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Fronds

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Fronds

   
    Stiffly folded, elegant palm fronds are the origami of our local gods, Gla and Glo. The palm trees soar eighty feet in the air on preposterous one-foot diameter bare trunks and burst into a fireworks cascade of fronds at the very top.

    Gla and Glo are tricky and somewhat slothful. Hedonists at heart. They absolutely refused the iceberg/polar bear/penguin gig when it was offered.

    “Forfend!” Gla had put the ‘d’ on the end of the word like a hammer giving the last whack to a nail. With acid sweetness she had added, “Give that ghastly gig to Pessie, the Grumpy Pussy who thinks stark white is becoming and who likes to suffer. He’ll say, ‘Frozen, bleak. Howling wind. Yum.’”

    Gla and Glo settled in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Northern California and indolently and brilliantly set about making it the gentle paradise it is. If you think stirring some dirt, water, sky, sun and presto —  palm tree is ho hum, you’re one of the bleating blind and deaf who’ve come to inhabit this swell planet in such ignorant herds.

    Into a nut the size of the end of your thumb, Gla and Glo managed to pack the holo-holo of the sky-sweeper palm tree. The holo-holo is the minute, whole sense (holo-optic, holo-audic, holo-olfact, holo-kino, holo-gusto) rendition of the tree which will emerge magically making itself out of dirt.

    Gla and Glo knew that Sol3 was going to be issued grade D, biped sentients which were agog-impaired with limited attention spans. In addition to making these benighted beasts comfortable, Gla and Glo hoped to stir sparks of grade C or even grade B sentiment from these dull Processing Units with dazzling tricks like the sky-sweeper palm.

    Among the felinoa sapiens who guard Sol3 from the malignant space vulteros who feed on the brain-dead and soul-tepid and the Republican, the sky-sweeper palm made Gla and Glo’s reputation. The palms were a splendid and impossible joke. Glo had done the preposterous soaring trunks — a glorified stalk really — which swayed dangerously in the strong local afternoon winds.

    Gla had fashioned the ecstatic spray of pleated fronds with their large stiff folded fan-shaped ‘palm’ attached to the tree’s crown by a five-foot long stiff flat stalk. Hanging from the end of each stiff fold is a languid fringe whose sensitivity is akin to whiskers for a cat.

    Decoding the merest breeze delicately, the slender frond fingers answer the gossip, the news with an ethereal melody. In the very late afternoon when the angle of the sun is just right, when the winds subside to evening zephyrs, the frond fringe flashes with crackling molten gold sparks flung with passion and abandon into the sunset air.

    The lion-drawn chariot of Day departs, gaudy, resplendent. The shadows lie like panthers stretched beside the emerald bushes. The Night Gods arch their eyebrows and spread indigo softly across the landscape. Gla and Glo, content, watch their beloved sky-sweeper palms turn to pen-and-ink silhouettes against the spangled sky, settle to slumber, and purr.’ 

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8 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  99  09.08.05 thur

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Cat .. & Braised Human

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Cat 

    When they finally landed again, there was a devastating misunderstanding. They set down on the Jasco plain in southern Mexico, the place from where they’d departed in the Pleistocene. One of the startled terrestrial greeters, in the confusion, the billowing dust stirred up by the starship, the shock, had blurted, “Habla Espanol?!”
    The translator implants embedded in most galactic citizens were marvels of ingenious technology, but millennia come and millennia go in star travel and in spite of updating, mistakes creep in. “Habla Spaniel?!” the translator implant relayed — the star creature’s countenance clearly fell, the air of beatitude replaced by distaste or maybe even horror. “Spaniel? Indeed not,” the star creature declared, whiskers twitching, calico fur bristling, “Hablo Cat.”
    Felinoa sapiens had of course been masters of the universe since time’s infancy when riding the bucking galactic waves of furious young energy required reckless and brilliant deft sleek courage. Cats had evolved a welding of intellect and emotion, savvy and instinct that was the envy of lesser sentients. Cats had planted experiments on suitable planets and periodically revisited these planetary sites to observe the progress of the stock. The human stock on planet Earth, for instance.
    Fire Cat, Owl Cat, Nova Cat were the first master cats to set foot on Earth since the Pleistocene. They had been getting mindgrams from their miniature cousins whenever they wanted an update on the human herds. Humans were among the most vicious and intractable of the experimental stock being grown in this minor galaxy, but the young ones made excellent veal. “Braised shanks,” Fire thought, licking her furred lips. “Chops, charbroiled, rare,” Nova laughed, gold eyes blackening at the tasty thought.
    Owl Cat rumbled, “They thought their God was a large pale fellow with a beard. We ate God steamed — with a glaze, didn’t we?” Nova and Fire snickered.
    The three masters of the universe were making a courtesy call on one of their young cousins, a Burmese who lived in Mountain View, California. Jester was an elegant glossy dark-chocolate-colored cat who kept two humans of middle age — beyond being half-decent veal really. Jester planned to plead on behalf of his human housemates, Ned and Nelly. Through the mindnet, he knew of the planet-clearing roundup which was coming, and in spite of the fact that humans were unkind to their own kind, generally greedy, and certainly ungenerous to other species themselves, Jester just couldn’t bear Ned and Nelly’s being butchered up into steaks and chops and ground round and put on the deep-freeze freighter for the trip to the Galactic Center warehouses where the terran delicacies would be dispersed to rich Cats.
    Let them round up the Dog People who were dumber anyway and had fewer sensibilities. Jester wanted to save his pals who could almost be cats. Couldn’t a handful of Honorary Cats be spared?
    Though a tenth the size, Jester was as beautiful as the star cats. His short silky fur was a burnished nutmeg, his eyes gold. Fire Cat was vain, a rare calico with an antique pattern from the First Days. Nova was jet black with a white tuxedo front. Owl Cat was a barred subtle gray, a full six-foot-high with a plumed tail. Bravely and with great dignity and glee, Jester faced his enormous star cousins and pleaded Ned and Nelly’s virtues.
    Glancing quickly at the others who were also suppressing smiles, Fire nodded gravely and said, “Sure, kid, cut a few out of the herd if you want. The Meat Merchants at Galactic Central don’t need to know everything.” Nova added, “Tell you what, little friend, we’ll send out the Dog-Loving Humans first. Spaniel!” the fur puffed out on her tail. “We’ll leave all your cat people on Earth til next trip in a millennia or two and maybe they’ll mend their grotty ways, get more kind and respectful, and finally get smart enough to be worth taking off the Big Menu.”   
     Jester purred and cheshired. Ned and Nelly would never know, but he was glad to have saved them and the other cat people too. He was pleased the dog people would be gone. He hated Roscoe, that loud dumb mutt next door. It would be less smelly without them, canine and caninophiles alike.


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7 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 98  09.07.05 wed  
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Fierce Schools .. Quantum Schools

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please check pogblog’s Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.

Fierce Schools .. Quantum Schools

 part 2, draft ..

(Pls see herein below if you haven’t read The Burning Child, the foundational piece for the Quantum Schools series – or read it again. I just did. We need to grok this stuff.)

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

Now, in our new Manhattan Project of Education, 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 – to each Burning Child. … Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

First let’s talk about improv for awhile. It would be the first class I’d put kids in – outta the womb into improv. Improv teaches confidence, mischief, collaboration, glee. And a way of thinking intensely more useful than the default find-fault thinking that pollutes American thought patterns. The very first rule of improv is Yes-and. “As a rare pink platypus, what do you think the next break-out discovery in nuclear physics will be?”  “Well, as a very rare and if I may be so modest as to mention it a recognized genius pink platypus, I think the next powerful discoveries in nuclear physics will be etc.”  Improv insists on the mind accepting the premise and building on it. The fruitfulness and power of this approach has to be experienced to be believed.

    Perfectly ordinary folks off the street can learn improv in three minutes. I’ve done it with amateurs for years. The reason Yes-and is so different is that you say for instance 'Let’s invest the $200,000 per minute we’re spending rubblizing <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq on superb K-College education in this country.' (See Burning Child below.)

    People default to the dialectic – for, then auto-against. Start listening and you'll notice this tedious pattern. The first thing people will list is all ad nauseum the reasons we can’t invest that kind of money in schools. Once you begin to notice this dour cast of habitual mind, you’ll chuckle as person after person does this No-but thinking. If you’d taken the opposite view, they probably would have opposed you just for the habit of it. Except for the knee-jerk tut-tut quantum-down Ain’t it offal kind of wallow in misery chat. “Can you believe all those looters in New Orleans?” “Tut tut Isn’t offal? How could they?” Hungry maybe?

     If the only truly honored investment was in the human experience on the planet – with the indelible conviction that each person’s life time is as precious to them as yours is to you, we could end up with a Buenopia – not some unachievable perfectionist Utopia, but a Buenopia – a place pretty darn good.

    I suppose it’s time to mention that I do not consider law school or doctor school or business school to be education. These are fancy trade schools and they have their place perhaps, but by education I mean what has been traditionally called a ‘liberal arts’ education. You learn how to learn, how to holo-think on the original sources from the greatest philosophers, artists, inventors, alchemists, chemists, etc.  An enchanting  interwoven program like James Burke’s Connections would be a core approach to the kaboom  fascination of intellectual history and the astonishment of being alove and alive.

    A society which makes its people Cogs in a Bottom-Line Machine is evil – literally anti-life (Live spelled backwards is evil.)

     We have so much to consider in our journey from an Asylum Planet where anyone still is loose who would call a mutilated child ‘collateral damage’ to a Frabjous Planet where every single centavo is spent on human delight and invention.

      Ah ah, don’t default to all the reasons why not. Go Yes-and. Ask yourself how many young filmmakers are killers or robbers? Connect kids with the Zone – the Zone of Creating and the most outcast they tend to be is in ghastly fashion choices. Huge weapons-scale investments in art and invention and the integration of lucid waking and lucid dreaming — and you get your end-run around the war-thirst, but more on that anon.

   Always remember as an article of fact that in Y3000, people are not – not – mutilating each other and building statues to the mutilators in the town squares anymore. We do abolish war. So we’re part of the pioneers who figure out how to get there. Cool.          

 

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

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 at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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6 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 97

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10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Not Jobs, But Slave Opportunities

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Not Jobs,

But Slave Opportunities

 

Quicksilver Quips, Tidbits, Obsidians, Halcyons 090405

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<^> FatHoggists provide not ‘jobs’ but ‘slave opportunities with invisible chains’ – only changed from 1863 perhaps in that they don’t so overtly force open your mouth to check your teeth.

From Hubert Herring, NYTimes (emphases mine) – “Again last year, according to a new report from the Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy, the ratio of the average chief executive's pay to that of production workers at 367 top corporations [is] … To be exact, for every dollar bill in a worker's pocket, the boss gets $431. And here's a nugget of perspective: If the minimum wage had kept pace with bosses' pay since 1990, it would be $23.03 an hour. … Which bosses are really raking it in? Some of the big money is in war. At companies with at least 10 percent of revenue from military contracts, chief executives' pay tripled from 2001 to 2004.” Go war, Yippee. Tra la la. Skipping all the way to the Swiss Bank Account 

 

 <^> Pens that write in weightlessness? The Russians simply use pencils.

 

<^> Where’s the puttering? The strolling? The napping? The siestas? The musing? The lolling about? They keep us with Frantic on the Simmer if not the Boil, in a state of pre-Panic, a Festering of Fear that leaves us in a perpetual adrenal debt nigh unto bankruptcy. An adrenal exhaustion ripvanwinkling us from action – from civil disobedience or civil uprising. From sharpening the figurative Guillotines.

<^> I wish my teeth had been implacable.

<^> Do unto others means paying them a wage you would take. Means putting your kin’s skin in the War (properly called the Mutilation).

 

<^>

I love thee so dearly,

I love thee so severely,

I love thee so fearlessly

That I even find your lice nice.

 

<^> Always remember that the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us are not the same species as we. We remained mammal at (warm) heart. They are cold of heart (Remember ‘collateral damage'), lidless of eye. They prefer property to human beings. We stop a whole rescue operation because some teenager took 15 polyester Atlantic Falcon sports’ jerseys? The iconic 'looting' shot played ad nauseum sadly without the original audio which would have told you (I heard it myself) that there was a report of another levee break and fear of a yet more tragic rise of lethal flood waters – and those ‘looters’ were people frantically trying to break into a boarded-up hotel to give people a ‘vertical evacuation’ escape to higher floors than the street by the convention center where they’d been abandoned. This was explained in the original audio that accompanied that video and was later detached while the video played as b-roll for tut tut looting stories.    

 

<^>  You’ll get tired of the number of ways I put the following Agenda List, but that’s what Staying On Message is about. I recommend that we embrace their Talking Points' derisive description and say, “Yep, that pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet broadband.” If you generally agree, then you need to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. The acronym for Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is FLLEA – amusing, therefore easy to remember. Pogblog commentator yogaartnat submitted the elegant Happy Elephants Embracing With Burros as a mnemonic device to remember the Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda Talking Points – Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Broadband. (See more about ‘mnemonic devices’ in pogblog’s Glossary.)

    Over time pogblog will talk about the vignettes that go with these basic agenda points, but getting the stripped-down, Fortune Cookie version of them down is the first step.

    It would be droll if it weren't so dangerous — the chat show Automatons who are Sent Forth with Talking Pointsnever failto tar anythong progressive as 'being associated with manipulated by or promoted by “the Looney Left”; “the Looney Left and MoveOn.org”; “the Far Left Extremists.” Listen & you'll hear it and what's amazing is that no one ever challenges it. It's so much part of the background static that the anchors et ilk probably don't even notice it. But it lundermines the credibility of what ever actionis being taken. I say we turn the tables as above and defang their ominous tone by embracing the Far Left term and always coupling it with a simple mantra of the short 5 point Agenda as above. 

 

<^> Remember Saturday September 24 for the biggest Peace Rally ever we hope — all over the country. Detailed info on pogblog here.

 

<^>

Q. Who was the Flounder of Our Country?

A. George Fishington.

 

 

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

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

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4 Eagle . Men . West .  tzolkin 95  09.04.05 sun

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$200,000 per MINUTE in Iraq

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$200,000 per MINUTE Spent in Iraq

A Letter to The Media & other truffles of bittersweet chocolate rage.

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Dear Media,

 

As I have been walking by myself with my now-battered teach peace sign in my local downtown for 1061 days in a row, I find the most jaw-dropping figure to tell people is to say that we are spending $200,000 per minute on the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq war. (I’ll put the Math below.)

 

I tell them that the Far Loony Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet broadband. That $200,000 per minute would make a big dent in getting these well-started.

 

Now we have Katrina. The supposedly beneficent $10.5 Billion signed for by the 12ftTall Lizard Disguised as a Human Being Who Purports to Lead Us is only 1 ½ months of the quagsand in Iraq. Down-payment this, white boy. I am so rasputinally filled with rage that I fear spontaneous combustion.

 

I implore you to get this comparison out there. Even my fervent anti-war friends did not know the costs of that felonious folly Iraq. The word ‘billion’ is one of the best propaganda weapons the repulsive Karlsputin Rove et Ilk, the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as a Human Beings, have. It’s a dirigible word – it floats above us vaguely huge but hollow. I always say ‘1000 Million’ instead of ‘Billion.’ Then when you chunk the Iraq costs down to the minute, people jerk their heads back and gasp. $200,000 per minute. On the street I can snap my fingers — $200,000, $200,000 — $200,000 per minute.

 

I think the figure of $200,000 per minute could be the skeleton key to unlock the dismay against this war for Middle America. They have a growing angsty distaste for the war already. They need a left-uppercut meme to set them back on their heels.

 

Sincerely,

pogblog

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

pogblog@yahoo.com

 

    

The Math.

See most recently: More costly than 'the war to end all wars'; David R. Francis

August29, 2005 Christian Science Monitor

http://www.csmonitor.com/2005/0829/p15s01-cogn.htm

 

“In her estimate, Ms. Bilmes figures on $460 billion in military costs for the next five years, plus $315 billion in veterans' costs, $220 billion in added interest, and $119 billion for the economic impact of a $5 increase per barrel in the price of oil through July 2010. “I tried to be conservative,” she says.”

 

[I use / to mean ‘divided by’ so it’s easy on a calculator. The key to fitting this stuff on your hand or computer calculator is to remember that one Billion is 1000 Million.]

460 + 315 + 220 + 119 Billion = 1114 B / 5 = 222 B per year. 222,000 Million / 12 = 18,000 Million per month. 18,000 / 30 =  600 Million per day. 600,000,000 / 24 = 25,000,000 per hour.

25,000,000 / 60 = 416,666 per minute. I halved that to obviate carping.

///Those who own 8 Hummers (like Arnold Schwarzenegger) can’t imagine that people don’t have enough money for gas to evacuate. Or that they have cars too old to not quickly overheat in the slow slow going of the Evacuation Highways. (I myself would never take my old car on such an hejira – I know it wouldn’t make it.) That they have a parent too infirm to bear the journey in a car – a parent they care for at home because they can’t afford the $3000 per month fancy nursing home – or a nursing home at any price for that matter. Did the Supercilious Authorities provide public transportation out of the Killing Zone? Tut tut if only those beastly poor people would have done what they were told.

I wonder what psycho-illogical condition would cause someone to own a Humvee? I think it should be an automatic, one-way ticket to the Rubber Room, no questions asked, do not pass Go. Everything about owning a Hummer is disgusting.  Owning 8 of them would all but make me re-contemplate the possible justice of capital punishment. Certainly the stocks and shunning and the offer of seppuku.

///It’s interesting that when CNN & others want to make a moving remembrance of an unbearable event like Katrina’s wrath, they use still pictures.    

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

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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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3 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 94 . 09.03.05 sat

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Frodoism .. How You Can Be a Hero Too

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Frodoism .. 

How You Can Be a Hero Too ..

   I was lucky enough to get a bootleg copy of Fellowship of the Ring when I was a freshman in college. Nobody had heard of it in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America. I had 12 major people die in my life before I was twenty-nine. (It got so I didn’t want to answer the phone lest it be another ‘dead call.’ The tones in those calls are all the same – the hesitation, the ‘I hate to have to tell you this,’ the furry edges around the voice, the lower register, the sotto voce, the impossible impassable silence after the sentence of death.) Well, Frodo et al  got me through a lot of Hell. When I came West in ’74  not knowing if I’d ever get back East to get any of my stuff – and I didn’t – the only thing I took with me was my hardback copy of Fellowship of the Ring.

    The reason the Lord of the Rings resonates so molecularly with me is that unlike Jesus in the bible, Frodo is not Divine, has no Big Time Nepotism, no Influential if Querulous Father, has no miracles, has only pluck and in the end, damned doggèdness. He is what the Brits call without reference to physical stature, ‘a stout fellow.’ His heart is sturdy. He presses on, regardless. There is a gallantry. Even when he departs in the End, he doesn’t rise to some Heaven, he goes to a Further Earth. This is all stuff that we could conceivably do. So our inner heroism and endurance is amplified. We are not down looking up

   And then there’s Lothlorien & Rivendell. In the gruesome struggle with orcs and other awful agents of Mordor, we come across a Lothlorien or a Rivendell where our charred hearts are mended and we get a crystal vial of elven light to hide in our bosom under the mithril tunic. We find allies who rekindle our magic.

    The thing about Frodo is that we can too against horrible odds against odious foes.

    The central bible story was done to me. I wasn’t a hero. I was a (preferably reverent) spectator.

    I think for these chilling times having an inner story like The Lord of the Rings will bring courage and solace and make us feel in our secretest heart that in whatever unknown part we are a hero even in perilous times, such as ours.

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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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3 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 94 . 09.03.05 sat

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Peace Warriors

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Dear Peace Warriors,

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As we watch sur-agog at the sursurreal events in N’Orleans and surround, I try to draw what lessons I can for the Yet Longer Battle for a world that defaults to peace and to saving its treasure, élan, ingenuity, and worldriotic (cf patriotic) zeal for building and re-building.

 

We see in the streets all at once the people we allow to be gruelingly poor while we give pornographically obscene tax cuts to people with sickening amounts of money festering in their bank accounts – as some Supreme Court Justice said once ‘I know pornographically obscene amounts of money when I see them.’

 

Please do me a favor and tell one person in your family or at work or at the pool hall today that we are spending $200,000 per minute in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq. (And an additional $680,000 per minute for the rest of the core Military Budget.)

 

The amount of money the Congress is so beneficently allotting to re-build the obliteration of the Gulf Coast in our HomeLand is about a month & ½  worth of Iraq. The Emperor with No Clothes striding like a Phantom (& Naked) Colossus over this heartbreaking giga-event on the Gulf Coast is the combined out-poured costs of Iraq and the monstrous tax cut to the FatHoggists bestriding their bank accounts with contumely and codpieces a-jut. 

 

It is sad to contemplate that even with the $200,000 million spent on the quagsands in Iraq, there has been so pathetically little building. We are, re building, (minus one very rotten dictator), in much worse shape than we were on the day before we went into Iraq a-shockin’ and a-awein’.

 

 We need to grok the present costs of indulging in war before we can unconditionally demand a quantumly new model where war is seen as abject shameful failure. Where no war can be perpetrated without the children or lacking same, the nephews, the grandchildren of the Bush, Rove, Condi, Rumsfeld, Cheney-Equivalents of the time being deployed at the grunt level to the front lines. Believe that this shameful (because war will be held as hideous failure of leadership and societal ingenuity) route is the only solution? Put your own daggone kids, your own skin in the dangerous game.

 

At this moment we are simply ignorant of the costs in terms we can grok¹. (I was ignorant until I grokked that one billion was one-thousand million.)

 

 I think they depend on our ignorance. They think we’ll go “10.5 billion for hurricane relief – what lovely caring people rule us.” Well, in addition to the $200,000 per minute for the Iraq debacle,  the tax cuts for those making over a million dollars will be 32 billion this year.

 

Also enter into your reeling mind that 3000 people were (horribly) killed on 9/11. In that same year, 425,000 Americans died from tobacco-related causes. What really endangers Americans?

 

[I would suggest actually that what really endangers Americans is that pesky Far Looney Left Extremists’ Agenda of universal healthcare; a superb K-College education; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nation-wide wireless broadband. Well, the lack of that Looney Left Extremist Agenda, actually.]

 

So, with some of these things in our reeling minds, where does our thinking as Peace Warriors go? Let me be up front. I have become a Peace Extremist, a militant pacifist, a fierce pacifist – because I know that that’s where we get before Y3000. Because peace is actually the most practical way to run huge numbers of created-equal citizens of the planet, each of whose life-time is just as valuable to them as yours is to you.

 

I also know from talking to a valued friend that militant pacifism and the actual abolition of war are a leap too far for most folks in this time. A lot of folks are still Jeffersonian – schizophrenic about slavery – it’s pretty oxymoronically an ‘awful necessity.’ Many good-hearted people are schizophrenic about war – it’s awful, but we need to have it as a more truly last resort, they say.

 

So I’m suggesting tactically – or is it strategically? – that we go for changing the language to a greater truth. We don’t go to war, we go to mutilation. It is a grotesque and shameful failure to have to resort to mass mutilation. If we need to have massmutilation as a last resort, the kids of the Leaders are bond that it really is the last resort to them.

 

Then we take the cathedral view. (People who follow pogblog know I’m a ragin’ pagan in so far as you must label me.) Cathedrals took 400 years to build². You started the sacred project with no hope of seeing it completed yourself. You made your whole-hearted contribution, carved your gargoyle, because it was the damn right thing to do. The abolition of war is the right thing to do. I am happy carving my obscure gargoyle knowing that it’s a part of an astonishing whole that will be a song-in-stone generations down the silver river of time.

 

///I've been feeling a tad abandoned by the universe of late — I mean I've had it with the Spending $200,000 Per Minute on the quagsand in Iraq and other universe misbehavior and petulance. But just when you're about to write off the universe as intractable, it vouchsafes you a tidbit to let you know that the real universe, the one that makes parrot wings and tiramisu gelato, has been kidnapped by some ShrubCondiRumsChenRovian Entity. It sends out a message in a bottle that you can't mistake, a quirk of obsidian humor that says, “Hang in there, pals of the rambunctious universe, irony does prevail.”  This time it sent me a note through pogblog Commentator yogaartnat saying that the anagram for Evangelist is Evil's agent. And, like Pippa Passes which nobody probably reads anymore, I know that all's right with the world. Evangelist = Evil's agent — now that's swell. 

 

ps. fema was having money sent to Pat ‘The Assassinator’ Robertson.

http://www.sploid.com/ (Sploid entry 09/01/05, 2:45 pm Eastern)

 

The mind really reels. Do you think if *I* call for the assassination of a foreign leader, I can get on Fema's links? I could call it Operation Stressing — which I thought I was because not just having lost my darling 1970 Dodge and being wheelless &c, now the housemate killed his car this aft after I lent him $850 bucks to get a new clutch last week. However, after N'Orleans,  one would like to hope that one never complains again. Tho the splinters I got to the quick under the fingernail of my right thumb while sanding a stick for the new Protest Sign did hurt.

 

I swear I was saying all evening (Thurs) while I heard those reports of the evil snipers that I bet it was a rump-covering planted story to get the blame off their Gigantic Incompetence & there it was on Sploid. (09/01/05, 8:57pm)

 

In quantum bemusement, quantum amusement,

 

pogblog

 

pps. Remember Sat Sept 24 for the Big Peace rally near you.

 

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² The Cathedral Within by Bill Shore (passim) years ago amplified my life-long use of the cathedral image.

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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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¹ Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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2 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 93 . 09.02.05 fri

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Burning Child .. .. Quantum Schools

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please check pogblog’s Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.

 

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

draft 1

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

10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Heed the Hurricane

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 Heed the Hurricane

 

    Some driftwood & detritus washed up by Katrina, Hurricane Suprema. Hurrikan; orkaan; ouragan; uragano; huracán; furacao.

    I’m not sure how vivid a demonstration we need about the meta-requirement to quantum leap to the collaborative model from the competitive, cutthroat model. Gee, a hurricane flattens the mansion and the hut alike and leaves us naked and wind-shocked, water-shocked sitting on the rooftop.

    The re-building task is so vast, requires such massive funds and coordination – that’s it, ain’t it: Coordi Nation – that’s where we’re supposed to live.

   Of course our nation is actually bankrupt – our Notes are held by the Chinese and the Japanese and the and the &c. But we get to pretend and preen because it suits the needs of the Economic Structures as they presently exist. Like in the Cold War, MAD –this is Mutually Assured Delusion, nudge nudge, wink wink.

    How much would we like the National Guard to be back here at home doing what they were supposed to do – guard the nation, and humbly and doggedly clean up and help rebuild the pick-up sticks, the damn mess? Instead of making the punier messes that testosterone can wreck with bombs in a foreign land.

   //I ‘m so sad for the forests tonight. There will be chains saws a plenty cutting the lumber for this reconstruction and clear cutting here we come.

  //Thirty years ago I was in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Puerto Rico in a barrio on the low-lying sea short in a might storm where we were eventually evacuated from the flood. The weirdness of flood is how inexorably it rises. It complete quells and daunts the imagination because there is so nothing you can do about it and obsessively you watch the wall as the water rises – it is a slow-motion levitation.

     As a little girl I was in the legendary Hazel, a ferocious furacao who uprooted our mighty oak tree casually. I remember leaning against the wind not sort of, but actually, completely.

    I’ve been watching weather screens on tv since they invented them and I never saw anything the size of Katrina. Now that we have Undisputed Global Warming, we are going to get routine monster storms because they will have all this warm water to feed upon – to make them furious and dangerous. I think of the Red Spot on Jupiter, a giga-storm which has lasted for centuries since we could have the lens technology to see it in 1655.

   Will we have to live underground? Will we have to live in strange domed stilted dwellings that don’t resemble houses. I mean if in five years, every orkaan is the size and relentlessness of Katrina? Suppose she is the First HorseWoman of the Apocalypse?

    Whatever the sunstorms will have wrought, we will have little time for discretionary wars. Katrina may have been the Hitlera of storms, but we can’t strut Mission Accomplished with our codpiece baked-potato-enhanced like Mr. Bush so embarrassingly on the USS Abe Lincoln. She is only the first Iron Mistress who is going to flatten the shores of God’s nation.

    We know Mr. Bush will strut through the rubble with carefully selected, carefully grateful Victims fawning over his Help. We have to live through that – hopefully we can see through it. The Ultimate and repeated Photo-Op. One cringes – like at Bob Dole’s Viagra ads – please don’t, Bob. Imagining you rampaging around the Kansas mansion after Lizzy for four hours is even worse than having to think of one’s parents being procreative. The Ick & Yuck Factors rise with one’s gorge.

     We will wish we had the $200,000 per minute we’re spending in the quagsands of Iraq to bring to bear in the Good Times Town and its neighbors. The expenses to come will clearly be staggering. It would be handy to have the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars to get the flood-delivered sewage-petroleum slime off the walls of 500,000 houses.

   To Mr. Bush’s Great Joy, this wind-&-water Hell will wipe Iraq completely off the front pages. # 1880 will come and will go. To Hell with Bread & Steroid Circuses & Terrorists. We got Monster Storms to derail rebellion. And windblown anchormen are so photogenic. Halliburton & subsidiaries  will make a zillion on the clean-up and reconstruction and all will be well in the Coffers of Family Bush and Family Cheney and their Ilk.

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

But those of us heeding the hurricane will requadruple our efforts toward peace and towards justice. This hurricane cloud will have a silver lining if we can sidestep fear – and press on, regardless. 

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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

………….<^>……………..

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:

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The Eloquent Lamentors .. Yes, you. Yes, me.

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The Eloquent Lamentors .. .. Yes, you. Yes, me.

 

    “You seem so blue tonight, my turtle dove,” Fuller said. “That’s not your usual m.o. You usually insist on Pressing on, regardless.”

 

“Yeah,” said Flan wanly. “Well, I see that we don’t save Known Soldier, Juan Smith, Death #1999. We’re at Death #1878. That leaves 120 Deaths until it’s Juan’s fated turn – unless we rise up as ardent Lovers of Peace and pour into the street by the millions on Saturday September 24. But most people won’t be bothered. They’d rather eloquently lament. And then go to the Mall on that Saturday. Or to a wedding. Or worry about whether they’re too fat to be seen in public. The rut, the familiar rut will embrace them instead.”

    “Remember that a Peace Rally is an unknown to most of them. They worry that they don’t have a sign. How will they get there? Will there be a bunch of slavering rowdy young noisy people? Or a bunch of graying old hippies that one would lose one’s cred to be seen with,” said Fuller.

    Flan looked at him nonplussed. “Hmmm. I never thought that they might be shy about going to a Peace Rally. Well, they don’t need a sign. They just need to  be a body milling around to swell the crowd. They’ll see the huge papier mache dove which needs three people to carry it – one for the body and one for each wing. They will see some graying hippies and for you that’s a down side in cred land, but also there will be a fascinating horde of people just like their own genre of folk and constellations of people not like them at all. They’ll grin and grin at the unexpected sweetness and variety of humankind who have showed up for peace. They will be so happy they took the chance. That they bothered to go. They’ll remember it for the rest of their lives.

    “I go up on the train to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Millbrae and take Bart to the Civic Center stop, a few steps from the Plaza behind City Hall. I don’t actually do the March part. I arrive between noon & 1pm & I go directly to where the March will end at the Plaza behind City Hall, across from the new Asian Art Museum and the Main Library. A day pass on the train costs $7. The Bart will cost about $6. I call 511 & have them help me plan the trip exactly. No parking, no fuss. Once you’ve done it, you’ll always go to the city on the train, then Bart. It’s so restful. If you do have a sign, neither the train nor Bart minds. I usually stay til 2 or 2:30 and then wander on home.

    “It is as instructive a few hours as you can possibly spend in your life – all that hope on the hoof. You will feel at once humble and bursting with pride – all these kind and earnest and wry and hopeful people in one place. You will be able to go back by the watercooler at work and say, ‘Guess what, I did the most astonishing thing.’”

     “Who would not go if they knew how cool and important it is?” Fuller said.

    “Those who would prefer to eloquently lament. The ones who will let Juan Smith, Known Soldier, Death#1999 die rather than outwit their own inertia. A Peace Rally is like the Justice Union striking against the Military-Industrial Complex, the hummernaut that has us all in thrall. ‘The madness  of militarism,’ Doctor King called it, and a Peace Rally is like a strike against that.

   “Do the psychic forces of KarlRovism have us cowed and enervated or can we take a stand? This is the question we will answer with our whereabouts on Saturday September 24 at 1pm. Like where were you when you heard Kennedy was shot if that was your era? This September 24 Peace rally is a barometer of how deep our resistance to war has become. Will it move us to a small but actual action? Or will we continue to eloquently lament?”   

       

part 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 helment with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his toolled 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

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

..

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

 

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.

 

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

 

Put democrats.com on your Favorites/Bookmarks and visit every day. http://www.democrats.com/

 

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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