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Irony Saves the World from Rove et ilk

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for amigosueño 

 

Irony Saves the World

 

Gingko Tree, part 1

 

     The gingko tree is an orphan from the past; I am an orphan from the future. Why did I make the terrible journey from the sunlit sane future back into this brutish and cynical past? It's a good question which I'll answerish for you in pages to come.

     Gingko trees are the last member of their ancient family, the last of their phylum, class, and species. Look at a gingko leaf sometime and you'll notice the ancient fan-shape with its veins radiating up and out from the bottom stem joint toward the upper edge of the leaf. A modern leaf like a maple leaf will have a river-system of veins, a central long river with tributaries branching out into the lobes of the leaf.

     Along with pigeons and squirrels, gingkos are making an ironic comeback in modern Urbia. The gingkos keep me company in my quite vast loneliness. They remind me that even absent all daily company of chronoscient fellow dreamweavers, truth shimmers at dawn and whispers at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight. (I don't plan to flak you with too many unfamiliar words, but 'chronoscient' harks to 'time sailors' in welsh, the fire poets, the folk who saidsang the past and the future by many fires in many forests. We hear these songstories in our dreams, for few until much later were written down.) 'Ancient' is old time; chronoscient is my time, where I dwelled before I journeyed back back over the seas of time to this time, to your frightening brutish Turtle Island in the Great Eternal Sea. Did I come back so I could see thee here? You dared me then to journey back to the Time of Blood, said that I would not, said that I could not, said that I didn't dig or gig or grok you enough to go back down the telescope to the small end. Promised you would meet me there if I dared. Damn dare. Do I regret it?

     Perhaps I came back on a wind of longing in our unfathomable game which pinballs among times? Perhaps I am actually altruistic and hope to give courage to a few hearts beginning to dream of a more physically harmless and psychologically hazardous-for-grins world, a world which does come after The PearShaped Epoch? They call me Breddwyd  — you would say 'breath-wooed' for the sound, but here most folk say 'Brath-wid' and I answer to it.

     It is quite the feat fantastic to put back on the psychic armor needed in this barbed-wire world. The subsonic hostility here fairly bristles with offensiveness and defensiveness and humorlessness. Your delicious and ferocious mildness is a foreshadow of what will come when we 'humanes' begin again after The PearShaped End. But perhaps upon the subject of you, I am not objective because I know that for the last Really Big Pot, I've got your number and I win. I win so astonishingly much for my psychic coffers, that I can afford to be gracious in these little preliminary games, however galling the pesky and quite numberless present humiliations might be. It is the knowledge that I c.o.m.p.l.e.t.e.l.y snooker you in the end which gives me these acreages of patience.

     Whether my only original impulse was to find and three-up thee — Ha! Ha! See, I made it, amigosueño! — In the christly-long wait for you to appear in whatever guise you devised for this game, this mabolgamp, to divert myself from wondering whether you actually would show up before I expired of terminal boredom and local mindless-game tedium, I did get somewhat interested in the perils of the planetary natives, groaning under the yoke of truly horrible humorless religions and long boring wars. I see the bog and tangled jungle out of which we lemur our way to eventually get to our spangled chronoscient sea where hearts are free from the chains of religion and the pornography of greed. 

    In the age of gigantism, of dinosaurs, the Earth or y Daear (Dy-ear) uprose such vast energies that butterflies were the size of condors and condors blocked out the sun when over they flew. (Don't fuss thee, I'll clean up the chronoscient grammar if I send this to someone else than thee, mokha (welsh for pig as thou wilt recall). I am almost fluent in one of the dominant y Daear tongues, but have relapses when I've had as much cocoa to drink as I have now. I know I promised you I'd cut back on the cocoa before I left the future, but gollywhiz, taking away all my solaces when you were no where to be found yet — you can be a hard man, my porkchop.

     Anyway, in my researches, I found that there were cat-squirrel simian creatures, the lemurs, who, by being small and quick with twitching noses and stereo eyes, outwitted the crescendoing Great Extinction of the lumbering who lived on enormous fronds  The cat-squirrels kept our clever mammalian hopes cunning and alive through the Great Dark. The bio-history of bones has a big record but the psycho-history of hopes and fears and chuckles is quite invisible. The laughing ape. The laughing ape will win beyond the killer ape in the end. That's the thread I'm following through The PearShaped Finale. The ironic inherit the Earth. Y Daear. [“Laugh & the world laughs with you;Weep & you weep alone; For the brave old Earth has to borrow her mirth But has troubles enough of her own.” Wilcox].

     Why do the ironic win? Not because the worlds are just, but because everything else is so damn boring. Only irony remains forever puzzling. We love to do puzzles. And when the stakes are our very (secret) lives, that's interesting. Always interesting.

     There is, however, more irony abuse than any other dreaded abuse you can imagine. Most apes just don't get it. It's eel-slippery. Irony is the ultimate drug, but you can't fake it or take it or inject it or smoke it. You can sure bludgeon it tho. And most people do in these early days. Maxwell's leaden sledgehammer. Sometimes I cry out to the sky for relief — save me from this irony-deficient damn planet now please. But I wake up here again and lurch on. Diogenes spent his life searching for an honest man; I have spent my life looking for an ironic man. I found one. One. And then he just has to be horrible and cruel and pride-infested. Go figure. Everyone else drinks his damn koolaid. “Oh sweet adorable sexy James.” I am not in that way wholly blinded; only wholly irony besotted. Sweet, adorable — Ha! Ha! Ha! He is a monster, and he ebbs and flows like the tide; waxes and wanes like the moon. But when he's on, I am lost — babblingly, happily, drunk. When I'm not so wounded that I hide in the cold shadows of the forests licking my bleeding wounds; but he doesn't need to know about that. He accumulates large and petty triumphs. Until the last legerdesoul of course when he icarusly plummets into the sea of fire, but that secret's too sweet to reveal. He will not see it coming. That is sweet.     

 

//Mirth are us. Clowns rule.  Buffoons Arise. + 

 

ps. gin = silver in Chinese; ko = apricot;             

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gingko tree part 2

    Nobody really knows how the denizens of Y Daear got so irony deprived? You'll have to admit that the system of tiny tiny coiled patterns is ingenious. (Gluck-prints as our scientists call them instead of blueprints, but then we are no longer so publicly prissy and privately vulgar as the ancients. The trick is keeping such dna things damp — or allowing that they re-vivify when wetness re-occurs. They took a ten-thousands of years-old seed from an Earth pyramid and plopped it into some wet ground and presto, papyrus) You try to jam all that rabbit or giraffe or papyrus info into a couple of molecules and pull a rabbit or a giraffe out of that hat. You'd be mighty impressed with yourself, I bet. It is no wonder that the results go awry now and again. Too bad that a whole species became genetically susceptible to a variety of putridly virulent diseases: religiousism; patriotism; greedism; humorlessness.

     Now the question that Digrif, my ironist, and I are asked most in chronoscient times is how we pioneered the possibility of high (or low for that matter) hilarity with sensual adventures? It was not easy tho it was our gift to the future. I tell you these brutes back here are so damn serious so damn much of the time that it makes my brain ache. You try a little riff with these folks and they either go the Full-Kicked-Puppy, how could you be so mean; or they go Pursed Lips with silent but deafening disapproval as if they had smelled something flatulent; or they start ripping your face off with their mis-judgment of joining in the 'fun.' They don't get that there is actually an art to this like shooting an arrow at a target rather than spraying the room with machine-gun fire and laughing over the writhing and dying bodies as if you'd been clever. Even when they don't really intend to hurt, are not biting their lips in sarcastic, flesh-eating rage, they are tone-deaf and don't get that though irony is meant to appear to hurt, it’s supposed to be between more-or-less equals both of whom have tacitly agreed to take it.

     Irony and sexualness are advanced alchemy. Sexualness is in objective fact so grunting and preposterous that people have developed saccharine-blinding or lust-blinding masks to cover their actual lumpy splotched nakedness. The hormones give a blessed ignorance to the occasion in which the inherent appalling embarrassment is cloaked with fervor until satedness averts the eyes from the previous throbbing desiree. The various hormonal hallucinogens on this planet are rampant and recklessly indulged in.

     Digrif means 'funny,' 'comic' in welsh and he is that indeed. Though if I had to nickname him, I'd go for 'Saharo.' If in Earth terms being sentimental (e.g. Hitler loved his dog.) is called by the Brits, an island people near the Welsh, “wet,” my ironist Digrif is Saharan. The Sahara is a sand sea in the grand continent of Africa. Great waves of golden sand break past the horizon. It is an octessence of dry. Now my tactic in advanced irony includes an occasional token of truthful and overt affection, not very wet, I think, but a break in the routine of merry or furious or lazy or imperious insult. Not our Digrif. No chink in his armor. Saharan of merciless dry. I don't mean to suggest that he speaks aloud every pain he might inflict. He doesn't. (As if it isn't writ all neon for anyone with the slightest second sight.) He pulls a punch now and again. One notices. But sweetness? Never. I expect the Sahara to roll around to become a sea with ships and gulls and penguins before he relents and says something soft. One would occasionally like to curl up in his lap and purr for a catnap without having to be perpetually on guard.

      The planet is harsh in a different and hurtful way. Only irony can transform violence into (even brutal) harmlessness. It is how the planet must evolve so we can still use the violent muscles and lash out, without harm. There is no limit to the weapons irony may use and it can hurt like hell actually, but the point between ironists is the almost-harm. A bullseye is a miss; the arrowpoint should be exactly at the edge of the bullseye and the next ring — showing that one could have really ficking hurt, but just didn't. That's how it's supposed to work. Otherwise it's not playing, it's just being a jackass.

     Of course between experienced, beloved ironists, the bullseye gets smaller and the blow is nearer the center of the dreaded pain or truth.

     Murder is nowhere as deadly really as seriousness is. The pompous, the pious, and the patriots are all terrifying in their claims to the one true way and word.

   In the GreatTimeOcean, luckily clowns rule, clownily luck rules, and there are indeed few rules at all except that if by some horror you relapse into serious or religion or patriotism, people pour itching powder all over you and leave you in the stocks over the weekend while they go eat bbq and dance a lot.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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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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9 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  119  09.28.05 wed

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the fiercely pro-peace world

begins today with you

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An Outlaw After Midnight .. the pain of pacifism

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An Outlaw After <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midnight

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    I think of the other outlaws after midnight and what we pay and what we owe and how down and dirty is it going to get. Almost all my ties are cut now. I own nothing but rage. I have you, my darling, in my mind like an ember-coal under a dove-grey silt of ash – I have but to blow on the thought of you and the lava of you in my heart is re-revealed. But the rest, like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell, is cold or colder or coldest. Hate is not hot in the end.

    They say love solves everything. I have not noticed that to be so. It is hard to know which is more gigantic in these Present Menaces, their gigantic Greed or their gigantic Stupidity? If you know, please tell me. I long for something known.

   “Why are you an outlaw, Miss,” asked a young journalist named John Plume, who wished he dared to bear that unflinching look into the darkness of their hearts, but wanted to hear the blindness secondhand. I remember the color of strawberries. I remember the celadon color of your eyes struck with a shaft of sun, the color inside the curl of a breaking wave. I see so clearly now that the sight of their other-than-human not placable, not relenting obscene bastard midas meanness drove me blind.

      “I went blind, Mr. Plume,” I said not unkindly because he was so earnest and not bereft of hopes, even high ones – he reminded me of myself once upon a time – “I went blind, Mr. Plume at first only on Mondays and Thursdays, because the ratbreath bastards became so brazen and so gruelingly cruel and my brothers and my sisters were still bamboozled by their skillful gigantic Deceits. One day my right eye just burst into tears of blood from watching their Lies in full color on CNN. A friend of mine said, ‘Ye gods, Belle Z. Babe, your right eye is weeping tears of blood.’ I smeared my hand across my wet cheek and saw that it was so. ‘I’m not so surprised really,’ I said to him. ‘Why is your right eye not weeping tears of blood?’

   “I cannot believe that we just go to sleep at night and let day after day pile up like corpses along side the highway of history while these bastards loot and steal right out from under our noses and we do not whimper, not even like a kicked dog. Where in the hell, Obol, amigo de mi corazón, is our dignity and our sacred honor? Such sheepery and lemminghood disgust me about ourselves. They don’t even have to bestir themselves to defeat us. They must be putting saltpeter in the junk food. Are we tamed by aspartame?”

    Mr. Plume looked at me bemused. This was an hour when my fractured vision, which was like looking through shards of broken glass, had some light not only darkness. I saw him begin to see.

    After midnight us outlaws devise and revise. How do we move the Titanic an inch away from the iceberg that is looming in our sweet comrades’ dark while they don’t or refuse to know? A militant pacifist, I only get keen words in a noisy world. If you begin to see, begin to do small disobedient acts. Stealthy subversions. Our planet should be tended not plundered. I sharpen the guillotine words on our behalves.

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 118  09.27.05  tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

   

    When you look back from Y3000, it’s clear that what saved us from war, from state-sanctioned human sacrifice, was, as it is in Y3000, art and perception, an electric perception. Art-thirst replaces blood-thirst. Seeing art, doing art. And when we let loose all that art on the Planet, it shines pearlescent all the way to the FarStars.

    The following fable, Gwatwareg, is as close as I can get in words to showing you the thinking of & the feeling of the integration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming — the rhapsody, the woven song of day and dream, electric perception. Education and fate, ole sly Fat E, brought me this present, this man made of night.  

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Gwatwareg

 

    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for my soul to survive. I knew that coming doom with a Damascus-sword-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

     By the way, the legendary Damascus-steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut even an evanescent waft of silk cloth in half before it can fall to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force après-magnetism — an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that, the force of him – symphonically buoyant.

    It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. Gwatwareg’s humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

    All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

    When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

    Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

    He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. Obsidian, the color of panthers, his humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.

 

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See gwatwareg & Leda & droit de seigneur & après-magnetism below

& Check pogblog’s Glossary for other brave & nefarious words.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
13 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 117 09.26.05 mon 
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o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;
droit de seigneur means ‘the right of the king’ & refers to the right of the king to have the wedding-night virginity of any vassal’s wife or of any slave girl any night.
après-magnetism means after-magnetism or post-magnetism;
 
In the sentence fragment above,  “…one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall,” Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan: 
. 
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
William Butler Yeats

The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools .. pro-peace rally

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

.. pro-peace rally .. pied beauty

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part 3

    On the 1081st day in a row that I’ve been out with my Teach Peace sign – going to the post office, the cocoa shop, walking down Castro, the one main street in Mountain View CA USofA Inc – on the 1081st day, I went to a huge pro-peace march ending in Jefferson Square Park, Turk & Gough, in Frisco. It was an halcyon day – a day so sweet that the kingfisher can make her nest upon the swelling bosom of the sea. Blue, zephyric.  I was wearing my Militant Pacifist t-shirt, the very first one in the whole world. Many comments on its coolness. (I do get irked that pacifism need have anything to so with being nice, per se. I don’t want death nor mutilation. Niceness is style points for people who prefer hall mark cards. Militant Pacifist: I’m fierce about not killing people.)

    I’ve told you the totemic story for me about the astronaut who was asked what it was like looking back at earth from space. He said, “When I looked back at our planet earth from space what struck me is that there aren’t any lines on it.” Of course! we have internalized the non-existent lines. How striking indeed to realize, to grok that there aren’t any lines on it. I became global in that single sentence.

    What struck me about this September.24 pro-peace march was the pied beauty of all the people. You’ll recall Gerard Manley’s poem, Pied Beauty, “Glory be to God for dappled things … .” Each person and the whole crowd was pied, splotched, lovelily lumpy. Few people dress up for a pro-peace march. Now, they probably attire themselves very superstitiously and carefully, but it ain’t tuxedo time. People are adamantly comfortable. They are so loveably, splotchily human and humane that you find yourself besotted with the human race again. After news & news of KarlDickGeorgeDonaldCondi, you think the human race must be exterminated to prevent infestation of the galaxy, so foul are these folk in their damnable greed. But at the March, you see all the people of good will, aghast at what our beloved country has doriangrayily become.

    The mix of ages and types and spikiness of hair and baldness of head and bared midriffs and Hawaiian of shirt if not billboard of t-shirt is touching.

    The sign that percussed my zeitgeist was College not Combat. The Education Industrial Complex is my dream: the real defense of  the future is more fabulous education and continuing education for your citizens. This is an urgent priority. The $820,000 per MINUTE that we spend on the Military industrial Complex, the additional $200,000 per MINUTE we spend on the continued rubble and trouble in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq could be invested in Quantum Schools (see below) which would catapult America back into the future. We are a dinosaur surparanoidally bellowing forth insanely unnecessary weapons systems Add another $14,000 per minute on the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars. We are a lumbering and lumbered dinosaur – we just don’t know it yet. We were sinking fast into 3rd World Countrydom way before Katrina.

     The only tonic which could shapeshift us into lemur-litheness for the collaborative and nifty future is a massive transfusion of social plasma or money into the education system. This is an investment which would explode our contributions for the future.

    Every person has the human right to not just education, but a fabulous education.

    More upon which anon. I think I am going to crash from a dappled exhaustion – so inspired tho by all of you who got yourselves there to Jefferson Square Park on September 24 2005.  

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools
(1) draft 1
 
“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller
 
   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.
    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.
    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.
 
What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.
 
   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.  
   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-Dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.
    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.
   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.
    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)
   
    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in the rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.
    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.
 
Notes:
(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.
 
We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.
 
(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 
 
(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize – so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.
 
This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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pro-peace, not anti-war

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pro-peace, not anti-war

 

   It's the eve of the Big September 24 Peace March in Frisco. (I know they're supposed to hate being called Frisco, but that's just obdurate — Frisco is so cool, & after  32 years of living 40 miles south of that misty and mysterious city, I'm bloody gonna call it Frisco.)

   A few days ago I thought, Well, we should dub ourselves pro-peace rather than anti-war. This better obeys the powerful but slightly tweaky notion of what in hypnosis is called an embedded command. Stick with this because it is important in all your life. Once you see through the psycho-lingual trick, you'll grok it forever.

   If I say “Don't fall off the ladder!” — it's called an embedded command TO fall off the ladder. Because in order to comprehend the words themselves, you have to (unconsciously) imagine yourself falling off the ladder. The really helpful exhortation is “Hang onto the ladder!” or some such version which requires your brain to process actually hanging onto the ladder.

     The other subtlety of this is that you cannot do a negative. You cannot stop smoking. You do something else instead. You start breathing freely. You observe the sunset after dinner instead of smoking, or whatever. 

   (Larry King always goes to a break saying, “Don't go away.” I always shout at the screen, “Embedded command!” Charlie Rose & others say, “Stay with us.”)

   IF we say 'anti-war' instead of 'pro-peace' in this micro-embedded command, we are requiring people to imagine the war. IF we say pro-peace, they have to imagine something about peace to even comprehend the words.

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   I have put Compulsory Cannibalism here because it's such a darn good piece of cherry pie idea. And I put the Grave of Known Soldier #1999 here too because this afternoon at the weekly major intersection mini-peace demo, one of our folks had taped 1913 on the street light pole. And I had written #1999 when we still had 145 dead kids to go. Now we only have 86 kids to collateralize. 86 families to shatter. Of course who cares about the Iraqi dead and their ruined mothers — they aren't Americans.   We could still save #1999 — who should haunt us all.   

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Compulsory Cannibalism

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

   “Compulsory cannibalism: if you had to eat everyone you killed, war would end damn fast,” said Abbie Hoffman.

 

Another sign at the 03.15.03 SF Rally: Mirth on Earth. Power to the Peaceful is a perennial favorite of mine. This sublime guy with an huge pink wig had a beautifully lettered sign saying, If you don’t choose peace over war, aliens will land in my wig. A sign like that makes humanssooftenunkind worth saving after all. Jonathan Schell talks about the ‘unredeemably stupid fatality’ that leads to war. On 11.29.02, I was talking to a guy about how ‘Mr. Bush & Mr. Hussein won’t get any dust on their shoes.’ He said that if like George Washington they were required to be out there themselves, then he would listen to them. I said, “Why aren’t we called pro-peace?”

 

I wrote then a little piece called Dead is Dead. On 9.13.02. Before I had made my teach peace sign on 10.09.02.

    Reading in the New Yorker about the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />World Trade Center, our rage & disbelief: The ‘How could this act of brutal madness,’ the ‘Who could do, could conceive such a thing? seem obvious and emotionally rational. ‘The enormity of the act.’ The dazed, bereft people holding cheerful snapshots of the lost. Yes it was an irredeemably evil act. Yet we never as Americans imagine or connect that the vaporized souls in Hiroshima or Nagasaki or the dozens of wooden Japanese cities we firebombed were also someone’s sweetheart or son or sister. We have already proved ourselves terrorists, or deliberate killers of civilians, with weapons of mass destruction. Ye gods we ought to be humble. Instead we escalate in arrogance and sanctimonious patriotism.

     Dead is dead. Whatever fancy justification we prettify it up with, we vaporized over 200,000 civilians, and it doesn’t disturb our sleep. We had our reasons.

     They have their reasons.

     Until there are no reasons we can bear, we will not be actually human yet.    

 

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    Our local Peace Group, Mountain View Voices for Peace, is already planning a solemn March for after Death #2000. (If you haven’t had a chance to read Grave of the Known Soldier #1999, I have it here below for you. It’ll break your heart. I keep thinking we could still save this kid #1999 – he wouldn’t have to die.

     MVVP has members meet at the intersection of El Camino & Castro every Friday from 6p-7p, the height of the commute, with pro-peace signs and waving. (This is a major local intersection.) You could start such a group in your town if you haven’t yet. You can get more info and ask questions here. Or you can be an individual loon like me and go out a little every day with something like a teach peace sign as you go about your business to the post office or the library. See details on that here. (It’s only the first two excruciating forays you have to get past and then you feel foolish without your sign! I’ve been out 1076 days in a row now. It isn’t about me, or you – it’s about that one little girl or boy who sees a person willing to appear absurd to some for the sake of peace and harmlessness and that kid will grow up to be the next Martin or Mohandas. If I don’t have my sign, that kid may not see it. The butterfly’s wings will not start a storm of peace.)

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To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid? </strong>

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

 

The Grave of the Known Soldier..Save Juan Smith #1999

 

What do we know about Sgt. Juan Smith who is doomed to die on Tuesday November 22 2005? 

 

Why does it bother me particularly that he is a huge fan of the fey  movie Spinal Tap, a celebration if there ever was one of harmlessness? Perhaps because it is unexpected that a 26 year-old has such quirky taste. I like that in him.

 

Well, he'll be 26 when he is shot in the head. The left side of his head. His brains will splatter onto soldier Raymond Callahan, his second best friend, a 22-year-old from Alabama whose mother, Joyce Callahan, voted for George Bush in  2000, but will never vote Republican again. Mrs. Smith, Juan's mother, dwells in a twilight of sadness.

 

Juan Smith's birthday is on November 8, so he is 25 now as we watch in August, waiting for him to die. Just turned 26 when he dies. He is a Scorpio with Pisces rising. Brave, dreamy, very very smart about the conscious world of day and of tanks, RPGs and rubble, and of the unconscious world, which runs the whole shebang in Iraqi, but which is never spoken of. 

 

Juan Smith does not have to die. He does not have to be #1999. We could stop it at once. Someone will be the last man's name on a stark white cross. The last man on The List. Maybe it could stop at # 1888? Mr. Bush could see that piling up more dead in flag-draped coffins we are not allowed to view will not make the war end better. It is going to end badly. We know that. Nothing will keep the insurgents from blowing up American soldiers for the next 300 years. Cheap explosives. Countless idealistic young men, sold, like ours, a bill of goods.

 

There will be some morning when The Lizard Leaders lie no more. Because nobody's buying their snake oil — well, lizard oil, I guess.

 

Damnit, Juan, I don't know what to do to save you. I do not know what to do. We talk now a little. I'm psychic. I've seen his death. He's seen me seeing it. He's imploring me to turn back time before it is reached so he can go home, marry the very pretty — not beautiful, but very pretty, Felicia, buy the blue pick-up truck his cousin could sell him in the first week of December if he could only live that long. Their first child would be named Joseph.

 

Is it Baquba? Taji? Al Asad? Abd Allah? I cannot read the address of the bullet yet. He has written the name of Felicia inside his helmet with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his tooled cowboy boots by her bed, waiting for his return. Which does not happen because we did not pour into the streets soon enough. We lamented, but did not act. As if our being embarrassed or discomfited was more unbearable than the death of #1999.

08.16.05/ 98 days/ 141,120 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

09.18.05/ 64 days/ 92,160 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

09.24.05/59 days/84,960 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹ Today September 18, we’re at 1900 American soldiers dead.  

 

Is there ANY way we can save Juan Smith #1999 using the energy and the smarts of people like you and Cindy and me and any darnbody at all?

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

I actually asked myself when I woke up this very morning, “Would I sleep with Karl Rove if it would stop the war today?” I have to tell you it was a sobering question which I could not answer at once. You cannot possibly imagine how much I despise slitherer Karl Rove and how much stealthy evil he has done malice aforethought. But now after a few hours of thought, clearly yes, to stop the senseless death of another kid, I'd even do that.)

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq. [Now on September 18, we have 1900 dead. Only 99 dead to wake up.

 

Can we possibly pull our ingenuities and resources together and save Juan Smith destined to be #1999?

 

That would give us 146 dead to wake up, write our Congress people, write Letters to the Editors. Save Juan Smith #1999. Or does the count drone on and we sit baffled, lamenting?

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

 

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

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Justice & Education .. the Most Important Fable

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Note: This deceptively simple fable is what I paid my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor for. Learning the answer to the question of Whether we can have a just world – not whether we will have a just world —  is one of the big questions of history, & I  could only answer it with my sinew and blood .. ..

Justice 

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

The first paper I wrote in college was “What is Justice?” I never guessed I would spend or pay my life and my very teeth to answer that question.

Somewhere in the Pleistocene of my twenties, a stone-tablets question appeared to me with an eerie and wistful persistence: Can we have a just world? Can we really ever have a just world or will the elite, mainly white, always have to have a filthy little secret, a permanently under-educated class, mainly non-white, to get the grotty jobs done?

I believed that education is the highest value and riches. Education was my mansion, my bullion. I lived a life of astonishing – thunderstruck — vividness because education opened my mind, my heart, stuck my fingers in the socket of the universe. Raw joy. Wild joy. Delicious joy.

A human right, I thought, this simple untarnishing joy. A self-evident human right. The key to this joy, the necessity to this joy, its breadth, delicacy, and leopard strength, is education.

So, I asked, could a person have the best possible liberal arts (tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences) education and do one of the non-glam jobs? Or, again, would we have to have this unspoken-of-class to wash our windows and collect our garbage?

I’d been a high school English teacher for ten years when this question appeared like Excalibur in the stone. Could there be a just world?

As the universe unscrolled for me the layers of this question, I wondered who I could ‘study’ to the True Answer? Eventually I knew it was true that I could only know the sinew and blood of the answer if I studied myself.

I could not go into the dear Peace Corps or Vista for two years and then back again after this useful dabble to the luxurious enclaves of academe or corporate, the gated worlds of group health plans and pensions.

Was education sufficient? Was it the highest value? Could I demand the inalienable right to a splendid education for every human being on Earth?

Well, twenty-one years as a self-employed window washer later, like the Ancient Mariner, I can hold you, hapless Wedding Guest, with glittering eye and say, adamantine and emerald, “Yes. Education is the Grail, does suffice, is armor, is amour, is hope, does not rust.”

Every hour of all those days was made more lively and tender and delectable because of the mirth, courage, insight, and wonder that education offers.

There is no smidgen of a question that education guarded me in dark nights and brought holy mockingbird song to my dawns.

I bought the answer to this great question, the Justice question, with the hours of my life. If I had it to do all over again, I was asked recently by a handsome rich Canadian who had drunk six martinis and was eating pistachios, would I do it over again? Lose my teeth, not go to the doctor for twenty-six years, face this pensionless old age?

I considered his question soberly. “To have earned in my flesh the burning answer to one of the great questions of our new millennium, it was worth my life. I can say ringingly to my species that every single human being’s life time is just as valuable to herself or himself as any other human being’s. That tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences is the daily lesson and the ‘point.’

Education can make the life hours even more fun and more searingly interesting. Curiosity is tasty. You don’t have to ‘follow your bliss’ for money.

Of course it’s absurd and obscene that the poor and the self-employed have no health insurance. Of course eventually we have to figure out how to share around the grotty jobs. Of course poverty utterly sucks. Of course I’d rather have a car with air conditioning.

If I hadn’t been so distilledly educated, I probably wouldn’t be besotted with the etymology of words and wouldn’t have known that ‘frolic’ means ‘swift gladness’ or that ‘rhapsody’ means ‘woven song.’

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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Quantum Philosophy

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Quantum Philosophy  

  

   “Because it should be vivid and squawking like a parrot, sudden on a jungle branch, mocking. Because it should be as fragile and potential as a dandelion puff. Because it should be putting your finger in the socket of the universe and being amazed at the bloody blazing. All tigers burn. All bushes burn. All walls burn. You dwell in a controlled conflagration of ferocious delicacy. Like the inside of a ripe pineapple, it’s all gold juice, your life.”

    Viv Id was teaching a class in lucid waking in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Quantum School. Her team teacher, Pond Scum, had asked her why she’d spent a life working at busting philosophy out of its turgid and tepid academic prison.

    “Because your moments should be like coming upon a rattlesnake as you round a corner in your path. The ominous rattle, the coiled snake, the implacable eyes. you become perfectly poised, the inessential is vanished, calfed, as icebergs fall, away, and you are left bone and heartbeat. You are utter and gathered in a single place. It all acutely matters. That acute mattering is the moving point philosophy ought to reveal to you, remind, reheart to you. For – for washing the dishes. It’s all dangerous. It’s all delicious.

    “Just like priests, ministers, gurus stole from us the rage and rampaging, the immediate intimacy between us and Iz, philosophy got all safe and studied. Religion preferred obedience to the promethean fire. The desolating horrors of monotheism and of detachment. You can’t tame philosophy and not be just left with a Golden Retriever or a mangy pelt on the wall. Philosophy is a wolf, and she’ll bloody rip your throat out if you don’t become wise in the ways of the wild.”    

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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What Does Your Mind Weigh?

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What Does Your Mind Weigh?      

    What does your mind weigh?  Do some thoughts weigh more than others? Do thoughts of hummingbirds weigh less than thoughts of Sisyphus' damn boulder? Where's the Periodic Table from Imagining a Slow Dance With You to Planning  French Toast to Obsidian Humor? This stuff is anti-entropic. 
    I can't wait for the extra-physics to be contemplated, pursued with the lithe zeal that we had with Fig and other adventurers in K1 physics. (K1 is the full K or reliable kinesthetic solidity we generally experience in our Day Life. The sturdy persistence of K is the notable genius of the masterpiece of reality engineering we call Earth. Other densities and dimensions have their quirks and charms, but have less stable K.)  
    Many of the great scientists freely admit that they received their Central Insights from The Blue who pretty benignly rules  DreamLand. Yet they never grokked that different extra-physics that they traveled in and inhabited as often as the interstate highways and byways of the Day Planet. It's very curious. It’s like the odd blind spot where the optic nerve hooks up –you can be looking directly at a star at night and simply not see it unless you look slightly to the side.
    All  the rich stew of memories and alternate experiences that you have and I have are called the Collective Unconscious by Jung and the Akashic Record by others. Nothing disappears. Nothing. Yeah, contemplate that. Oh dear. Woe is we. We must end up pretty humorous and forgiving in the very long run because all of our [poetic, exquisite, petty, filthy, venomous, sweet, raunchy] flickers and twists tattoo the perfectly sensitive hide or emulsion of the multiverse who can’t forget. This is all that missing stuff right in front of their noses (or above their noses) that they can’t account for. Maybe its too scary to go “Whoa all that stuff I haven’t any control over or clue about! Gee, I’d have to start in kindergarten and here I am so smart and accomplished.
    “You mean that scrawny old kook in a loin cloth in some cave in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Tibet is actually a zillion times richer than me in the currency of the Night? And he can take it with him?”

     Until we integrate lucid waking and lucid dreaming, we will be driving our maserati minds in first gear.

    It was ridiculous to take drugs in the Sixties – an invitation to synapse-snafu, but the impulse was completely understandable. People knew immense amounts of experience were being neglected or ignored. With proper training, you can be lucidly awake – deftly intent – all the time and see that the whole world is burning in the forests of the night and of the day. With proper training you can lucidly do alternate experience without crapshooting your faithful synapses – you can learn to shift gears or shift dimensions.

    There are a lot of vaganzas we can have for some practice and if lucky some instruction. (Avoid serious instruction like the plague. Serious instruction must be false. Carpe comedy, however obsidian.)

     Ah, extra vaganzas. Muy yum. Starting with licking everything  as if it were an ice cream cone which is what good poets do and is a good beginning.  

 


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

Kafka returns to lend a hand. Notes from his pals pogblog & Cara Mel:

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

One does reel at BabsToinette of Laissez-les manger le gâteau infame. I keep thinking the maze & spinning lurching besmirched kafka qualities of our time will — must (how much quease can one universe stand? — slow down, ameliorate, at least abate? But no, every day when I wake up it's beaucoup plus bizarre, mucho màs extraño, veel bizarder. Note: pinching myself doesn't help. It seems this nightmare is for real.

Naturellement, like a marble cake, the dream swirl in the nightmare confection is excruciatingly beautiful, appallingly exotic and erotic. I have had the bone-marrow sweating privilege of inhabiting the Planet at the same time as The Funniest Man Who Ever Lived (for someone with a taste for obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape) and at the same time as the Silverest Cat Who Ever Lived.

I ask myself — WHO in the Hell is the Script Writer? What grim and humorless ArchGod can keep coming up with new dizzguzzting twizts for KarlBoy to creepily perpetrate? The mind surboggles. The language lurches drunkenly. Who can keep up? The synapses are in a constant state of head-on collision shock. from pogblog

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

     ‘Dear Frankie, at first I thought I should be formal with you – the great Kafka — because of all the esteem we hold you in and the fact that I have always seen you look like something out of a coffin but upright.’

    ‘Ah, Miz Mel — or seeing as we’re being so intime, may I call you Cara?’  Seeing a moue, a small shrug and a slight wildly becoming blush, Franz continued lustily. ‘I have been mistook. I love sunbathing by and idly dogpaddling in the second great <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />river of Hades, the river Mnemosyne, indigo in the evening and turquoise at dawn.’

    ‘Oh Frankie – we thought you’d covered the silent despair, the peculiar, the creepy traps the modern Greed-Ridden World was chaining the frolicsome souls of men in. The self-inflicted conformity that we walked unwhipped back into our cages, our lionhearts dazed, our wild bright eyes glazed. That was then we thought in the often brighthearted Sixties. Now we see, now we’ll be free. No one ever imagined, I swear to you, that that, that your time was the mild, the less lethal version of the crippling disease of Greed and of Greed’s slavering handmaiden War.’

    ‘Cara Mel – you are lovely by the way – we return a few bardos or layers of K¹ closer because of the emergency. Plato’s napping but near. Rocket Socky, an original in any agora, is speaking with me this evening at your friends’ Clown School InterDimensional. What’s your greatest danger? What would you have us speak to tonight in the dreaminar?’

     ‘There’re a few. Cynicism. Apathy and its cousin Inertia. These are what I fight every day, fearing the young and the dreamers will be wounded and quail, be dimmed of eye, hidden of heart.’ 

        ‘OK, We’ll address tonight the mass inoculation by clouds. We took to heart your excellent paper on the ingenious water transport system on Earth, What better way to move vast quantities of water around than with clouds? Therefore what better way to move mass amounts of inoculations around. We plan to seed the clouds world-wide with what you might call a humor vitamin or tonic. Everyone will be refreshed with what your friend pogblog, also winsomely plump if I may say so, calls an obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape. Nothing else will get you all through this great battle with Greedor, the forces of Aggrandizement and use of people.’

    ‘Frankie, I saw a paper by Rocket Socky on the distribution of brutal humor by cloud and then river then corn then tortillas. I saw a pict of him by the way on the holonet and he was wearing a pair of bright red high-tops. I love seeing him as a 30 year-old, gallivanting around. The stupid history books were all so bonebreakingly boring. Socrates. Kafka. We thought you all were duds on the stud front, not doods with tood.’

   Kafka preened. It was fun. These new folks had élan.

   ‘I understand that you all will shortly do the more essay form of action items?’

   ‘Yeah 7/8 of the folk won’t even be conscious of the inoculations of obsidian humor. their blood will be a more dark, sweet candy apple red, but they may not grok or funes it. Most of your fellows in harmless arms are still quite linear, though warm of heart. We try to do 1/8 fractal and even that quite grammatical. Only you and Gato Gateau are cleared for the grb mad ride.’

    Have you ever done a grb, Frankie?’ Cara Mel handed him a card with grb defined on it in holobraille. He ran his fingertips over it lightly and read it outloud to her, like a spoken song.

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

‘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, cf  “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center.”  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. 

   ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Frankie the Kafka. ‘Well make their first oneiro-project choosing a totem animal and doing some shapeshifting. That always lubricates the poetical and the hilarious.’

    ‘Remember to define all these terms like oneiro as dream for them. this will be a very mixed group. Some of the oneiroscouts come from cultures like the Senoi who grow up with dreaming skills and others will be from places like America where no one ever asked them even once how their dreams went last night or what did they learn or bring back in trade from the FarStars. So remember to at least put in some clues for the treasure hunt along the way.’

   ‘The first thing I’ll get Rocket Socky to do is send them to pogblog’s Glossary and the powerful Search function on the left side of her blog. They can find all the secret handshakes there. How we all hate obscurity. It’s time to tell the secrets as brazenly as possible.’

    ‘Sweet dreams, Frankie,’ said Cara Mel.

  ‘And thee, Cara, and the lovers of sweet Earth, a jewel of the Galaxy which will shine again.’

from Cara Mel

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¹ K = kinesthetic degree. Standard waking Earth is K1. Many dreams and alternate experiences have less stable K. It a genius of masterpiece Earth that it has such sturdy, persistent K.

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

7 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West .  tzol 111  09.20.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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New Info 09.24.05 — Save Saturday September 24 for Peace Protest + Directions

Posted on by
1

updated 09.24.05  ..

Wear warm clothes or take layers — when I reached Millbrae midday on Friday, I all but froze. See you there!

Please NOTE changes in Bart Schedules & other details as of 09.16.05.

pogblog permanent link for this info: http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/27/1173188.html

Save <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Saturday September 24 2005 for Peace March.

If you wonder what difference your bothering to get yourself there might make, if your friends are wavering — clearly the huge pro-peace Marches in the Vietnam era hastened the end of that grisly War — not soon enough, but much sooner than if the Marches hadn't been big.

(NEW NOTE 09.21.05 — BART trains may be very crowded — hardly even standing room if you leave it til too late — so consider this in your plans! But remember they will be crowded with fellow peace people so have an adventure no matter what.)

Saturday September 24 2005 will be I hope the biggest peace mobilization ever on the planet. (Local Mtn. View/Los Altos/Palo Alto CA directions & times below. Train/Bart; or Carpool.; or Special Busses;)

I myself always go to where the March itself ends. This March will end about 7 walkable blocks from San Francisco City Hall at Jefferson Square Park at Gough & Turk. (Details below.) I get there between noon & 1p. (If you want to make the March itself at 11a from Dolores Park, see below or SF ANSWER's site or the Busses from Palo Alto, info below.)

 “Please plan on going to the Protest nearest you on Saturday September 24. The more bodies on the street, the better. Remember if it's rainy, go anyway. Tell your friends. This is the moment to show up.”

This is the moment to show up.

 

Mark off the day on your calendar.

 

As chancelucky reminded me, Gandhi said

“First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win.”

 

If you were to come from Mountain View CA to go to San Francisco City Hall on CalTrain & Bart:

(I always take my 16″ x 18″  teach peace sign on a 4'7″ stick on the public transportation with no problem. I do carry it sign-down on the trains themselves.)
Caltrain = 800.660.4287 x2 itinerary planning;
MV à Millbrae;
 = $7.00 daypass;
Caltrain MV àMillbrae 8:19a/arrive9:08; 9:19a/arrive Millbrae 10:08a/49m;
10:19a/11:08a/49m; 11:19a/12:08p/49m;
[Wake up at San Mateo, Burlingame, then Millbrae.] 
 
Caltrain return Millbrae àMV
3:24p/4:14p/50m; 4:24p/5:14p/50m; etc.
To catch the 3:24p, leave Civic Center
2:35p/arrive Millbrae 3:12p; etc.
If spending evening in SF,
9:24p/10:14p/50m;  also trains from Millbrae at 10:24p & 12:24a – NO 11:24 train; Your day pass is good for the 12:24a train.
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BART = 650.992.2278 x3, x3 itinerary planning;
from Millbrae to Civic Center stop = $3.55/$7.10 round trip; Have $5, two $1, & a dime so you don’t need change. OR just do $5 + three $1 and print an $8 ticket for speed.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
Take any Bart train
from Millbrae to Civic Center /29m.
starting : 8:51am-ish, a train leaves every 20 minutes;
8:51/9:11/9:31/9:51/10:11/10:31/10:51. These trains AND the ticket-buying machines will be crowded – leave early.
The stop just before Civic Center is
16th & Mission (If you want to make the March itself, get off here at 16th &Mission and walk straight up 16th 3 blocks (16th, Valencia, Guerrero, Dolores) to Dolores, go left 2 blocks to Dolores Park.
 
If you want to go to where the March ENDS and the Rally meets : Take the UN Plaza exit out of  Civic Center Bart Station and walk a few blocks toward Larkin St; Go RIGHT (North) on Larkin St. a few blocks. Turn LEFT on Turk for 4 blocks to Jefferson Square Park at the corner of Gough & Turk.
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Bart Return from Civic Center to Millbrae:
Take SFO/Millbrae Bart train;
2:26p/arrive Millbrae 3:01p; 2:46p/3:21; Etc.
IF spending evening in SF,
next to last chance = Bart at 9:26p/arrive Milbrae 10:01pm/ lv Millbrae Caltrain10:24pm;
last Bart train at 11:26p/arrive Millbrae at 12:01am no later to catch last CalTrain at 12:25am;
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Saturday September 24 Peace Rally
to San Francisco City Hall (Plaza) & then to Jefferson Square (map).…
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Special Busses from Peace & Justice Center in Palo Alto.
Meet there (directions below) at 10A. PLEASE Make a Reservation with the Center by phone or email so there will be enough busses.  Email peace-bus@peaceandjustice.org    650-326-8837. Suggested Donation $20 but no one will be turned away — you pay that day, but call ahead!! Signs can be brought with you. The busses will go to the beginning of the March at Dolores Park & then to the end point to take you home.
 
Carpool meeting place from Peace & Justice Center in Palo Alto. (I'm sure there is some donation, but I don't know what it is yet.)
 
“On Sat Sept 24, PPJC will be used as a carpool meeting spot — we're suggesting people gather here at 10 a.m.  We're at 457 Kingsley Ave. in Palo Alto (Kingsley & Cowper); our phone number is 650-326-8837 if  people want more info.”  Yahoo Maps says (from MV) take Central/Alma; rt Kellogg; lft Bryant; rt Kingsley. 
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for Mtn. View CA USA every Friday 6p-7p peace protests at the corner of Castro & El Camino, check
Mountain View Voices for Peace
 
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http://pogblog.myblogsite.com 
pogblog@yahoo.com  
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