Category Archives: Perception

Church .. deftly intent

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Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for wonder, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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13 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 131  10.09.05 sun      
ffwofw 828§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1096/3yrs
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Human Race is Deformed by Militarism

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The Human Race is Deformed by Militarism

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   Please note that all over the USofA Inc, there will be vigils on the day following the Death of Soldier #2000. We are at Soldier #1951 tonight.

    I wrote Grave of the Known Soldier .. Save Juan Smith #1999 when there were 146 kids left before #1999 for us to wake up, for us to stand up. Stand up. Now we’re down to 48. We still could save Juan Smith #1999.

   Every time I read this #1999 piece, it seems distilledly stupider for grown-up conscious beings with consciences to be pretending to solve problems by mutilating other people’s children at the cost of $200,000 per minute in Iraq, $820,000 more dollars per minute for militarism in general. (The idea that we need more next-generation destroyers or more trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or any Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program while we in our small city and you in your town are increasing class size or closing schools entirely is pornographic past any bared bosoms or rumps. This pork & paranoia of bloated papally infallible military grand theft must be arrested if we are ever to thrive in the next age.)

     I have Grave of the Known Soldier .. Save Juan Smith #1999 for you below, but if your heart can stand it, also please read Hector & the Abolition of War which is as compelling a pro-peace piece as I ever get to write. If you have any wavering doubts about whether it is ever ok to deliberately kill anyone, those doubts end with this story.

    The anniversary of my beginning to go out alone with my  teach peace sign just around and about downtown is 10.09.2005. It will be three years exactly. Today is 1095 days in a row with my now beat-up sign. I went out this Friday evening to stand on a main corner at commute time, waving at the cars streaming by. People wave back or ignore me or honk or flash the peace sign. Only one ‘F**k Peace,’ whatever that could mean?

   Anniversaries make us gather and condense our considerations around some hub. A birthday. A marriage. How many years we worked some place. How many days in a row you've carried a peace sign. 2000 kids killed in Iraq. (Who counts the Iraqi dead? About 30 World Trade Centers worth. They aren't American, so so what?) William Blake of ‘Tyger Tyger burning bright in the forest of the night’ and of ‘the Universe in a Grain of Sand’ flays us to the anniversary attention in every hour. It is so solemn and splendid and giddy to be alive as long as we can stay awake and not sleep walk through our days – or nights, sooth be said.

    Blake exhorts us to know that ‘A skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing.’ And we hurl shock and awe by the explosive tons at the collateral children of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq? In Auguries of Innocence, Blake also says ‘Nought can deform the human race Like to the armor's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.’

    We are deformed by this war. It is too late in history to be mutilating children to haruumph that we are strong. If it weren’t so dangerous and stupid, we could howl derisively at the absurdity. No, George, no, we are making more terrorists and proving to them how very effective their suicide cheap-car driver is compared to our suicide expensive-tank driver. Ours noble, theirs craven? No, both insane. But conned and brainwashed by adults who never send their own children or, gods forfend, find the cause noble enough to go themselves.

    We got past one kind of human sacrifice in history. However, we still sing a war anthem and drink the putative blood of our deity. But we did get past separate water fountains for Colored and White (in my benighted town when I was a child). My mother was born in the year when women were considered human enough to vote. Big changes do happen. War is a dinosaur. We do dump militarism on the slag heap of history – how soon depends on you. When do you stand up? Kick Inertia in the shin. Apathy is only amusing and then vaguely in petulant 13 year-olds.

    ‘What difference can *I* make’ you waveringly wonder? Well, if the sonsa bitches woke up one morning and every single one of us who is adamantly pro-peace was standing out in front of her or his house or apartment house or trailer with a peace sign, do you doubt their gonads would jellify? There is a tipping point. The sooner you add to the body count for the helicopter photo, the sooner it ends. It is up to you.  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

10.08.05/45 days/64,800 minutes until the Death of juan Smith #1999

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹ Today September 18, we’re at 1900 American soldiers dead. Today October 08, we’re at 1951 dead.  

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq. [Now on September 18, we have 1900 dead. Only 99 dead to wake up. Now on October 08, we have 1951 dead. Only 48 dead to wake up.]

 

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

 

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

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

12 Water . Muluc . The River . East  tzol 130  10.08.05 sat   

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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pro-peace, not anti-war

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

..

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

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Compulsory Cannibalism

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

     They have their reasons.

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

  

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa! .. a newer, funnier physics . .

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Note: please check pogblog’s Glossary for coined (invented) or unfamiliar words, tho for this article, there is a quick glossary below.  If you read this material with your mouth, as if out loud, it will be clear as a bell.

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa!

part 1 .. otter around in the utter .. a newer, funnier physics

 

     The Nobel Physics Prize people are sweet, but antique in their visions and versions. One of the recipients of the Nobel Prize for ultraviolet laser short-pulse-light study , Dr.Theodor Hänsch of Max Planck Institute of Quantum Optics in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Garching, Germany and a professor at the Ludwig Maximilians University in Munich, says, “Eventually, we may be able to enjoy 3-D holographic movies.”

    Eventually, like last night?

    Oh, oh, oh, these pesky physics prof lads are so behind zee times, golly. Our brains do the 3D holographic movies we call dreams every night, physics doods.

     Holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino – holosentido — movies around in which we walk every night. Nobel Prize that, profs. Put on your dreaming caps and do the pioneering study on the semi-permeable filter that separates the actuality planes so niftily for us and which we call the brain, de hersenen, le cerveau, el cerebro. Those photonic physics punks called artists and shamans otter around in the utter (study the exotic physics of  iziz, all-of-it) with considerable skill. Now we all need to get our terms of engagement more intratranslatable.

     The first of the 9 Gandhi-King Steps to nonviolence & to collaboration is to Define the Conflict. Peeps are often fighting about totally different stuff. You think we’re fighting about money; I think we’re fighting about whether you care about me vividly enough. So we need a rapprochement between repeatable science and photonic science.

    To be blunt, mon amigoas, what we’re doing ain’t working so good for millions of fellow sentients on our Planet Home. Planet Home could be a garden if we turned militarism to educationism, from lead to gold indeed. But the meta-physics matters – the what we allow to be really real – to count.   

   The scientists have got to belly up to the UniekBar, the Unrepeatable Bar, the thrilling and chilling realization that because Eternity is so long or vast, only the unique can in fact actually exist, tho there are bands of areas where the similarities work as repeatable for all macro-practical purposes. Scientists already know this but it’s awkward doctrinally when “repeat the experiment’ is like ‘Jesus is the only way to Heaven,’ not true but theo-bolstering to the exclusivity of one’s views.

     So there needs to be more truth in advertising from the scientists, and some more occasional semi-sobriety from the mystery-surprise-drunk photonikists who need to be better journalists of the otter-in-the-utter experiences and quit being boors and borrachos to the dear scientists who just rightly wanted to cool down the chaos from their own fundamentalist-religions-ridden era, cerca 16th c.

    Ole Plato had the quintessentially useful construct: the charioteer. You are the charioteer and your chariot is drawn by the white horse of reason and the black horse of passion – and if you do not get them pulling together, you just go around in a circle, one way or the other. Both horses being dappled is the eventual burbanked hybrid solution. Integrate lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the two sides of the brain, all the false dichotomies that keep us blindered if not blinded to the holospheric and presently vertiginous truth. There’s no way out of the reality sea, you might as well swim. Sulking only curdles the blood.

    Some general advice – the scientists need to burn their neckties and only do science in hawaiian shirts and Bermudas, and the photonikists need to quit always wandering around in their not recently washed boxer shorts idly itching their gonads – or the female fashion equivalents. There is peace possible in this Valley of Earthly Delights if we each have to learn a good deal about the language of reality with which we’re uncomfortable and less fluent. Multi-lingual, lasses & lads, that’s our figging salvation – more physixes, more ecumenical.

     And we have to with our eyeballs bleeding with misgivings and raw hope make the photonic leap to grokking that our real security is not in militarism but in educationism. We need to teach people to build and invent, not kill. It’s the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for reality, 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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Quick glossary.. holosentido – the inhabited senses, the senses we can dwell in & not just view from outside like tv. Our earth experience is holoV, a holograph in which we dwell, except that it includes all the senses, not just seeing. Auditory/hearing; gustatory/tasting; olfactory/smelling; kinesthetic/feeling; Therefore holosentido includes holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino. /// link to the 9 Gandhi-King Principles of Pro-Peace Collaboration; /// grok = deeply understand, drink in understanding; /// photonic physics &c = the post-quantum physics where the physixes of  all our experiences are integrated. /// borrachos = drunkards; /// Uniek = unique in Dutch; I like the polyglot or many-tongues feel – it makes me less parochial or narrowly local; /// peeps is affectionate slang for people; /// amigoas like felinoas sapiens is trying to balance up the gender wrongs embedded in the language; It’s not ideal, but it’s a start; /// Iz Iz, iziz,  cf Is Is .. the only completely true thing you can say; /// the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant – all of them mean future, except ‘le jour suivant’ in French literally means ‘the day which follows.’ /// dichotomies are divisions into two; /// burbanked is a tip of the sombrero to Luther Burbank who was the wizard of hybrids and who talked some roses out of their thorns, for instance.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

10 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 127  10.06.05 thu  

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Fegg .. quantum perception

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Fegg .. quantum perception

    Fegg. F[aberge]egg. Fegg. Simple, splendid, extravagant, delicious, reverent, jeweled. Fegg. It is seeing and tasting that richness in the little world that is fegg. One of the Earth Decorator's most fegg is, of course, the hummingbird, an outrageous jeweled miniature envied on all planets of all stars. “Ah, Madame Deco,” an offworld Designer would sigh, hardly concealing stark envy, “How did you do it!?” Planet Designers are a good lot on the whole in spite of their universally being riddled with admiration twinned with envy. It's just that when you see something unbearably well done — the concept, the craft, the flash, the diligence, it haunts the heart with gratitude that it has been done–and envy that you didn't think of it first. Gratitude and applause minutely outweigh envy.

    It is no accident that having a clear sense of beauty, style, and fittingness is called ‘taste.' Fegg is the unpretentious exhilarating quintessence of taste. The eclectic rollicking embrace of teleology–the appreciation of design.

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    “Remember that the rose bush lavished with luxurious blossom is but a fantastic conjuror's trick–dormant dirt, water, sun animated by a pinch of some damn good design and presto: roses. Fegg. The real question is not how we can find reverence, but once we open our eyes, how we can avoid being paralyzed by awe?

    You would think that if a person woke from being a wraith in the twilight worlds to this technicolor extravaganza in which we dwell that that person would run around going WOW, GEE WHIZ. Somehow a lot of us got fegg-impaired. Forgot to surrender to delight

    The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin)

image

are fabulous, and the notion of fegg derives a portion of its charm from the pleasure that human artisans can be so deft. But the planet's Designer has simply strewn our path with marvels upon marvels, has all but stuffed riches down our throat like fat corn down the foie gras goose's gullet.

    Faberge eggs usually hinged open to reveal some remarkable surprise, a spray of milky white chalcedony windflowers in a basket made of platinum and tiny diamonds, for instance. When your eyes have been pried open, you wake in the morning, look sleepily out the window, and put your hand to your heart in amazement. You are living inside a magnificent Faberge egg and you yourself are the surprise. You have been placed here tenderly by the same Artists who designed the stars. Fegg indeed. Not only are you here in this ingenious astound, a fact so impossible as to be miraculous, but you work. You can dance or sing a song. You can somersault. Do.

     We are so bombarded by idiot doctrines which distract us from the simple sustainable radiance which is our birthright, that we forget that we are a miraculous jewel set in a miraculous jewel. It's not just the big showy stuff like the exultant unbearable ocean or the wide wings of a hawk in the sapphire summer sky. It is the dainty spider who can walk upside down on the ceiling and the familiar grime around the kitchen light switch.

     You must start slowly because as you realize it is surprise within surprise and the knowledge multiplies crescendoing, the jolt of electricity searing in your blood can terrify you. The churches neglected to mention that the ecstatic vision and sensation is at your own fingertips, eyetips, tonguetip, nosetip, eartips. Your body can stand this surging power. Your body is designed to run at many mega-feggs of raw radiance. If you haven't tampered with the mechanism by drink, drugs, or stupid doctrines, the body has all the necessary safety systems.

    You can get as high on air as you like. You were designed for awe and delight. You were given senses and sense to be a co-designer in this blooming magic world. You cannot over-fegg.

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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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9 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 126  10.05.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Blue out of which .. (in pagan female form here)

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Please check pogblog’s Glossary for coined (invented) or unfamiliar words.

 

The Blue out of which ..

(in pagan female form here)


note: The Blue out of which like bright parrots appear ideas, sentences, niftinesses is always a pagan male pan-genius to me, but I wrote this for a man and realized that for him The Blue was likely to have this pagan female pan-genius feel. Change the pronouns to suit you.

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />
    The very <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />California painter of '67 Chryslers, Gran Torinos, and plastic-webbed deck chairs, Robert Bechtle became PhotoRealism, but that's way misleading. He (and Wayne Thiebaud of cakes & pinball machines & lollipops fame) wrestled with the angel of paint and light with devoted obsession. The holo-masterpiece in which we're immersed is so infuriatingly casual, abundant, — no, profligate with its seamless genius that a human artist is forced, like a lump of coal under diamond-making tons of not-ever relenting pressure, to hope for one homage at last, inevitably mere, that might merit a glance from the Queen of Creation as, with her dazzling entourage, she sweeps by.
      One may foul oneself as one will with post-pubescent-fuelled concupiscence, but Mama Earth is your mother and your lover and she is also the cackling crone whose pudgy thumb and forefinger snuff our candle. Art is incest in the most private seduction and rage. Devotion and hate so close they kiss.
      Using sharp focus at all depths of the image as our eyes do and a camera can't, Bechtle finally gets his homage, skin and auto-metal-skin reflections become eerily present; he handles the alchemic illusion with mastery, not overreaching, not distorting, — displaying like a slave who's seen glory – touched glory even – displaying the preferred façade (flesh, chintz, aluminum, stucco, garish cheap plastic back-yard chairs, asphalt) of the Goddess. “Yes, yes, Beloved who Breathes Us, whose luscious air dances in our baffled blood, I was your perfect servant

this afternoon. I wash my paintbrushes tenderly and will stretch a new canvas tomorrow. I noticed with astonishment. I noticed with devotion.”
     It is all you can say that ever gets heard. The rest is will-o-wisps and The Blue cannot hear it. She reads your heart like braille and knows if you are true or false.
 
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You see, to grok photonic physics, you cannot just use reason-sight. You have to train your art-sight too. 
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note: re seamless. In a biology lab class, I once drew a diagram of an amoeba I'd seen under a microscope, and I was marked down by the grad student who checked these lab papers because I had not carefully closed the amoebic oval. “Living things cannot have gaps in them,” she told me, “Nature cannot be so careless.”   Hmmm, I thought – seamless.
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Of course there’s no way to see the luminousness of these paintings unless you go to a museum, tho the 3 zoomable*  paintings give some notion.
  
Bechtle .. ’68 Oldsmobile*; Alameda Chrysler; Alameda Gran Torino; Sunset Intersection; 
Thiebaud .. California Cakes*; Big Suckers*;
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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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8 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 125  10.04.05 tues
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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58

A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

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A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

 I am the Lordess of All and my name is Complexify. I have wrought and do maintain each tuft of fur on your cat’s soft back. And its hearing ears.

 Each leaf. Count them. All the shades of green. Each cloud. In all the sky. From dawn to dusk. And while you dream. Your dreams. Each fringed egret. Each crow. Each lizard basking on the hot stones.

 All the ocean. Every wave on every beach. The tumult. The surge. The purr of the lace flung up the tawny sand. The glisten. Listen. Attend.

 I am the Lordess. I do this and I do not cease. And I do this on every third planet of a billion billion suns. My name is Complexify. When you doubt, put your finger on my pulse and admire. I do do rather a lot to inspire. Every second that you forget, I remember.

 Each thread. All the weavers. Each syllable. Each sigh. Each song. Teach each. Wake up. Admire. Catch fire. Your hand and its tiny obedient bones is a miracle. Your eyes are a triumph of ingenuity and design. All mine. I have painted each parrot feather in shocking shades, and tinct the flamingo with impossible pink.

 I make the spit under your tongue so you can speak glory. You dwell in a church without walls. Start listening with the soles of your feet. You ride the finest galactic surfboard ever wrought, slinging you 17,000 miles per hour on the most intricate and spectacular ride ever devised. Love it a lot. Get cool.

 It’s a love letter I write you that’s always in your mailbox. I never forget. Look, I work hard at this stuff. I want you to be flabbered, gasted. It is lovely. It is riveting. Enjoy your toy. We are partners in this project. I can’t do joy alone. I made you joyable — joy-able. I cannot force you to be joyfull. Though in all candor, it seems to me that only a cretin would mope, stay tepid, be dyspeptic. It’s a frolic. ‘Frolic’ means ‘swift gladness.’ Get jolic. Jest, rest, be blest.


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for beauty, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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6 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 123  10.02.05 sun
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Brown Bird of Happiness

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The Brown Bird of Happiness

I had one of those particularly vivid dreams where you know that ‘dreaming’ is just another facet of immensely meaningful reality, that magnificent toy of consciousness. When I woke I was all ashiver with laughing and delight.

 In my dream all the people had been looking for this wonderful blue bird who had done something heroic. I could make up a deed for you, but frankly I don’t remember what the deed was. Everyone was gossiping and ‘Have you heard-ing’ about the blue bird. “Have you seen it?” “No, but I know someone who said she saw it yesterday.” The dream was abuzz with chat and tidbits about the blue bird. We were all looking hither and looking yon for the blue bird.

 I came around a corner and there was a large bird slightly stuck in a big jar. Doing my best ‘taking a thorn from the paw of the lion’ routine, I gently unstuck this large bird from the jar. The bird had the jaunty top knot and very triangular beak of a cardinal, but he was a deep chocolate brown color instead of scarlet and was about ten times the size. As I gently cradled this big brown bird in my arms against my chest and smoothed his shiny feathers, I was struck with the sudden absurd and delicious knowledge that this was the hero bird that everyone had been searching for. His belly feathers were so soft, and ruffled in the warm breeze. He looked me mischievously in the eye. He wasn’t blue at all. He was the brown bird of happiness.

 Of course. I knew at once the breathtaking truth. Our ideas of happiness are quite rigidly conditioned. We are all searching diligently or frantically for versions of happiness, items of happiness, that are imposed upon us by the subtle tyranny of the past. Birds of happiness are blue, we are quite sure. This tyranny is distinctly insidious. It prevents what’s happening right under our noses from being happiness. Instead we have restless, inchoate longings for happinesses defined, not by our own present deft attention, but by other agents. Parents, friends, movies, books, religions, the patterns of our own past.

 The large brown bird nestled calmly in my arms. His feathers were very dry and rustled when I hugged him gently. Very gently because although he weighed quite a lot, he was startlingly light for his size.

 He had given me anew a present of the present, this brown bird of happiness. He had stirred and spurred me to dwell in a vivid immediacy. One could only stay alert because who knew? Happiness might turn out to be a brown bird, not blue. If one insisted on it being blue, one might miss happiness altogether.

 I was loath to give him up, my brown bird of happiness, but I had to let him go too. I couldn’t just trade blue for brown. This was the hardest part. He could always fly in my inner sky as a talisman, a reminder, but I couldn’t clutch on to him either.

 This morning, happiness might be the smooth white paper I’m writing on or the slightly grungy white wool socks that are keeping my feet warm. Or the whisper of my pencil lead across the paper. Perhaps the plush silver Burmese kitten, Frolic, who’s convinced that a ratty scrap of paper she found under my desk is a toy. Or the next bird of happiness I find might even be blue.

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4 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 121  09.30.05 fri

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

   

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

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

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

Gwatwareg

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

.. pro-peace rally .. pied beauty

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

part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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12 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South  tzolkin 116  09.25.05  sun
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Quantum Philosophy

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Quantum Philosophy  

  

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

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

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

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

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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9 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 113 . 09.22.05 thur
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