Category Archives: Planet Beauty

Evil Ain't Always Bad

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Evil Ain’t Always Bad   

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

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

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

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

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

    “In the most simplistic terms, what is good’ in our Earth density of experience is not the same as what is good’ in our less dense ethereal realm of experience. “Thus evil’ ain’t always bad. Most true evil comes from confusing the layers of consequence between dimensions of experience.”

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

    Belle Z.Babe shrugged one shoulder, “Monger, I have thought most of my lifetime about that —. It is a staggering concern. But I am convinced now that we must dare the whole truth. “If what is evil earthside is not necessarily evil in the ethereal realms, we must learn and teach how to act fittingly.’ How to act in a way that fits’ the realm of experience we presently dwell in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

2 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 106  09.15.05 thur

ffwofw 861§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98gb/1072

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Fronds

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Fronds

   
    Stiffly folded, elegant palm fronds are the origami of our local gods, Gla and Glo. The palm trees soar eighty feet in the air on preposterous one-foot diameter bare trunks and burst into a fireworks cascade of fronds at the very top.

    Gla and Glo are tricky and somewhat slothful. Hedonists at heart. They absolutely refused the iceberg/polar bear/penguin gig when it was offered.

    “Forfend!” Gla had put the ‘d’ on the end of the word like a hammer giving the last whack to a nail. With acid sweetness she had added, “Give that ghastly gig to Pessie, the Grumpy Pussy who thinks stark white is becoming and who likes to suffer. He’ll say, ‘Frozen, bleak. Howling wind. Yum.’”

    Gla and Glo settled in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Northern California and indolently and brilliantly set about making it the gentle paradise it is. If you think stirring some dirt, water, sky, sun and presto —  palm tree is ho hum, you’re one of the bleating blind and deaf who’ve come to inhabit this swell planet in such ignorant herds.

    Into a nut the size of the end of your thumb, Gla and Glo managed to pack the holo-holo of the sky-sweeper palm tree. The holo-holo is the minute, whole sense (holo-optic, holo-audic, holo-olfact, holo-kino, holo-gusto) rendition of the tree which will emerge magically making itself out of dirt.

    Gla and Glo knew that Sol3 was going to be issued grade D, biped sentients which were agog-impaired with limited attention spans. In addition to making these benighted beasts comfortable, Gla and Glo hoped to stir sparks of grade C or even grade B sentiment from these dull Processing Units with dazzling tricks like the sky-sweeper palm.

    Among the felinoa sapiens who guard Sol3 from the malignant space vulteros who feed on the brain-dead and soul-tepid and the Republican, the sky-sweeper palm made Gla and Glo’s reputation. The palms were a splendid and impossible joke. Glo had done the preposterous soaring trunks — a glorified stalk really — which swayed dangerously in the strong local afternoon winds.

    Gla had fashioned the ecstatic spray of pleated fronds with their large stiff folded fan-shaped ‘palm’ attached to the tree’s crown by a five-foot long stiff flat stalk. Hanging from the end of each stiff fold is a languid fringe whose sensitivity is akin to whiskers for a cat.

    Decoding the merest breeze delicately, the slender frond fingers answer the gossip, the news with an ethereal melody. In the very late afternoon when the angle of the sun is just right, when the winds subside to evening zephyrs, the frond fringe flashes with crackling molten gold sparks flung with passion and abandon into the sunset air.

    The lion-drawn chariot of Day departs, gaudy, resplendent. The shadows lie like panthers stretched beside the emerald bushes. The Night Gods arch their eyebrows and spread indigo softly across the landscape. Gla and Glo, content, watch their beloved sky-sweeper palms turn to pen-and-ink silhouettes against the spangled sky, settle to slumber, and purr.’ 

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

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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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  99  09.08.05 thur

ffwofw 500§8769§24d7h47m33s1065§1894

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Fierce Schools .. Quantum Schools

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please check pogblog’s Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.

Fierce Schools .. Quantum Schools

 part 2, draft ..

(Pls see herein below if you haven’t read The Burning Child, the foundational piece for the Quantum Schools series – or read it again. I just did. We need to grok this stuff.)

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

Now, in our new Manhattan Project of Education, we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights – to each Burning Child. … Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

First let’s talk about improv for awhile. It would be the first class I’d put kids in – outta the womb into improv. Improv teaches confidence, mischief, collaboration, glee. And a way of thinking intensely more useful than the default find-fault thinking that pollutes American thought patterns. The very first rule of improv is Yes-and. “As a rare pink platypus, what do you think the next break-out discovery in nuclear physics will be?”  “Well, as a very rare and if I may be so modest as to mention it a recognized genius pink platypus, I think the next powerful discoveries in nuclear physics will be etc.”  Improv insists on the mind accepting the premise and building on it. The fruitfulness and power of this approach has to be experienced to be believed.

    Perfectly ordinary folks off the street can learn improv in three minutes. I’ve done it with amateurs for years. The reason Yes-and is so different is that you say for instance 'Let’s invest the $200,000 per minute we’re spending rubblizing <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq on superb K-College education in this country.' (See Burning Child below.)

    People default to the dialectic – for, then auto-against. Start listening and you'll notice this tedious pattern. The first thing people will list is all ad nauseum the reasons we can’t invest that kind of money in schools. Once you begin to notice this dour cast of habitual mind, you’ll chuckle as person after person does this No-but thinking. If you’d taken the opposite view, they probably would have opposed you just for the habit of it. Except for the knee-jerk tut-tut quantum-down Ain’t it offal kind of wallow in misery chat. “Can you believe all those looters in New Orleans?” “Tut tut Isn’t offal? How could they?” Hungry maybe?

     If the only truly honored investment was in the human experience on the planet – with the indelible conviction that each person’s life time is as precious to them as yours is to you, we could end up with a Buenopia – not some unachievable perfectionist Utopia, but a Buenopia – a place pretty darn good.

    I suppose it’s time to mention that I do not consider law school or doctor school or business school to be education. These are fancy trade schools and they have their place perhaps, but by education I mean what has been traditionally called a ‘liberal arts’ education. You learn how to learn, how to holo-think on the original sources from the greatest philosophers, artists, inventors, alchemists, chemists, etc.  An enchanting  interwoven program like James Burke’s Connections would be a core approach to the kaboom  fascination of intellectual history and the astonishment of being alove and alive.

    A society which makes its people Cogs in a Bottom-Line Machine is evil – literally anti-life (Live spelled backwards is evil.)

     We have so much to consider in our journey from an Asylum Planet where anyone still is loose who would call a mutilated child ‘collateral damage’ to a Frabjous Planet where every single centavo is spent on human delight and invention.

      Ah ah, don’t default to all the reasons why not. Go Yes-and. Ask yourself how many young filmmakers are killers or robbers? Connect kids with the Zone – the Zone of Creating and the most outcast they tend to be is in ghastly fashion choices. Huge weapons-scale investments in art and invention and the integration of lucid waking and lucid dreaming — and you get your end-run around the war-thirst, but more on that anon.

   Always remember as an article of fact that in Y3000, people are not – not – mutilating each other and building statues to the mutilators in the town squares anymore. We do abolish war. So we’re part of the pioneers who figure out how to get there. Cool.          

 

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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

………….<^>……………..

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

………………<^>……………..

 

please check pogblog’s Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.

 

.

The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

draft 1

 

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller

 

   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.

    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.

    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.

 

What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.

 

   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.  

   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-Dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.

    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.

   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.

    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)

   

    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in the rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.

    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

Notes:

(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.

 

We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.

 

(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 

 

(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize – so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.

 

This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.

 

………….<^>…………….

……….…….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………...

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 97

ffwofw 1161§8769§24d7h47m33s1063§1887

10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

ffwofw 472§8769§24d7h47m33s1047

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Frodoism .. How You Can Be a Hero Too

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Frodoism .. 

How You Can Be a Hero Too ..

   I was lucky enough to get a bootleg copy of Fellowship of the Ring when I was a freshman in college. Nobody had heard of it in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America. I had 12 major people die in my life before I was twenty-nine. (It got so I didn’t want to answer the phone lest it be another ‘dead call.’ The tones in those calls are all the same – the hesitation, the ‘I hate to have to tell you this,’ the furry edges around the voice, the lower register, the sotto voce, the impossible impassable silence after the sentence of death.) Well, Frodo et al  got me through a lot of Hell. When I came West in ’74  not knowing if I’d ever get back East to get any of my stuff – and I didn’t – the only thing I took with me was my hardback copy of Fellowship of the Ring.

    The reason the Lord of the Rings resonates so molecularly with me is that unlike Jesus in the bible, Frodo is not Divine, has no Big Time Nepotism, no Influential if Querulous Father, has no miracles, has only pluck and in the end, damned doggèdness. He is what the Brits call without reference to physical stature, ‘a stout fellow.’ His heart is sturdy. He presses on, regardless. There is a gallantry. Even when he departs in the End, he doesn’t rise to some Heaven, he goes to a Further Earth. This is all stuff that we could conceivably do. So our inner heroism and endurance is amplified. We are not down looking up

   And then there’s Lothlorien & Rivendell. In the gruesome struggle with orcs and other awful agents of Mordor, we come across a Lothlorien or a Rivendell where our charred hearts are mended and we get a crystal vial of elven light to hide in our bosom under the mithril tunic. We find allies who rekindle our magic.

    The thing about Frodo is that we can too against horrible odds against odious foes.

    The central bible story was done to me. I wasn’t a hero. I was a (preferably reverent) spectator.

    I think for these chilling times having an inner story like The Lord of the Rings will bring courage and solace and make us feel in our secretest heart that in whatever unknown part we are a hero even in perilous times, such as ours.

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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

………….<^>……………..

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

……………..<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 94 . 09.03.05 sat

ffwofw 1161§8769§24d7h47m33s1059§1884

 

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

The Burning Child .. .. Quantum Schools

Posted on by
2

please check pogblog’s Glossary for unfamiliar & coined words.

 

.

.

The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

draft 1

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

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller

 

   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.

    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.

    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.

 

What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.

 

   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.   

   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.

    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.

   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in  two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.

    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)

   

    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in  the  rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.

    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

Notes:

(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.

 

We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.

 

(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 

 

(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize — so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.

 

This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

ffwofw 472§8769§24d7h47m33s1047

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Heed the Hurricane

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1

 Heed the Hurricane

 

    Some driftwood & detritus washed up by Katrina, Hurricane Suprema. Hurrikan; orkaan; ouragan; uragano; huracán; furacao.

    I’m not sure how vivid a demonstration we need about the meta-requirement to quantum leap to the collaborative model from the competitive, cutthroat model. Gee, a hurricane flattens the mansion and the hut alike and leaves us naked and wind-shocked, water-shocked sitting on the rooftop.

    The re-building task is so vast, requires such massive funds and coordination – that’s it, ain’t it: Coordi Nation – that’s where we’re supposed to live.

   Of course our nation is actually bankrupt – our Notes are held by the Chinese and the Japanese and the and the &c. But we get to pretend and preen because it suits the needs of the Economic Structures as they presently exist. Like in the Cold War, MAD –this is Mutually Assured Delusion, nudge nudge, wink wink.

    How much would we like the National Guard to be back here at home doing what they were supposed to do – guard the nation, and humbly and doggedly clean up and help rebuild the pick-up sticks, the damn mess? Instead of making the punier messes that testosterone can wreck with bombs in a foreign land.

   //I ‘m so sad for the forests tonight. There will be chains saws a plenty cutting the lumber for this reconstruction and clear cutting here we come.

  //Thirty years ago I was in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Puerto Rico in a barrio on the low-lying sea short in a might storm where we were eventually evacuated from the flood. The weirdness of flood is how inexorably it rises. It complete quells and daunts the imagination because there is so nothing you can do about it and obsessively you watch the wall as the water rises – it is a slow-motion levitation.

     As a little girl I was in the legendary Hazel, a ferocious furacao who uprooted our mighty oak tree casually. I remember leaning against the wind not sort of, but actually, completely.

    I’ve been watching weather screens on tv since they invented them and I never saw anything the size of Katrina. Now that we have Undisputed Global Warming, we are going to get routine monster storms because they will have all this warm water to feed upon – to make them furious and dangerous. I think of the Red Spot on Jupiter, a giga-storm which has lasted for centuries since we could have the lens technology to see it in 1655.

   Will we have to live underground? Will we have to live in strange domed stilted dwellings that don’t resemble houses. I mean if in five years, every orkaan is the size and relentlessness of Katrina? Suppose she is the First HorseWoman of the Apocalypse?

    Whatever the sunstorms will have wrought, we will have little time for discretionary wars. Katrina may have been the Hitlera of storms, but we can’t strut Mission Accomplished with our codpiece baked-potato-enhanced like Mr. Bush so embarrassingly on the USS Abe Lincoln. She is only the first Iron Mistress who is going to flatten the shores of God’s nation.

    We know Mr. Bush will strut through the rubble with carefully selected, carefully grateful Victims fawning over his Help. We have to live through that – hopefully we can see through it. The Ultimate and repeated Photo-Op. One cringes – like at Bob Dole’s Viagra ads – please don’t, Bob. Imagining you rampaging around the Kansas mansion after Lizzy for four hours is even worse than having to think of one’s parents being procreative. The Ick & Yuck Factors rise with one’s gorge.

     We will wish we had the $200,000 per minute we’re spending in the quagsands of Iraq to bring to bear in the Good Times Town and its neighbors. The expenses to come will clearly be staggering. It would be handy to have the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars to get the flood-delivered sewage-petroleum slime off the walls of 500,000 houses.

   To Mr. Bush’s Great Joy, this wind-&-water Hell will wipe Iraq completely off the front pages. # 1880 will come and will go. To Hell with Bread & Steroid Circuses & Terrorists. We got Monster Storms to derail rebellion. And windblown anchormen are so photogenic. Halliburton & subsidiaries  will make a zillion on the clean-up and reconstruction and all will be well in the Coffers of Family Bush and Family Cheney and their Ilk.

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But those of us heeding the hurricane will requadruple our efforts toward peace and towards justice. This hurricane cloud will have a silver lining if we can sidestep fear – and press on, regardless. 

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Hector & the Abolition of War

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pls read this as slowly as you can read

 

Hector and the Abolition of War

 

“It had been startling to discover that Hector had been a psychic assassin many hundreds of years ago when sorcery was in its vigorous prime. The vassal of a great king, Hector had been young, brilliant, sly as a snake, and beloved of the volcano goddess, Erif. The lava blood of the planet’s heart was imprinted in his psychic body like the vermilion signature of the volcano goddess’ favor. Thus, in the etheric realm, Hector’s psychic black-body was slashed with veins of the violent exuberant vermilion of the incandescent lava pumped, new and shocking, from the planet’s living heart. The etheric black-body was like looking at an x-ray of someone’s soul.

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

 

“I told FerdeLance things about myself,” Gamma Ray wrote on. “If we were to play together at this Healing Game, he needed to know some things about me. Art, I told him, is perhaps to some healers an obscene intermingling of psychic bodily fluids. The acceptance of, the discovery of a different point of view than one’s own, a taking on of soul matter, the quivering naked stuff that the artist rips, aztec, from his or her own beating heart.

 

“Hector FerdeLance, the assassin, was interested in art and in the panvoyant, the what to do with yourself when assassinating vexing kings and fighting wars were no longer the way to ignite the impatient blood.

 

“In a few days more Hector spoke a truer name and his eyes turned as dark as and gleamed like obsidian when he spoke this name. ‘Vio Lence, my familiars called me, because I studied destruction,’ FerdeLance said blandly. ‘Along the way of learning what kills, I learned much of how we are alive. I have waited long to do penance, and you were the first one who might recognize that embrace of life with death, the breathless intimacy. Of course I lied to your class teachers or they would not have introduced me. It is true that I rejoiced in others’ pain. After I became vassal to the snake god king, Bothrops, and beloved of the lava goddess, Erif, I no longer lusted for the big and brutal pain my fellow warriors inflicted and endured.

 

“‘Bothrops, my king,’ he continued, ‘was so well warded by charms, by cunning, and by tall zealous guards that I was to learn more subtle arts than bursting joints and rending limbs and skinning men alive. I became the worm in the apple, the canker in the gift of sacred corn, the assassin in the summer wind. Until kings looked wide-eyed through me to see the face of Death, they never knew how I had come into their sanctuary. All their guard was girded against the marauders, the pillagers. I came to know that there is no reason enough to kill, but I was deep in blood debt by then.’

 

“Vio Lence gazed into the distant past and mused, ‘I remember the first person I ever killed mind to mind.’ He looked in the present at me and shrugged, ‘It was not casual or frequent, this phantom killing. And it was a work of art. Was it wrong? Who is to say. That is difficult to unweave. Was it evil? Yes.

“‘Because it is evil,’ Vio continued smiling, ‘you are reluctant to ask. Yet you want to know. What was it like killing a great king, from afar? With mountains and mists, rivers and corn fields between you? Well, it was a great undertaking. It was a dreadful and wonderful intimacy, all their life's lights gutter, their pictures go out like stars. That evanescent final moment when all that is alert quits.

 

“‘It is the finality, the irreversibility that daunts, haunts you. By the fifth and last king I slew, at least I knew some portion of what was lost. When I had killed by physical hacking and slashing, there was a certain bloodthirsty slaked satisfaction in surviving while they did not. In the chaos and risk, the adrenal fury singing through your veins. It was like gorging, like rape, it was a tornado screaming through the brain and blood. I howled raw like the jaguar at the moon. The amla, the spirit, the coherence, of the slaughtered would flee the butchered body in terror, cringing horror. Prince or peasant, all men die the same when they are butchered.

 

“‘It was not lovely or interesting. To kill as I did later, by stealth, by seduction, when I saw the breadth of a life, then I knew what I did. It was like walking through a pyramid-shaped tunnel, a pyramid on its side. Starting at the wide end, you saw the vast spiraling mosaic of their complex life, until you came to the narrow end where face to face at the top of the spine, you looked into the unblinking eyes of the life Snake. In the reptilian brain, their first and last light lay. It’s the place where consciousness is ignited. And quenched. The sixth king, Orez, I did not kill. I saved him instead. He knew I could have killed him, and when I did not, each picture, poem, song, from the least crumb of his all but lost life became precious, delirious to him. The great cruel king wept. I became a healer in that hour. Orez became a kind ruler, seeking to treasure his subjects’ days as his own.

 

“‘His rapture at being spared was so abundant, the great wave of it washed my soul clean of the greed for power. I was made humble by my knowledge of all the little sacred secrets, the precious and putrid moments of his intricate life. I could not but be guardian of his breath once I truly saw the exquisite radiance of even the most benighted life.’” 

 

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Hector, Psychic Assassin, my friend.  For those who grok it, this is my octessential statement for why I have resolved to devote my life to the Abolition of War, to the pro-peace world — because the psychic assassin become Healer, Hector, taught me why militant pacifism is the only choice . .. . . .. If you read this as slowly as you can read, you will funes¹ what a life is worth that you can not take it. . .. .

 

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6 Lizard . <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Kan . South . tzol 84  08.24.05 wed 

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9 Principles of Militant Pacifism

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Herein be a sensible list of Gandhi's 9 Steps to Increase Cooperation and Decrease Violence, some illuminating diatribe, and some confections about mnemonic devices.

 

please post these on your website or email them ..

 

Gandhi's 9 Steps for Teaching Peace

 

Dancing Penguins Should Have Long Nights Doing Fancy Polkas

1. (D) Define the conflict.

2. (P) It isn’t you against me .. it’s you and me against the problem .. the problem is the problem.

3. (S)  List the things we do share. Need for food, shelter, water, safety, & art, for instance. Need cats too.

4. (H) Don’t ask antagonists for the self-justifying ‘What happened?’ Ask for a factual list of ‘What did you do?’

5. (L) Practice active Listening Skills..not passive brooding sullen hearing.

6. (N) Resolve conflict in a neutral  place. Treaties are not made on the battlefield. Too toxic & hot there.

7. (D) Proceed with doable steps. Don’t try to swallow the pumpkin whole..Have a single piece of pie to start.

8. (F) Practice forgiveness skills, not vengeance skills. Go quickly to neutral..on the way to eventual forgiveness.

9. (P) Purify my heart. Purify my own heart. Easy to see stubborn flaws, lousy attitude, & blindness of others…   

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />[10. Practice active Laughing skills. Sweet sweet irony cools the melon.This is a bonus step.]  

..adapted from pp.40-41 Colman McCarthy's I’d Rather Teach Peace

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Fierce pacifism. We're talking fierce pacifism. People annoyingly label pacifists as nice; namby-pamby; passive. Flay that. All I care about is that people aren't dead or mutilated while I stand by drooling in some theo-patriotic trance. So, not dead, not mutilated. Limbs and soul and heart intact. . . . I hurt your feelings? I'm too abrasive? I uncivilly trash the false use of Jesus? Who gives a fig?  I care about your still being alive to get all huffy. . . . It's like all the puritanical hoorah about Janet Jackson's bosom when we  have  people without healthcare. You don't seem to mind your children being exposed to images of Leaders who do not fight for a living wage. I'm a fierce pacifist not because I'm lilylivered but because I can't take how immensely stupid it is to kill strangers. . . Don't tread on me. Or I'll rip out your remaining eye. But metaphorically, pilgrim . . .

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These steps unfurled show you can teach peace indeed! I hope you'll copy & paste the little piece above & send it along to people. I make a copy of them 4 to a page (3.5″ x 4.25″) and hand them out to people.Fold them in half and they fit in the wallet.

 

 I’ll gloss this more or meringue this more soon. Am too sleepy at the mo. Whatever time of the 1440/86400 (minutes or seconds of your daynight) this finds you deliciously in, don’ let the 12 ftTall Lîzards getcha down. We do win. Because we’re more fun, & the multi-verse or many-poem place finds calculating-success-in-money bizarre and certainly unevolved and unintelligently designed! Eat lots of buttered toast.

 

mnemonic devices .. I was so flayed again today by the galloping greed of the 12 ftTall Lîzards, the have-mores, who are hoovering any confident pursuit of happiness from 90% of their fellows, that I needed a restorative spate of recreation with mnemonic(knee-mahn-ik)devices. A mnemonic device is some nifty trick so you can remember something. A lifetime later I still remember A Rat In Tom’s House Might Eat Tom’s Ice Cream as the mnemonic device whose first letters spell arithmetic. George Eaton’s Old Grandmother Rode A Pig Home Yesterday spells geography. Muy yum (the only palindrome I ever invented – a palindrome meaning that it reads the same backwards as forward, the most famous probably being Madam, I’m Adam.)

   The enduring quality of a mnemonic device speaks in miniature to the astonishing power of story to the human brain – we really prefer stories to crack or chocolate. The rat sentence is a tiny story. George Eaton, Granny & the pig. It is this bardic, storyness that makes us rich – those who spend their time accumulating paltry bottomlines wear emperor’s clothes.   

     As I  wander the Earth with my Teach Peace sign I hand out mnemonic device for remembering Gandhi’s 9 steps for decreasing violence, increasing non-violence or conducting cooperation. Gandhi was very practical, not mystical. In this case, the first letters highlight a key word in the practical steps  that increase cooperation.

 

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Vulture Culture

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Vulture Culture
..

    The Ords (who had shortened their name from Ordure) were odd ducks. Well, they weren’t really ducks, but they were damned peculiar. They worked for Lord Ord who was the Cosmic Keeper of the Odd, the Angels Too Fat To Dance on the Point of A Pin. His emblem was, proudly, a turkey buzzard in pink, rampant on a magenta field — the colors of entrails as the Lesser Ords scoffed cheerfully. Vultures liked guts and gluck; rot was ripe to them. Suppuration was succulent. The more stinking the ooze, the more toothsome.

    Lord Ord had begun liking what the other Planet Designers liked. Babbling brooks. Roses, orchids, panthers, and emeralds. Smashing glorious snazzy gorgeous show-stoppers. But to have all the living things work, there was an engineering Unavoidable. Living things were lively, but in some span they ran down, wore out, fatigued. Their élan waned. Death was invented; despised, but required.

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

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

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

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

    Lady Onyx remembered fondly the morning when she and Lord Ord woke and she watched him gaze happily around the bustling planet which was getting quite habitable by now. He glanced up at the corner of their large sunny room and he was silent. He watched the patient tiny predator on its remarkable silvery web, the first spider seen by any other god than its designer. He shook his head in delight and applauded, “Wonderful, my dear Lady Onyx.” He leapt up to peek more closely at this new ingenious tiny toy.

    Lord Ord and Lady Onyx had collaborated on the crocodile. Lord Ord had devised the massive musculature, the crushing jaws, whittled the interlocking teeth. Lady Onyx had devised the turreted hide.

    The Lesser Ords were devoted to their Patrons. Once you got a feel for the Onyx and Ord touch, you could always pick out their practical, clever solutions. There was pride in dealing with ordure, preventing the spread of pestilence.

    Much later after the planet’s bio-layer matured, Lord Ord and Lady Onyx were saddened to hear that their favorite, the majestic vultures, were no longer fed the felled biped. Strange religions had proliferated. The quarrelsome biped was the only creature which hid its dead in boxes. Few remembered that the path of the vulture was the only way to completely free the soul from its planet-bound bonds.

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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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My brother Sisyphus . .

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My brother Sisyphus

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My brother Sisyphus,

Cursed by, admired by gods,

He was chums of a sort

Eventually

With the damn boulder;

Like I am with you,

My damn boulder.

I have asked the ants,

Small industrious friends,

To lend me their industry to clear –

Over some no doubt considerable

Portion of eternity which will

Not pause –

To clear a small plateau that

Some aeon, my belovèd friend,

We might finally rest a bit

At the summit of the mountain

And take in the view.

This always rolling obdurately

Back down the mountain,

Back down the mountain,

Back down the mountain,

Is, frankly, mon cher,

A test already passed,

Already passed.

However, until the ants

Grain by grain,

Their own sisyphusean contribution,

Clear this patch for us,

I will lower my shoulder

To the boulder

And stagger it up the damn mountain

Again.

Eternity is very long,

So me and the ants have time

For this act of doggèd devotion.

Eternity is very long:

In the ancient aboriginal myth,

Time is a rock a mile long

And a mile high;

A tiny bright yellowbird

Sharpens its tiny beak on this rock

Once every hundred years.

When thus this rock is worn away,

One moment in eternity

Will have passed.

Eternity is very long:

I will love you

All that time,

All that time,

All that time,

Waiting for the ants

To clear near the summit

A ledge big enough to prop

The damn boulder

Of your rightfully bottomless

Distrust and pain and disdain

From beginning

All

The

Way

At

The

Bottom

Yet

Again.

 

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

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