Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

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

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Crow-Fly by Synchronicity


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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




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


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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you


Church .. deftly intent


   “Church. You’re always in it. Actually there’s no way out of it.”

   Bunga Low was the favorite daughter of the famous fin-de-siecle low-cost housing architects Pavi Lion and Ken Nel. In the new century Bunga was being interviewed for the cover story of Global Gazette, a mildly progressive rag. Bunga was transfixed by the architecture of consciousness — How do you get people to fling open their doors and windows to the zephyrs of awe? She was one of the three interviewees for ‘The History of Hypocrisy,’ one of Global’s more adventurous cover pieces. 

   Bunga continued, “What an hilarious con job got perpetrated upon us. From being every where and all ways immersed in and accompanied by Holy, some slicks snatched our birthright right out from under our noses, and we hardly even quacked in umbrage.

   “True, this happened a long time ago, but their perpetual propaganda has kept us from too much awkward questioning about who holds the reins. We remain obediently doggèd, or is it cowed?

   “Whatever, they got us buffaloed to the degree that even those of us who have slipped the traces feel at least insidious echoes of guilt. 

   “If the keepers of the keys ripped open our brains and poured in joy, tore open our hearts and poured in beauty, they’d bloody deserve the job, but when was the last time you came out of any church, mosque, synagogue, or meditation hall laughing out loud, hugging the lamppost, grinning like a fool?

   “Imagine if you knew you were always in church, that each of your 2,522,880,000 seconds was under the Scrutiny and within the Freedom of the Divine. (These are our words too, you know, Freedom and Divine and SuchLike.)

   “Imagine if you knew that you could dare put your finger in the socket of the vivid universe. Indeed that you dare not not dare.

   “If you do not violently love the sky, you must be all but dead. Blue, all that blue, deeper than the blue sea. They should teach you rapture, how to find it, how to feel it, each of your two-and-one-half billion unrepeatable seconds.”

   Bunga laughed at a sudden memory and said, “You never know what will be the key to irrevocable reverence. Of course, the ultimate point is that every single thing is a key, but there are odd favorites that, because they are so unexpected and personal, accompany you through your life.

   “Oh, there’s all the flashy stuff, sunsets, full moons, gorgeous mountain views, thundering ocean surf. They invigorate, illuminate, stir, amaze. If they were jewels, one might wear them to a ball.

   “But what took my secret heart was a wall. I am so mammal, impatient, frolicsome. When I really met a wall, I was astonished, and a little wistful that I had gone so much of my life without knowing any walls. That walls were so willing to stay walls. To stand tall and be a wall and never cut out and go gallivant.

   “I was so touched by a wall’s willingness to be a wall that I was suffused with faith and joy. It was so bloody sweet and preposterous to have all spiritual contumely and fear felled by a wall.

   “Earth is defined really by its steadiness and sturdiness of image. You can count on it. You can particularly count on a wall.”

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.

   “I agree that all this energy can be dangerous and disorienting because unfortunately we are not taught in school or church to hold ecstasy naturally and simply in our hearts.

   “I would be the last to suggest that the standard church, mosque, etc. cannot be a delicious and generous part of the whole smorgasbord of wonder. I just regret and even resent that they have aggrandized such power and exclusivity unto themselves. Forbid. Sin. Punishment. Detachment. Us. Them. These are bludgeoning power words.

   “I don’t for a minute suggest that there are not rotten things we ought not do, but under the influence of wonder, one is reluctant to do harm.

   “If the churches led us to wonder, let it bloom in us, careen in us, then I would go back, and we could share glee. Perhaps one day soon.”

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for wonder, rage for peace material, please let me know at ..
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:
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the pro-peace world begins today with you

Druid Junior Year Not-Abroad .. & Masters & PhD


Druid Junior Year Not-Abroad ..

& Masters & PhD

.. change your life to a degree just short of unbearable joy ..


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By email & phone, I will take up students of any age between 16 & 96 years old for a Druid College Junior Year Not-Abroad. Certain people may wish to embark on a Druid Masters Program. Upon which could follow a PhD.


What would this be about? Read pogblog Ask Dr. Druid Archives & you will get the drift – except designed to hone your passions. Or discover them.


I have been lucky enough to have lived an astonishing life. I’ve been a teacher for much of it. I would like to offer intensive tutoring in how to be on fire and stay sane.


None of this would count for Accreditation in your <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Usual School. It would, however, change your life or your kid’s life to a degree of just short of unbearable raw joy. That’s the degree. Not widely available. I'm not interested in peak experiences … I'm interested in a peak life.


This is about alchemy of mind, about the integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming. You will learn to write. You will find your own voice. Whatever your art is now, you will strip away the veils. If you haven’t found your arts yet, you will.


We will design a program that is tailored to your strengths and weaknesses, your budget, and your age. Some people need to gallivant. Some need to develop a fruitful slothism. Some, some of both probably.


For some, we could proceed entirely online. Others, it may suit us to meet occasionally. 


I will send you more details and the fee list if you are somewhere between darn & wildly interested.


Please include a few sentences about why you’re darn or wildly interested. 


Please put druid in the subject line.  

These are a few of the unsolicited testimonials from my TV students of every age, gender, race, and creed whom I taught from 2000-2005. They are too kind by far, but they are from the people I immediately affected. These gentle words are from my community TV students all the way from 16 years old to 83 years old.
You have touched so many lives and been such a huge part of the success of people’s programs and the Station's national awards. Your dedication and special magic are an inspiration and support to all who come near your amazing teacher’s heart.  Mary J.
…for you personally and for all of us who cherish the idea and possibility of community TV and cherish you because it was you who instilled a love for it in us. You, who introduced to us the intimacy of a camera. From those of us you trained and always nurture. Roy H.
I will always remember the fun time I had in your class. youpassion and excitement are wonderful rare qualities, and I was blessed to be touched by them. Sheila M.
I have worked with many creative people across the US and internationally. You are certainly a jewel and have made remarkable contributions to the creative work of your lucky students.  Kim S.
We have a flame that needs to burn, and with your inspiration it will not be extinguished. Ray S.

You are a nonstop teacher whose wisdom pours out with such ease. Teaching and coaching are your greatest talent and virtue. You serve as an icon to personal integrity. Pat F.
Your skill, dedication and knowledge inspire me. Thank you for your motivation for everything, especially to get my show off the ground. Without that it could not have started. Arun P.
I loved listening to everything you taught me in the class, you brought so much light, wisdom, laughter and care to what you were doing with us. You are a kind, compassionate, passionate, charming, intelligent, magical, enlightening, fun, woman who has blessed my life with the life you share with me and the rest of us fortunate people who you blessed with your class. When I think of you, I think of what a great speaker and teacher you are and how I can possibly help you to share that with more people. Tia T.
You’re the best teacher ever. I wish somebody had told me to leave my Inner Perfectionist in Fiji 50 years ago! Joan H.
You are a gem of generosity, understanding and hope. Your good-hearted, good-humored character and skills inspire our whole class to take creative risks. Thank you! James C.
You are a treasure for community TV! You are full of love and life and I feel privileged that you are on this whirling, precious mudball.  Richard G.
You've served as a personal role model for me. I have never seen anyone throw themselves into their work with such obvious dedication and passion for their work as you do. Stan N.