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Dimensions of a Perfect Protest Sign .. Army-of-One Protesting

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Have Protest Sign Will Travel .. draft

the pro-peace world starts today with you

You do not have to wait for some formal Protest March tho I go to those too as I can. Start your own army-of-one micro-protest march today.

As of 10.03.05, me & my Teach Peace Sign have been out doing our peace-abouts for 1090 days in a row. . It only felt foolish the first day.

The dimensions of the perfect Protest Sign that will work best for your protest over the longhaul. My 16″x18″ Teach Peace sign is on a 4' 7″ stick (stick = 1 ¼ ” x ½ “),

The reason for these dimensions is that they fit in your own space if you are on public transportation, going into a store, or putting the sign across the back seat of your car. The sign clears your head as you walk with the end of the stick cradled in you hand.

I used a kind of colored (apricot for some reason) mat board — the kind of stuff you get at an art store. After lettering, these twopieces of matboard got stapled back to back all around the edges.

 I used black magic marker to do the letters which I'd pencilled in. Best to have just simple big letters. People are mostly driving past youand don't have timeto read or see any little decorative stuff. I picked the words Teach Peace because of the sentiment, and because of the size of the words. (I love a statement like Power to the Peaceful, but it won't workona daily sign  — too many letters.) 

Have sign awareness at all times. Be aware of whether the sign is up-right enough for people walking towards you to read it. If you're standing on a street corner, think about the angle of you sign towards the on-coming traffic.

Before you go into a store,  turn your sign upside down!

Waving at & getting eye-contact with each passing car is advanced, but it increases your impact immensely.

Some Talking Point Tidbits. I stay relentlessly on message. Get your rap down & say the same brief thing to everyone. They've never heard it before. So you should make it brand new and impassioned for them each time. (I use the html here so you can just paste them in a comment on another blog.)

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

<b>In my continuing fight against TheoFascism</b>, I have been using two numbers to great effect:

 

'As we speak, we are speading <b>$14000 a minute</b> on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars and <b>$200,000 a minute</b> on the Iraq QuagQuicksand Debacle.'

 

Also useful is to remind people is that one billion dollars is 1000 million dollars. ('A billion' is what I call a <i>dirigible word</i>. It is one of something that seems to float teflonally up there somewhere. 1000 million shocks people.)

 

I go back to the hell-years of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam when we heard the <i>identical</i> garbage about Vietnamization. I've stood by the Wall at midnight and seen by haunted moonlight what we paid for <i>that</i> hallucination.

 

<b>“We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years if need be.”</b> That’s what Ho Chi Minh, winning Vietnamese leader, said. Remember that figment Vietnamization? It didn’t work. 

 

<i>Iraqiazation will not work.</i>

 

<b>They have a 300 year supply of cheap explosives and young men willing to die.</b> They live there.

 

What delusion allows any one to think it will get better?

 

My neighbor's 24 year-old son got his whole head blown off in Iraq.

Support our troops by Bringing Them Home Now.

 

It is not going to get better.

Who wants to be the last soldier to die in Iraq for a mistake?

 


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Sacred Honor Ground — Do NOT Move .. rules for peace protest

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Sacred Honor Ground .. Do NOT Move ..

rules for peace protest

 

I have suggested to the protesters in “Working Vacation” Crawford on their website (below) some parts of these tactics gleaned from a life of protest since when I first had the discussion in Northern Vermont with my first husband Michael about whether I (the appointed wielder of the ax) would have to chop off one big toe or three of the lesser toes. He was not going to go to a land in civil war, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam, and kill people he did not know well enough to hate. Generically hating any Them was not in his nature.

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

The key to this threat to Cindy Sheehan, a Gold Star mother protesting outside the Imperial Ranch is if the Crawford 50 protesters are threatened with arrest:

Do Not Move One Inch.

 

The last civil disobedience I had with being wrongly bullied by riot police a month ago (carrying my teach peace sign), I said, “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this city tonight and I am not moving.”

 

The hundreds of riot police in their black riot exo-skeletons milled around me and had both furtive & frantic conferences, hissed in my face, and threatened me with arrest, but finally they did not arrest me. For three hours, my stupid knees were shaking as they had their noses in my face, but there is something about stillness that doesn't activate the attack in the predator or something.

 

Several episodes in months before this, they slyly would get me to “just move over here out of the way” or “just come talk to the Captain so we can see what we can work something out.” They’d been trained. I hadn’t – yet.

 

Now, my old gams hurt so much that I shook my legs around like some dervish after a few hours, I was so tired, I just wanted to go home, but I did not move out of my Sacred Honor square. One police officer tried to tempt me to move by being nice and saying, “You must be so tired. You can go sit over there if you want. I would.” The one other nice officer offered me a bottle of water, for which I would have normally killed by the end of the third hour. No. Bad cop, good cop. No. Just don't move out of your Sacred Honor square.

 

Several would stride so close to me that the stiff starched sleeves of their uniforms brushed my face. It was pretty much their whole bag of intimidation tricks. Most of them were hissers or shouters or bullhorners. “This has now been declared an illegal assembly,” from the bullhorn and the black(!) heliocopter deafeningly clattering ominously and endlessly overhead, “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

 The percussive noise of the heliocopeter is a very effective weapon. It instills fear at some level out of conscious control. “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

 

No. Be smart about where you're willing to stand for 3 hours, and you have to be willing to be arrested, but the stillness works.

 

And steal this line— it made me feel braver and it flummoxed them: “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this [city, town, road, &c] today and I am not moving from here.” I said it over and over, every time they tried a new gambit. Those darn long black riot sticks are scary. Do not move.

 

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The following is how it felt to begin to Damn It do something on-going and local and not just go to the safety-in-numbers big marches. If we had just two in every town doing this, think of it. This was a Guest Opinion piece published Jan 31 2003

 

Why I walk for peace

How does it feel to go out the front door and put your heartfelt convictions into public action?

 

Since late September 2002 I've been a lonely nutcase wandering preposterously up and down Main Street carrying my 16”x18” “Teach Peace” sign on a 4'7″ pole. At first you feel darn silly. But finally, after 46 solo peace walks, the acute self consciousness is wearing off because it is of course not at all about me, but about the future and about not smithereening young folk just as treasured as my 20-year old coworkers Silas and Gareth, or your happily careening young folk Pete and Jim, only with Iraqi names.

 

A droll and unexpected tidbit is that I think it's important to smile the whole time so that any given person seeing me doesn't think, “there goes that ole crank walking for peace.”

 

Well, I've always thought of myself as quite a jolly and smiling person. But now that I have to smile for peace and the benign future of humankind, I've discovered that we do not smile for two hours at a time. In the early going, my smile ached so bad in the grin muscle that I had to take aspirin to get through the day. Now, with all this “working out,” my smile is getting more buff and there's hardly a twinge anymore. But who would have guessed?

 

One of the chastening lessons of public action is the overturning and overturning of these stupid little stereotypes that lurk in the underbrush of your mind. “This kind of person is going to hate my sign,” you think. As you gird yourself to pass by them, they smile and whisper, “Great sign.” Some dude you're sure spends nights tossing back brews and blowing people up in video games says, “I want to thank you for being out here.”

 

I hand out wallet-sized cards with Gandhi's nine steps for decreasing violence. I found these in Colman McCarthy's book I'd Rather Teach Peace, which shocked me into realizing that we never teach peace in our schools, only war after war.

 

Yet in spite of the gloomsayers, in my own lifetime — a quick blink of the historical eye — we have made real steps to get past segregation and the trivializing of women, for instance. One day we will be beyond war too. We will teach peace. We will understand non-violence as a vivid force.

 

We'll stop spending more than a thousand million dollars every day on the military. We'll stop calling mutilated civilians “collateral damage.”

 

I'm telling you about my small, very local public action in hopes of giving you the courage to dare to take that dreaded first step out the door. Even if you are the only one out there for awhile, you give heart to people who see you. Only two folks have sworn vilely at me. If we want a more tolerant and sane world, I think we must accept feeling awkward, must act one step beyond our comfort zone in order to speak out, to show up.

— pogblog is a 31-year local resident, a former high school English teacher and window washer, and has worked on three San Francisco ballpark campaigns. She has been an anti-war advocate since Vietnam and has walked out downtown in her small some of every day with that teach peace sign for 1034 days in a row now. Just do a little every day. It adds up.

 

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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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pogblog’s Glossary for many brave & nefarious words;

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

 

Cindy Sheehan & the Crawford Protesters

[This meetwithcindy website has been down, but should return.]

info on dick cheney & collateral damage;

democrats.com, on-going & real

 

 

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 68  08.08.05 mon 

ffsb 1176  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

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Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki
..

I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

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

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

 

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

 

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

 

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

 

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 

 

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

 

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  

 

pogblog

 

ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

 

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

 

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

 

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

 

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

 

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

 

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

 


∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
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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.
………….….<^>……………..copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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08.06.05 .. unbearable echo .. Do one small thing

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Friends,

 

 2:13:36am.pdt.usa  08.06.05  . .

It is the unbearable echo-day of the first atomic vaporizing bomb being dropped on humans by humans.

 

I thought I bloody well better do some small thing to whisper, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. We have changed.”

Below is the short letter I sent to the News organizations emails I found at this Downing Street Memo url: http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/?q=node/1202. 

     I copied each email address into my yahoo address book because I've messed up my primary email sender somehow. But there is a big push to get reporters to DO something different in this Crawford “Working” vacation for the next 50 days. You're welcome to copy and paste this letter if you want. Even if you emailed ONE, it would be great. Thank you, pogblog

 

ps. You can do any subject with these addresses As Much As Possible forEver.

 

//////////

Dear [Newsperson or Organization];

 


Please challenge the Iraqiazation myth & delusion with hard and repeated and repeated questions steeped in simple historical understanding. If you could interview some knowledgeable people from the Vietnam era who aren't just doing the fortune-cookie Talking Points. 
..

“We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years if need be.” That’s what Ho Chi Minh, winning Vietnamese leader, said. Remember that figment Vietnamization? It didn’t work.

 

Iraqiazation will not work.

They have a 300 year supply of cheap explosives and young men willing to die. They live there.

What delusion allows any one to think it will get better?

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

My neighbor's 24 year-old son got his whole head blown off in Iraq.
Support our troops by Bringing Them Home Now.
 
It is not going to get better.
Who wants to be the last soldier to die in Iraq for a mistake?
 
Thank you,
Your Name
 

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

Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a JOKE

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Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a joke ..

.

   Jane never set out to be the 3nd Coming, anymore than she set out to be fat or a redhead. She chuckled frequently when she told Ace, her chubby chum, that she understood why Buddhaha had laid on the lard – it was the laugh ratio, the ratio of chuff to chaff. You can’t trust thin people to be seriously funny.

    Jane had met Ace when he’d interviewed her for Carpe Comedy, a holozine he started on 02.11.2011, at the height of the planetary turbulence. “Well,” said Jane The Messiah, “ever since they so screwed up the reporting on the 1st Coming and now there's the entirely unnoticed 2nd Coming — so we are never ever doing Coming gigs without holovideo. You gotta actually see my lips move so you can’t lie about what I said.

    “The Nazarene was an OK guy, but without the holovideo, he got seriously tabloided throughout a gore-fest of history that he never had in mind, nor in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke to get some guffaws around the supper table! Only crazy people would, like, do it.

    “The point of the 1st Coming was supposed to be to perk up poor people – to sock it to the stupid greedy who were pointedly un-invited to the stupendous party in heaven.”

    “Mz Messiah – may I call you Jane? – are you going to offer a less distortable delusion to pleasure the masses.” 

      Jane gazed at Ace for the first time. Sexy. Very sexy, she thought idly.

    “A less distortable delusion. That’s our scheme, that’s our dream,” said Jane T. Messiah, laughing like a bowl of strawberry jello. “Not kill is, ah, hmmm, let's see — not kill. Not not kill with codicils. Not Not kill except if you've got on a different colored uniform (Murder by fashion offense?). Not not kill except when I hate your guts you stupid foreign (different [ skin; accent; taste in good cheese; quality of ululation. Check one]).  <?xml:namespace prefix = o />   

     “Thou shalt have much more fun. Thou shalt not interfere with the fun of thy neighbor or of thy enemy. The endlessly tedious & unfun white aka pink splotched christians in the USofA Inc left out the very very funny Gospel According to BeelzebuB, the only non-sycophantish, non-power-serving Gospel that J.C saved for his own scrapbook. The others he turned into confetti — 'Who writes this kind of pious rubbish? They should take their meds,' JC told me before he left soon after the denouement of the 1st Coming for a refreshing galactic gallivant. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

    “One of the white christians' 10 Greatest Sins — the real pornography — is that they are as terminally unfun as they are greedy. Note, Ace, that the ultra-holy Americans don't put the chiselled list of their 10 Greatest Sins of Seriousness on the CourtHouse Lawn.”

   Ace said, “By the way, all I ask is that in even years, we change out the word God for the word Zeus on money, prayers, and in any pledges of allegiance so us good American polytheists get our turn. Fair is Fair.”

    Jane impaled him with a green-eyed look. A nerve, he thought, I've struck a deitific nerve. He quickly said, “I hadn't heard of the Gospel According to BeelzebuB?” hoping to deflect a present but unclear danger.

     “Of course JC was a polytheist, Ace. Not that you could call him a theist really, but he sure was poly. Poly and pan. All of his frisky and cheerful and artist-eye stuff got cut out of everything but BeelzebuB's Gospel. All this monotheism crap was a pure power-grab by the 12ftTalk Lizards in Human Disguise of the day. Had there been the Cuneiform Times back when, the Country Club Set is pretty much the same from millennium to millennium. Especially the simply ghastly nouveau riche like your present Bushes. There's nothing so agonizingly awful than a parvenu. These pipsqueak people have no class, only faux piety and genuine pretension. How one's skin does crawl at the idea that they are allowed in the front parlour. They are all noise and graceless greed.

    “After a large and fattening lunch, we'll get to what a crock the creed of gigagreed is. But I want to say a bit more about poly and pan before smorgassnacks. Monotheism is as ugly an idea as ever reared its scaly head in the pantheon of Religious Wrong Turns. JC wasn't an Exclusiveist. Never. He was genuinely generous and gentle of mind. He knew that a simple holiness was tricky to come by and that everyone had one pretty piece of the Giant Spinning holoKaleidoscope. Nobody has it all. And nobody has none. Ye owls, Ace, I'm hungry. Waffles, eggs, bacon, syrup, himalayan amounts of butter, french toast stuffed with hell, and even an honest omelette to finish. Muy yum.”

 

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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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

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the dark Heartlessness,

 the horror, the horror

in two parts       

 

 

     It is with woe that I confess to you that I had a hidden prejudice that I harbored all my life that came with karmic stealth back to bite me in my achilles heel a few years ago.

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

    I grew up in the American South when there were still water fountains that said ‘Colored’ and ‘White.’ I was luckily born knowing that that was balderdash. I didn’t have any of the reigning festering hates of my time. But there was one determined secret grudge I held: I could not forgive ‘the good Germans’ for not standing up and speaking out against the rising murderous fascist tide, especially before the tide of blood got too deep for many to withstand. Why, I would inquire of myself in anguished inner inquiry, Why did they not stand up, not speak out?

    A few years ago, my breath was sucked out of my lungs in a karmic coincidence, my poor head caught between two giant invisible cymbals — lo, symbols – a silent percussive concussion, one cymbal from my uncompassionate past judgment and the other my own very self standing there on the street in GeorgeKarlCondiRumsDickica, a ‘good American.’ Now I knew how it happened to the ‘good Germans.’

     What are we ‘good Americans’ doing? $14000 a minute is being spent on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. $200,000 a minute is being spent on the Iraqiazation Miazma. Dwight Eisenhower warned about the Father of this  TheoMonoMonstroColossus. He spoke of the Military Industrial Complex and that has gigantized into a Theofascist Corporate Complex, a goliath against which we must david.

   So I was chastened enough and on 10.09.02, 1031 days ago, I started walking out a little every damn day with my 16”x18” teach peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick. Yes, of course I felt like a bloody idiot when I began, but now I feel dumber when I don’t carry it.   

  Good Germans stood by. Good Muslims are standing by. Good Americans are standing by. Good Christians are standing by. It aztek-rips my living heart from my chest that we decent enough ordinary folk are not standing up for simple and shared Pursuit of Happiness with a living wage and universal healthcare and spectacular free education for every child.

     Write a one-paragraph Letter to the Editor of your most local pennysaver paper — dying for opinions to print. Short is the key. 

~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~..~.~.

    When I read a gruesome quote from our Lizard Leader, “See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda,” my blood coagulates. 'Catapult the propaganda'! Or “You work three jobs? … Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that.” —George W. Bush, to a divorced mother of three, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005. Then  I feel like my head is in some boschian horizontal pinwheelily spinning like I think may have happened in some Horror Movie I missed.

     Hey, it's not like I'm some stinking amateur in political Horror. JFK murdered on my birthday and the whole ensuing list of death and outrages stealing from a shared Pursuit of Happiness we might have embarked on had Kennedys (J & B) lived; Martin lived; Jimmy, Walter, Michael — all smart & decent & not GigaGreedy. Dear Bill & Hillary, I am a devotee. And Al an environmentalist who Yes, GOT the internet (We'd clearly have universal healthcare and universal wifi by now.)

 

Instead, horrible ole Tricky (& Henry the K, a minion-creep); Ronald who made the first big fateful TheoFascist Bargains; Dad George had horrible slithery underlings (Dick & slithery ilk), and as Ann the Divine said, “George was born on third base and thought he hit a triple.”

 

It was bad enough I thought — the horror, the horror outside a book — but little did I know the Dark Heartlessness to come.

 

I'm a tough old buzzard, but these Present Menaces have got me spooked.

 

Not that I don't get up every day and fight the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

with all the unquenchable spunk I can muster,

pogblog 

 

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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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12 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 64  08.04.05 thur

♫ffsk 790  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

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Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets
 

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05
 

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

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

 

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

 heed it, grok it —

 

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

 

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

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

♫ffsk 884  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Eclectic .. muy yum

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Eclectic .. muy yum ..

Eclectic is the only word I save if I’m running to the last lifeboat-spaceship to escape the Planet Dis-Integration which we’re gonna merit if we don’t shape up soon. But of course with ‘eclectic’ I get the best of all the rest – a nifty legerdelengua.

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

Sometimes I wake up all but weeping thinking about the Alexandrian Library and all the amazing Mayan stuff &c &c — all the horrible losses from a savage and insecure MonoTheoMonstro Religion that thinks it is better than others and just burns or melts other views and other treasures.

 

It's stinking heartbreaking and sometimes I don't think I can stand it.

 

In the city I live in, I'm lucky to have an alexandrianish bookstore called  EastWest  which has fascinating books from all kinds of traditions. They do have their own preferred version of things but, unlike a Christian bookstore, EastWest provides it all and lets you decide. It's fabulous to go in there and explore the intricate traditions of human kind. I swear you can almost hear the cosmic mind, happy and welcome here, purring like a cat. Eclectic — providing the best from all possible sources. Muy yum.
 

If I had to have any label, I would probably go with 'heathen,' but I do eschew even that. I like the après-ice-age earliest settlers kind of thing where each person gets a very particular name when they've come of age — like Crow Cat or something.

 

Do look at 'funes' and 'grok' in pogblog’s Glossary if you're interested in really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

 

ps. We’ll know when the world is getting fun enough when nobody wears a noose to work. Knot your own noose, boy, to show we gotcha on a leash.

 


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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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10 Wind . Ik. Whirlwind . North . tzol 62  08.02.05 tues
♫ffsk 351  8783§24d8h36m59s ♫ ..
the pro-peace world begins today with you………….<^>……………..

The Anti-Christ Nation

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The Anti-Christ Nation

appendix J, ToadSpawn, Be Gone!
   

     Where the Rub is – the Unholy Alliance between Golden Calf-ism, that Obscene Creed of GigaGreed, and the Wicked Uber-Patriotic Violence is the Anti-Christ or the Anti-Christ-Equivalent. Like brave, baffled Bill McKibben (Harpers Aug 05¹) and Bill Moyers, moderate Christians must speak out against these fundamentalist and extremist quintessential perversions of their potentially sweet and modest faith. And if in an inflated moment, Jesus said he was the only way, he was mistaken. There are perspectives few 32 yr-old can have, however inspired.

    One tiny revelation, one brave sentence at a time, moderates have got to put the Christ back in Christian – not as a tedious mantra but in acts that Jesus would be proud of.

     The imagination quails – shrinks back, shudders – at the violence of the delusion, the wickedness, the nastiness, the awful arrogance of our present Golden-Calf-ridden Nation. Christ would certainly be turning over in his grave if he were still there. Looking at it from the Anti-Christ angle, one trembles at the audacity of it (By the way, Karlsputin Rove³ was born on December 25, 1950 if you want an Absolut Reba’s Baby³ moment of chilling synchronicity tinct with frostbites of ironies.) Look at the conversion of GeorgeBush, Barbara’s Baby, from alcoholic to christoholic. It’s the same addiction circuits.

       I’m saying that Bill McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox¹, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wittenberg church door, is one of the most important watershed moral upheavals of our generation. An avowed Christian insider, one of the 85% of American professed-Christians, a conscientious objector, has broken-heartedly spoken out. He has flinched at the glaring, blaring sight, insight of each scene of carnage, the unChristian, the anti-Christian acts and non-acts done in the name of a tortured version of Jesus. McKibben has flinched at the terrible pain, as one must, but leaving distinct footprints of blood with each sentence, he has honorably taken the awful journey to bring his fellow Christians the unspeakable truth of what is and is not being done in their name. He kept Jesus’ radical and fierce sweetness, the uncompromisable kindness as his only compass on this harrowing Hell-journey.

   The radical vision of Jesus was to be tender – that we tend our fellows, tend our earth, our earth is our hearth. Like opening the 3rd eye, Jesus blew open the sealed doors to the heart and left us naked and gentle in the face of each other, each brother, all kin, all kind. Daring to be tender, the power in powerlessness was the gift Jesus gave, the unconditional surrender to being tender. How few jesusians there have ever been through these centuries. The satanic bargain with worldly power slammed shut those gates to the heart. Kindness became slogans not acts.

    As an interesting sidebar, I’m not sure that the word ‘Christian’ has not become too poisoned to associate with anymore? That much carnage, that much hypocrisy, that much burning of other visions and traditions. Too deep in blood. Myself, I would not bear that word. It’s on the scale that if the word ‘Nazi’ had begun benign, it’s too steeped in blood to keep it.

    McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ opens the heart’s door to moderate Christians to begin humbly talking about acts, as moderate Muslims must do about suicide bombers. Where’s the living wage? Where the spectacular education we owe to each child as a birthright, not a richesright? Where is the splendid health care we owe to our beloved brother and who is not our beloved brother, sister, mother, son, daughter? Acts. Jesus would fly a bomber and drop jellied gasoline on his brother, his sister? No. The madness must be woken from. If it is not tender, if it is not tending your friend, your fragile, frightened friend spinning in the same gigantic dark as you, if it is not the tender choice, don’t dare do it. Don’t Jesus and the Good Samaritan say that every person is your friend? The radical calculus is to figure out how to step aside from revenge. Alchemy. Turn rage to courage. Greed to kindness.

    There is nothing Jesus would recognize in perpetuating the obscene tax cuts for the eye-of-the-needle folk. They sneer, They dwell in contumely – they are swollen up with snarling pride. They do not rush to comfort.

      The Democrats are an ungainly bunch but they are trying to combine mind and heart, to bring the tender to bear on policy. It’s all very awkward because mind matter and heart matter are of different substance and frequency, but that is the path and there is no shirking that mystery in the end. It’s where we go. We might as well get started.  

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t (Please check pogblog Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.) 
tDo subscribe to Harper’s Magazine. 15 bucks a year. Brilliant.
¹Bill McKibben, The Christian Paradox
¹(Just change the word ‘Zeus’ for the word ‘God’ in prayers, commandments, and on the money and see how that hubbub quiets down. Every year a different prayer, commandments, money deity by lot. Fair’s fair. All comics like me ‘n Riffie will go for Beelzebub, the buffoon’s patron. What a droll name. In Beelzebub, we trust. Thou certainly shalt not take the name of Beelzebub in vain.)
³ Reba’s Baby. Reba is Karlsputin mother’s name; cf Rosemary’s Baby. See also Karlsputin in pogblog Glossary.
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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9 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 61  08.01.05 mon
♫ffsk 790  8783§24d8h36m59s ♫
..
the fiercely pro-peace world
begins today with you
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FixedIntelGate .. our bloodless coup

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(Please check pogblog Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.)

 

David's pebbles against Goliath's flak .. 

our bloodless coup ..

 

Great friend of pogblog, chancelucky, was thoughtfully lamenting the gigaspurt-and-blurt of info on X & Y & Z subjects in the media and on the internet perhaps past any reason. I would like to send this open letter in general defiance of that attractive but flawed position.   

 

At first site, I mean sight, chancelucky, your eloquent argument is ludditily¹ soothing,  but having been as obsessed as could be about the FixedIntelGate¹ (Rove; Downing St Memo &c), I have to defiantly disagree, finally.

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We're in our infancy against a savage and perfected Republican and White House Predator Information Machine, but the future is very much at stake. I'm proud and happy to be part of  the noosphere¹, the living-knowledge sphere.

 

This treacherous Administration is on its 2nd four years of consolidating obscene wealth in the already grotesquely rich; despoiling the shared environment of the spaceship; spending $14000 a minute on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars; $200,000 a minute on the Iraq Quagmire; and more costs in lack of splendid education and lack of splendid universal healthcare than we can count.

 

They fixed the intel to fit the policy. It's taking time on the blogbrain for this to get out, for the new synapses to stabilize, for the hypnotized and bought 'media' to get corrected and re-corrected. If it were not for the noosphere Internet obsession, FixedIntelGate would have vanished long since and Goliath's Hummerjuggernaut would be rolling over more of the few stalwart bodies who would continue to squawk.

 

Watching and feeling and participating in the slowly accreting and concerting noosphere action — quite symphonic really — as it blooms has been thrilling and important.

 

We're refining our David against Goliath tactics, and tho there is a fair amount of inconvenient and even annoying redundancy, the Lizards have learned long ago about the importance of “It's the repetition, stupid.” Just like in kindergarten. We need to learn to do it too.

 

Pogblog, for instance, has been spreading the idea that we never say 'billion,' a dirigible ho-hum floating word, but rather always $1000 million dollars, about which people invariably gasp. Try it out around the water cooler. I have learned to say it cost $14000 a minute for stupid Star Wars. I just learned to add that we're paying $200,000 a minute for the Iraq Debacle. It takes time to refine. The Lizards have every issue in a fortune cookie.¹ Remember No New Taxes? This is the spaghetti that sticks to the ceiling and we progressives have got to learn to do it better.   

 

We're getting better issue by issue as we get email alerts and learn how to consume the blogosphere info.

 

I think FixedIntelGate is where the Internet has proved its chops against the consolidation of massive communication power and I hope we only get more obsessed and more quick and more refined.

 

More and more people will learn to participate and to make the succinct comment that distills a point or nudges in a direction. Only perception and clarity and synthesizing ability will matter eventually. 

 

I think FixedIntelGate is a bloodless coup in the making. I think truth is gaining momentum against the Big Lies.¹ I think this is actual democracy on the hoof. Like a new-born foal, our legs are a little wobbly, but like Secretariat, our heart is huge and when we grow up, we'll run like the wind.

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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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chancelucky's blog

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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8 Light . Ahau . Flower . South  tzol 60  07.31.05 sun

♫ffsk 394  8783§24d8h36m59s♫

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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