the Third Thing . .. .. Photonic Physics

the Third Thing  .. Photonic Physics

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    Imagine between the two of you a translucent globe in which your conversation emerges like a play, a terrain, shifting and embellishing as each of you speaks. It has a softer lucence than a crystal ball. Roughly two feet in diameter, it is bigger than a snow globe. It is not you nor him; it is the Third Thing.

    The Third Thing floated between them like a continent seen by a hawk. The Third Thing, an aleph, was detailed as you dove in closer like the hawk for a fish. The Third Thing was a mystery. It was sacred and thrilling.

    Risma and Pal Ace were mulling over the talk they were giving at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />ContactCollege the next evening. ContactCollege had been established to promote tolerance for individual differences, the tolerance Earthers would need in a big way when the awaited, the expected they finally arrived, or, as was more likely, revealed themselves.

     The Third Thing, Cosa Tercera, had been invented on Bylar, Risma and Pal Ace’s planet of origin. The Third Thing was one of Bylar’s greatest inventions, their e=mc2. Another dazzling Bylar invention was the whimsical wind toys that they designed during their lives and placed on their graves as a droll reminder of their playful attitude to both life and to the death swan- dive into a different sea..

    As they discussed their talk, the Third Thing, luminous between Risma and Pal Ace, changed and glimmered as their mutual creation took place before their eyes. On Bylar, the Third Thing had been as visible and tangible as, say, a cloud. Like a cloud, the Cosa Tercera was light and it floated. Like a cloud, it was substantial but changed shape beautifully and easily.

Bylars could make their thoughts substantial because they were trained from small children to be precise and actual about their thoughts. And they thought about their feelings and felt about their thoughts.

    “We’ll talk about Plato and the black horse and the white horse, Risma said. “And about the ‘celtic knotting’ or interweaving of subjective and objective, of how the Third Thing is a shared ‘work’ or ‘play’ of art between two people. The Third Thing allows, indeed requires passion, but keeps that passion from knocking the nodes or chakras out of kilter.

    “Of course the discarnate have a fluidity and immediacy of thought because of the medium in which they dwell. The Bylar legerdelight was to accomplish that liberty and art for the bodied who had different rules.”

    Pal Ace watched the play, the drama in the Globe between them as Risma presented her thoughts in a holographic form on their shared ‘stage.’ He said, “Between us we might be able to make the chariot and the black and the white horses tangible enough that our audience can actually get the lively sensation of the Third Thing. We can explain that all great thought is in stories because people there get images which give force and vitality to ideas. Abstract ideas are about as attractive as plucked chickens.”

Ri laughed. “I know, abstraction is so false, so tepid, so pallid. The darling universe itself couldn’t stand the emptiness and loneliness of concepts. It poured its lonely heart into the violent and vivid art of the stars and the jewels of foxes and cats. It adores its creation. You can hear it purring on the cosmic subsonics.

    “Now, let’s say the white horse is reason and the black horse is the more chthonic or earthy, the passions. If one hopes to depend on only one horse, the chariot will veer in a circle. You must get the two horses to pull in equal measure or you won’t get anywhere.

    “You might also say that the white horse is the objective force and the black horse is the subjective force, and you have to get those forces and horses,” she laughed again, “to pull together as a team.”

    Pal Ace said, “Let’s make sure they realize that the Third Thing, the Cosa Tercera Globe is ‘outside’ them both. This crucial spaciality allows them to have an argument without it getting ‘personal.’ It allows the catharsis we get from seeing passions played at a ‘safe’ distance on the stage. The Third Thing is the stage ‘out there’ that we use to play out the drama of this conversation. Of course this Third Thing process is already happening on Earth in a fragmentary and cloudy way. Because the process is unconscious here, it is incomplete and not artful.”

Pal Ace continued, “At first, as with any art or craft, participating in a Globe feels awkward and slow. Eventually it’s like a dance. It feels melodic, indeed, rhapsodic, a woven song. And the Third Thing is eventually much quicker because people don’t come to these unpredictable grueling stops or lurches as suddenly their feelings get hurt and they balk or sulk, and the conversation, the shared creation, comes to a dead halt.

    “The Globe teaches you and allows you to adjust the amount of subjectivity and objectivity you mainline, as it were, so that you stay comfortable and can enjoy the appropriate exhilaration of artistic thought.

    “It is as if detachment were one wing and attachment the other. You glide or fly according to the needs of the winds on your way. Sometimes you need a stronger effort from detachment, sometimes from attachment in order to bank and wheel with or against the winds.

    “You cripple yourself, you cannot take flight, without both.”

Risma added, “The genius of the Third Thing is that it doesn’t achieve peace, a lively calm, or an exhilarated serenity by denying or withdrawing passion. Passion need not be buffered, extirpated (uprooted), diluted, or amputated.

    “No, the Third Thing gives passion an honored and essential job to do. Passion provides the colors, the radiance, to the forms in the Globe.

“Passion runs amuck when it has nothing to do. The thing passion wants is to bring to bear is its unquenchable vitality, its fabulous force. It can be directed. Its danger or waste is when it’s loosed too long in mental realms where it serves nothing but thought or fantasy, where there is no resistance for it to match or accommodate.

    “The Third Thing insists that passion create. Passion can kick over the sandcastle in the air, but then its willfulness is obvious.

    “Neurosis and selfishness are a personal, interior condition. The Third Thing Globe requires attention out of the self, shared responsibility, and keen listening to what the partner in creation is actually doing. It is a living chess game with unexpected pieces played on a terrain instead of a board.

    “Meditation can develop, perhaps, the skill of personal imagination, of creating the holy holograph, but the drawback is that one may get puffed up or even lazy, have self-pride or self-humility rather than shared pride. The mutuality of the Third Thing keeps both artists honest.”

Risma asked Pal Ace, “What was it like when you first came here and discovered that they hadn’t even a clue about the Third Thing?”

    “Well, at first I couldn’t believe it. I kept putting out my impressions and energy offerings in the Globe Field. And then like — you remember Sarabel? Sarabel would suddenly get all huffy, self-righteously indignant, and wounded. In amazement and eventually some exasperation, I’d plead, a hundred hundred times, “Sarabel, it isn’t about you, it’s about it!’

    “The dear lady didn’t know what the blue blazes I was talking about because she and hers had never heard about the Third Thing. Our conversation kept getting shipwrecked on the shoals of her personal feelings.

    “One of the limitations’ of solipsism, of any self-referent system is that it always works! It feels so sweet and sleek and inevitable. Not unlike the illusion of being In Love,” he added wryly.

    “The beauty of the Third Thing is that it allows perspective, a different point of view, to nourish the design.’”

    A tall bald man in the audience raised his hand. The anti-grav mike was moved above him remotely by the AGM tech in the holovision truck out back.

    “Sherrard Gray from the NorthEastKingdom, Vermont, USA. Earlier in this Third Thing Conference, I watched you and Pal Ace give a Third Thing demonstration. I was astonished at the quick bright deftness of your shared creation. It was as quick and layered as seeing a magic deck of cards shuffled — two halves swiftly, layer after layer, became one thing.

    “I just wanted to know how the interaction felt for each of you subjectively? I wondered if we Earthers could get accustomed to that brisk, maybe brusque exchange — if it might not be too strong for us?.

    Pal Ace answered smiling, “That’s a perfect question. The Third Thing provides protection from personal injury.

    “It’s true that Risma and I know that, often, the stronger we are there in the Globe, the sooner the chaff of our personal thought blows away, and we’re both left with a truer kernel.

    “We are focused on the Third Thing, not ourselves.” Risma smiled at Sherrard Gray, NorthEast Kingdom, Vermont, USA. She said, “The way it feels is that there, between us, is a land ne’er seen, an air pristine, in which we two can now create a new wonder to fascinate our fellows later. This place alive, this Third Thing is our refuge from our only selves. This conversation’ — trivial, formal, urgent, mild, wild — is brand new in this Third Place. We may even rough and tumble here; it is the rough and tumble which gives the dull stone its shine.

    “This being ‘objective about subjectivity’ and ‘subjective about objectivity’ engages the whole brain, the whole spherical consciousness.

    “Our duty is to the beauty of the Third Thing. The changes of light or mood can be as quick, as chiaroscuro and dappled as on a windy cloud-strewn, sun-struck afternoon. Or as soft and small as cradling a silver kitten purring in your lap. The key is not getting one’s personal feelings hurt. That alone stops creation, dialogue, shoves the story into a mucky ditch. Thus, it’s not about you, it’s about it.

    “So much of our interaction is sequential monologue. Few really listen. As bits of the other’s soliloquy strike you, you are preparing attack or doubt, or the shape of your own agreement. Few can have a soft mind, view the Third Thing intently, then co-create — add or multiply the subject.

    “For Bylars, you know, the very world is a Third Thing between us and the deities. We are always in vivid dialogue with the creation. Remember too that to Bylars, ‘creation’ is a verb, is unfinished. We have a dialogue with ‘creationing’ then.

    “The Third Thing feels like surfing a mobius strip. Through the Third Thing, you can dare energy that might well be toxic or even discombobulatingly positive taken directly. Your duty to the shared story, tiny or grand; your allegiance to the allegory that emerges between you; the Third Thing allows you to experience states and qualities, dark and light from a careful and compassionate distance. The Third Thing is the cocoon from which your co-created butterfly flies.”

    Pal Ace added, “It’s not possible to remain neurotic with practice at the Third Thing because neurosis is always rooted in fear for the self, fear that one will not be sufficiently esteemed. In the Third Thing, the self is irrelevant. Yes, it does take some practice if you are not brought up to it. You keep thinking ‘This is about me, about my opinions, about my deepest knowledge, my foundations, my clear truths.’

    “But the Third Thing is not ‘my’ at all. It is a shared alchemy. The freedom from ‘my’ is the most powerful liberty of consciousness. Through the Third Thing you can bring to bear every single iota you have ever learned and harvested, yet it is not personal. You have the blessed freedom there to try out new thoughts and feelings because you have no need to defend or justify your old thoughts and feelings. You can use them, but you don’t need to hang on to them.

    “The Third Thing was a revolution throughout the galaxy because it brings a creative discipline to inter-action that had been unexamined and hidden in a single seeker before. I cannot overemphasize how far and quickly your mind-heart expands after you bring thought into a shared creating light.

    “The shift of perspective is as astounding as the shift from flat earth to sphere.

    “To Bylars state-shifting is as natural as water being liquid, ice, or vapor. They practice from youth transversing densities, finding the validities and energy differences from density to density. The wavelengths are different is all. Death is just a different color, you might say. Not ultraviolet or infrared, but transviolet and trans-red.”

    Risma looked out over the riveted audience whose minds had in that very evening become more delicate and yielding. More supple and silky. Oddly, she thought, people grasp their own mind more ferociously than even so-called material goods.

    She asked Pal Ace, “You did some density studies in your early going, did you not?”

    Pal Ace smiled knowing how often they had Thirded their density experiences. “Yes, I have a report on Density Policy before the Galactic Council as we speak. I am convinced that inter-density blackouts such as prevail on Earth are barbaric. I am not unaware of the toxicity of many consciousnesses on Earth and the early thoughts that certain quarantine measures were necessary for the protection of the wider galaxy from pollution.

    “This punitive mentality does not lead to rehabilitation.”

    Risma spoke softly, “Pal Ace and I are convinced that the problems that the galactic Spiritos don’t want to face are being faced here, enacted here on Earth. No one in the galaxy really wants to confront their shadow sides. We all like to pretend we’re purer than we are. We all pretend that we wish to be purer than we truly do wish to be.

    “The intra-density blackout, the transopaque curtain, just covers up hypocrisy on both sides of the thin-but- opaque divide.

    “In Pal Ace’s Density Report which we pretty much thirded, we suggest that a concerted effort to present the Third Thing will rather quickly clear out the dumb mental garbage that comes from people staring inward all the time. Then maybe we could open up the density blockades and share through the Third Thing some daggone honesty about the complexities of consciousness.

    “We hope you all had an interesting time. May your thirding always be rewarding.” 

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Political Meth and Crop Circles

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Political Meth and Crop Circles

 

   Now a lot of you political junkies are used to pogblog’s political meth so don’t get whiplash withdrawal here. The whole point of the political hyper-alert and super-zing of synapses is to end up with our pretty planet being more just and generous and cheerful, saving savagery for satire and Grand Theft Auto. So we can end up having lots more art and lots more sloth. The greatest sloth for the greatest number. At least that’s a part of my subtext. Integrate lucid waking and lucid dreaming and enter the holospheric future that’s coming whether we like it or not. Clutching onto linearity and excess-stored wealth will look quaint in 50 years. Invest across the multi-dimensional boards in any-&-every thing holo.You’ll get rich in all the ways that matter. Really. The linears lose.   

     I like to think you find the best political invective on the planet on pogblog – what some nice person called an alloy of platinum and plutonium — but it’s meant to be usefully ruthless, not just jerkoff self-indulgent. Analysis should be bloody fascinating to read as well as ice-pick piercing. We’re not giving up on scathe and flay til we have a bountiful minimum wage, more sloth, and stop calling nationally-sanctioned child mutilation in foreign countries ‘collateral damage.’

    Luckily unlike the Wretched Fevered Theofascist Opposition, we can chew gum and walk at the same time. So I hope pogblog’s earned enough linear cred from you to give this crop circle entry a one-time try before you clik out. I know you think it’s all crap. But suppose it isn’t? The inescapable point is, is that it is the most glorious modern art on the planet however it gets here. At least go look once and then decide. You can go look and come back here or read this to inform your looking. Scroll down to the middle of the Crop Circle Connector page and clik on early July.

    So unclench your brain and let’s think energetics. Wheat and barley and butterflies and you and me and parrots all store and transform the energy, the radiance, of the central sun. We’re nifty alchemists on the hoof (cloven for the Republicans) or on the wing or in our kernels. Humankind and humanunkind have stored more knowledge energy per unit than ever before in ourstory. Part of the all-but-weightless massive and magnificent patterned energy accumulation is in our memories of art.

      Sometimes on a very hot day you can go outside and feel the pressure of sun upon yourself. Sometimes when I go to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Museum of Modern Art and stand stunned in the room with Thiebault or Klee or Miro or Rembrandt or a Michaelangelo Pieta, I feel the pressure of the art upon me. My all-but-weightless mind stuff is impacted, is alchemically changed and rearranged but not of stuff on a periodic chart, but a stuff none the less also real.  

     The crop circles are pattern-stuff-shifters. Now, you can be more conscious of what’s happening to your self-substance when you engage with art and crop circles, or you can piffle out. We haven’t got instruments (other than our own brains and skin &c) to measure this all-but-weightless interaction yet, but we can attest to it. If you haven’t gone and looked at a dozen crop circles yet, do it now or you’ll dwell in unswell ignorance because we’re going to take a quantum leapfrog here.

      Now that you’ve seen the touching and glorious crop circles and been frankly amazed and startled and less dogmatic (unless you’re dumb or zomboid), consider that these astonishing and simply huge works of art tweak your dna. By seeing them, your energy absorption capacities, you as capacitor as it were, are spatially enlarged. The way I like to think about is that you can absorb or discern more colors of blue, say. As the Eskimos have 25 words for snow, you in collaboration with your fabulous space suit can operate in more ranges of ‘colors.’ The crop circles are like hieroglyphs (oneiroglyphs really) that impress or tattoo or brand your energy self with an increased alchemy-aesthetic capacity. This isn’t trivial. It allows you to arrange and form and transform much more data. Hamburger data, icecream data (i.e. kinesthetically stable data); emotional data (a different frequency that intellectual data); cultural data; and so on. You’re being eased into becoming a more super-bio-computer than you already fabulously are.

     The crop circles are part of the keys of flame that are igniting a quantum jump in spherical consciousness. To glimpse this, imagine any crop-circle as a crop-sphere and let it zephyrically rotate around you or if that’s too big a spheric leap, imagine it outside yourself as if that particular pattern were gently shifting like a spherical kaleidoscope. That way you can get more used to flying around in the upcoming energy like a parrot instead of cowering underground eating roots and dead spiders like a Republican or a mole.

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General Ization . . . 4 Star Error

    General Ization . . . 4 Star Error .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix G

 

    Why is General Ization more horrible to the human experiment and experience than even the grotesqueries of fragment bombs and nerve gas?
    General Ization poisons the precious, possibly impeccable, unrepeatable daily life. General Ization is a pusher of lethal illusions.
    Metaphysics is the study of what is real. (Epistemology of how do we know? Ethics of what is good?) Generalization is a fundamental metaphysical failure of fact. Not one generalization actually exists. The secret revolting ugly rationales for prejudice all shatter on this reef. Contempt and disdain are bolstered by bold and glittering generalizations.

    The truth does lead to a stark, sweet humbleness. The truth is unbearable — and dangerous. But until we dare understand and act in the boggling, singular truth, our actions must be false.
    The truth is that there are no giraffes. No fill-in-any-ethnic-slur; no men; no women; no butterflies. There exists only one giraffe plus one giraffe plus one giraffe. No plurals actually exist. No group. All collective nouns are a convenience of the language, a sleight of hand, a legerdebrain. When we act upon them in prejudice or contumely, we act in as great an hallucination as if we had ingested synapse-tangling drugs. General Ization leads us hurtling off cliffs of patriotic propaganda or religious exclusivity or racial prejudice.

 

==

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />02:21:11a.pdt.us  7 Death . Cimi . Twins . North  tzol 46  07.17.05 sunday

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The fugu of the Humor Transplant ..Toad Spawn Chapter 5

 

[To READ ALL of Toad Spawn Be Gone! Click on Toad Spawn Complete under Topics on Main Page.]

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ToadSpawn Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America’s Soul

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Chapter 5 .. the fugu of the Humor Transplant

 

     Myrth said, “In ClownSchool InterD, we don’t just get to indulge in fugu. There is fugu discipline. Fugu is the expert filleting of the exceedingly poisonous Hypocrisy fish, especially those found in the Religious and Political Oceans of Hubris. Gods alone know that our keen tools and our only wyrd and terrible weapons – Be ye terrified ye 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings – our wyrd and terrible weapons are words. It’s necessary and fun to kebab the 12ftTall Lizards. I love weapon-words third only to the silver cat and the feloniously handsome Fuller. But we need to turn sword-words into plowshare words after we’ve welcomed the unfanged and unblinded, reasonably cheerful and modest 12ftTall Lizards back into the gallivanting human family. We need to explore with you students of comedy how people live in the aprèsWar world.

     “First let’s remind ourselves of the three great Greek philosophic constellations of inquiry: metaphysics; epistemology; ethics. Metaphysics deals with what is real. Epistemology with how we know. And ethics with what is good. The epistemology, the how of thinking, being, seeing is a lot of what ClownSchool InterD is about.

    “What do you do when you’re not gnashing your teeth; not wasting obscene sums of money on megalomaniacal weapons systems like missile defense; and not lashing out at people who snog a Different Deity than you do?    

    “Sursurprisingly, there is a way to live fruitfully and passionately and cheerfully without waking up in the morning rarin’ to perfect more Schemes to mutilate children.

    “But first, the ClownSchool InterD psybio team works holoday round perfecting the Humor Transplant operation that deflates the crazy hubris of the 12ftTall Lizards to bring them back into genuinely empathetic human scale. The radical and aggressive treatment probably necessary for cheney viperiens extremos is emergency splenectomy. The metastasized spleen just has to be hacked out on the spot—at the bus stop (As if any of them would ever ride a bus!) or at the dinner party with the butter knife or at the humvee sales lot.

   “Hustle ‘em off to the ClownSchool ER and stick an Irony transfusion IV into the soft skin inside the crook of their left elbow (the one nearest their vestigial heart) and play Mozart, Yo Yo Ma, Bella Fleck, and Hui Ohana til you see them giddy with grin. For a Cheney or Rove equivalent, this treatment could take years.

     “For people in less acute stages of satanically septic Reptilianosis, a course of ironyotherapy treatments are critical to recovery. Severe religiopatriosis is, like stroke, an attack whose redemptive recovery is long term – you’re never cured, you’re always a religiopatrioholic in recovery. The high the 12ftTall Lizards get is so fauxEupho that you have to kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least to protect yourself from the toxic effects of the effluvius and supperating corruption.

   “ ‘What!?’” you 12ft Lizards cry in unbridled disbelief. ‘What?! kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least?’

    “ ‘What!?’ the clowns cry, ‘You’re sharing our supersecret occult ritual with the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings? Not. You can’t. It’s our, well, our thing, our secret handshake.’

   “Shhh. It’s ok. They won’t be 12fttall Lizards any more. Their swollen spleens will be removed or de-inflamed. The kissing the left little finger 8x will help them keep on the yellow brick path to recovery.”

   “Well,” Salma Nella groused, “ok, I guess. I liked having one exclusive thing. They had the Jesus blood-drinking, fleshing-eating thing; cathedrals; heavy bishops’ rings that clunk on your head at your first communion; psalm books; hymn books; stained glass windows. I wanted some gear, some paraphernalia, a hash pipe equivalent or two. But at least our Kiss8 secret. Dammit all, Myrth.” Salma glared. “Oh, ok, go ahead and spill the bloody beans.” 

   “Here goes, ClownSchool InterD clownfants. Kiss8.”

====

 

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6-22-05 2:01:23a.pdt.us  8 Alligator . Imix .Turtle tzol 31  tueswed

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Ing-Ing .. ToadSpawn Appendix B

ToadSpawn Appendix B

 

Ing-Ing is deceptively simple. Grok this fable and your life will be dna deeply changed forever.

 

for the solstice .. the sun:ing luckily being a verb, not a noun! 

 

Ing-Ing 
 

    Jolly Ing is one of the few elves left in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New World. You didn’t know there’d ever been any? Well, perhaps you don’t quite know it all after all? Ha. Ha.

    Jolly’s brother, Chortle Ing, Esq., Chort, for short, is known far and wide for dancing, romancing, and chancing.

    You have that dubious rational look I hate. Yes, I’ve met them myself or I wouldn’t be telling you this tale. They are my zards. Zards are a cross between wizards and bards who teach a lucky few the astonishing joys of Ing. Jolly Ing is 4' 8” tall, not as portly as Chort, but a stout fellow nonetheless. His face is a glossy beardless chocolate hue, his eyes a dappled forest-glade hazel, his hair as russet as a robin’s breast.

    The Ing are a guild of gerund folk who teach that all that exists, from a stone to a clown juggling four balls and a dinner plate, is a verb, nouns being only a convenience of language, not truth. It’s all alive, living, throbbing. I spell this out to appease your Rational Dubious Self. The Ings explain little and show much.

    To decide whether I was enough fun to be apprenticed, fluid and druid enough of mind, I had to spend days ing-ing. I had to put i-n-g on every word I thought and said. I-ing am-ing eating chocolat-ing for-ing breakfast-ing. Verb think. More rightly put: verbing thinking.

    As much as we might wish for a break, wish to just stand still, we can not. Living is an irrevocable process-ing. The sea ceaselessly sloshes. There is no way out, however persistently we pout. Y’may as well swim.

    You feel panic when you first learn the verbing lesson. The wild energy of life blows through you like a hurricane. Jolly Ing taught me how to get into the eye of my own hurricane, to feel the energy but not get blown over. After awhile the energy gets savory and comforting–just as you cannot stop, you also cannot in fact get stuck. You may, and many do, become brilliant at sequential stubbornness and serial sulks, but you actually have to work at it, it is not the universe’s natural modus operandi.

    Chortle showed me many of noun think’s evils, or stupid sadnesses as he called them. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. There are no giraffesonly one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe. There are no gooks, no men, no women, no ethnic blurs. Ah, betrayed again by my belovéd language. In truth, we must consider each one, one at a time.

    Jolly said that language is a splendid and useful tool as long as we do not imagine that it displays the truth. Here he would say to me slyly, poking me annoyingly in the ribs, “How fast you forget, my little turtle dove,” his hazel eyes glinting like a splash of sun off a pool in a forest glade, “Not truth, but true-ing!” He would guffaw. Chort, of course, would chortle. The Ings are certainly bloody exasperating. They did show me though how to feel the heartbeat in each living thing, its pulse, its scent, its flavor. They introduced me to the companionship of the whole world.

    It was at first daunting. Heeded, every thing had a story to tell. The world positively chatted, gossiped, jabbered at me. Undrugged by anything but air, I was drunk with stunning sensation, poetic overload. It also all writhed which was shall we say disconcerting. Jolly taught me to steady the writhing to a pleasing shimmer or radiance and to turn the cacophony tuneful. “Blink,” he’d say. Apparently the poets who go mad, stare — forget to blink.

    Afraid perhaps that the glory will go away, is a trick, a ruse, a lie. The Big Lie. They try religion, drugs, drink, anything to pry open the Door to Wonder. Jolly likes to say, “I am a lert — being a lert is all that’s necessary. Alerting.”

==========


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6-21-05 1:54:52a.pdt.us  ../ 7 Light . Ahau . Flower  tzol 20 montues
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Jane, the 2nd Coming ..

Jane, the 2nd Coming    Jane never set out to be the 2nd 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,  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, or in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke! 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. 

…….

copyright pogblog 2005

1:20:56 am o5.o3.o5  10 Monkey tzol 231 montues

for james, my unholy angel, my holy demon

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