Category Archives: Planet Beauty

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

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

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa!

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

 

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

    Eventually, like last night?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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10 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 127  10.06.05 thu  

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Fegg .. quantum perception

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Fegg .. quantum perception

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

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

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

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

    The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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

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

 

The Blue out of which ..

(in pagan female form here)


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

 

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

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

A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

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A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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The Brown Bird of Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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An Outlaw After Midnight .. the pain of pacifism

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An Outlaw After <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midnight

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    I think of the other outlaws after midnight and what we pay and what we owe and how down and dirty is it going to get. Almost all my ties are cut now. I own nothing but rage. I have you, my darling, in my mind like an ember-coal under a dove-grey silt of ash – I have but to blow on the thought of you and the lava of you in my heart is re-revealed. But the rest, like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell, is cold or colder or coldest. Hate is not hot in the end.

    They say love solves everything. I have not noticed that to be so. It is hard to know which is more gigantic in these Present Menaces, their gigantic Greed or their gigantic Stupidity? If you know, please tell me. I long for something known.

   “Why are you an outlaw, Miss,” asked a young journalist named John Plume, who wished he dared to bear that unflinching look into the darkness of their hearts, but wanted to hear the blindness secondhand. I remember the color of strawberries. I remember the celadon color of your eyes struck with a shaft of sun, the color inside the curl of a breaking wave. I see so clearly now that the sight of their other-than-human not placable, not relenting obscene bastard midas meanness drove me blind.

      “I went blind, Mr. Plume,” I said not unkindly because he was so earnest and not bereft of hopes, even high ones – he reminded me of myself once upon a time – “I went blind, Mr. Plume at first only on Mondays and Thursdays, because the ratbreath bastards became so brazen and so gruelingly cruel and my brothers and my sisters were still bamboozled by their skillful gigantic Deceits. One day my right eye just burst into tears of blood from watching their Lies in full color on CNN. A friend of mine said, ‘Ye gods, Belle Z. Babe, your right eye is weeping tears of blood.’ I smeared my hand across my wet cheek and saw that it was so. ‘I’m not so surprised really,’ I said to him. ‘Why is your right eye not weeping tears of blood?’

   “I cannot believe that we just go to sleep at night and let day after day pile up like corpses along side the highway of history while these bastards loot and steal right out from under our noses and we do not whimper, not even like a kicked dog. Where in the hell, Obol, amigo de mi corazón, is our dignity and our sacred honor? Such sheepery and lemminghood disgust me about ourselves. They don’t even have to bestir themselves to defeat us. They must be putting saltpeter in the junk food. Are we tamed by aspartame?”

    Mr. Plume looked at me bemused. This was an hour when my fractured vision, which was like looking through shards of broken glass, had some light not only darkness. I saw him begin to see.

    After midnight us outlaws devise and revise. How do we move the Titanic an inch away from the iceberg that is looming in our sweet comrades’ dark while they don’t or refuse to know? A militant pacifist, I only get keen words in a noisy world. If you begin to see, begin to do small disobedient acts. Stealthy subversions. Our planet should be tended not plundered. I sharpen the guillotine words on our behalves.

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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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Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 118  09.27.05  tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

   

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

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

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Gwatwareg

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
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13 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 117 09.26.05 mon 
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o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;
droit de seigneur means ‘the right of the king’ & refers to the right of the king to have the wedding-night virginity of any vassal’s wife or of any slave girl any night.
après-magnetism means after-magnetism or post-magnetism;
 
In the sentence fragment above,  “…one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall,” Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan: 
. 
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
William Butler Yeats

Quantum Philosophy

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Quantum Philosophy  

  

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

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

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

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

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

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What Does Your Mind Weigh?      

    What does your mind weigh?  Do some thoughts weigh more than others? Do thoughts of hummingbirds weigh less than thoughts of Sisyphus' damn boulder? Where's the Periodic Table from Imagining a Slow Dance With You to Planning  French Toast to Obsidian Humor? This stuff is anti-entropic. 
    I can't wait for the extra-physics to be contemplated, pursued with the lithe zeal that we had with Fig and other adventurers in K1 physics. (K1 is the full K or reliable kinesthetic solidity we generally experience in our Day Life. The sturdy persistence of K is the notable genius of the masterpiece of reality engineering we call Earth. Other densities and dimensions have their quirks and charms, but have less stable K.)  
    Many of the great scientists freely admit that they received their Central Insights from The Blue who pretty benignly rules  DreamLand. Yet they never grokked that different extra-physics that they traveled in and inhabited as often as the interstate highways and byways of the Day Planet. It's very curious. It’s like the odd blind spot where the optic nerve hooks up –you can be looking directly at a star at night and simply not see it unless you look slightly to the side.
    All  the rich stew of memories and alternate experiences that you have and I have are called the Collective Unconscious by Jung and the Akashic Record by others. Nothing disappears. Nothing. Yeah, contemplate that. Oh dear. Woe is we. We must end up pretty humorous and forgiving in the very long run because all of our [poetic, exquisite, petty, filthy, venomous, sweet, raunchy] flickers and twists tattoo the perfectly sensitive hide or emulsion of the multiverse who can’t forget. This is all that missing stuff right in front of their noses (or above their noses) that they can’t account for. Maybe its too scary to go “Whoa all that stuff I haven’t any control over or clue about! Gee, I’d have to start in kindergarten and here I am so smart and accomplished.
    “You mean that scrawny old kook in a loin cloth in some cave in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Tibet is actually a zillion times richer than me in the currency of the Night? And he can take it with him?”

     Until we integrate lucid waking and lucid dreaming, we will be driving our maserati minds in first gear.

    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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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know: pogblog@yahoo.com
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8 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 112  09.21.05  wed
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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

Kafka returns to lend a hand. Notes from his pals pogblog & Cara Mel:

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

One does reel at BabsToinette of Laissez-les manger le gâteau infame. I keep thinking the maze & spinning lurching besmirched kafka qualities of our time will — must (how much quease can one universe stand? — slow down, ameliorate, at least abate? But no, every day when I wake up it's beaucoup plus bizarre, mucho màs extraño, veel bizarder. Note: pinching myself doesn't help. It seems this nightmare is for real.

Naturellement, like a marble cake, the dream swirl in the nightmare confection is excruciatingly beautiful, appallingly exotic and erotic. I have had the bone-marrow sweating privilege of inhabiting the Planet at the same time as The Funniest Man Who Ever Lived (for someone with a taste for obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape) and at the same time as the Silverest Cat Who Ever Lived.

I ask myself — WHO in the Hell is the Script Writer? What grim and humorless ArchGod can keep coming up with new dizzguzzting twizts for KarlBoy to creepily perpetrate? The mind surboggles. The language lurches drunkenly. Who can keep up? The synapses are in a constant state of head-on collision shock. from pogblog

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

     ‘Dear Frankie, at first I thought I should be formal with you – the great Kafka — because of all the esteem we hold you in and the fact that I have always seen you look like something out of a coffin but upright.’

    ‘Ah, Miz Mel — or seeing as we’re being so intime, may I call you Cara?’  Seeing a moue, a small shrug and a slight wildly becoming blush, Franz continued lustily. ‘I have been mistook. I love sunbathing by and idly dogpaddling in the second great <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />river of Hades, the river Mnemosyne, indigo in the evening and turquoise at dawn.’

    ‘Oh Frankie – we thought you’d covered the silent despair, the peculiar, the creepy traps the modern Greed-Ridden World was chaining the frolicsome souls of men in. The self-inflicted conformity that we walked unwhipped back into our cages, our lionhearts dazed, our wild bright eyes glazed. That was then we thought in the often brighthearted Sixties. Now we see, now we’ll be free. No one ever imagined, I swear to you, that that, that your time was the mild, the less lethal version of the crippling disease of Greed and of Greed’s slavering handmaiden War.’

    ‘Cara Mel – you are lovely by the way – we return a few bardos or layers of K¹ closer because of the emergency. Plato’s napping but near. Rocket Socky, an original in any agora, is speaking with me this evening at your friends’ Clown School InterDimensional. What’s your greatest danger? What would you have us speak to tonight in the dreaminar?’

     ‘There’re a few. Cynicism. Apathy and its cousin Inertia. These are what I fight every day, fearing the young and the dreamers will be wounded and quail, be dimmed of eye, hidden of heart.’ 

        ‘OK, We’ll address tonight the mass inoculation by clouds. We took to heart your excellent paper on the ingenious water transport system on Earth, What better way to move vast quantities of water around than with clouds? Therefore what better way to move mass amounts of inoculations around. We plan to seed the clouds world-wide with what you might call a humor vitamin or tonic. Everyone will be refreshed with what your friend pogblog, also winsomely plump if I may say so, calls an obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape. Nothing else will get you all through this great battle with Greedor, the forces of Aggrandizement and use of people.’

    ‘Frankie, I saw a paper by Rocket Socky on the distribution of brutal humor by cloud and then river then corn then tortillas. I saw a pict of him by the way on the holonet and he was wearing a pair of bright red high-tops. I love seeing him as a 30 year-old, gallivanting around. The stupid history books were all so bonebreakingly boring. Socrates. Kafka. We thought you all were duds on the stud front, not doods with tood.’

   Kafka preened. It was fun. These new folks had élan.

   ‘I understand that you all will shortly do the more essay form of action items?’

   ‘Yeah 7/8 of the folk won’t even be conscious of the inoculations of obsidian humor. their blood will be a more dark, sweet candy apple red, but they may not grok or funes it. Most of your fellows in harmless arms are still quite linear, though warm of heart. We try to do 1/8 fractal and even that quite grammatical. Only you and Gato Gateau are cleared for the grb mad ride.’

    Have you ever done a grb, Frankie?’ Cara Mel handed him a card with grb defined on it in holobraille. He ran his fingertips over it lightly and read it outloud to her, like a spoken song.

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

‘grb .. stands for gamma ray burst – discovered in the 60s; “exotic, mysterious flashes pack the output of many galaxies into a single pulse that lasts seconds or less” – and that is exotic on any plane, cf  “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center.”  This relates to the Mayan energy-matrix calendar which pogblog honors because the path forward is holospherical not linear like the cursed Gregorian calendar and that ‘convenient’ atrocity, the metric system, may it boil in many liters of oil, which has taken measurement of distance and quantity out of poetry in one fell fell swoop. “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely miles, oh my beloved?” “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely kilometers etc.” I wasn’t trying to defend ‘good poetry,’ just the on-the-endangered-species-list poetic impulse. A poetic impulse looks not unlike a zebra. They tend to be solitary animals. They don't do herds. ‘He inched across the searing sand on his belly, a pilgrimage to an oasis, a mirage no doubt like other wet heavens.’ You can’t 'centimeter across the searing sand.' It’s a sin to kill an inch. 

   ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Frankie the Kafka. ‘Well make their first oneiro-project choosing a totem animal and doing some shapeshifting. That always lubricates the poetical and the hilarious.’

    ‘Remember to define all these terms like oneiro as dream for them. this will be a very mixed group. Some of the oneiroscouts come from cultures like the Senoi who grow up with dreaming skills and others will be from places like America where no one ever asked them even once how their dreams went last night or what did they learn or bring back in trade from the FarStars. So remember to at least put in some clues for the treasure hunt along the way.’

   ‘The first thing I’ll get Rocket Socky to do is send them to pogblog’s Glossary and the powerful Search function on the left side of her blog. They can find all the secret handshakes there. How we all hate obscurity. It’s time to tell the secrets as brazenly as possible.’

    ‘Sweet dreams, Frankie,’ said Cara Mel.

  ‘And thee, Cara, and the lovers of sweet Earth, a jewel of the Galaxy which will shine again.’

from Cara Mel

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¹ K = kinesthetic degree. Standard waking Earth is K1. Many dreams and alternate experiences have less stable K. It a genius of masterpiece Earth that it has such sturdy, persistent K.

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

………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

7 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West .  tzol 111  09.20.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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