Category Archives: Photonic Ethics .. Ethics in an InterDimensional Era

The Fort Mason Gate .. Dreams & Worlds Unfurl

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> for Robert, Janie, and the Fort Mason Dreamers, with gratitude

 

The Fort Mason Gate .. Worlds Unfurl

(This piece is designed to be read with the mouth as if out loud.)

 

The Experiment

   ShaSha Man was debriefed at the Spa of Sloth in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Calder Desert in South Mars.

   “How was your trip to our pet planet Dlareme?” asked Dan Gero, philosopher journalist for the South Mars Gazette. “I hear you went back to Northern California.”

   “Yeah. San Francisco shone like a jewel. The lighting down there is an envy. I was pretty stoked to see how our Velv Eeta would take the deceleration and the extra Gs after gallivanting so long around the boschian edges, funny and awful, of muchasD, the many dimensions of our sweet Holosphere Grande.

   “Remember how much we worried about how she’d take it when she found out she’d been an experiment of our clan, the Celtic Ironists? I have her sardonic but cheerful comments on that and let me read them to you before we get to the Fort Mason Gate Debrief. They come to bear on what happens there.”

   Dan Gero nodded.

   ShaSha Man read Velv’s notes. “‘Besides the male-mind transplant from a Socrates to a little girl at seven years old, the great experiment done with me was whether with no ‘help,’ one could ‘read’ the secret communiqués. Along the last twenty centuries, so many Christians were virulent and deathdealing – not tender like Jesus. So many animists died at their hands, guilty only of  raw joy. Paying fealty to no institution nor their minions, could I trust, like Frodo in Shelob’s cave, the elf light alone? The world itself my dream and beloved beacon? A universe in a grain of sand, as dear Billy would put it?

   “'It was all about love of Earth, of Dlareme, as the Big Dream. Can a perfectly ordinary child be ignited? Make the journey alone, if needs be? If all the ‘masters’ are lost? In the darkest ages? This is the gist of the quest and the question. The Celtic living holo-bible, the church with no walls, the sky is a song, the shine of leaves the promise, the talisman, and the record.

   “The 2nd big experiment required getting old, fat, and toothless – and a late discovery of peculiar and necessary love, of grok so ruthless, of obsidian humor so brutally, erotically funny that it would illuminate the xanadu halls of temptation and devotion across times. Could one stand the crushing loneliness between the stars without insanity or bitterness? Could coal be taught to be diamond? Without false allegiances? Without a desperation to belong? To belong to some tribe, some cult? Eclectic, choosing the best from all possible sources, could such a creature drink the ocean and not drown?

   “Well, there is never an end to any journey, but we came this far still bylar (to dance) and with an elf star (unquenchable gladness) in our pocket.

 

Photonic Ethics

  “As the worlds get closer and the veils thin, fusion emissaries and translators will need to be trained –rather like fusion cooks – people who can use ingredients from different cultures. How to introduce ourselves to ourselves? The challenge isn’t the variety of photonic physikses, the multiplicity of physikses, but the variety of photonic ethics. Not the envelope-pushing unfamiliarity of pork sushi, not the vertigoes on the way to happy levitating and ebullient flight, but your beloved’s other cosmic mistresses and the different meanings of murder and of war, & so4th. Monogamy (at least serial) tends to work better so far earthside, but eternity sure ain’t monogamous (cf til death do us part). How do we incorporate these strata, these exhilarating but often turbulent meteorologies of ethics we find ourselves suddenly inhabiting amongst the far-flung realms of densities?” 

 ……

   ShaSha Man said, “I was always afraid we’d get cynicism, some dearth of mirth, but we didn’t.”

   Dan Gero grinned. “What we got was wry defiance. Remember that letter she sent me about Earth, Dlareme, not being a 'Colony of Heaven'”? She flayed the idea of earthers being some kind of dolls or children overseen by phalanxes of winged nannies. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful for my non-carnate and semi-carnate experiences. Learning to fly, walking on water, floating through the ceiling. Giddy stuff. But I will not have us be a colony of heaven. We are the experts on relatively sequential time, on solid experience, on being able to actually eat a whole chocolate chip cookie, to drive where we’re going and not end up somewhere else. Our beloved realm is a masterpiece of reality engineering — there is no higher place to be. Different, just different.’”

   “Yes,” said ShaSha, “and I got that letter defrocking the Vertical Model with its putative Higher Selves. Let me read you that excerpt I keep in my wallet. ‘All of Earth's old troubles came from the Vertical Model which had kept its heel on the throat of the human spirit for centuries.

    “‘Simply turning the axis of understanding to horizontal solves 99% of both human horror and human awkwardness.

    “‘First consider the range of densities our consciousness crisscrosses in a life's experience. We have spaceless/timeless thought. We have dreams, daydreams, fantasy, imagination, memory. We have the precious, moving kinesthetic present, seemingly sequential and solid. Now, in the dominant Vertical Model, as invisible as space, our religions have posited a non-solid, spiritual realm which is above us–is better, purer, less gross than our terrestrial experience, all muck and rut.

    “‘Of course, conveniently, the priests, monks, gurus, and shamans had the key to our escape from all this toil and turmoil.

    “‘What I'm about to tell you is radical because I have searched the literature of the globe and that literature is invariably full of the higher self or the soul or spirit, all more valuable and more wise than we sluggish, lesser, benighted earthdwellers who will ‘ascend’ in death or enlightenment to our truer selves. Balderdash.

    “‘If we see consciousness vertically, a ladder to be climbed, we are falsely forced to see ourselves on the lower rungs staring up at the compassionate rump of the priest, guru, monk, shaman who precedes us to the heights.

     “‘If, on the other hand, we rotate the axis of consciousness to be sideways, we can more correctly and coherently see the spectrum of our consciousness as including all the densities with no greater value implied. Just as in light, ultraviolet is not better than infrared, our less-dense experience is not better that our solid experience, only different.

    “‘The old Vertical Model organized millions, then billions of people for millennia. In a rough sketch, the Vertical Model puts God up in Heaven & the Devil down in Hell. God & his Angels in idealized pure heaven and us down on gross, coarse Earth. The lower chakras are coarse energy, the upper increasingly more sublime. We are basically a colony of heaven. And when we refine ourselves enough, we'll get a white robe, join the junior ranks of the choirs of Angels and be allowed to kiss the big toe of God. And then when we've really refined our unruly consciousness, we get to dwell in the vast seamless rippleless nirvanic stillness for our Good Behavior. Thus, depending on the phase or fullness of my rage, the virulent or pesky Vertical Model came about because the daggone Head/Heart got an inflated or puffed-up view of its importance to the whole system though it cannot even digest a single groat–not a single grain of barley nor grow a single toenail.

    “‘The higher self doesn't have digestion and mucus and dirt under the fingernails. One could wax as rhapsodic about digestion as about Christ Consciousness if we were less prissy and overfastidious about what qualities we invited through the spiritual front door.’”

     Dan Gero laughed, “Indeed.”

 

Velv Eeta at the Fort Mason Dream Gate

  Me & my dog-eared Teach Peace sign went to Fort Mason Building C, Rm 307 on Feb 11, 2006, Saturday. How could I know that 2/11 would be a concatenation of Such Events? A Dream Council – a circle of Janie & Johnny Appleseeds of Dream Play and the sublime ridicule wreaked upon Darth Dick by my darling Fat E in the bliss-struck When Dick Shot Harry Episode, oh frabjous joy. Every now & then, Fat E cooks up a scenario so sublime, so birdshot blast of hilarity in your face that you forgive her for her other many petulant and mulish sins.

   What the changes? what the fate? How could Fat E embroider us so fancifully, her delicacy, her brutality? What the design? What the signs?

   When I got to Fort Mason 9-ish Saturday morning, it was radiant, preening. It was day 1222 in a row with my Teach Peace sign, 16″ x 18″, black letters on apricot matte board on a 4' 7″ stake. It and I are completely old-shoe (comfy) by now, and our mini-spur-the-world-to-be-bloody-better (and less bloody) is keen and honed and street-tested. “Let’s spend the $820,000 per minute we spend on the Military Budget on education instead.”

   I see a silver-maned bear of a man sitting at a picnic table with a paper cup of coffee, musing. I figure it’s Robert Moss and I decide not to say Hi & gee-whiz giga-thanks for the brilliant, grounded, vividly sane books. I teach a lot of TV-for real-people workshops and I know how on he’ll have to be shortly enough. So I leave him in this sweet lull and wander over to the dear slosh of the Bay through the pilings by the great Fort Mason docks.

   I always feel a bit balboa when I’m near the Pacific (“…when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific – and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise…”), but I’m one of the chosen lucky to whom this great-heart ocean has become a friend, if, like the MultiVerse herself, both bright-&-dark-hearted, capable of halcyon and fury.

   Multi-Verse — many-poem place. Halcyon – the kind of sweet day in which the kingfisher can make her nest upon the bosom of the sea.  

   I gaze at the reflections of the cream-colored with maroon trim warehouses on the glossy indigo water. An indigo-emerald rather than an indigo-sapphire. Undertones and undertows of black-green.

   As I lean against the fence of old thick timbers right at the edge of the dock, a grackle appears on my left with a bright yellow insolent eye. He’s an obsidian shiny black so sheened and burnished that I laugh. A grackle, the coyote of crows, mischief maker. Clearly your messenger, my daemon darling, a talisman for my adventure.

   There are about 40 people in the big circle in Rm 307. Other than being as good a student and participant as I am a teacher in my own classes, I have no plans except the usual being ‘deftly intent.’ It’s always a bit of a challenge for a teacher-to-the-bone to give over 100% control to another teacher or director. The habit of seeing the big picture, coalescing the energies, and moving the pieces is a strong template. Being a pawn is tricky.

    Playing someone else’s games – especially holding hands and swaying in a circle without being sardonic is for a moment more demanding than I expect. I am naturally edgier than all these very nice people. But ‘earnest’ is also truthfully my mode so I default to that.

      I like Moss because he’s secure enough to teach true – he wants to define and refine so he can distill what he knows so his ‘students’ get as good or better than him as fast as can be so we all can move the active knowledge and journey forward. I loathe guruism – the holder-of-secrets priestrabbiguruetc to whom you have to be subservient in order to enter the inner sanctum, the heaven, the nirvana. Triple piffle. Truer teachers know there’s a universe in a grain of sand and that they’re lucky to be able to point at a grain of sand and say, daffily, “Ain’t that grand!?”

   The drumming is astonishing. Literally. It strikes with small thunder. You feel the percussion into your blood and into the vault of your mind. In a sense, it keeps startling the mind quiet perhaps. It obviates left brain chatter & clutter & clatter. You just go straight to the vision with sonic precision. Being in the same immediate space with the drumming is stunning. Again literally. You are micro-stunned by the percussion. I think the effect may be as much K (kinesthetic) as A (auditory). It’s certainly a gift the drumming. I’ll always treasure it.

   It was fascinating being in a DayLand room full of all people for whom visioning was assumed. What was it like? It was like visiting Versailles – fabulous gardens and mirrors. Or like my darling Point Lobos, all wild flowers and wild sea and sky and otters, dainty and spectacular splendor—holo-runes through which one walks immersed in the shimmer of awe. These folks’ visions were, indeed, fabulous.

   I felt a staggering sadness and a somersaulting of flagrant gladness. Sadness because of the soulless corporatocracy which steals too much time and energy from these glorious founts of creativity, the dreaming & visioning birthright of each human. And blazing gladness because we are all part of the prometheus dawn of stealing our fire back from the war and money mongers.

   The holo-tapestries of people’s visions are fabulous. I was surprised, I suppose, at how masterful and intricate people were at vivid visioning or dreaming compared to vivid waking. As I looked at the circle of dear and true-hearted people, the energy they had in their daylife was so much less confident and vivid than in their stupendous dream or vision tracking and acting. Why? They didn’t seem to treat their daylife as another masterpiece of local dream. Almost without exception, any of them could have bumped up the quantum level, the champagne fizz of their daily energy a step or two with only an increase in delight and mischievousness.

   Here were people brave enough to dare sacred journeys, vivid journeys in a dream-dull culture. Yet they seemed unaware of the rheostat they also had in their day. Of course, there is the factor of the shyness or reticence of a roomful of strangers, but I’m speaking of the general brightness or luminousness of people at repose. This surprisingly low octane of earthside elan vital of ordinary poetic or distilled energy of delightful and interesting people is why I think we need to encourage the study, the training, the experience of vivid waking along with vivid dreaming.

       (‘Surprise’ to me is a definite and visceral feeling – it’s a poof of inner fireworks or the pop of a champagne cork at about the bellybutton. Being slightly startled or surprised or seized by everyanything is my luckiest modus vividendi – it’s how to have a peak life rather than peak experiences.)

       Ah, the sweet geode surprise of just how fabulous the veins of ultra-emerald, infra-sapphire, and marvelous opal are in these people’s dream mines. They are such accomplished and vivid and fearless visoneers. Clearly, achingly, this courage, this ability this agility must, like apple trees, be spread across the planet – for the sweet wealth of it, the health of it. The sheer ebullient delight of it.

 

Honor the Dream

   As the Fort Mason Feb 11 weekend was a big waking dream, what am I going to do to honor it in a specific, new & concrete way? Well, I’m doing two specific things. After the class was all done on Sunday, I happened to end up in the elevator with Robert and several of his assistants. One of them asked me about my Teach Peace sign which I have carried around my small city, Mountain View CA, for 1252 days in a row now. I said that I’d only felt like a raving idiot for the first two weeks. Now I’m used to it and it gives me a chance to talk to people about Peace, to shock and wake people with the “We’re spending $820,000 per minute on the Military Budget. (Dramatic pause) Plus an extra $200,000 per minute on Iraq.” Hmm, I thought on my way home on the train, what was the synchron of being in the elevator and the Teach Peace sign & so4th? Aha! I could carry a sign about dreaming. Hmmm. To have a sign one can bop around the world with in a daily way, one is constrained to a max of 5 letters per line. Between mulling and my darling pal, The Blue, who showers me with sudden presents, it appeared, seemingly self-evident: DREAM PEACE. Then when people stop and ask me about the sign, I can do a fortune cookie on Peace and a fortune cookie on Dreaming.

   I bought the new sheets of a goldish matte board and the Avery Marks A Lot chisel black markers. I’ve done the lettering and with gratitude and wistfulness pried off my old faithful TEACH PEACE sign & stapled on the new doublesided DREAM PEACE sign. After 3 years 5 months & 5 days, I’ll take it out tomorrow on my pal’s birthday and start this new campaign.

   The second honoring thing is that I’m teaching myself a new habit of bringing up dreaming at every opportunity as I’m out and about. I realized that it would be handy to have a business-sized card with the name of one Robert Moss book & his website url & EastWest Book Store so the person has the info for their own concrete step & I don’t have to keep jotting down all that info for folks. I use the Avery 8371 packet of blank business cards so I can run off a sheet or two at Kinkos and try them out and refine them as I get feedback.

(Here’s the first run of the dream & peace info card.)

 

šLucid, Active Dreaming Tidbits ›

Try Dreaming True  byRobert Moss

check out www.mossdreams.com & www.eastwest.com 

(None of my personal views represent Robert Moss. I just admire his astonishing books on dreams.)

Lightning DreamWork mnemonic:

Two Ducks Suddenly Quack 3 Times; Four Red Cavorting Kangaroos Ingest A Banana Split

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Click on Dreams in Category column on Left

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    A key to these Janie/Johnny Appleseed of Dreams tactics is ‘the elevator pitch.’ What do you get to say if you only have 30 seconds? The subtext is The Appleseed Project. Plant dream trees. Your day as an illustrated poem, your night as an illustrated poem. Dreams, dreams burning bright In the forests of the night. All dreams, all tygers, all bushes, all dirty dishes – burn. I’ve been starting with ‘I just took a class in lucid dreaming. I’m doing a quick informal survey about people and their dreams. Do you remember your dreams?’

…..

   The Fort Mason Dreamers. The parade, the cascade of power animals, landscapes, and treasure – all the hieroglyphs, the oneiroglyphs of a hololanguage through which they ride, glide, stride, make evident, make manifest their artistry. It’s intensely inspiring.

   A person beside me tells of a winged black leopard who bears him on his journey. After lunch, I show him the postcard of a black leopard I just happened to grab at the very last second before I ran out the door to go catch the train to San Francisco that morning. A delectable synchron & we both grin. 

    There were so many gifts and treasures and pleasures of the “abalone mirror” weekend that it’s hard to single any out, but a meta-gift was to be in the same DayLand place with so many people who honored dreams and visions, where one wasn’t secret and underground. Where and when I grew up on the East Coast, if you spoke of Other Realms of Density, of Dreams, if not quite still burned at the stake, people shied away when they did not recoil. And then wretched Freud (Siggie Fraud) poisoned dream study in the West for 100 years by making it a mirror of pathology rather than an ebullient waterfall of creative abun-dancing. I realized how long I’d been silent except in my writing and with a few friends. I still can’t talk much about the Unspeakable Realms of Obsidian Humor where my pal and I bring the odd, beloved light of  brutal and fierce silliness to buried pain of horrible sorrow. But to speak of and hear tales of OtherLand at all is a rivendell oasis on a long lonely journey – the alchemy of the Shadow – chiaroscuro, the celebration of cosmicomic art in all densities of realities.

   Of course I’d really like the universe (or multi-verse, many-poem place) to arrange a cache of cash for the May Dream Teachers Class. If I were even accepted. I haven’t asked yet. Come what may, a few years back, I dedicated the last third of my this-life to promoting the Integration of Lucid Waking with Lucid Dreaming and that purpose is polished and radianted by Fort Mason with its intrepid and dear dreamers. I’ll always be grateful. Frabjous joy.

 

Lightning DreamPlay Mnemonic

   I have one more piece of honoring that tasty Fort Mason weekend. I found that I didn’t have the steps to Robert's quick and sleek Lightning DreamPlay nailed. Aha! I need a mnemonic device. The two I’ve had since I was six are A Rat In Tom’s House Might Eat Tom’s Ice Cream — arithmetic. And George Eaton’s Old Grandmother Rode A Pig Home Yesterday – geography. Once you embed these in your mind, they last forever. Roy G Biv for the colors of the rainbow.

   Anyhow, I found that I didn’t have the Lightning DreamSharing steps on the tip of my mind. Title. Dream Story. 3 Questions: Feelings when you wake. Reality Check. Know – what do you want to Know about your dream. If it were my dream. Action – what action to honor dream. Bumper Sticker. So I came up with this mnemonic device: Two Ducks Suddenly Quack 3 Times; Four Red Cavorting Kangaroos Ingest A Banana Split. It’s quirky enough to remember and highlights all the key DreamSharing steps. Yippee. If you use it with your friends a few times, it’ll become as embedded and automatic as a mnemonic device should, & you’ll start doing the Lightning DreamSharing out there with more confidence. I put the mnemonic device on my dream card handout so I wouldn’t have to write it down for folks whom I accost in the supermarket line.  

 

Dlareme .. jeweled planet

ShaSha Man smiled at Dan Gero. On the Galactic Council, they were both not-so-secret devotees of dear Dlareme, the jeweled third planet in a minor solar system. In spite of all the evident blaring glaring reasons the bipeds had failed as a biomental experiment, ShaSha and Dan Gero were always murmuring sweet somethings into the ear of this Councilor and that in order to stay the Black Hole Cleansing for another year, another decade. ‘We have projects that are becoming fruitful,’ they would soothingly assure Black Beak from Dnimtirips, Polipo the Octopoid from Inchiosto, and most importantly Tortuga, the Great Tortoise who was the chief-among-equals philosopher queen from Antares. With torture, war, and grotesque poverty next to obscene gloating midas accumulation, the Galactic Council was on a hair-trigger of impatience to clean-up ‘that benighted toxic backwater planet in the Sol system.’

   ShaSha and Dan Gero had worked tirelessly to delay the dreaded Black Hole Edict. “We’ll meet with Tortuga for some Lugavulin tomorrow evening,” said ShaSha. “I’ll show her this report from Velv and she’ll believe that we aren’t just fumaring again. She’ll see that there are Dlareme dreamers actually acting, not just lying around like spongeoid spectators.”

  Dan Gero said, “We should be able to get her to table the Edict for two months. The idea of losing Lugavulin and Mexican food has always been our trump card, but the Council might just download the codes for those and scrub the planet in a fit of galactic pique. Hard to blame them.

  “By the way, I still am on for that mozartian megahertz pulse of photonic energy into the Dlareme grid on May 27, 2006. We’ll give’em a nice jolt of quetzal energy to promote the waking lively alliance between our bioElans bipeds and the Mineral Queendom. All the jewels in the planet will ignite. For the alert, it’ll be like fireworks of emerald song under their feet. I had to escroq Black Beak to get her to let me tune the Arbol Hub Pulsar to Dlareme one more time. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Only for old pal’s sake, Dan Gero. We have lavished that damned planet with everything from giraffes to avocados to daffodils to zephyrs and they’re still largely a ratminded herd of billions of ingrates. Chile verde burritos, for galax’s sake! What more do they want? If it weren’t for our ever so pleasant fling back when the stars were young, Dan Gero, I wouldn’t waste a megalerg on these whinging beasts of whom you’re so unaccountably fond.’

  “So ShaSha, we have a stay, a respite, but our Dlareme Dreamers need to start talking to apparent strangers in order to seed the Dream Game far and wide. Wake up. Speak up. Somersault. The Dream’s afoot.”

 

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Fort Mason Gate Glossary

for words not defined in the text.

Dlareme .. the galactic name for the planet Earth.

escroq – a cross between to con and to cajole, from the French escroquer, con, swindle.

K1 .. the Dlareme ‘masterpiece of reality engineering’ signature is the persistence of the kinesthetic notated as K1.

muchasD .. the many dimensions usually ignored by standard physics, even quantum. We experience them, but standard science disdains them as evidence worthy. Muchas means many in Spanish.

Universe in a grain of sand .. from William Blake.

Pacific/wild surmise .. from Keats. He said Cortez, but meant Balboa.

Calder Desert .. A tip of the sombrero to my darling Alexander ‘Sandy’ Calder who managed to be a great artist and a funny decent guy. His mobiles look like Miro in 3D.

prometheus .. Prometheus stole fire from the gods to give it to mankind – for which he got his ever-renewing liver devoured daily by Zeus’ ravenous eagle. As an entirely unrelated side note while we’re on livers, it was the liver which was the seat of affections in the Middle Ages, not that mere old pump, the heart. I always chuckle at the Valentine’s Day cards with their faux organ of love. Now, “I lost my liver over you, my darling” has got a visceral ring.

Darth Dick .. Mr. Cheney, the Deeply and Dangerously Deluded.

midas .. Midas is the symbol of pathological wealth past any usefulness.   

Fat E .. is Fate. She writes the scripts for persons & worlds, sometimes drunkenly.

xanadu .. from Coleridge “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/A stately pleasure-dome decree:
/Where Alph, the sacred river, ran/Through caverns measureless to man/Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground/With walls and towers were girdled round:/And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,/Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;/And here were forests ancient as the hills,/Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. … /But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted/Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! /A savage place! as holy and enchanted/As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted/By woman wailing for her demon-lover!”

bylar .. from Spanish to dance;

oneiroglyphs .. cf hieroglyphs. Oneiro means dream in Greek and oneiroglphs are dreams, are a hololanguage (including your daylife) through which you walk. You are immersed in meaning and synchronicity – you can ‘read’ it like a full-body braille.

multiverse .. multi-verse/many-poem place. Probably my favorite phrase I’ve coined. As some people might speak to ‘God,’ I chat up many-poem who gives me a myriad of multi-dimensional poems to wander around, to braille in.

deftly intent .. another favorite phrase. It refers to an attention which can be always maintained – not quite effortless, just the amount of energy that a butterfly expends to keep from crashing into a flower it’s about to land upon.

geode .. geodes are these totally plain looking rocks which when they’re cracked open sort of like a big egg, reveal fabulous crystals, often amethyst, attached to their inside walls. Very thrilling to see a geode.

chiaroscuro .. the interplay, the intercontest of light and of dark.

putative .. supposed.

fumaring .. to blow smoke; fumar is to smoke in Spanish.

everyanything .. a word-phrase of ee cummings.

bioElan .. a galactic phrase for the mobile meat-embedded consciousness featured on Dlareme. Elan vital (ay-lawn vee-tahl, the ‘ay’ as in hay) is Henri Bergson’s phrase for the vital and delightful energy which keeps us bipeds humming and abun-dancing, which is why sullenness, dullenness, sulking, and self-pity so suck.

rivendell .. like Lothlorien, one of the few magic respites for the Fellowship on their journey to Mordor. A place for deep heart rest and restoration.

joyas .. jewels in Spanish; jeweled joy.

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 Thanks again to Robert Moss and all the Fort Mason Gate Dreamers – most especially for the nudge & the tools to get out on the street talking up Lucid, Active Dreaming hand in dancing hand with Lucid Waking as the joyas road to peace.

 

Cheers,

pogblog

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7 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 32 . 03.21.06 tues

ffwofw715§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;  

..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Satan, Satana, & the Christian Circle of Hell

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Satan, Satana, & the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Christian Circle of Hell  

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   Satan & Satana surveyed the special Circle of Hell reserved for Christians. Yes, all of them, every last one. The blatant hypocrites fell down the Gone to Hell Chute, but the ones who didn’t shriek out against the insidiously vicious hypocrisies became Hell Dwellers as well.

   Satana sighed. “All religions enslave and enslaver the mind, the heart,” she said as she nuzzled Satan’s red, leathery ear, “but seeing as we get the refuse from all over the Dimension, I’m still agogagog at how poisonous the faux-holy Christians became after they made their cursed pact with Power.”

   Christians are so virulent and fetid that they actually have to be separated from the rest of Hell’s Dwellers – because an eternity of conscious torment is one thing, but an eternity with Christians is cruel & unusual punishment for even the zealously villainous of other stripes.

   Nothing, and we mean nothing, is more annoying and hellworthy than pious drips who hector you with their petty and oleaginous moralities. This nasty pox of a bilious religion doesn’t even have a lively story to bribe you into pretending to heed its creed. It would have been toxic enough to let them stew in their own juices. And making them re-eat their own vomit was their daily, well, bread. But it was Satana who struck upon the genius notion of piping in the secret flatulences from the boudoirs of America.

   Americans were so overfed in a starving world that their secret outgassing production could have cut their fossil fuel consumption in half if they could just be taught to outgas into special collection canisters. Breaking-wind alternative-fuel could outdistance the hilltop windfarms by far.

   Hell with its advanced vapor technologies had no trouble whatever collecting these chartreuse bubbles of stench gassed off in private by the prim suburban masses across America. The belchings were left to Heaven.

   No one in the Christian Circles of Hell was allowed to get a cold.

   Why were Christians so worse? They ranged from ferocious and quite ceaseless conviction that they had the Exclusive True Word to a passive belligerence that quite quelled Mirth. All the monotheisms were staggeringly humorless. The Bible and the Koran were not vaudevillian tracts.

   It was Satana who instituted the program whereby innocent folks who had been bludgeoned & beleaguered by Christian faux pieties and authentic hypocrisies could donate flatulence to further the stench spectrum of torment inflicted upon the dead Christians, a sect who had allowed, when not promoting, tax cuts to the fatter-than-camels gigagreedy HaveMosts. This Flatulence Bank was very popular. Bean futures rose. If God could have been bothered, he would have beat off and sent a perpetual rain of bitter seed down upon these overweening whiners who allowed people to be poor while the war machines were gloatingly, bloatingly fed and polished. Each war machine had a phalanx of servants while the poor had crusts. It was damnable. And, indeed, it turned out to be so.

   There wasn’t enough standing that could be blown up, so vast were the warehouses of bullets and bombs. Yet the Christians all sang the Star Spangled Banner, Hosanna, and said Amen to the rocket’s red glare. They did(patronizingly)pray for the poor, as if the poor could eat prayers.

  They would not give the poor food, shelter, medicine, or education except the most meager, but they did give them loaves-and-fishes amounts of fear with sides of trepidation.

   There were two things in America that no one dared speak against: virulent Christian hypocrisy and the $820,000 per minute Military Budget. Hell got them and treated them as they had earned, but it would have been twice as nice if the AboveGrounds had woken up and spoken up. Christian kebabs in Hell didn’t make up for the deluges of humorless pieties (a tautology) and pitiless worship of warships and of explosives in phallic shipping containers.

   Satana shrugged and ughed and stamped her cloven hoof. “Hell is failing to roast these people hot enough, pitchfork these people piercingly enough, vapor these people stenchily enough. We simply have insufficient retribution devices and schemes to make them pay enough. Eternity is too short.”

  Satan gave Satana's pointed tail a tender tug and patted her consolingly on her red rump.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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9 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 242  01.30.06 mon

ffwofw715§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Gigaphysics: Dark Matter, Ed Witten, & Being More Rotten to Prez Bush

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Gigaphysics:

Dark Matter, Ed Witten, & Being More Rotten to Prez Bush

 

It all fits in the spinning holo-jigsaw puzzle.

 

Chancelucky asked if there was an alternate reality where instead of being kinder & gentler to BushCo Ilk like I was in two recent ‘dreams’ reported on pogblog, I was actually meaner than I am in our solid-ish DayLand k1?

 

I reply:

 

There is now!

 

The advantage (?) of eternity/infinity is that there's room for whole complex alternate realities and blizzards of fragmentary ones & etc.

 

Now that you mention this ghoulishly sensible idea, presto! vrai est vrai, real is true.

 

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So, let’s jonglez about some of the elements here.  

 

Here’s my letter to physicist Ed Witten re dark matter which will add to our shared vocabulary on the spherical spectrum of realities we inhabit. Holo-mauve. Holo-chartreuse. Holo-scarlet. Astwere. 

 

Dear Mr. Witten,

 

   We’ve been traveling parallel on the opposite sides of the same brane I think. Probably time to say hello. Hello.

    My magikmystery observations have been rigorous if not under the Repeatable Umbrella – which leaves out a lot of the e=mc∞ expanded truth.

   Anyhow, I made a vow when I was 7 years old studying Jung and Freud and Plato et ilk with my Princeton-graduate stepfather, John Porter. When I was 7, I was an epistemologist first, then a metaphysician. I vowed to stay alert – deftly intent – and not to discount any experience per se.

   I’ve measured and intently considered between lucid waking and lucid dreaming for the next 54 years – like a hawk above, like a mole below – watching, digging. My recent obsession has been to find the missing 90%.

   Well, of course it isn’t missing – only Science’s wrong-end of the telescope view isn’t designed to grok it. In the most simplistic way, let’s say that all of the alternate-density experiences we all have add up.

    I call this standard-shared day stuff : k1 or the primary kinesthetic, the sturdy persistent kinesthetic of Kick-the-Boulder-&-Ouch. The persistent kinesthetic, k1, is where you can repeat stuff. Because it’s persistent – ipso facto. But most of our undeniable but unrepeatable experience isn’t persistent. The physics are different which is why you all run into all this weirdness when you correctly and diligently try to account for every thing.

    Many ‘dreams’ that I’m in are as real as this one. That ‘dream stuff’ has mass. (Forgive me upfront if I mis-use your inside terms – you can fix me later.) I would say ‘dream stuff’ is an existant. If you add up all the more diaphanous but not less real, existant stuff, there’s so much of it, that you get your missing 90%. Awkwardly — because its rules are more quixotic, exotic, even erotic. I write until my fingers bleed about all this exotic physics and ethics under the rubric of photonic theory or gigaphysics — which I see as what follows quantum theory.

   My perception of beauty, say, exists. It doesn’t ‘weigh’ much but it has an impact, and in photonics it does have weight. My cat can perceive my attention and lack thereof as some kind of ‘thing.’ When I scratch the back of the couch trying to get her to attack my hand which I will pull away and I will win the game, she waits and waits, eyes wide, until my attention wavers and then boom she hits my hand and she wins – my hand is lunch. Perceiving attention as a thing and then perceiving its wavering would clearly be fabulously useful to a predator. Now that I’ve learned the trick, I can send my amoebic attention out like a pseudopod and touch things with it – it’s not unlike holo-braille.

    I think string theory or tube theory is very interesting. I think for you all to get where you want to go, you’re going to have to bite some heretical bullets. Repeatability is a crock anyhow. Things Science is permitted to putter with are pretty darned similar – good enough for practical purposes, but not truly identical.(Borges’ character Funes was offended or, better, baffled when people called the dog sleeping in the road at 2:14 in the afternoon the same name as that dog at 2:15 in the afternoon. One can only stand in the eye of that hurricane of perception; luckily the universe seldom blinks.) 

    I grew up in a very intellectually rigorous household. I never planned on having the universe, the multi-verse which I call the many-poem-place take me on such disconcerting adventures in realities. But the 7-yr-old made the promise that I have to keep about staying alert and un-prejudiced.

    Anyhow, I’d love to chat sometime about the Identified Missing 90%.

   I’m sure a lot of your colleagues are too staid. A lot of people on my side of the brane are simply wacko. For us to do trade, you & me, to have emissary visits and have you eat the native food, I’ll try to keep the worst and daffiest loonlands outside the compound as it were. I am more or less capable of rationality on demand. I’ve gone native because it’s where the wild animals are, so to speak. Who would have actually believed in crocodiles and tigers until they were actually seen by ‘reliable Europeans’?

 

Anon,

pogblog

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So, our thoughts, fantasies, & all other perceptions including memories and memories of memories & so4th careen around the multiverse invisible to most folks in this k1 dimension. These exotic existants ‘weigh’ lots less than any feather, but there are so many of them, they add up. Cf that 'one grain of sand' ain’t much (except to me 'n Blake), but a lot of these nano-boulders is a beach – stuff adds up.

 

I had never thought of being yet meaner to BushCo Ilk. I have been an Irony Extremist, but not simply meaner. As we can grok above, there’s plenty of Room if I want to add that reality. Maybe I can do a High Noon showdown with our Executive Pipsqueak? Or put him through the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Fargo leaf chopper & feed the mince of him to the poor dying frogs – amphibian instant kyoto karma?

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jonglez = juggle;

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

6 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 227  01.14.06 sat 

ffwofw1009§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g; 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Complete Consciousness Education & Evil

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Complete Consciousness Education & Evil

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

Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock Tick tock = that little exercise just cost your children $820,000 per minute for the Military Budget + an extra $200,000 per minute for Iraq.

 

We are able to deny or bizarrely overlook this abzurd and obscene waste of our national resources for destruction and against construction because we are not serious in our grokking or deep comprehension of  our consciousnesses. We are namby-pampy, prissy, tut-tutty, norman-rockwelly about the violence and lusts we all covertly encompass so these forces get projected into the dear solid day world where they do physical harm, not just mental titillation or mental harm. We need CCE in this country – Complete Consciousness Education. The following fable is one step toward The Unveiling of our wider consciousness.    

 

Evil Ain’t Always Bad    

 

    “This is a subject so difficult to talk about that my throat constricts as the words rise into the air. I who have lived with this knowledge for 23 years can hardly breathe to speak. Yes, I have come to tell you that what is evil ain’t always bad.” Belle Z. Babe spoke at the Tribunal as the lidless eyes of the Judges bore their fear, distaste, and fury like crossbows into her heart.

    At once, in the dappled inner glade which was her refuge, Belle Z. turned ruefully to Oak, her friend with the bright dark amber eyes. Like herself, Oak was of the ancient druid line of star-seed who loved the home planet Earth with concentration and glee, diligence, devotion, and somersault joy. The druids knew there was more than one time line, a fact they playfully and reverently portrayed in their intricate and passionate Celtic knots. Lightning is a druid sign because druids zigzag between times.

     While one thread of her experience had Belle Z. in a leg chain before a galactic Tribunal, in another co-chronos thread, in her glade, Oak put the back of his fingers to her cheek and suspended time with her.  It was this ability to dwell in parallel and mobius time lines that gave those of druid blood their air of mystery to the single-sighted. Oak’s eyes were that dark amber struck by a shaft of sun. Not too far hidden under the surface of those lion’s eyes was merriment, mischief, and a daunting ability to concentrate. Oak shrugged, “We knew they weren’t going to like the wider truth being brought into the day light. Stay brave, Belle Z.”

     Back in the Tribunal, with no more apparent time dislocation than a heartbeat, Belle Z.Babe continued. “You didn’t like what Galileo told you either. The transition to an openly multi-dimensional consciousness is going to be rocky, but the costs of living a lie are too tremendous.

    “In the most simplistic terms, 'what is good' in our Earth density of experience is not the same as 'what is good' in our less-dense ethereal realms of experience.

   “Thus 'evil' ain’t always bad. Most true evil comes from confusing the layers of consequence between dimensions of experience.”

     Monger, the grim judge, sneered at Belle Z., “If you let this evil knowledge out of the bottle, Mz. Z.Babe, you cannot contain it. We have kept the multi-dimensional truth from people because they are not ready for it. The danger is too great.”

    Belle Z.Babe shrugged one shoulder, “Monger, I have thought most of my lifetime about that —. It is a staggering concern. But I am convinced now that we must dare the whole truth.

    “If what is evil earthside in DayLand is not necessarily evil in the ethereal realms, we must learn and teach 'how to act fittingly.' How to act in a way that 'fits' the realm of experience we presently dwell in.

     “Imagine for a moment that you and I meet in a dream and you murder me. In the land of dreams, in Otherland, murder could be a 'gotcha' game you and I play. Or it could be symbolic between us of some rotten feelings. But because in the less-dense or ethereal realms where we inhabit dreams and other differently-consequential experiences, we pop right back up, the consequential meaning of murder is different. Therefore the ethics is different.

      “In our beloved earth/solid, relatively sequential-time realm, the consequences of war and pillage, rape, death, gigagreed, and promiscuity are all awful to our sturdy hearts. Yet simultaneously we dwell in levels of experience where such things have little more consequence than our actually being a character in a book we’re reading.”

     Belle Z.Babe looked at Monger’s pale ice-grey eyes directly with her green Celtic eyes and continued, “The kinesthetic intensity and time-duration intensity of Earth experience, as well as the depth and durance of emotions make consequence and responsibility different than in the diaphanous, more plastic realms where experience manifests at the speed of thought.

      “Here in this material masterpiece we have to collaborate with the nature of a stuff which has its own integrity and sturdiness.

     “Our behavior must be appropriate, must fit the space, the place wherein we immediately dwell. We cannot bring dream behavior into the solid day. This mis-taking of realms, this leeching of lusts and power struggles and emotional chaos into the consequential Earth is the source of most crime, legal and emotional. By staying primly and sentimentally blind to our multi-level experience, we avoid the complicated responsibility for our whole behavior.”

      In the glade, Oak grinned at Belle Z and said, “The constant aesthetic and ethical many-layered decisions that we hope are increasingly elegant and compelling finally make use of the 90% of that ultimate holographic and multi-D organic Celtic knot, the human brain, which has lain mostly fallow for all these centuries.

     “Of course it’s complicated and terrifying to juggle several time lines and densities in a clear, sound consciousness at once , but it’s complicated and terrifying now — and based on a wrong premise, a false foundation.

     “We must dare to trust the whole truth, to dream well and live fittingly at once.”

      “Deft and apt,” Belle Z.Babe agreed.

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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7 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzolkin 202  12.20.05 tues

ffwofw x§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1168

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Boomerang Death – the End Of War

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Boomerang Death – the End Of War

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When we grok our ultra-infra existence as well as our earth-G density, with our enhanced sensibilities, we will recoil from war-killing (our new & rationalized version of human sacrifice — we just do it better these days) as if our own weapon boomeranged and shot, exploded, napalmed, phosphoroused, slashed, stabbed, slaughtered, mutilated our very own flesh and splintering bones. We will recoil and we will refrain. We will shrink back from bloodthirst.

 

Our ultra-infra existence is that part of the spectrum of our experience usually and casually referred to as dreams, imagination, fantasy – all of which powerfully move us under the radar of our consciousness for the most part. Some of us can grok or semi-grok these inner weather systems, but most people’s  inner meteorology sweeps them with weather tides of emotion, and is not amenable to shamanic cajoling. How many are just along for the ride really while proclaiming Utter Certainty that God whispers sweet nothings exclusively into their shell-like?

 

This blindness to our wholer selves allows us to perpetrate these earth-G atrocities under one mad lemming banner or another – religion, patriotism, morality, family, tribe, nation. The simple test is whether you kill or by proxy allow to be killed another human being.

 

If you are a killer, you are a moron or a monster depending on the degree of consciousness you wield.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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3 <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 198  12.16.05  fri

ffwofw 228§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1162

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

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  Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts

 

   “Spirit, mind, heart — this is the trinity that people seek to comprehend, to tend, to organize. Then their life will be sweet, will be serene, will be complete.

   ” Why is this not so?” Because of what no one can bear to attend to. Because of what seems ‘beneath us’ as civilized persons.
   “Viscera. We ignore or disdain viscera to our implacable, even ferocious danger.
   “By ‘viscera’ I mean ‘the guts.’ All the gluck under the heart. Forfend that our highfalutin' philosophy discuss intestines. We are too fine. We are evolved. We have a big brain, a Big Brain. We cherish our heart, we polish our soul.

   “Yeats speaks to the neglected viscera when he says that 'we end where all ladders start, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.' I would suggest that he meant the viscera here, the ‘basement’ of the heart. But ‘viscera’ doesn't fit the irresistible rhyme of his lines.

   “Tonight I come to laud viscera — where 'ladders start.' I suggest that unless we educate and placate viscera, we will only pretend to be civilized.”

   Risma smiled at the fashionably arrayed intestines seated before her in the Laugh Institute's lecture hall. The Laugh Institute had busts and statues of her heros in alcoves around the room. Rowan Atkinson, John Cleese, Dame Edna, Patricia Routledge. Risma had always said that she didn't quite trust the Christian Bible because it didn't have enough jokes in it. Risma smiled warmly at the audience and allowed herself an invisible shrug because in spite of the sartorial efforts of the humans she perused, none of them was as elegantly dressed a bag of guts as her perfect, silver Burmese cat companion, Frolic.

   “We want to be generous, kind, patient, even holy. These are not the top four words on Viscera's agenda.

   “In probably the dumbest and most dangerous move in human history, Christianity decided to divide the elemental forces into God and the Devil. Holy moly, what grotesque havoc and hypocrisy that has wrecked upon the hapless world.

   “Twenty centuries have been spent damning viscera instead of educating it.

   “Viscera cannot be defeated anymore than air can be defeated or water can be defeated.”

   Risma smiled, “Once I walked down a long wide hall in the old San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There were modern art paintings hung all along this wall. I noticed as I moved from painting to painting, my first response was what I began to understand as purely visceral.

   “I liked this painting. I didn't like that painting. I found myself nodding or shaking my head, making in my gut a mute, immediate, pre-verbal meeting with the painting. I could then go on to speak in heart, mind, or spirit terms why I liked the painting.

   “We are swept away on the tide or mud slide, avalanche or forest fire of viscera because in the aeons before words, viscera ruled our survival.

   “In the beginning wasn't the word. The word came very late. The viscera can still make a fool or monster of any of us.

   “Let's take a moment here to uproot a poisonous myth. We are typically taught that spirit is ‘finer’ than matter. That matter is coarse. That matter imprisons spirit.

   “We see tomes of charts which show spirit at the top of a line, and mind and heart below. Of course, few mention the viscera whatever.

   “A more useful, and truer, diagram would show a horizontal line with spirit at the left and then mind, heart, viscera.

 

 ♦ spirit  mind  heart  viscera ♦ 

 

With this horizontal template, we can begin to deal in our actual experience. God and Devil are not separated — as there can be no metaphysical separation. Now we begin to deal in truth, however awkward or even embarrassing.

   “If we only honor the eviscerated God, we end up with horrific spasms like World War II where the most intellectually advanced people, the Germans, fell into the grip of a visceral force they could not deny. They had training in the mind and spirit, but the non-linear, tricky and mischievous (at best), bloodthirsty and bestial (at worst) Visceral Forces overwhelmed their puny rational defenses and drowned us all in an orgy of devastation before those forces were sated.

   “These horrible collective devastations pale, to me, before the dread secret personal harm we, in visceral throes, daily wield upon those most precious to us.

   “Viscera fuels both wonder and terror. And in so far as you do not fill your life with wonder, both petty and enormous terrors will leech or lurch into the vacuum.

   “In my studies, I can say that viscera is willing to fuel wonder rather than terror, but it will burn.”

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postscript .. I call this fable Viscera .. the Obsidian Arts because we need to study these forces and patterns without prejudice. It is true that there are temptations to too much of this dark elixir, but too much of the thin abstinences of the spirit can lead to a spiritual anorexia which is disdainful of a fatter, a jollier ebullience — as if primness and grimness were more holy.

 

I use 'Obsidian Art' rather than Black Arts because Obsidian is the onyxiest black and doesn't have the historical baggage of the satanic studies. Obsidian is about the next quantum of humor, not about the study of hurt. Hurt already has its addicts. One of their favorite phrases is 'collateral damage' — as if such a thing were conceivable.

 

I'm convinced we can educate viscera to obsidian art — brutal art even. Art doesn't kill anybody. When we grok that difference, we might be out of the LithoDumbness Age. Viscera can be enticed to prefer very dark wit to physical pain, but you can't namby-pamby it up or it'll just jump the levee. And I think you're going to have to ante up more lust than your public probity has hitherto been willing to embrace. You have a choice: dead &/or mutilated people or obsidian humor, art, & lust. Until we are fiercely honest about this stuff, I hope you enjoy Taps.     

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

5 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 187  12.05.05 mon 

ffwofw 789§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1151

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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   Psychic Forensics pursues crime with tools unavailable in 2005. The ability to use these tools through warp-rinths mapped through the Akashic Record didn’t get discovered til 2211 by Myrth, part of the S. Finley Breese Morse communications-inventions bloodline.

   Before we begin our story about the horrific discoveries about Karl Rove’s diseased brain using Psychic Forensics, let’s clear up some lingo for you.

    The Akashic Record is that indelible record (or imprint really) of experience upon the all-senses papyrus of the multiverse. It’s all there in infinity for those who can read it. Your cat can’t read a book, but that doesn’t mean that a mammal (you) with a different skill set can’t decode a myriad of information distilled in those squiggles.

    There is no thought, no envy, no patience that can be forged (faked) or forgotten. The multiverse is an incomprehensibly gigantic information system. You are embedded in the multiverse – it’s not like you can step out of it, have a rotten thought or action and step back in — in disguise by deceit. Yes, it is all recorded. A sobering thought.

   Anyhow, Myrth was into maps. Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s.

    A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces.

     Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell.

   Myrth and Quetzal were time-riders and psychic detectives. They returned through a warp portal to confer with pogblog, an early 21st century bloggelist.

    When you deal in nanotime (later called luzime or light-time), it’s a question of angles, not of distance. It’s very origami, very folded. It’s all potentially immediate.

    Karl Rove was a very nasty piece of work. He derailed planet progress, equality, and happiness, and added to the sum of human misery as much as any sick villain who ever trod the dear earth.

        Psychic forensics examines crime with a psy-ray. A psy-ray is like an x-ray in that it reveals interior things. It just reveals mental/psychic realities (shapes, forms, sequences) rather than bones and tissues. All a matter of tuning frequencies – and what isn’t?

    Instead of wanting to tenderly and effectively do good, somehow there came to pass a group of greedy and empty people who wanted to aggrandize and rule.

    The question in 2211 was no longer how to psy-ray a deviant psyche, but rather how to translate the forensic info back into the less holospheric 2006 brains.

   Karl Rove stank. His diseased mind fed on misery, on the pus of fear. Pain, especially humiliation, tasted good to his herzgeist, the spirit of his cold heart. Deep in his dna, he was not a mammal. He was cold-blooded. The only way he could feel warm was to drink the blood of the mammal – of the kind, the tending, the care-full.

    In addition to being inherently cold, he shared dna with a long bleak line of cold creatures which were anti-empaths. They invented the rack and burning people alive. They rose in the Dark Ages in the Inquisition, justified their atrocities in the Name of God and of protecting the world from sin and sinners. That strain of cunning and sickness went recessive in the dna until it exploded back on the scene in about 1950 in a batch of killers born on Earth in those years. Karl Rove’s birthday was <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />12/25/50 – an anti-christ indeed – in deed.

    Karl Rove likes to humiliate people. He so resented not being the romantic lead, the handsome swaggerer, that he is making the planet pay. The reason madmen often come to power is that they have no doubts. Sane people have doubts. It is very hard to avoid being swayed by coherence (cf a laser) – it is simply a stronger signal. The form is strong. People are convinced by the form, the conviction – amplified by mob effects. It takes serious discipline to see that the completely convincing form may be a vial of poison – what it contains may be evil. (What do you do anyhow if you look behind the curtain and see the maggot-writhing corpse of Dick Cheney pulling the levers? The potent hallucinations of patriotism and religions are certainly more apparently comforting that the bizarre and terrible and lonely truths.)

    Karl Rove is psychotic. “But he doesn’t look psychotic,” you cry. They seldom do except in movies. The real nutcases have perfected cunning to a degree that mere fairly sane you can not conceive. Look, we all have some complex, hidden peculiarities or worse. But you’re just milling around in the wooden handle of the ice pick, vanilla in your deviance. Karl Rove is the very tip, the perfectly piercing sharp tip of the ice pick of dark and grotesquely disturbed. What is your swath of destruction? Your own peace of mind? Your family’s peace of mind perhaps? You’ve stolen from yourself, your family, and your community your fruitfulness you might have more developed if your hidden deviances hadn’t stolen so much of your better discipline.

     But Karl Rove’s swath is the planet. The creeps he’s enabled have derailed all of America’s crucial collaboration in tending the health and education of its own population. It has poisoned the international atmosphere not only Kyotoill, but in its paranoid and hysterical response to 9/11. (3000 people died. It sucks, but 485,000 people die of tobacco-related deaths every year  and there’s no comparable hysteria about that – we don’t do shock and awe on Philip Morris and invade North Carolina.)

    We were on a relative fiscal even keel in 2000. Obscene and abzurd kick-backs to the Have-Mosts capsized the fiscal ship with no lifeboats for the poor. Let them swim.

   The outer world deeds are catastrophic and your children’s children will still be paying for the Have-Mosts self-centered profligate indulgences. But the ugliness of Karl Rove’s cold soul is a genius of anti-pity stealth. He is a hungry ghost. He is a ravenous ghost. He always goes for your strength: he cuts your balls off. The thing you honor in yourself; the thing you did that was good. That’s what he twists and pisses on. And he doesn’t just twist it into a bad light – he triple twists it into a disgusting, into a shameful light. And if you retort, you are deepened into the shame. It is not ever unproveable.

    Dick Cheney is severely psychotic, which we’ll talk about another night, but Karl Rove is even more dangerous because he’s trickier. Cheney is less skilled at the façade. Karl Rove is a supreme shapeshifter. (A tragic shame that he is a wounder rather than a healer.) He never wastes effort. As with all consummate psychopaths, he can ape rationality with all but seamless conviction. (You have to have been repeatedly lied to by a professional liar like a compulsive gambler to have a glimpse at how good these people are at deceit – deceit fits them like their skin. There is nothing tentative about their deceit. They have learned that boldness works. The Big Lie works. They enjoy jerking you around – stupid, honest, ordinary you. You may be smart enough in your day job, pilgrim, but they’ve got you completely smoked in cunning.)

    People like Karl Rove who get addicted to other people’s extreme humiliation can wreck a world. You must remember that nothing is what it seems with him. Even then you’ll be conned – again. Don’t look at him and his legerdeflak – look at the consequences.

   End of preliminary KRB Autopsy Report.      

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian 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

9 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 165  11.13.05 sun

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

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Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

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

The gigantic & glorious & terrifying planetary changes of the next six years or so will be a lot more, well, fun for you if you both frantically and serenely gobble down the glamorous and nifty tricks, slick & delicate & brazen, of interweaving lucid waking & lucid dreaming, amigo, amiga.

 

In the juggling integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the octessential leitmotif epistemological or practical trick is being deftly intent. The following tidbits give you a gist of what deft grokkedly means. You can always check with pogblog’s Glossary to see what other coined words or unexpected usages mean.

 

I have linked the essays/stories/articles so you can read the rest of them as you wish. 

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from Eclectic .. muy yum

. . . really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

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from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

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

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

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

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Homo Hilariens .. obsidian humor .. we evolve at last ..

 

Flan flicked her deft to the megaloreligio she had deliberately encountered for study. Like many beings brought up by animals, Flan used her sense of smell in a symphonic spectrum that people brought up by bipeds could never fathom. It was partly why she was so smitten with Digrif who smelled of late summer grasses and salty waves splash and the bittersweet smell of their mating. Gods know that was better to swim in than the sickly sewage stench of the fear-sweat megaloreligios. 

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Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

    Great education is like putting a permanent IV in your arm renewing you with a plasma of fascination, with an ignited enthusiasm. Great education doesn’t teach you anything except how to learn, an earnest deftness of mind and heart which you can apply to the electric present. It’s splendid and lucky to be confidently curious all the time.
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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. 

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50.5% Crazy

 

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

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Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

    He had powerful benefactors, did Hector FerdeLance whose knowledge of subtle neurotoxins became legendary in rumor. He played the stringed zambal, attended the king, was a pretty, winning youth. Who was to know for sure that he wielded death so deftly? He was not employed to snuff the sparks of little lights, there were crude minions enough for that. His use was to outwit the shielding wards, those protecting woven words, that rhapsody of other kings.

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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. .. .. The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin) 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.

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the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

    Pal Ace 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. 

   From the audience Sherrard Gray said, “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, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />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.

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Church .. deftly intent

 

   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.


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 the Universe Moved or reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .

 

    I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.

     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.

     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.

….

     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.

    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.     

    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly. 

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You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.

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Vulture Culture

 

    Lord Ord became, reluctantly at first then ravenously, rapturously interested in the Behind-the-Scenes necessities that support the splendid on-stage Show. When he had invented the vulture, he had felt a deep marrow-tingling pride. There are many quirks in the solid Earth dimension. There were surprises such as the glamorous peacock’s awful cry. Lord Ord’s ugly vulture of ghastly mien could soar so sweetly that all gaped, envied. It was sufficient recompense.

    When the gods wished to soar, they became vultures, effortless, cloudstalkers. Hot sun on the top of the bold broad feathers, the rise of the ebullient air under your wide wings. If you wanted to do enormous, you did elephant, hippo, rhino, whale. If you wanted to soar, you did vulture.

    Some gods were too fastidious, too tepid of imagination to pay the gustatory price. Lord Ord’s sense of humor escaped many. Putting the galaxy’s most fabulous soaring with the galaxy’s most repulsive and rancid cuisine was a mobius twist trick that the prissier gods couldn’t follow.

    Lady Onyx, his brilliant deft partner, had also become intrigued by the design of the Odd. Her tour de force had been spiders. The challenge had been to devise a vertigo-less creature whose webs were art and worked as well.

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Rove, Cheney, and their Slithery Ilk

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Karl, Dick, & their Slithery Ilk

 

mon cahbahj,

 

    I hate it when you’re out of the country in particularly trying times. It's about <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />2:29 pst & I'm on tenter hooks. Do I dare to go to sleep after eating a peach? Suppose I don't check CNN every hour & Karlsputin gets indicted & I didn't hear it live? I saw Jack Ruby shoot Oswald live after Jack Kennedy was shot down on my 19th birthday.

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

   Flayed as I was then, nothing between then and now prepared me for the brilliant seething cobra-venom menace of the malevolent guy who looks like Santa’s middle-aged nephew. The damage to our sweet future is concussive, crippling.

 

   Every centavo we spend on a weapon’s system is cheating some bright-eyed kid of a gallivanting future of invention and intense intention. There happens just now to be a helicopter flying over our town in the night for who knows what reason. It makes me think that if I were an Iraq or wherever war-torn, I would be hearing it with such breath-holding dread. Is it coming closer? Is it leaving? Will it fire on our village because Ahmed lied about our neighbor Hareth saying he was a terrorist when he’s just a barber. Ahmed hates Hareth because Zahraa married Hareth instead of him. So he lied to the police. Who needed to tell the Americans something. That wasn’t the helicopter of my death. I hear its rotors clearly further away now.  It will come again in an hour or a day even though Hareth and Zahraa have left for the South.

    I reckon there is some solace in the fact that once you see that military spending is not only abzurd, but obscenely counterproductive, you can’t unsee it. So when Karl, Dick the Dick, & their slithery ilk get it, they’ll get it. Grokwise.

   I remember standing in a hemisphere of light when I grokked it the first time. It was in the Nixon era well before Watergate. I was musing about ye owls know what. All of the rest of the landscape disappeared except the ground – so from horizon to horizon I was immersed in an opalescent white shimmer of air. I just remember how alone I was on the vast stretch of earth in every direction. I realized that war wasn’t just bad and too bad, that it was insane. This was an very rare view in those times – and frankly even today even my friends, except you, thank owls, say, ‘Oh oh, how terrible is war, except sometimes you have to . . .’. Pffft, pifflay. People don’t say, ‘Oh oh, psychosis is terrible terrible, except sometimes . . .’. Psychosis sucks period.

      In that moment, Riffie, I imagined Mr. Nixon who was the slitheriest to date — Little did we know what would come – I imagined Mr. Nixon on a couch in a shrink’s office. The shrink sat out of sight behind him. Mr. Nixon was describing designing huge weapons to fracture and mangle; and all the money poured into death and jellied gasoline to pour on little children to burn them to the bone; and bombs which shot out thousand of nails like bullets; and teaching young men to butcher shouting Kill Kill and to veneeredly feel noble about it. I saw the psychiatrist blanch and his knuckles grow white as he clutched the arm of his chair. He was sweating then, hot and cold and shuddering. Mr. Nixon was so matter-of-fact. Millions upon millions of dollars stolen from the schools and the comfort of the grandmothers and the wellbeing of the psyche of the nation. Businessmen drank blood and stored blood in the wineries of their bank blood accounts. The psychiatrist hugged himself to try to calm his convulsive shuddering as he listened to the grandiose malignant psychotic tale. He thought 'How in the world will I get this man safely to a rubber room?'

    Then the man sat abruptly up and turned and introduced him self to Dr. Flagwaver. “I’m Richard Nixon, Commander in Chief, President of the United States of America.”

    The psychiatrist felt limp with relief. The president! “Oh Sir, for just one minute there I thought you were a raving lunatic. But now that I know you really are president, it’s all OK.”

   Nixon smiled cryptically. “Well, son, he said in barely above a whisper, “if you want to get away with murder, you just need to do it on a big enough scale. It takes balls to dare it, but slaughter enough people, son, and you win, get statues, parades, and pages upon pages in the history books with your picture in front of adoring and cheering crowds. Only kill a few and you get your picture on the post office wall.”

      I remember my shock when I had that indelible vision of the psychosis of war. If it weren’t the president, it would be undeniably clinical.

    Anyhow, honeylamb, I wonder what will become of Karl, Dick the Dick, and their slithery ilk who indenture our countrymen to poverty and sign the order for weapons as if their pen didn’t write blood. How do they not hear the screams of the mutilated collateral damage at night?

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com 

11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Get Addicted

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Get Addicted!

the unicorn of addiction

 “Please get addicted. Just say yes. Please get addicted quickly. Them as have tut-tutted about your addictions were way wrong, dood and doodette. Addiction is cool stuff if you’re addicted to licking the blue sky like an ice cream cone with your eyes. Addiction is delicious if you bask in the sea of bright air like a dolphin lazing luxurious in the ocean.”

 Immersed in the topaz shimmer of twilight, some rhapsodists were gathered at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />FortItude for a potluck summer supper. Cha Racter was regaling them with tales of a whole world hooked on raw radiance. Cha was a very fat, very chic black lady whose soul was rich and baroque with intriguing decoration. She sang so sweet and compelling, your heart unfroze. “Hey, baby,” she would whisper huskily to you, “I sing the blues, the peaches, the pinks, the greens, the aquamarines. You gonna know from ‘color’ when I get done with you.” Cha was wearing a tight scarlet satin jump suit which left no doubt about the intimate geography of her mountains of flesh. “Tough to trust the thin ones, honey,” she would confide, “they can resist stuff.”

 Cha crooned on, impelled by scattered applause and appreciative laughter, “We have spent a lifetime perfecting our pernicious habits. If we could apply a modicum of that zeal and cunning to crafting positive addictions, we’d thrive, we’d soar, we’d gambol.

 “Frankly, on the face of it, the mystery is not how to get radiant, but rather how we get ensnared by the stupid blandishments of boredom, guilt, and self-pity, those life-wasters.

 “Once you have turned on the radiance, it is the essential and immutable condition of your life. You cannot deny it, cannot defy it. The ice in your soul is melted. You know the sun will rise in the pearly morning. Once you have the knack, you cannot unsee the inner light in each thing dwells, you cannot unfeel the pulse of each living thing—each existing thing. The stone, the wall, as well as the polished leaf, the glistening crow wings.

 “Go on. Swallow radiance, guzzle radiance, snort radiance, shoot up radiance. Air should sear your soul; that you can breathe, that your eyes blink should shock you with glory and raw joy. Once reverence has gotcha, once reverence is your modus operandi, once you’re hooked, you can just get on with living your life in a lively, passionate, sensible way.

 “Once you get the balance point, you cannot unride the bicycle. Once you get the balance point, you cannot unswim. Once the black squiggles coalesce, crystallize, you cannot unread.

 “There is a twofold trick to ‘seeing’ radiance. One aspect is like sending out your attention through your eyes to touch and taste all the objects you perceive ‘out there.’ Most of us do this automatically when we see an adorable kitten or a scrumptious smorgasbord. We know how to do this radiance trick. We just severely, I would say pathologically, limit the objects of our wholehearted attention, affection, and delight. If we’d find it all interesting, riveting, galvanizing, we’d be rich in radiance.

 “The other aspect of the raw joy trick is to open or widen your eyes and let more of the radiance in. Each pulsing ‘object’ and ambience emits a particular fragrance of light which we can inhale through our eyes.

 “Let’s not deny we’re addicted. Let’s proclaim we’re addicted. Then we can get all the garbage out in the open, out in the light. If we can examine how we so loyally and perfectly perform our present de-structive addiction, we realize with the stark clarity of a bolt of lightning that we already own the tools, the accomplished skills to perform con-structive addiction.

 “It may well be that some of you need a gap, a synapse of refusal of your present addiction-content in order to bring the pattern into your consciousness long enough for you to watch it and capture it for happier uses.

 “Pretend that your addiction is a unicorn, this elegant, brilliant, fabulous creature, elusive in the dappled shadows of your inner forest.

 “When you finally contrive to gently capture the unicorn, you look into her (or his) eyes, look into her eyes, those deep golden eyes and with a shift in your very molecules, you swear you will never feed this exquisite creature anything but beauty and whatever wisdom you forage for with all your whole devotion.

 “Would you feed this belovèd, blessed unicorn the poisons, the toxins of gambling, smoking, drugs, gorging, or alcohol? Would you? Could you?

 “This is not a moral issue, my darlings, it is an issue of beauty, of sanity, of well-being.

 “In ancient Chinese legend, the unicorn is the colors of the rainbow. Where her hooves fall, no blade of grass is bruised. And music is heard in the air as she passes.

 “Destructive addiction is a darkness. Constructive addiction is in light, is in a sweet song.

 “A lullaby?

 “My pal, Toby Morton whose addictions led him to the slammer asked himself how in the world he would deal with his drinking buddy, George, when they got back together after Toby gets out? I said, ‘Toby honey, it ain’t your friendship on the line, it’s your life at stake.’”

 Cha Racter continued, “Sweethearts, if Toby were lucky enough to be out here with us in this sweet free air, he would tell us that we don’t have a clue, not one clue, how deep free is, how deep beauty is. His world is heavy, metal doors and cinder blocks. Do you think that when he gets back out here in our carnival, our Mardi Gras, our Fat Tuesday, our Fat Wednesday, Fat Thursday, our Fat Days, he’s gonna soil and spoil this free, this glee with destructive addicted garbage? Or is he gonna fall to his knees and kiss the free Earth? And rise a knight of light?”

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 138  10.17.05  mon

ffwofw 1000§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1100

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………