watched you and Pal Ace give a Third Thing demonstration. I was astonished at the quick bright deftness of your shared creation. It was as quick and layered as seeing a magic deck of cards shuffled — two halves swiftly, layer after layer, became one thing.

    “I just wanted to know how the interaction felt for each of you subjectively? I wondered if we Earthers could get accustomed to that brisk, maybe brusque exchange — if it might not be too strong for us?.

    Pal Ace answered smiling, “That’s a perfect question. The Third Thing provides protection from personal injury.

    “It’s true that Risma and I know that, often, the stronger we are there in the Globe, the sooner the chaff of our personal thought blows away, and we’re both left with a truer kernel.

    “We are focused on the Third Thing, not ourselves.” Risma smiled at Sherrard Gray, NorthEast Kingdom, Vermont, USA. She said, “The way it feels is that there, between us, is a land ne’er seen, an air pristine, in which we two can now create a new wonder to fascinate our fellows later. This place alive, this Third Thing is our refuge from our only selves. This conversation’ — trivial, formal, urgent, mild, wild — is brand new in this Third Place. We may even rough and tumble here; it is the rough and tumble which gives the dull stone its shine.

    “This being ‘objective about subjectivity’ and ‘subjective about objectivity’ engages the whole brain, the whole spherical consciousness.

    “Our duty is to the beauty of the Third Thing. The changes of light or mood can be as quick, as chiaroscuro and dappled as on a windy cloud-strewn, sun-struck afternoon. Or as soft and small as cradling a silver kitten purring in your lap. The key is not getting one’s personal feelings hurt. That alone stops creation, dialogue, shoves the story into a mucky ditch. Thus, it’s not about you, it’s about it.

    “So much of our interaction is sequential monologue. Few really listen. As bits of the other’s soliloquy strike you, you are preparing attack or doubt, or the shape of your own agreement. Few can have a soft mind, view the Third Thing intently, then co-create — add or multiply the subject.

    “For Bylars, you know, the very world is a Third Thing between us and the deities. We are always in vivid dialogue with the creation. Remember too that to Bylars, ‘creation’ is a verb, is unfinished. We have a dialogue with ‘creationing’ then.

    “The Third Thing feels like surfing a mobius strip. Through the Third Thing, you can dare energy that might well be toxic or even discombobulatingly positive taken directly. Your duty to the shared story, tiny or grand; your allegiance to the allegory that emerges between you; the Third Thing allows you to experience states and qualities, dark and light from a careful and compassionate distance. The Third Thing is the cocoon from which your co-created butterfly flies.”

    Pal Ace added, “It’s not possible to remain neurotic with practice at the Third Thing because neurosis is always rooted in fear for the self, fear that one will not be sufficiently esteemed. In the Third Thing, the self is irrelevant. Yes, it does take some practice if you are not brought up to it. You keep thinking ‘This is about me, about my opinions, about my deepest knowledge, my foundations, my clear truths.’

    “But the Third Thing is not ‘my’ at all. It is a shared alchemy. The freedom from ‘my’ is the most powerful liberty of consciousness. Through the Third Thing you can bring to bear every single iota you have ever learned and harvested, yet it is not personal. You have the blessed freedom there to try out new thoughts and feelings because you have no need to defend or justify your old thoughts and feelings. You can use them, but you don’t need to hang on to them.

    “The Third Thing was a revolution throughout the galaxy because it brings a creative discipline to inter-action that had been unexamined and hidden in a single seeker before. I cannot overemphasize how far and quickly your mind-heart expands after you bring thought into a shared creating light.

    “The shift of perspective is as astounding as the shift from flat earth to sphere.

    “To Bylars state-shifting is as natural as water being liquid, ice, or vapor. They practice from youth transversing densities, finding the validities and energy differences from density to density. The wavelengths are different is all. Death is just a different color, you might say. Not ultraviolet or infrared, but transviolet and trans-red.”

    Risma looked out over the riveted audience whose minds had in that very evening become more delicate and yielding. More supple and silky. Oddly, she thought, people grasp their own mind more ferociously than even so-called material goods.

    She asked Pal Ace, “You did some density studies in your early going, did you not?”

    Pal Ace smiled knowing how often they had Thirded their density experiences. “Yes, I have a report on Density Policy before the Galactic Council as we speak. I am convinced that inter-density blackouts such as prevail on Earth are barbaric. I am not unaware of the toxicity of many consciousnesses on Earth and the early thoughts that certain quarantine measures were necessary for the protection of the wider galaxy from pollution.

    “This punitive mentality does not lead to rehabilitation.”

    Risma spoke softly, “Pal Ace and I are convinced that the problems that the galactic Spiritos don’t want to face are being faced here, enacted here on Earth. No one in the galaxy really wants to confront their shadow sides. We all like to pretend we’re purer than we are. We all pretend that we wish to be purer than we truly do wish to be.

    “The intra-density blackout, the transopaque curtain, just covers up hypocrisy on both sides of the thin-but- opaque divide.

    “In Pal Ace’s Density Report which we pretty much thirded, we suggest that a concerted effort to present the Third Thing will rather quickly clear out the dumb mental garbage that comes from people staring inward all the time. Then maybe we could open up the density blockades and share through the Third Thing some daggone honesty about the complexities of consciousness.

    “We hope you all had an interesting time. May your thirding always be rewarding.” 

.


…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
 
11 Flint . Knife tzolkin 258  05.30.05 monday
 
for Jamie Fuller, his favorite

..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….

Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry .. Toad Spawn, Be Gone! .. Exorcize Prez. Bush .. Chapter 6

Toad Spawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul

 

Chapter 6 .. Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry ..


   
Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the 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, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted 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 botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “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. 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. 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.”

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

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6-23-05 02:20a.pdt.us 9 Wind. Ik . Whirlwind  wedthur

ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

 

NOTE: Cheney's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a National Child Mutilator's Registry is the tangent off a chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/) coinage of Reagan's Law as its moniker, better in many ways but I decided not poisonously immediate enough. Chancelucky is a frequent pogblog commentator. Reagan's Law was a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.”

==

<a href=”http://technorati.com/tag/pogblog” rel=”tag”>http://pogblog.myblogsite.com</a>

Woman Who Stares at George Bush Instead Of At Goats

Note: This piece was written before the writer read Jon Ronson's book, Men Who Stare at Goats. I'd read this first if I were you, then pogblog's review of his terrific book. 

 

Note: Please check pogblog’s Glossary (Topics, Main Page) for unfamiliar words or phrases. 

 

The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Militant Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn, Be Gone ..

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />Chapter 7 

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

=====

¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson .. pogblog Review

The Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson .. pogblog Review  

 

     Forget the chilling (and thrilling) labyrinths of how the supposedly orderly spiral-helix of History’s DNA mutates its now almost perfectly insane Self, Jon Ronson writes with such delicious ease that you’d be happy to read him writing about people who collect used dishwater or who read the metropolitan phonebook for fun. Ronson has the Welsh gift of writing as if words were his hemoglobin.

   But then there’s the rabbit-blackhole: <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alice’s dream transmogrified into nightmare. Welcome to World Weird. People at the echelons who cocktail and pretzel with the President ‘drop’ de-bleated goats as a serious, if delirious, part of America’s arsenal for Global Domination.

   Ronson can slide into the bubbles of other people’s madness and keep our bearings for us. Think of it as the Ricocheting Bullet Ride. You have to be willing to unmoor your mind from the quaint roller-coaster safety of cars on tracks. With Ronson as your quite cheerful if bemused guide to the sursurreal, you fasten yourself dr.strangeloveily to the careening bullet and discover the meaning of ricochet from the inside out.

   You discover that, at higher levels, people aren’t drunk with power, they’re on acid with power. It’s quicksand and quicksilver where you walk, where land was – leave hold of reason. It becomes clear that sanity is an impediment to reaching higher office or rank. You learn that the basic ‘staring at goats with intent to kill gig’ fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios.

   Ronson both sherlocks and watsons. He has a combination of a keen, unsentimental cunning with a good-natured watsony naïveté, an earnest charm that bumbles him into discovery where his icepick sherlock eye can outwit the hidden and forbidden crimes of the moriarty imagination of our Ruling Classes.

  You’ll come to trust as well as admire Jon Ronson for his nerve, verbal verve, and especially for his damned doggèd persistence. And you’ll come to like the several of the many dangerous zanies/insanies he clearly likes in spite of themselves.

       If you’ve never seen the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari that still brilliant first film surreal anthem from 1919, it’s on DVD. It’ll give you an molecular inoculation of surreal so you’ll get less queasy at the random strobings of light and shadow, the pastiching of realities that keep disorienting your once assumed equilibrium. Hamster quelling &/or killing; goat 17; mk ultra & Artichoke; an enemy’s photo voodooily kept in your shoe (This one works pretty well actually); a naked man on a leash; Infrasound and the Race-Specific StinkBomb; slo-mo electro-convulsive-Purple Barney-song-shock. Like the banality of evil Arendt capsulized, this cartoon creepingly and creepily grows very sinister and deadly too. Too bad The Game has to murder and maim.

   It’s all unbearably funny because high-pitched hysterical laughter is finally the only sane response to such lethal lunacy. You will come off your Ricocheting Bullet Ride deeply unsettled, knowing that your imagination is insufficient to comprehending reality as it unhingedly is. I have no clue how to assimilate this new knowledge yet, but I realize I had a need to know. Ronson bravely unearths that the Deck we’re playing the Game of Life with has far more jokers wild than we could have thought. And Truth may be spelled Rutth or Urtth – don’t be fooled by what you thought you knew yesterday.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

………….….<^>……………..

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

ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead of At Goats

Note: Please check pogblog’s Glossary (Topics, Main Page) for unfamiliar words or phrases. 

 

The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Radical Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn Ch 7

 

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

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

=====

¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

Trawler, a book

Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon — 'The earth is 80% sea' & we know all but nothing about this massive kingdom.  You will learn to revere weird fish and the watery abysses with vastly more knowledge in both your heart and your mind than you have today. I not only loved the book because it was nourishing, O'Hanlon writes so damn well, it was a treat, a smashing big piece of cherry pie to read.  <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

Field Notes on the Compassionate Life .. Barasch

05.24.05  5 Rattlesnake Tooth tzolkin 252

   I'll write up more for you soon, but wanted you to have the basic info.
   The beloved community, but not the cotton-candy version; not Norman Rockwell's cover of Saturday Evening Post; maudlin Barasch ain't
   Barasch begins his book with “I'm grateful that thorns have roses” (Alphone Karr). That nifty twist & truth will keep happening to you as you read Field Notes.
   I went to a lecture he gave at East West Bookshop a month ago & he's the real deal. Funny, self-effacing. Especially wry about how damned peskily hard it is to be good. 
    This will be one of your top five books. The guy can sling a sentence. You'll hug yourself at the deftly nifty writing. What makes him so marvellously convincing is that he's so flawed, not as a writer, but as just another bloke earnestly trying to be better. This will educate and encourage you Perfect present for anyone.

pogblog Glossary

pogblog's Glossary .. updated 12<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />-01-05

pogblog's Glossary amplifies pogblog's fierce & droll vocabulary — both the coined or invented stuff & the nifty or nefarious words you may not have discovered yet; for people who love words as much as mangoes or a great forward pass or an icepick in Dick Cheney's right eye; or for the just plain baffled .. With obsidian humor and assorted other confections and delicacies of a certain melodious madness ..

includes:  àdroit; aleph ocean;  amethyst; anodyne;  après; assonance; Big Lie; blogovel; blood-dimmed  tide;  Blue/Bleu; carpe comedy;  cf; chatoyant; clint; clive/full; contest(pogblog Glossary Game); crapaud; Digrif;  e=mc2; eclectic; enfers sanglant; filigree; FixedIntelGate; frabjous joy;  frisson; full clive; funes; gallynipper; gateau; grb gamma ray burst; grok; gwatwareg; hasyasattva; hoi polloi; holosphere; karlsputin rove; legerdelengua; lq/lizard quotient; luddite; Mardi Gras; masochists;  maw; meme; mobbal; multiverse/many-poem place; mystery; nada; noosphere; obsidian humor; oneiro; passive belligerence; perfect pain; pinguid; pog; polyglot; reagan's law; riro/reptile in reptile out; spooner; spiteful puffadder; stele; stynking synnes vile; sursurly; third base; toot doot; tzolkin; vouchsafe; vrai; wmd brain; warp-rinth; wolfofwolfs;

05-05-05 dedicated to obsidian fuller, an daily birthday present tinct with whimsy — enfers sanglant, ami de ma vie, toujours et un jour .. 

àdroit  .. clever or nifty from French; C’est àdroit – That’s clever. (Sorry about this recent obsession with àccènts – I just learned the trick of doing the accents on the keyboard in balky, not-so-friendly usually, mostly passive-belligerent MS Word. I’m in a zèal; no worries, it will pass. [To do the backward accent, it’s Ctrl, accent /on key left of the number 1/, then type the ‘e’ or ‘a.’ To get the other accent, it’s Ctrl ‘ (apostrophe), then the letter.] Actually the root of the word is à droit. Droit = right in French. Gauche = left.) I’m going to add ‘agauche’ to ‘adroit.’ One could say “That was a tad agauche perhaps” and have it be more a glancing blow than declaring, “You are clearly an imbecile.” (Yes, yes, I know ‘gauche’ exists, but it’s more harmful and doesn’t have adroit as its escort to the Word Ball.) Très àdroit .. very clever .. trezahdrwah. 06.05.06
 


aleph ocean .. the aleph ocean is where we live when we seemingly sleep or when we dearly & daffily muse or other meanderings of consciousness from the rigider paths of sense and logic . Its leitmotif, its signature feel is a melodic celtic knotting of times and of densities. 10.22.05
 

amethyst .. The OED entry is:1580 SIDNEY Arcadia II. (1654) 141 The bloodie shafts of Cupids war, With amatists they headed are.  //Oh my. Beastly Cupid’s arrows are tipped with amethysts? That explains it. My heart is stilled. 06.18.05

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. 08.13.05

après ..  means after in French, as in après-moderne which is what comes after post-modern; will probably get gutterized as après-modern, but I'm fond of the French flair; ah-pray-moh-dare-n; 06.03.05

 

assonance .. is the vowel echoes, often internal that give a phrase or a sentence its full-bodied richness. Consonance is the consonant equivalent. Both these elements of the music of writing comprise alliteration. 05.30.05


Big Lie
.. The Big Lie was perfected by the Nazis and slid into American politics in a brazen way in the 2000 coronation. The basic idea is that you can say something even the opposite of the truth often enough and with convincing conviction enough and the innocent will believe it. WMD. Healthy Forests Act. Clean Air Act.  . . .How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fablet, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced —  your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

    “On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

     So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil. And even Dick Cheney sounds avuncular so they say.

   The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like with a killer, we're sure we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 20 years until this very day that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. . . Cynicism is not the response though. Alertness is. Trust but verify. 07-31-05

 

blogovel .. a blog novel — like pogblog's ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul — a mad dickensian masterpiece of serial venom. We coined the word as far as we know. Read ToadSpawn, Be Gone! 05-05-05

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

blood-dimmed tide .. from Yeats, The Second Coming; http://www.well.com/user/eob/poetry/The_Second_Coming.html  The ‘slouches’ in the last line is also echoed in the beginning of pogblog’s Love letter to Lewis H. Lapham, June 2, 2005.

The poem’s “The best lack all convictions, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity” remains as forlornly chilling as when he wrote it. And “…but now I know/That twenty centuries of stony sleep/Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle” describes the present berserk jesus-mania with a grim precision.     

 

Blue/Bleu .. the Blue, as in ‘it came out of the Blue’; le Bleu (lu[r] Blu[r]), cf  sacre Bleu! in incestuous permutation leading to diabolique (devilish) Bleu or diabol Bleu – to whom/which one is damned grateful for the shower of present it suddens upon lucky one. Bleu happens. Suddenness is its mischievous leitmotif, its signature. It’s the opposite of an iridescent, a chatoyant big floating soapbubble popping & pooff, it’s gone, nada, nothing. Pooff, presto, magic, the Bleu arrives chatoyant with no unsightly gestation & no annoying labor pains. (Things may arrive out of the Glum, the gelatinous color of mucus, but not with the pristine delight of the ohyippee presents the tricksy Blue abounds upon you.) 05.30.05

 

carpe comedy .. seize comedy. If I were to have some leitmotif other than besottedness with beastly Digrif, it would be carpe comedy. My good friend jeweller, Mark, who has his cool stuff in the SFMOMA, made me a silver dogtag that says carpe comedy. 10.22.05

 

cf .. means compare;

chatoyant  .. is from the reflection in a cat’s night eye; it is that strange glistening eerie-descence that tiger’s eye stones have; a luster like shot silk or oil on water; 05.30.05

 

clint; clinting; clintful; clintness .. My thoughts about “Clint” have previously been unprintable because I was one of the unfortunate thousands who saw that denture film-noir, Bridges of Madison County,  a penance for some unknowable wrong. This wretched film in which Meryl Streep did star shows you can do a silk-purse turn in a pig's-ear flick. ¶ At least as comiko-horror films go, the shots of Clint in the bathtub with his crêpy neck wattles are memorable if only one were into gigadizzguzzt. Not because he was old and horrible (gee, we all will be & will want to have been kinder), but because of his ineffable, upwelling-of-stench clintness — he whittles his lines. Wattles and whittling — what a treat. With the shower-stabbing scene in Psycho, we can induct the infamous Clint's-wattles scene into the Horror Scenes Hall of Fame. ¶ Usage: It was so clint, so skin-crawling to have to see Karlsputin Rove gumming up the phosphors on my tv screen. The overflow of sewage onto the street was clinting with the eerie glisten of mucal rot in an oily corruption attended by those paparazzi of insects, the dung-eating flies. (for cedral755 who planted the first pogblog poster across the Pond!) 6-25-05

 

clive, full .. many centuries ago, or tomorrow depending on where you are in elegantly celtic-knotting time, there was a bloke from Avalon, the mystery island of magic off the British Isles where the air always smells like sun-hot ripe apples — a bloke named Clive Owens who was a ‘movie star’ with well-more than his share of smouldering élan, and the damned English accent. There was some woman I talked to who said, “Oh, him, he never moves his face.” Well, that’s because he can move what’s between him and your face, you stupid cow. // There was a slangy phrase at the time, ‘the full monty’ which meant you were willing to take it all off and show your dangly bits. A step up the Michelangelo’s-David ladder is, luckily preserved on celluloid, the full clive. So if one is willing to go full out, (and I like you), it’s full clive. You don’t use it for bastards like the Maggoty Minions.  06-12-05  

 

coin .. to mint or invent a new word or a new usage of an existing word;

 

pogblog poster Global-Game-CONTEST: you can email pogblog@yahoo.com & we’ll send you the template for the small two-to-a-page pogblog ToadSpawn Be Gone! posters. Or make up your own. (Be cool.)

 

Send us a pict of pogblog poster in any place and you’ll win a PRIZE, and an automatic entry into My Own Custom Entry in pogblog’s Glossary – you pick the topic, pogblog writes the entry for YOU.

 

Wall Drug was this “mega-tourist trap” in South Dakota. It had signs for a hundred milesevery 200 feet saying “See the prairie dogs at Wall Drug.” The prairie dogs were mangy stuffed things, but as it was the only place to get a root beer in the hellsummer heat. You went to Wall Drug , or died. Wall Drug had this global sign game going for years and they even ended up with someone holding up a Wall Drug sign on Mount Everest. Pogblog wants Mount Everest too, but also Vermont and the Gobi desert or wherever you’re going. Pictures with cows get bonus points, as picts with giraffes or cats. Gehry’s museum in Bilbao gets, like, an entry in the Glossary AND in the Love Slave Hareem. Yo Yo Ma, Bela Fleck, or Clive Owen holding a pogblog poster, and well, gee. 06-25-05 

 

 

crapaud .. toad in French; crah-poh; as in C'est crapaud, mon cher .. That's really rather toad, my dear. 06.03.05

Digrif .. an on-going character; the word means laughter in Welsh;  05-05-05 

e=mc2 .. the formula is wrong which is why they can’t understand the 90%, all that dark energy and dark matter !haha!; all that extra stuff that they don't grok is the tissue, the fabric of your dreams and imaginations — standard science is still looking through the wrong end of the telescope so it cannot measure this substance yet; the formula is really e=mc8 (infinity sign) because anything that ‘exists’ has a nanomicro signature that makes it unique; cf  no giraffes, only one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe; 05.30.05

eclectic .. if you only get one word, take this one — it means taking the best from all possible sources; so you get wide-hearted;  rich (not the greedy kind but the embracing kind) the  golden rain of abundance; and oh frabjous joy, you get the somersaulting luck of having to pay lots of attention so you can separate the chuff from the chaff; 06.03.05

enfers sanglant .. Enfers sanglant, visages des porcs!

means Bloody Hell, face of pigs. I’m mostly in the inventive invective mode of William S. who could swear at you in more vivid guises than a porcupine has quills; ohn-fairs sang-glaw(n), vee-sahzhuh day pork; 06-11-05

 

filigree .. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigree is a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell. 07-11-05

..

FixedIntelGate .. Please remember that this outing the identity of Joe Wilson's wife is just one big spoke in the wheel the hub of which is FixedIntelGate. We sent people to war on 'intel fixed to fit the policy' (Downing St. Memo) a facet of which Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.' . . .FixedIntelGate is a deep shame and danger to our freedom. Going to war on what the rest of the world clearly sees as fixed intel will increase the recruiting terrorists for generations.

 

frabjous joy .. from Jabberwocky, LewisCarroll; 06-11-05  http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html  

frisson
.. (free-zzaw[n]) frisson, or French for shiver, is a sort of onomatopoetic (cf buzz & murmur) kind of word – if you say it out loud in what you imagine is a very French manner, you will feel cool.   05-05-05

..

full clive .. see clive, full;

 

funes .. Funes is the borges character who remembers everything in a blakean heart-exploding honor of universe-in-a-grain-of-sand detail. The key image is that Funes cannot understand not only how any 'dogs' can be lumped together, but even more, how dog, Swen, asleep in the idle sun-blasted afternoon street at 2:13 pm can be considered the same dog as that dog at 2:14 pm.

    We smear and lump and clump stuff to a dimmed degree of dullness that we surely live in the back broomcloset of Plato's cave, unalert and unillumined. Anyhow I add funes to grok as a more whole and paganly holy embrace of perception. I will, thus, give myself this credit: te funes — I 'get' rather a lot about you, tho I forlorn of painting your portrait as it really deserves in any medium except my curiosity and devotion.  5-18-05

 

gallynippers .. are faeries, they floppily fly between worlds, appear & disappear. They look like enormous mosquitos (as if they could drink or nip a gallon of blood, hence gally-nipper), but they are achingly harmless. They are preposterous – their legs are so long & spindly. It’s a sin to kill a gallynipper.

gateau .. means cake in French; gah-toe; 05.30.05

ginger rogers .. “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels.” One of the greatest drolly liberating lines of all time by the treasured Ann Richards, 1988 Democratic Convention keynote. Succinct. 06.18.05 

..

grok .. indispensable Martian for ‘understand in a way that you utterly drink deeply’; from Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein, an very interesting old sci-fi, sadly steeped in an appalling misogyny, but there it is.  5-18-05

 

grb .. stands for gamma ray burst – discovered in the 60s; “exotic, mysterious flashes pack the output of many galaxies into a single pulse that lasts seconds or less” – and that is exotic on any plane, http://www.space.com/scienceastronomy/astronomy/mystery_bursts_020516.html;

cf  “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center” [http://www.calleman.com/– This relates to the Mayan energy-matrix calendar which pogblog honors because the path forward is holospherical not linear like the cursed Gregorian calendar and that ‘convenient’ atrocity, the metric system, may it boil in many liters of oil, which has taken measurement of distance and quantity out of poetry in one fell fell swoop. “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely miles, oh my beloved?” “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely kilometers etc.” I wasn’t trying to defend ‘good poetry,’ just the on-the-endangered-species-list poetic impulse. A poetic impulse looks not unlike a zebra. They tend to be solitary animals. They don't do herds. ‘He inched across the searing sand on his belly, a pilgrimage to an oasis, a mirage no doubt like other wet heavens.’ You can’t 'centimeter across the searing sand.' It’s a sin to kill an inch. 06-18-05


gwatwareg
.. means irony in Welsh; 05.30.05

 

hasyasattva or silliness warrior; increase the gladness of all sentient beings by as many very tiny kangaroos as can waltz on the head of a pin; pogblog coined this hasyasattva word because the notion of ‘decreasing suffering’ breaks the hypnotic suggestion rule of putting the ‘command’ in a positive cast. “Don’t fall off the ladder!” is an embedded command to fall off the ladder: in order to comprehend the statement you have to imagine falling off the ladder. “Hang on to the ladder” is the better form of the statement. So kind folks wandering the Earth talking earnestly about  'decreasing suffering’ are causing all of us to gloomily, if unconsciously, contemplate suffering, oh woe is we. On the other hand, if you talk about ‘increasing gladness’ — in order to understand the statement you have to imagine some facet of gladness, a step on the somersaulting path.     06-11-05

 

hoi polloi .. the many, the unwashed mere mob before whom one ought not to cast one’s pearls; not the elite like us; it really should just be the polloi, but this is the way it slid through history; cf the El Camino; Greek; hoy puh-loy; 05-30-05

 

holosphere .. The next quantum in élan, in vivid being, is the holosphere. Right now as you read this, out of your noosphere hearing is whalesong, the infrasound that drones magnificently, often plaintively, sometimes mischievous, from planet side to planet side in the depths deeper than Everest is high – below the abysmal depths are the hadal depths, Hades deep, miles upon miles down and dark. According to both bizarre and fairly measured traditions, we are coming to the ‘end of time.’ Soon. This does not mean the end of being. It means the expansion into the wider holosphere. The end of the dominance of linear time. And of patriarchy, hierarchy, the exploitative models. We won’t give them up just because they are bad and sodden with shortsighted ignorance, but because they are like looking through the wrong end of the telescope – they’re limiting. It will feel awkward to give up the familiar boxes, the comforting structures and become aware that we all look at the same moon and are held from escape velocity by the same molten core. Under all our feet are twinkling jewels and lots of irony, I like to think….When we quantum to holo, we will be appalled by some things we stood by for. Allowing the mutilation of children in the name of any jingoistic fervor, for instance. We will not be hypnotized by moving striped pieces of cloth no more. Sometimes it’s hard not to be a lemming when all the little rushing furry bodies are flashflooding toward the cliff – how could so many fellow lemmings be wrong? . . . One of the swell things about the holosphere is that if you want to tune into the whalesong, you’ll be able to. Like after the telegraph, your reach of attention and perception will be augmented. It will be like the aliens landing, but they land inside your understanding and whether they are allies or demons entirely depends on your filter, your translator. See also noosphere. 07-31-05     

    

   

Karlsputin Rove .. 'nuff said. (cf Rasputin, the creepily evil powerracker who actually ran the deaththroes of the czars); 06-26-05

 

legerdelengua .. slithering sleights of  the forked tongue; cf calling mutilated children collateral damage; or the Clean Air Act, that boondoogle for major polluters (aka campaign contributors);

 

LQ .. Lizard Quotient; If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee. When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in your insight, one by one we see clearly, the ghastliness is that his scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on.  [This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.] 06-14-05

 

luddite .. a luddite is someone who sees machinery and technology as dehumanizing. In reaction to the industrial revolution in the early 1800s, the actual Luddites homecrofting textile lace & knitter folk were precursors to the Union movement. But the notion of luddite has an undertone of being against progress, against the newfangled. As a gizmos-geek, I tend not to be a luddite tho I am strongly pro-Union – I love weekends which they brought us, and the middle class, sadly fast disappearing into the maw of the FatHog Cogists. 07-31-05 

 

Mardi Gras .. “No Mardi Gras,” sez the sursurd and vile and vapid Rev. Shanker. ‘It was God’s magnificent mercy that wiped out the City of Sin and Mardi Gras.’

     Me, I say, Mardi Gras? Why not Lundi Gras, Mercredi Gras,  Jeudi Gras, Vendredi Gras , Samedi Gras, Dimanche Gras? Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, Fat Everyday. All days Yippee & Yummy. God forfend we have fun, I suppose. Pffffttt, I say to these Reapers of Grim. 9-10-05

 

masochists .. ‘For masochists in Hell, there is no suffering.’ Ye owls, that’s droll. It is not original to pogblog, but is one of three jokes I’ve ever been able to remember. Don’t know the adroit devil who made it up, but bless them. Lucifer loves you. 06.05.06

 

maw .. gaping mouth; dragons who gobble maidens have maws; gobbets (or large hunks of as yet unmasticated maiden) often stuck in the jutting teeth in a dragon’s fetid maw; cf corporate maw: you are devoured by the corporate maw; you disappear into the corporate maw; 06.04.05

meme ..  a meme is the idea equivalent of a gene or virus; it’s an idea (good or offal) that spreads around the world; e.g. “the world is round.” For a long time, the prevailing stench was that the world was flat. Then the meme of the world being round infected the general understanding. I’m not sure it exactly fits in with meme – I never thought about it til this very moment, but that picture of the planet from space had meme qualities; also that horrific picture of the napalmed little girl as if a sane species could drop jellied gasoline on people. me-m(uh).

 

 ¶  One concept I want to have be a world-sweeping meme is the idea of 2ThenAdopt. Now the world population is 6,446,038,867. Please every-sparrow-fall recall that one billion is 1000 million. Projected in 45 years about 9 billion. It’s absurd, friend, it’s obscene. We can’t take care of all these people. Our sweetly blossoming good will and lessening prejudices and ignorances keep getting tsunamied by a population running amuck. If the notion of 2ThenAdopt could spread, then people could have whatever sized families they wanted or could afford, but we could stop flooding away all the progress by holding the biology at a standstill, behind a dam of good sense until the social systems could catch up. 2ThenAdopt. Think about it. Pass it along. 06-06-05    

    The more people you ask, “Did you know that we are spending $200,000 per minute in Iraq?” – the more people can be disgusted by the waste of human and financial resources in this benighted war. Disgust can lead to action finally. (The real figure is more like $416,000 per minute, but I use the $200,000 per minute as a figure that no one can argue with. See the Math, sources, and more detail.) This way we can spread the $200,000 per minute meme and accelerate the process of Declaring Victory & Coming Home – the true support of our troops – wanting to save their lives from  death or mutilation.

    Beat the drum. Tell one friend or colleague. No one believes it. They shake their heads and say, “Really?” 09-10-05

 mobbal .. mah-bull, of the mob, also euphemistically called tribe, nation, town; 06-30-05    

 

multiverse .. multi-verse or many-poem place; where we live. The fables often refer to manypoem as the blossomer-forth of all this fascinating tinder in which we are immersed. 05.05.05

 

mystery .. 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. 08.13.05

 


nada
.. means nothing in Spanish; nah-dah; 06-04-05

noosphere .. Our lively mote awash in galactic seas is waking up. There come big surge-times in our story – the invention of the printing press, the steam engine, the telegraph. Expanding our attention-point, turning on more of our transformer, our brain and bones. We are presently in a crescendo of rising, of brightning energy, élan. . . .The Next-Age weirdos, of whom, like of the Democrats, I’m wryly and proudly one, are attuned to various facets of this shimmering phenomenon. I don’t cleave to any version with the zeal of a convert, but I can feel the stirring, the purring of the planet and its denizens awakening quantumly to a new holo-mosaic of how consciousness is patterned. One can literally feel this alchemic symphony of pulses in one’s bones. If you don’t notice it yet, you will. It is both fuerte or strong and dulce or sweet. . . . . Dear <b>Teilhard de Chardin</b>, mid last century philosopher, spoke of the lithosphere, the biosphere, and the noosphere. To which I, with humble glee, add the holosphere. . ..Litho means stone  The lithosphere was the primeval furnace, lava rock of the planet which dreamt and cogitated and desired for a long long time and blossomed forth the biosphere which is the lichen and the lemurs, the octopuses, oaks, giraffes, and us. (Culminating in cats, the quintessence of terrifying design.) This all rambled around, raucous and timid, amoeba, hippopotamus, and condor, until forth was effervesced the noosphere, a knowledge sphere, a heady stew of trivial and stupendous information. (Sadly, you cannot call the noosphere a wisdom sphere, yet.) See also holosphere. 07-31-05

obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

  [Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

   A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

   Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the  letter after zed. Few jeopard it.       5-18-05 1:49:06 pm   ..

 

oneiro .. (oh-nigh-roh) the Greek root for dream; 05-05-05

 

passive belligerence .. passive agression on steroids; one of my favorite coinages — you know people who are passive belligerent; you may even live with one, and, if so, may gods help you in your hours of  need for universal mercy. 06-25-05

perfect pain .. perfect pain is an intensity of grokking and intricacy of affinity coupled with a helplessness — as if you must be on parallel tracks, always together, never touching. And eternity is very long. 10-10-05 

pinguid .. 'fat, unctuous, greasy' from 1828 Webster's; its root meaning is roughly fat juice or fat sap — the sap of fat. Fits Karlsputin's pinguid pipsqueakery. I first came across it a 100 yrs ago in the secondbest book in the universe, The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary, a book about an old artist, Gulley Jimson, who has to paint walls — with heroic paintings of feet. Gulley saw an oil slick on the Thames and used the word 'pinguid' as I recall. Though I'll admit that the word does sound more Nabokovian. All artists must read Horse's Mouth which taught me to see and to take laughter as my highest value, tho often obsidian. (The movie has zero to do with the book to which the plot is adjunct. It's the sentences the sentences and the raw seeing.) 07-21-05   

 

pog, pogs .. This word pog is coined to escape all the labels for all the organized Religions.  The acronym of People of goodwill and good works only –> POGWAGWOs –  pogwagwos — pogs for short. (Only should really probably be often . . .);  05-05-05

 

 

Reagan's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a Child Mutilator's Registry is the coinage of chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/), a frequent pogblog commentator. It is a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.” Goaaaal! chancelucky! Pogblog tels us that “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 freakin’ insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.

 

Please read the whole Child Mutilator Registry piece called Blog Throat, Radical Pacifism, & reagan’s Law, the Child Mutilator’s Registry on pogblog’s Main Page.06-25-05

 

 

riro .. reptile in, reptile out . . .Sad to say, once you've 'seen' the Lizardry in Our Leaders, you simply cannot unsee it. I've tried, longing to sleep better. I reckon it's like seeing auras or something, once you can see in that spectrum of light, you're stuck with that new knowledge. //There was a time about four years ago when I saw a pict in a newspaper of Mr. Bush in profile. I gasped. there it was — the unmistakable resemblance, the reptile profile. Holes in moles, I thought, maybe this rumor about the super-scientists in Atlantis doing dna experiments of reptile human hybrids wasn't just some gaseous New Age crock. (Now, now, a lot of New Age stuff is rivetting and inspiring; you just have to keep your discernment.) No doubt about it, riro –> reptile in, reptile out. 06.13.05

 

spooner .. as in darling spooner. Spooner was a daffy if not daft professor who had a legerdetongue which led him to transpose initial sounds in a phrase; the most famous is blushing crow for crushing blow; spoon, spoonerism; cf quisling & google which have also become lower-case ordinary words – sometimes a nifty, & sometimes a dubious alchemy. A quisling is a traitor (you know who you are who broke my heart, you quisling) — interesting that it never became benedict or arnold who was much more famous really. 06.05.06 

 


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. 08-13-05
 
stynking synnes vile .. from OED, 1450 NE. Stynking sublime phrase. 12.01.05 
 
sursurly .. cf sursurreal .. sometimes a word needs some steroids to possibly comprehend the horribleness of the totalityranny of the Reign of the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised As Human Beings. It surboggles the surbewildered mind, not sursurprisingly. 06.18.05
 
third base .. “George Bush was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple.” A line from the splendid Ann Richards, ex-governor of  Texas, in her 1988 Democratic Convention keynote speech. As nifty a remark about the presumption-of-privilege have:mores as one might whittle. See also ginger rogers; 06.18.05
 
toot doot .. A silly rendering of ‘without any doubt’; sans toute doute – without all doubt. Either avec (with), pron avek; or sans (without), pron saw(n) – you just think the ‘n’, you don’t really nail it. (Anglicized it’s sans—like sands without the ‘d’.  05.30.05
 
tzolkin .. roughly, a tzolkin round is a 260-day piece of the Mayan energy matrix (which we mis-name a calendar); it’s like setting out a new holo-chess board; each day has its own pulse or energy or note or pitch which shimmers through that day; a tzolkin is a gobo – a gobo is a cutout shape in tv & theater that goes over the end of a ‘spotlight’ and as the strong light is shone thru, that shape is cast on the curtain or on the stage – spinning stars, say. 06.01.05
 
vouchsafe .. means that you grant me a special privilege; can have hints of ironic undertones; it means that you ‘trust me with x or z, or even with your ecstasy’; is very formal & medieval – the kind of way knights talk – ‘If you vouchsafe me with your honor, cousin, I will defend it unto the death’; 06.03.05
 
vrai .. vrai is true in French; pog uses it also as truly – which is a tad fractured, but c’est la vie; pron. vray;  05.30.05
 
wmd brain .. if pogblog has an “accident” or an “heartattack”  — it isn’t an accident; it isn’t an heartattack;    pogblog drives very carefully and hasn’t been to a non-chiropractic doctor since 1979. Pogblog does have a wmd brain and the Lizardos are not going to like it! I’m under the radar now, but they’ll be hauling out the hemlock soon enough and I want you not to fall for their lizardiavellian lies. Keep up the fight after they get me: Duelling epic poems, dueling satire, the clang of unsheathed irony. We’re better armed than they are for the battle of wits which will appear slowly in the next decade like a polaroid  developing. But they are exceedingly cunning and they hunger after our warm-blood. Never underestimate a cornered Lizard. 06-14-05
   
wolfofwolfs .. mon lobo suave, mon lobo feroz  hecho del agua, .. .. .. In the waters of  delight, honey, you is the waterfall, all lavish splash. In the forests of delight, you is the wolf of wolfs, all silver danger under the moon. In the cosmi-circus, you is a four-trick pony with hoofs of gold and a mane of fire. Kismet dealt me a hard hand with thee, a new and terrible tarot And the reason I cannot leave or deceive is that it would be like betraying dawn or a fawn – done by some but it would be wrong. The fun we get to have is so damned earned. Our relationship is distinctly, probably entirely, medieval. It’s like open-heart surgery before anesthetic. The pain is profound; the laughter can be as bright red as blood and pure. Pure laughter is the lead turned to the gold. ..  .. .. ps. Like Clive Owens, you have a sudden stillness which is all potential – you could explode in a any direction at any time. (With you behind your lazily easy façade, it’s strobed –  sequential sudden stillnesses.) It is a very dangerous and distilled and compelling quality. It is why you are both so unbearably sexy. It is achingly rawly male. It is feral barely cloaked with civilizedness. You are both brothers of the Great God Pan – nothing remotely Christian about you. Untamed, and untameable. Damned dangerous is what you both are. Luckily I am a mutant with a very high tolerance for brutal radiation. o8.27.o5 
 
warprinth .. warp-rinth ..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. 11.13.05
 …………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
ffwofw x§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98gb
..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..