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

the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

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the dark Heartlessness,

 the horror, the horror

in two parts       

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

with all the unquenchable spunk I can muster,

pogblog 

 

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12 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 64  08.04.05 thur

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Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

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Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets
 

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05
 

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

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

 

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

 heed it, grok it —

 

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

 

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

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Anti-Christ Nation

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The Anti-Christ Nation

appendix J, ToadSpawn, Be Gone!
   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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tDo subscribe to Harper’s Magazine. 15 bucks a year. Brilliant.
¹Bill McKibben, The Christian Paradox
¹(Just change the word ‘Zeus’ for the word ‘God’ in prayers, commandments, and on the money and see how that hubbub quiets down. Every year a different prayer, commandments, money deity by lot. Fair’s fair. All comics like me ‘n Riffie will go for Beelzebub, the buffoon’s patron. What a droll name. In Beelzebub, we trust. Thou certainly shalt not take the name of Beelzebub in vain.)
³ Reba’s Baby. Reba is Karlsputin mother’s name; cf Rosemary’s Baby. See also Karlsputin in pogblog Glossary.
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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9 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 61  08.01.05 mon
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begins today with you
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the Third Thing . .. .. Photonic Physics

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the Third Thing  .. Photonic Physics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “This punitive mentality does not lead to rehabilitation.”

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

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

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

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

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
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11 Flint . Knife tzolkin 258  05.30.05 monday
 
for Jamie Fuller, his favorite
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Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry .. Toad Spawn, Be Gone! .. Exorcize Prez. Bush .. Chapter 6

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Toad Spawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul

 

Chapter 6 .. Militant Pacifism & Cheney's Law, the National Child Mutilator Registry ..


    Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.

    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “You cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.

    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”

      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”

    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.

    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.

    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.

    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us. If you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”

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6-23-05 02:20a.pdt.us 9 Wind. Ik . Whirlwind  wedthur

ffwofw

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NOTE: Cheney's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a National Child Mutilator's Registry is the tangent off a chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/) coinage of Reagan's Law as its moniker, better in many ways but I decided not poisonously immediate enough. Chancelucky is a frequent pogblog commentator. Reagan's Law was a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.”

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Cogism .. .. Capitalism become Psychotic

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Cogism .. Capitalism become Psychotic

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! The Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul Chapter 8

 

     I've been trying to grok the horror of these Present Menaces' creed of giga-greed. One always needs the fortune-cookie phrase or word. I got it: cogism. A ‘cog’ is one of a series of identical interchangeable teeth, as on the rim of a wheel or gear.
    Some more quick vocabulary is in order. These words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. What's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean? Fascism is an unholy (tho usually holier than thou) alliance among business, military, and government. A theocracy is a government ruled by or subject to religious authority – not unlike our present mob who are swept by the winds of piety. Oligarchy — the rule of a few. Plutocracy — government of the wealthy. Yes, these words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. So what's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean?
    I was gonna call the Present Phenomenon FatHogism and remark sardonically that They don't need to get fatter, They got plenty of bacon already, the FatHoggers. Ha ha. 
    My model of, like, a Buenopia, a society that works pretty well is Europe where they invented al fresco dining and even the bus drivers and janitors get four weeks of paid vacation a year to allow for life other than as a minion or a cog. Another basic self-evident truth ought to be that each person's life is as valuable to them as any other person's is to them. This seems even tautological, but our society does not act in that sweet and evident light.
    What's happened in a peapod is that to the giga-greed corporations, those grim reapers of the harvest of our labor, to Them, we are cogs. They screw us under the fog of socially-correct, slippery platitudes; tranquilize us with cars; sports; war; malls. But we are really interchangeable; we are cogs in the profit machine. They pretend that we matter, like the Leaders pretend that the soldiers they send to slaughter matter.
   They think nothing of buying up a company, putting its assets into new company-A & its liabilities into company-B which they then put into bankruptcy. Only to find out in the small print that bankrupted Company B is the company that now has all the disappeared pensions of the retired people and the promised long-term health plans of the workers, 2/3 of whom are laid off and replaced by temp workers who are offered no benefits whatever and eat it because they're desperate for a job of any kind — or unkind. In our Cogacracy, the platinum parachutists gobble up the assets and spit out the bones of the workers.
   The profit motive has taken such an aggressive and gruesome and all but medieval turn that it chills the blood. Even in medieval times the hoggishly rich were wrung out of a few pence by Fear of Damnation — tithing was considered de rigueur if you wanted to squeeze through ye olde eye of the needle instead of through ye latest tax loophole.
   At what point does profit go past a reasonable profit so you can live comfortably and become an filthy obscene profit? At what point does an filthy obscene profit become the moral equivalent of usury? This Midas/Miser Syndrome, this horrible acquisitiveness, CEOs gorging soullessly on their gold, has become, heaven does forbid, admired widely in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America. Dear President Clinton said “Nowhere in the Bible does it allow us to exalt the rich over the poor.” Clearly not. Well, I prefer to also go to the undeniable bible (‘bible’ with a small ‘b’), the undeniable bible of the sky and the trees and the birds and the beasts. Naked we all stand in that holy light, without facades. The ditchdigger has no less strength and glory under the just stars than does a titan of industry. The titan of industry has hogged up on the backbreaking work of the ditchdigger. Dig your own damn ditches and see how you would wish to be treated, Cogist.
   I don’t mind grotesque differences in gross accumulation of cold midas gold. It just seems just that if you’re really so damn smart Mr. FatHog, you could figure out as an obvious ethical fiat how to provide healthcare for your workers and a wage that could lead to a 10th of your comfort.
   Every single elected official should be required to spend one seven-day week of each month while they are privileged to serve actually living on the minimum wage. And that same week be required to take public transportation exclusively. And no hoarding of tasty snacks to ease the week on minimum wage. No secret stash of expensive well-brewed beer. Chivas Regal would blow the budget. Compliance would be monitored in Minimum Wage Week. My friends, my dear perceptive luminous friends, how FAST – HOW FAST do you think the minimum wage would rise if the FatHogs had to live on it? How soon a gracious rise in the frequency of buses?
   We need to lash our hearts to every policy decision. We may not cogize people. (As E.B. White once said, “I’d as soon simonize my grandmother.”) We may not cogize people. The quality of mercy cannot be abridged.
   People are as afraid to speak out against obscene FatHog amounts of money in this country as they are to speak out against war. Well, I dare & you must dare too. Will you be able to face the lidless eyes of God who judges only that you were kind or unkind? God cannot blink and sees if you dwell in greed or in generosity. Cogism is not kind. It does not seek to uplift thy brother. That bum on the street corner? That is Jesus asking for a dime. It is always a test. It is Jesus to whom you are denying healthcare. It is Jesus to whom you are paying a meager minimum wage. It is Jesus to whom you are paying minimum wage so some FatHogger can have eight Hummers. Is there no place on the Richter Scale of outrage where the terror of the shaking wakes you up? Does it make you more secure to have more than 10 years worth of my annual wage in your bank accruing what? Interest? Spiritual mold?
   My capitalist friend Bill from Canada is a super-entrepreneur up there, but he pulled his business-card-sized National Health Card out of his wallet and said, “If I am sick anywhere in Canada, I can get help. You people are crazy in America. Single payer is so obvious.” It isn’t the people who are crazy in America, it is the FatHogging Cogists. It is the Cogists who imagine that there is anything right about making obscene profits on other people’s pain. There is a difference between profit and profit at any cost.
   It is not right to cut all the art and music out of schools so the mongers of fear and the mongers of giga-greed can buy more and more and more war machines. Our souls – your soul and mine – are stained by complicity in these giga-greed creeds. Our silence stains us.
   Let them roll in cake, our FatHog Cogist masters, let them stuff cake down their own throats like the foie-gras geese until their livers become swollen and fat and greasy. Let them roll in cake. But should we stuff their coffins with cake? As they, a new phantom, stand beside  their cake-stuffed coffin and look starkly back over their life, will they be glad for the bomb they bought to blow up a kid in Iraq? Will they hold content and deep in their heart the lives their free enterprise impoverished so their coffin could be stuffed with cake? There is no free enterprise. There is no free love. You must pay the peace of your heart if you do not do these things as right as you can. Be as harmless as  you can.
   It is Gandhi whose pension you stole, Mr. Free Market. The free market is costly. The free market is costly in human peace of mind. It is Martin Luther King to whom you denied healthcare, Mr. FatHog Cogist. Your giga-greed has consequences. It is not ethically neutral. God has lidless eyes. God does not blink. God does not look aside.
   There are too many Scrooges in America now. Too many accumulating and accumulating Scrooges. And too few Tiny Tims finally noticed.
   The thunder will astonish you. You will wake and your heart will break, your heart will break. You might have done right and you did not. If by your business or by your investments, you find yourself forgetting the faces and the tears of the people whose lives and whose labor are providing you your semi-annual dividends, you are become a Cogist. And if I were you, I would tremble at the judgment, at how long in hell it takes to pay off the debt you accrued in unkindness. A terrible toll will be exacted. The 10th circle of hell is not hot; it is relentless ice. To remind you. To remind you dreadfully of your cold cold cogist heart.

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3 Eagle . Men . West  tzol 55  07.26.05 tues  8783§24d8h36m59s

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled ..

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix 11

 

mon su garplum,

   Serious rabbitholeism. Finished Jon Ronson’s Men Who Stare at Goats & realize how staid I have been, Riffie. If you’re ever worried anywhere along the line that you might be mad, fret not my most dear, we’re not nuts, we’re just cute, sexy, and quaintly eccentricky.

   These folks are nuts. We aren’t even on the charts. These neonutcons & their ilk & servants have sprung every sprocket. The stuff I don’t make up, their stuff ranges between spooky and terrifying on the Sprung-Sprocket-O-Meter.

   The day began with a big banner on the top of the Frisco Chronicle (on the front page!) saying Lîzards in Your Backyard. Vrai — I swear it's true. (LIMBY). Now, that’s fun but exceedingly maybe even scarily synchronissimo since I've been writing so much lately about the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us. Late evening I mis-timed (so I thought – or was I just guided by Unknown Forces) when the new show 30 Days was on, so was surfing and landed on CSpan Beach idly at first listening to David Ray Griffin who’d written a book triple-snoringly titled 9/11 Commission, Omissions, Distortions. Mr. Griffin was a mousy-looking theologiany emeritus professor at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Claremont College I think. He could not have been less of a firebrand, axgrindy kind of guy. Dishwater is Dom Pérignon to this frayed tweed gent. Gray on gray. At first glance of listen, he was tediously and monotonily listing errors of the 9/11 Commission.

     It was only slowly that an invisible hand of disbelief and horror began to tighten the strangle around my neck and every rasping breath and every creak off in the kitchen became as distinct as of your rabbit heartbeat when you smell the tiger, see the dread glowing eyes poised three feet from paralyzed you in the forest of the night. Or — the flood of fear-water rose slowly as he spoke. I was lying in the comforting and familiar squalor of my dear couch with the wages of  professional sloth tumbled about me – half a glass of milky black-tea; an indigo blue plastic bowl streaked with traces of Ben & Jerry’s Magic Brownie Vanilla & Raspberry Swirl IceCream on the floor; another dark blue plastic bowl (these wonderful plato’s ideal-bowls are my ‘china’ set) streaked with traces of Trader Joe’s Key Lime Pie. Silver Lucy Furr and bittersweet-chocolate-colored Rowan yin-&-yangily curl together on their special cat heating pad to the left of my head on the ‘shelf’ of the couch back so I can have them as close as possible to me. The myriad artifacts of our howling hilarity yours & mine, our wry mischief happily clutter my heart. All these familiar things become more luminous as Mr. Griffin slowly turns up the darkness.

        Either Mr. Griffin is a complete lunatic or I am completely naïve. The gist follows in my translation: Those Lîzard Pustules, the neonutcons, have a megalomaniacally inflated notion of the Absolute Rightness of their Versions and Visions. They are hellbent upon the establishment of American complete Global Domination. America (by fiat of God as a subtext) is the last remaining superpower left standing. In order to weaponize space, the real goal of the otherwise Fantasy Missile Nonsense project, huge funds are needed, which the fat, happy budget surplus left by Clinton and a prosperous citizenry will never provide and permit.

   An actual neonutcon document of 1999-ish requires a “new Pearl Harbor,” a Pearl-Harbor-equivalent to mobilize the citizenry to allow the Gigantic Sucking of funds and the bestowing of Emperorhood upon the Presidency, granting the Appointed and Anointed by God clearances to do whatever they deem necessary (from war to body-cavity searches) sans consultation except with said God.

    The veneer of, the facade of democracy – well, they barely bother to maintain that any more. The populace is so bovine that the Lîzards hardly have to even pretend the trappings of democracy anymore. Even the sheeps who think the occasional non-lock-step thought don’t do anything, don’t quantum it up to write a letter to the editor, give $10 to MoveOn,  clik on michaelmoore's site and send a letter to their Congress people out there. The natives are not restless enough to disturb the slurping of mint juleps on the veranda of the new-slave-holding Lîzards who have us all in thrall, all in invisible fetters of fear and consumer-drugged apathies.

   They cruise in the juggerHummers along the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination and the occasional pogblog is roadkill and the rest of the sheeps have long since had their baaas surgically removed.

    Mr. Griffin showed point by gray point how the Demolishing of the World Trade Centers buildings was irrefutably arranged or allowed as a New Pearl Harbor by the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us Cabal.

   In order to understand how we are so deeply duped, you need to know about RaceHorse Haynes; Ralph Reed, Karlsputin Rove, and the Mechanism of the Big Lie; and how an Incredibly Smart Woman like me was taken in by a pathological gambler for 15 years.

    First, here are some of the slithery details. The maneuver that led to the inexplicably light hit on the Pentagon could never have been performed by the putative one-way pilot of Flight 77. Only deliberately planted, designed-demolition explosives could have collapsed the three buildings in New York in the manner that they fell. A Secret Service not-in-on-the-game would never have allowed the POTUS (president of the united states) to sit unprotected in a second-grade classroom for 10 minutes. How did the Secret Service know that the very well-publicized photo-op Florida school event would not be also targeted by terrorists – if they didn’t know? High officials are always instantly bundled off to undisclosed safety at the first whiff of danger – tackled if necessary. The Secret Service is in instant and complete and legal control. Unless there was a deliberate stand-down, the Pentagon is the best protected building on Earth and there is zero way that a plane gets through those myriad missiles which ring the Pentagon and the 24-hr-on alert fighters &c.

            How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fable, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced —  your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

    “On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

     So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil to the casual observer. And even Dick Cheney sounds all but irresistibly avuncular in person, so they say.

   The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like the demeanor of killer, we think we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 15 years that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. (Well, you’re not that kind of bastard, dollface . .)

   Cynicism is not the response, tho it grows daily more flypaperly tempting. Alertness is. Trust but verify.

   What worries me now is the New Pearl Harbor booster-shot. (Note that this was written on July 4, 3 days before the London bombing but I didn’t send it because I was So DamnMad at You for not grunting at my latest droll email.) Clearly their Crying Wolf and the 'We’ll be greeted as Liberators like in the streets of Paris at the end of WWII' (dubya dubya 2) – the New Streets of Paris gambit – is wearing off. You beat the Fear Drum long enough and people just learn to live with that level of Fear. It’s clear we need a booster-shot of New Pearl Harbor. Remember the Enron-summer 2001, the Shrub poll numbers are being defoliated with the agent-orange of Enron/World Com. Boom.

   I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, New-Pearl-Harbor fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.

     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight?

    Ye owls, mon prune de sucre, Mr. Griffin’s thesis was a growing chill hard to describe. I kept thinking I can’t really be hearing this not as an Something Awful joke. The chill seeped through my flesh, through my bones, into my marrow as if in the presence of something so undeniably not-mammal, not-Earth-born. On this one, I feel dropped down the rabbit-hole nothing but net.

   I bazookaed the info at the Housemate who went to his morning coffee folk who said, “You didn’t know that?”

   The amount of time the FAA and the Air Force had to react after the first plane was hugely more that the time that they have reacted 100 times a year to much less compelling alerts, not the once-in-the-last-two-years the 9/11 Commission claimed.

   Anyhow, wolfcake, there seem to be two main hypotheses still standing. I have been naïve, gullible, and ill-informed. Or Mr. Griffin is a lunatic full of crap.

   Well, they lied about the Gulf of Tonkin; they lied about the Maine; they lied about the WMD; and we should always remember what they did to Max Cleland. Max Cleland lost three limbs in Vietnam. Baby-Face Rove and Baby-Face Ralph Reed ran 200,000 Large bucks worth of tv ads with Max Cleland’s ‘mug-shot’ next to Saddam Hussein’s ‘mugshot’ – they nailed the traitor coonskin of Max Cleland to the Saddam Hussein wall and defeated him in the Georgia Senate race. They have no scruple, not one. No ethical pebble in their shoe. At least if you’re Already-Born.

   You in the juggerHummer’s path on the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination, you bug on the windshield or you roadkill, but you splat, and that’s that.

 

toujours et un jour, ami de ma vie

     o7.o4.o5  7 cane .Ben . Reed . East tzol 33 sunmon  2:34:02 a.pdt.us

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06:00:44a.pdt.us  4 Hearth . Akbal . Night . West  tzol  43  07.14.05 thur

ff 1859; 8783§24d8h36m59s

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