Category Archives: Planet Beauty

Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

Posted on by
6

Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki
..

I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

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

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

 

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

 

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

 

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

 

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 

 

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

 

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  

 

pogblog

 

ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

 

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

 

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

 

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

 

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

 

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

 

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

 


∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙
…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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.
………….….<^>……………..copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
for jamie 981§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

Eclectic .. muy yum

Posted on by
2

Eclectic .. muy yum ..

Eclectic is the only word I save if I’m running to the last lifeboat-spaceship to escape the Planet Dis-Integration which we’re gonna merit if we don’t shape up soon. But of course with ‘eclectic’ I get the best of all the rest – a nifty legerdelengua.

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

Sometimes I wake up all but weeping thinking about the Alexandrian Library and all the amazing Mayan stuff &c &c — all the horrible losses from a savage and insecure MonoTheoMonstro Religion that thinks it is better than others and just burns or melts other views and other treasures.

 

It's stinking heartbreaking and sometimes I don't think I can stand it.

 

In the city I live in, I'm lucky to have an alexandrianish bookstore called  EastWest  which has fascinating books from all kinds of traditions. They do have their own preferred version of things but, unlike a Christian bookstore, EastWest provides it all and lets you decide. It's fabulous to go in there and explore the intricate traditions of human kind. I swear you can almost hear the cosmic mind, happy and welcome here, purring like a cat. Eclectic — providing the best from all possible sources. Muy yum.
 

If I had to have any label, I would probably go with 'heathen,' but I do eschew even that. I like the après-ice-age earliest settlers kind of thing where each person gets a very particular name when they've come of age — like Crow Cat or something.

 

Do look at 'funes' and 'grok' in pogblog’s Glossary if you're interested in really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

 

ps. We’ll know when the world is getting fun enough when nobody wears a noose to work. Knot your own noose, boy, to show we gotcha on a leash.

 


…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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 Wind . Ik. Whirlwind . North . tzol 62  08.02.05 tues
♫ffsk 351  8783§24d8h36m59s ♫ ..
the pro-peace world begins today with you………….<^>……………..

the Third Thing . .. .. Photonic Physics

Posted on by
3

the Third Thing  .. Photonic Physics

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “This punitive mentality does not lead to rehabilitation.”

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

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

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

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

.


…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..
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
 
11 Flint . Knife tzolkin 258  05.30.05 monday
 
for Jamie Fuller, his favorite
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….

Political Meth and Crop Circles

Posted on by
5

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

Political Meth and Crop Circles

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

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

ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………..

Time Avalanche

Posted on by
2

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />04:46:55a.pdt.us  8 Deer . Manik . West  tzolkin 47  07.20.3005 wed  8783§24d8h36m59s

mon Digrif,

   I found this letter I sent you back in the early 21st century when they still fought wars, called mutilated children 'collateral damage,' and spent $14000 a minute(sic) on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme. I remember our visit to Planet Earth as it began its great transmogrification to Planet Myrth. It was in its last throes of being ruled by the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purported to Lead Them. The Lîzards were in a cruel and bitterly sad addiction to that lethally seductive self-induced drug cocktail of patriotism combined with religion. It is the perfect  hallucinogen. The ultra-addictive substance with low-down tribal war and revenge joined with the exalted sanction of a monotheistic, unchallengeable God was a demonic brew. Remember how we were agog that they were so swept by this plague in large swaths of the pretty planet.

   But then some things began to mysteriously change, as I note in my letter below which I chanced across in my 21st Century Archive of psymail.

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

ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ      

 

wolfcake,

   It’s like being skiing near the top of a huge mountain of time when there’s just the first not-even-feeling yet, but a kind of suspendedness as the snow is just about to let go of the mountain and avalanche tremendously down the mountain side. 

   Now this coming avalanche has some peculiar qualities. If one can keep breathing (not paralyzed by a completely rational fear), and leans in a dancing embrace of languorous tangotrust with the time mountain, the avalanche is like skiing on note:flakes, the time:snow is music (the ±8784th song, say). However when one tightens or gets churlish or can’t taste the shine of time, it can get washboard ugly and staticstruck. As all thoughts and memories and imaginations become more quintD, indeed more meloD, the time signature changing with your own emotions, but at a very deep strata of e-motion as the ancient silts and shards of rage and betrayal and worse, wasp hives of  unpretty pettinesses are swept away by this cosmic time-sound that is striking us like sunflares, an avalanche of sunlightlightlight in which we are concentrated – oh remember the pain the necessity as the coal became diamond; the light-tectonic shift from darkest to brightest was sudden, not gradual, but the pressure was long and there was no exit.

   It is well to remember whatever the horror the horror or the beauty the beauty, that there is no exit. No scream, no retreat into dream – it’s all interlacing dreams which will be akashically apparent in a at-onceness that will be distemporienting to many of the 6537969955 facets of the face of Gods.

   Most of the 6totheninth are too uninhabited (which we read as stupid, contumely being our flaw which like chromium in the emerald is what makes our gleam green)to notice all of this fancy folderol as the universe goes from melodramatic to operatic, or from chamber music to symphonic. These are not esthetic judgments or descriptions, but rather intensity and quantity portrayals.

   Just for a moment consider if the air became water – it already is actually and we are all fish now but we haven’t grokked it yet. If the air became water and the whole planet was flooded with extra-time, not longer or shorter, but richer if you imagine water as a richer air, in which one can be more buoyant and even fly. The air is too weak to hold us up, but this h2oair, you can fly in, all the way into space which now is revealed to be the fragrant rambunctious sea of the impossibly bright matter. Dark matter was always a misnomer – we just haven’t had activated the 80purrcent we don’t use but which is available for fabulous tactile and tastile and kinetile luminous experience with the twitch of a cosmic switch. But for us to bear the voltage, the pressure of this new kind of avalanche light, this symphony of sun (inner & outer), we can get the bends in this sunsea, or we can push back just the on-going right varying, dancing amount and not be collapsed or burst, but rather fit lofted and laughing in this embracing and bracing environeironment.

 

6:46a.pdtish

&c         

===

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

02:46:28a.pdt.us  Water . Muluc . The River . East  tzol 49  07.20.05 wed 8783§24d8h36m59s

ff 705

We want your Comments on pogblog.

 Don't know how to Comment? Other questions?

Contact pogblog@yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

the Ultimate Cult

Posted on by
1

the Ultimate Cult

from Planet NU .. Numera Una

    The Planet NU awoke on <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />16 July 2005 in a planet-wide frisson of gossip and delicious palaver. The Planet NU was new. It was ashiver, it was agog. Jamie Hill Fuller was the toast of the town, the marmalade, the jam, the butter, the honey of the town – all the towns. Tetra String Quartet, “the best chamber music ever heard” had aired on Radio New Classiq at 11:00pm on Thursday 15 July 2005. Wars ceased. Peace grew like fleece on sheep.

   We’re all so used to the now-legendary cult of Jamie Fuller, like Elvis, on every lip, but this was when it began. Fun escalated. Ill will evaporated – poof, like a busted soap bubble. All human beings greeted each other, “From one human being to another, you’re pretty cute.” “Igualmente!” Heels were clicked, somers were saulted, sees were sawed, teeters were tottered delight reigned like rainbows, soft and colorful, impossible really, but magical and actual; dances were danced, romances were chanced.

   The hubbub and hullabaloo the morning of Friday July 16 made whales write new deep and more sonorous songs. Made everyone rich enough to be comfy and jolly.

   Because I had known Jamie Fuller ‘when,’ I was vouchsafed one of the rare interviews that this shy Cult Figure ever granted. I was enchanted. I mean, weren’t we all? It was clear that violinist Clyde Mills, ole Sly Eyes Clyde had stirred virtuoso lust in all the little ladies of the Planet NU, but Jamie Fuller with his milk-chocolate-colored eyes and bittersweet-chocolate cello playing slouchily stirred a ferocious fondness in the matrons and maidens.

     Tetra String Quartet acclaim spread across the Planet like psychic lava. Emergency rooms were filled with people who were dying of joy. Everyone remembered where they were when they first heard Tetra String Quartet, whose hand they were holding, whose ear they were nibbling. Widdershins and triple sixes were all the rage. All 666,666 tv stations played an outlaw tape of Tetra exclusively, 24/7, because no one would bear to watch anything else ever again.  

   All religions melted and merged and splurged into one gigantic choir of lovely and longing song. Planetary anguish was extinguished. For centuries Tetra was played on the Jumbotrons of all 30 baseball teams during all 162 games. Rightness was ignited. The Raiders always lost. The 49ers always won. We were all excited and delighted. None of us shouted loutily. None of us shouted or doubted or pouted anymore. We were free. We were glee. We were pagan and ebullient. We were freed from need except the need for song and for the Tetra String Quartet.

    Because we rode on magic carpets now, instead of gas stations on corners wee taco and burrito stations where La Bamba and Burrito Real competed benignly to provide us with al pastor and chile verde, subsidized with the money that had gone for the now universally seen as absurd Missile Nonsense system. Hedonism became the word to watch. Irony the only necessary vitamin. Flowers and lovers ambled amiably along rivers of sweet summery song. Tunes festooned the summer air. The moon sang too. Power to the peaceful became true and immediate and undeniable. ‘Laughter ever after’ began and ended all prayers – giving the deities a break from the previous endlessly needy whining which tended to have been the hallmark of praying on the old planet.

    Nine crows cawed in the surprising bliss of minor keys. Languorous levity kissed our cheeks like zephyrs. The Bartholomew Empire of Sloth Lazy Susan Company led the Fortune 500, which now became the Fortune 5 Billion because we learned how to share the 1644 million dollars a day saved from the disappeared military budget to subsidize absurdly generous grants for both wild and mild practical jokes. If you were funny or aspired to be funny, it was pretty much “Apply ‘n Get Money.’ Funny money for real, at last. All practical joked could also be deducted from your income tax.

    The sunlight poured over all of us like honey. How sweet and complete we became. All full of quirky mischief. There was no margarine after the Tetra String Quartet, only butter.

 

====

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

02:21:11a.pdt.us  6 Serpent . Chicchan . East  tzol 45  07.16.05 frisat

ff 700; 8783§24d8h36m59s

We want your Comments on pogblog.

 Don't know how to Comment? Other questions?

Contact pogblog@yahoo.com

 

 

Ing-Ing .. ToadSpawn Appendix B

Posted on by
1

ToadSpawn Appendix B

 

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

 

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

 

Ing-Ing 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

==========


copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
6-21-05 1:54:52a.pdt.us  ../ 7 Light . Ahau . Flower  tzol 20 montues
ff 672
We welcome your Comments on pogblog.
Don't know how to Comment? Other questions? Contact pogblog@yahoo.com
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />  

Point Lobos, burn-your-throat truth

Posted on by
Reply

o5.14.o5  8 Wind  tzol 242  sat   <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />11:42:o8 pm

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

    Point Lobos is where the gods invite you to visit so you can learn about green and about blue. You go to the Louvre or Bilbao or NYMoma to see humans paint and sculpt. You go to Point Lobos to see the gods rip your brain open in a dream of dreams. Point Lobos is where the gigantic ocean meets the gigantic continent and you are standing in that zone of awe where the raw, distilled, brandy burn-your-throat truth is clarified. Where you aren’t gonna be the same no more.

    I wasn’t swayed because at Devil’s Cauldron the sea is indigo and the dark luminous turquoise of your eyes when you’re glad. I wished I could be grateful enough for being inside this radiant scudding painting with pale grey-green feathery California sage. With cormorants landing in the Sea Lion Cove skipping like stones in snatches of white on the cobalt water as they came in to land. Dozens and hundreds of them diving in 30 seconds or 8 seconds to gather just the best piece of kelp for the nests they are building now in early May. They are black streamlined birds, bullets with wings.

    On the way to Devil’s Cauldron near an offshore underwater canyon bigger and deeper than the Grand Canyon, there is poison hemlock with a white doily of tiny white flowers which looks like the Queen Anne’s Lace flowers in the East. The only way to tell it from the nearby benign yarrow is that the poison hemlock has purple spots on its stem, the ‘blood of Socrates.’ The plants here at the edge of the continent where the ocean batters and sloshes are tough. They have earned their peculiar beauty. This is not a place for the timid. On the way to Sea Lion Cove and Devil’s Cauldron, with their rounded igneous granodiorite gray and black rocks and the jutting and fissured carmelo formation caramel and strawberry syrup colored melted sandstone rocks, are rattle snake grass; apricot-colored sticky monkey flowers; lizard tail; hedge nettle; pearly everlasting; bright silver soft-leafed beach sagewort. When you get to the cove, you are on rocks above the seagulls and the iridescent swallows who the French call hirondelles, looking down with slight vertigo on their sunstruck wings. We do not expect to be above birds.

    You are overwhelmed both suddenly and slowly. You are buffeted in your capitulating mind between the outrageous grand and the startling small secrets. The stupid habitual encrusted tediums of the workaday world are being sculpted off you by cruel and tender gods set upon your release; upon your permanent devotion; upon your ungrudging love. You are walking and waking in a terrible and wild dream – which doesn’t need you at all, has been seals and cormorants and lace lichen and seaside painted cup and sky lupine and gray loco weed for a million years, and yet too it wants you to caress it with your noticing, your devoted noticing. You begin the day cool – impressed some perhaps but still in control. A few hours later, you know that control is absurd, petty, irrelevant. The square-stemmed wood mint, the miner’s lettuce, the bull kelp, the beach morning glory, the witches teeth, the carefully folded white globe lily and the blue-eyed grass have conspired with the flicker of the black lizard and the gray lizard and the round-eared small rabbit to win your hardened heart.

     An otter’s pelt is the softest densest fur on Earth. They have no blubber so depend on this fur to keep them snug in the frigid North Coast waters. (The frequent fog is caused by a warm inland day hitting the cold air upwelling off shore from the immense Carmel Bay and Monterey underwater canyons which are up to 7000 feet deep. My day was a glory of sun.) When I touched an otter’s pelt for the first time, my knees went weak – it was so soft and thick, it was the gelato of  fur, thick and sweet. But warm inherently, like the heart of Baldar who can do no harm. A group of otters is called a ‘raft of otters.’ They spend a third of the day eating, a third napping, and a third grooming the magic fur. They eat abalone. They each carry their special shellfish- bashing rock under their arm. I watched three of them lie on a sloshing huge bed of fox-colored giant kelp. They lie on their backs lounging on the bosomy swells of the sea. I want more otter in the life of our planet. Snacking and napping. (There is a Greek word for a glorious day: halcyon. A halcyon day is the kind of sweet day in which a kingfisher can make her nest upon the bosom of the sea. Or an otter can bask and nap.)

   There is a primeval forest at one end of the park. The Monterey Cypress are surpassingly strange with their odd flat silver trunks, all twist and tilt, and black green leaf-needles. They are older than the invention of the United States. They belong to the Ohlone Indians. I think they may be the Ohlone Indian shamans who wait for the imperially stupid white man to get cured of psychic sicknesses worse than the virulent physical diseases he also brought to these patient and glorious shores. The Cypress forest is so eerie and haunted; one is constantly brushed quite distinctly by the unseen. These ancestors are not unfriendly. I’m sure that if you were there alone on a moonlit night, you could see them in substance, if you were filled with respect.

    I haven’t even gotten yet to the ribbon-candy sky and the more colors of water than you have ever seen or dreamed. Or the sagey, chapparal, salty smells. Or the sounds of the percussions and hisses and rumbles, near and far: the rattlesnake grasses; the fierce Scylla& Charybdis whirlpools; the barking of the lobos marinos or sea wolves or sea lions; the petulant squawks of the baby seals. The mosaic of magic of Point Lobos is the legerdemain of the gods who smell like strawberries. 

           

copyright pogblog 2005

for jamie fuller, a fable