Category Archives: Psychology

Cheney viperiens extremos & the Humor Transplant

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Nov. 05. In my hapless and indelible optimism, I keep waking up like Pippa believing that !today! we'll get it and proceed to the Frabjous Projects of silly abundance. Let's build stuff. More bilbaos please. Cathedrals of Education and Art. But Mr. Cheney abides so far. I am trusting he ain't Methuselah, however.

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Today <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />10-28-05 7:20:54 am Friday, we are awaiting Mr. Fitz and the FixedIntelGate Report. I’ve been up for the many hours and will be adding material at the bottom of this essay-which is an hub of the Obsidian Humor series.  

 

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Cheney viperiens extremos & the Humor Transplant

 

     Myrth said, “In ClownSchool InterD, we don’t just get to indulge in fugu. There is fugu discipline. Fugu is the expert filleting of the exceedingly poisonous Hypocrisy fish, especially those found in the Religious and Political Oceans of Hubris. Gods alone know that our keen tools and our only wyrd and terrible weapons – Be ye terrified ye 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings – our wyrd and terrible weapons are words. It’s necessary and fun to kebab the 12ftTall Lizards. I love weapon-words third only to the silver cat and the feloniously handsome Fuller. But we need to turn sword-words into plowshare words after we’ve welcomed the unfanged and unblinded, reasonably cheerful and modest 12ftTall Lizards back into the gallivanting human family. We need to explore with you students of comedy how people live in the aprèsWar world.

     “First let’s remind ourselves of the three great Greek philosophic constellations of inquiry: metaphysics; epistemology; ethics. Metaphysics deals with what is real. Epistemology with how we know. And ethics with what is good. The epistemology, the how of thinking, being, seeing is a lot of what ClownSchool InterD is about.

    “What do you do when you’re not gnashing your teeth; not wasting obscene sums of money on megalomaniacal weapons systems like the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars; and not lashing out at people who snog a Different Deity than you do?   

    “Sursurprisingly, there is a way to live fruitfully and passionately and cheerfully without waking up in the morning rarin’ to perfect more Schemes to mutilate children.

    “But first, the ClownSchool InterD psybio team works holoday round perfecting the Humor Transplant operation that deflates the crazy hubris of the 12ftTall Lizards to bring them back into genuinely empathetic human scale. The radical and aggressive treatment probably necessary for cheney viperiens extremos is emergency splenectomy. The metastasized spleen just has to be hacked out on the spot—at the bus stop (As if any of them would ever ride a bus!) or at the dinner party with the butter knife or at the humvee sales lot.

   “Hustle ‘em off to the ClownSchool ER and stick an Irony Transfusion IV into the soft skin inside the crook of their left elbow (the one nearest their vestigial heart) and play Mozart, Yo Yo Ma, Bella Fleck, and Hui Ohana til you see them giddy with grin. For a Cheney or Rove equivalent, this treatment could take years.

     “For people in less acute stages of satanically septic Reptilianosis, a course of ironyotherapy treatments are critical to recovery. Severe religiopatriosis is, like stroke, an attack whose redemptive recovery is long term – you’re never cured, you’re always a religiopatrioholic in recovery. The high the 12ftTall Lizards get is so fauxEupho that you have to kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least to protect yourself from the toxic effects of the effluvius and supperating contact corruption.

   “ ‘What!?’” you 12ft Lizards cry in unbridled disbelief. ‘What?! kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least?’

    “ ‘What!?’ the clowns cry, ‘You’re sharing our supersecret occult ritual with the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings? Not. You can’t. It’s our, well, our thing, our secret handshake.’

   “Shhh. It’s ok. They won’t be 12fttall Lizards any more. Their swollen spleens will be removed or de-inflamed. The kissing the left little finger 8x will help them keep on the yellow brick path to recovery.”

   “Well,” Salma Nella groused, “ok, I guess. I liked having one exclusive thing. They had the Jesus blood-drinking, fleshing-eating thing; cathedrals; heavy bishops’ rings that clunk on your head at your first communion; psalm books; hymn books; stained glass windows. I wanted some gear, some paraphernalia, a hash pipe equivalent or two. But at least our Kiss8 secret. Dammit all, Myrth.” Salma glared. “Oh, ok, go ahead and spill the bloody beans.” 

   “Here goes, ClownSchool InterD clownfants. Kiss8.”

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ClownSchool InterDimensional .. Where we learn at the interface between lucid waking & lucid dreaming. And have conscious forays into OtherLand. 

 

From the musical South Pacific, a daring song for the time:

 

“You have to be taught, carefully taught, to hate all the people your relatives hate¹, but you could be taught, carefully taught to dare like a columbus to set sail on the seas of your own art. Nothing could be more of a preposterous chance than those abzurd ships, the Nina, the Pinta. They dared and you can too. And the gold you find by doing your art is more pure and tarnishless than any treasured metal. 

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¹ You've got to be taught
To hate and fear
You've got to be taught
From year to Year
It's got to be drummed
in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
To be Afraid
Of people whose eyes
are oddly made
And people whose skin
Is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
Before it's too late
Before you are 6 or 7 or 8
To hate all the people
your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught

from South Pacific 1949

 

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Water . Muluc . The River . East . tzol 149  10.28.05 fri 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Back Down the Coal Mines

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Back Down the Coal Mines

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    In order to study the possibility of having a just world – could everyone have the luck and luxury of a superb education and we still get the grotty jobs done – I washed windows from 1979-2000. I proved my point. (See below in fable Justice.)

    I then taught community tv to amateurs for five years. Last February I got laid off with three other folk as a fairly desperate cost-saving measure. I got all my remaining 17 teeth extracted, have dentures now, started my blog, and am pursuing getting my book published. Dentures are obscenely expensive even with the dear help of a great dentist who is a friend of a friend of mine. I’ve been spending my meager savings.

   My old window washing partner is a housemate, and recently I started walking door-to-door flyering to help him build what became his business when I went to the tv station.

   It made sense to have both of us squeegeeing in this big seasonal push til Dec 24. I put on my overalls, bought a new bucket, and a few rolls of Select-a-Size Bounty paper towels for mopping up. My first job back was construction clean-up on a mansion. Holy Moly. Construction clean-up is three times harder than window washing because all of the razor-blading and super scrubbing.

   Painters, by the way, who say through their rovianally deceitful lying teeth that the overspray they have mangially managed to get on 90% of the windows inside and out “is water-based and washes right off.” No X 1000. But of course they are gone skulking and cackling off to the next job, leaving the hapless window washers to scrape and scrape, ever unable to get all the damn specks off. There are as many micro-specks of paint on an over-sprayed window as there are visible stars on a clear night. Just it ain’t poetical.

    There was one painter “who could paint in a tuxedo” so fastidious and blessed was he. Most of the rotters don’t want to take the time to mask off the windows – time-consuming, profit-eating, it’s true. But the windows can never look really right, so it’s slimy of them. My line about painters is that they “go on the down-escalator.” (In case you don’t do cryptic jokes, as apparently many don’t, that means “go to Hell.”)

   You cannot properly wash windows with vinegar and water and crumpled newspaper. Cheez, where that old moldy chestnut got started, I don’t know. You can’t wash windows at all, truth be told. There are guild secrets, and I ain’t telling. I will tell you that you have to use the only true Ettore brass-channel squeegees. You’re on your own from there. Ha Ha. I like thinking about the mess you’ll make – especially the pompous blowhards among you. My petty revenge on the far-right Limbaugh knockoffs tinct with their nouveau grandiosities.

     Where I grew up we had the most sublime snobbisms about the nouveau riche. Boors who had in the last generation or so come into big money with no corresponding big heart or decent manners. You could always spot them by their volume, their dreadful clothes, and the way that they treated the ‘servants’ like ‘servants.’ Old money knew how short was the march to the guillotine – that they depended upon the servants, and they treated people like treasured companions, never like ‘servants.’ It was always so intensely embarrassing to see some nouveau porker ordering people around instead of asking them gratefully.

    We now have a passel of hideous nouveaus like Limbaugh and others with no graciousness nor rapier wit neither. It’s all bludgeon and holler with these people and the skin crawls. They bluster because they sense that they’re missing some secret handshake and they are. Like mosquitoes with bullhorns, they’re irritating. They never have anything compelling or memorable to say, but they sure are loud about it.

   Anyhow, this mansion was one of these great toads that squats upon the landscape without grace. (I’m not against big in dwellings, only ugly.) It’s the kind of place Arnold Schwarzenegger would live in. On steroids.

   It’s like going back down the coal mines again. It’s very hard work. I am sore in parts of my aged body which I didn’t know were there to ache or stab or creak. I’ve been so exhausted that I couldn’t even write except scurrilous stuff in my log to my fav pal who can take obsidian humor almost as good as he can give it. (He whimpers some, glassjawilly, when I strike back without pulling my punches. But give him credit, generally he can follow any thread and take any sharpened darkness.)

    I’ve been living on Stilton cheese with mango and ginger bits, — ye gods, how dee-lectable. And on milky organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Darjeeling tea. If you’re going to drink fifteen cups of tea a day, it needs be clean and clear. (I get so happy when I can go to an ordinary supermarket and buy Horizon organic milk. Back in the ‘50s, my dad was a pioneer in commercial-scale organic farming and gosh would he be thrilled to see it hit the Safeways. Having been raised by cows rather like Mowgli was raised by bears and tigers, I only drink whole milk. Whole milk is naturally about 3.4% butterfat. People think that they’re saving all this fat by drinking 2% milk. Ha ha. It’s good marketing, but silly. The whole milk does allow for better calcium absorption tho. Holsteins, which we used to milk, give about 3.4% butterfat milk. Holsteins are the black and white splotched ones – modern art on the hoof.)  

   My housemate's and my big push is to wash as many windows as we can between now & Dec 24 because for a month after that, it drops off to all but nada. I presume that somewhere in here I get back in squeegee shape. I’ll let you know.

   [I hope you’ll check out Justice below. If you grok it, you can help change the world.]

          

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Note: This deceptively simple fable is what I paid my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor for. Learning the answer to the question of Whether we can have a just world – not whether we will have a just world —  is one of the big questions of history, and I answered it with my sinew and blood .. ..

Justice 

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

The first paper I wrote in college was “What is Justice?” I never guessed I would spend or pay my life and my very teeth to answer that question.

Somewhere in the Pleistocene of my twenties, a stone-tablets question appeared to me with an eerie and wistful persistence: Can we have a just world? Can we really ever have a just world or will the elite, mainly white, always have to have a filthy little secret, a permanently under-educated class, mainly non-white, to get the grotty jobs done?

I believed that education is the highest value and riches. Education was my mansion, my bullion. I lived a life of astonishing – thunderstruck — vividness because education opened my mind, my heart, stuck my fingers in the socket of the universe. Raw joy. Wild joy. Delicious joy.

A human right, I thought, this simple untarnishing joy. A self-evident human right. The key to this joy, the necessity to this joy, its breadth, delicacy, and leopard strength, is education.

So, I asked, could a person have the best possible liberal arts (tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences) education and do one of the non-glam jobs? Or, again, would we have to have this unspoken-of-class to wash our windows and collect our garbage?

I’d been a high school English teacher for ten years when this question appeared like Excalibur in the stone. Could there be a just world?

As the universe unscrolled for me the layers of this question, I wondered who I could ‘study’ to the True Answer? Eventually I knew it was true that I could only know the sinew and blood of the answer if I studied myself.

I could not go into the dear Peace Corps or Vista for two years and then back again after this useful dabble to the luxurious enclaves of academe or corporate, the gated worlds of group health plans and pensions.

Was education sufficient? Was it the highest value? Could I demand the inalienable right to a splendid education for every human being on Earth?

Well, twenty-one years as a self-employed window washer later, like the Ancient Mariner, I can hold you, hapless Wedding Guest, with glittering eye and say, adamantine and emerald, “Yes. Education is the Grail, does suffice, is armor, is amour, is hope, does not rust.”

Every hour of all those days was made more lively and tender and delectable because of the mirth, courage, insight, and wonder that education offers.

There is no smidgen of a question that education guarded me in dark nights and brought holy mockingbird song to my dawns.

I bought the answer to this great question, the Justice question, with the hours of my life. If I had it to do all over again, I was asked recently by a handsome rich Canadian who had drunk six martinis and was eating pistachios, would I do it over again? Lose my teeth, not go to the doctor for twenty-six years, face this pensionless old age?

I considered his question soberly. “To have earned in my flesh the burning answer to one of the great questions of our new millennium, it was worth my life. I can say ringingly to my species that every single human being’s life time is just as valuable to herself or himself as any other human being’s. That tolerance, then appreciation for individual differences is the daily lesson and the ‘point.’

Education can make the life hours even more fun and more searingly interesting. Curiosity is tasty. You don’t have to ‘follow your bliss’ for money.

Of course it’s absurd and obscene that the poor and the self-employed have no health insurance. Of course eventually we have to figure out how to share around the grotty jobs. Of course poverty utterly sucks. Of course I’d rather have a car with air conditioning.

If I hadn’t been so distilledly educated, I probably wouldn’t be besotted with the etymology of words and wouldn’t have known that ‘frolic’ means ‘swift gladness’ or that ‘rhapsody’ means ‘woven song.’

Justice is a bell. Justice is a mocking bird who rehearses song at midnight in belief in dawn. Justice is heartbeat. Justice is blood. The essential real deal. Joy and purpose.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 173 . 11.21.05 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

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Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

 

     Small, plushly-furred silvery cat, Frolic, was a spy – a tender and wry observer – from Noilednad, the hub of Universe 58, the one in which Asylum Planet Earth floated, a turquoise jewel, around that vermilion temptress, that furacao furnace, the Sun.

   Most of the bipeds on planet Earth are inmates. Without a single exception, all the bipeds owned by dogs are inmates. The bipeds owned by cats are in advanced recovery. All people owned by SUVs are psychopaths. A few people partnering with Burmese cats are clowns – healed but hanging out to help with the recovery of the lemming people who dwell in humorless gigagreed, drink blood on Sundays and other feast days, and pauperize their fellow inmates.

    Frolic, her bittersweet-chocolate colored pal Jester, and pogblog were watching Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, talking on an ancient televid device. Gyatso was musing about science. He said, roughly, as we recall it, that there was nothing wrong with science – it was just a method. there was nothing wrong with a religion – just some people went too far. There was nothing inherently wrong with politics, just some people got all zealed up and did ‘dirty politics.’ He then coalesced that thought into that you could have dirty politics, dirty science, and dirty religion.

  “Now that’s as tasty as a mouse soufflé,” said Frolic. Her words were secondary to the powerful holothought projections the felinoa fabulosiens could project into the left eye of the holofi enhanced. Most felinoa art-thought is daliesque – except animated. One could see the mouse soufflé rising in an oven where upon it daliesquely mogrified to a low serving table where with a crowned mouse head adorning it, the soufflé dish ran up and down the table on centipedal little mousefeet. Cat humor, like Rat Sauce, is a developed taste.

   “So,” continued Frolic, “Dalai’s meme is Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science. It gives us a handy, mouse-soufflé-tasty way to comprehend the wrongness and the rightness – to see the ideas of politics, religion, and science through a prism with the light broken into its constituent parts. The ignorant excesses distort the possibly noble pursuits.”

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 170  11.18.05 fri 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   End of preliminary KRB Autopsy Report.      

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

………….<^>……………..

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

9 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 165  11.13.05 sun

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Rove, Cheney, and their Slithery Ilk

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Karl, Dick, & their Slithery Ilk

 

mon cahbahj,

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Get Addicted

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Get Addicted!

the unicorn of addiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “A lullaby?

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

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

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Karl Rove .. serial Smearer.. thug psychology ..

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In this week of October 17 2005, it's time to re-view this mid-summer article and refresh our memories on the real essential rottenness of Mr. Rove & how many people he has hurt — with premeditated malice.   

 

Karl Rove .. serial Smearer ..

.. thug psychology ..

 

This gets us up-to-date and gives you something to copy to friends who may not be hip to these sad and dreadful underpinings to the Present Scrupleless Folk who sadly have our sweet future under their heels. 

 

The hydra-headed info about Mr. Rove's unfettered willingness to smear people is remarkably chilling and under-reported. There are people twisted by power throughout history who we remember for centuries. I think when the full story is known of Mr. Rove's deep willingness to go after people's actual strengths with outright lies and ruin their reputations and lives and say as Mr. Bush did to Mr. McCain with a shrug, “It's politics, John,” Rove will be remembered with the Torquemadas and Machiavellis. Even if you don't know exactly what they did, your skin involuntarily crawls. They were willing to be inhuman or anti-human in a way the rest of us cannot fathom.

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

Please remember that this outing the identity of Joe Wilson's wife is just one big spoke in the wheel the hub of which is FixedIntelGate. We sent people to war on fixed intel  which <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.'

 

Mr. Rove is a serial Smearer. He gets worse and more bold as he keeps getting away with it. And it often has a peculiar sexual innuendo — his male political consultant rival who supposedly made a pass at a young man at a Republican bbq; Ann Richards as lesbian and lesbian sympathizer; the judge with children's charities as pedophile. Accusations where the poor deny-er gets in a “Have you stopped beating your wife' circular hell.

 

I am sick of someone who acts, in  Josh Green's phrase in the Nov 2004 Atlantic, “where conscience forbids most others” getting cut such slack in the media. At the very least this person should be shunned, not lionized. (He certainly should also be on administrative leave with no security clearance.)

 

Of course, I would be completely happy to have the wonderful Ann Richards be a lesbian or whatever the heck she wants. But in Texas at the time, this untruth was spread as a 'dirty secret.' Some parts of Texas are lagging in their ability to encompass variety.

 

It is impossible to get the Smearodent Toothpaste back in the tube. What is John McCain to say? “No, I didn't father a black baby with a prostitute.” Then just even more people hear about it and wonder. Or John Kerry and the Swift Boat ads. “No, it was dangerous as hell and I could have died and I was really brave, unlike you, you chicken hawk.”

 

You can't rebut this garbage without sounding defensive or vain. The victim of these tactics is in a serious trap.

 

yours in distress, pogblog

 

These details of thug psychology come from years of studying this, beginning with the ruthless mentor Lee Atwater, way surpassed by his disciple Karl. A very good recent look is Josh Green's Nov 2004 Atlantic article. (Mr. Green has zero association with the opinions in this post, of course.)


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

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    Purrs Nicety addressed a seminar of clowns about to be deployed into the Dream Scheme to terrorize the Insane Leadership of the USofA Inc with sneak barrages of marshmallows.

     Purrs was a master strategist of guerilla Ridicule. “The RovBuCondRumsChenian Ilk can be howitzerily guarded in the K1, the full kinesthetic, solid-density, daylight plane,” said Purrs with a sly, if not snide, chuckle. Purrs sported the Puss in Boots look, complete with large blue hat with swashbuckling pink feather. Feline-pirate chic. She was, however, a Ridicule Assassin who fought fang and fought claw to embarrass the Putative Mighty.

    “Do you realize,” growled Purrs, “that they steal the happiness of their kittens to build weapons systems?” Her hackles bristled with furry fury. “No one – and I mean no one – dares speak out against the bloated, obscene, insane military budget. Not a chirp, not a squeak, not a bark, nor a howl. Either the hypnotism or the intimidation is complete.

    “Last class I told you all to memorize the Far Looney Bleeding Heart Extremist Agenda. Lobosuave, can you recite it for us?” Lobocake was something of a teacher’s pet, it must be said. Purrs clearly preferred him to any other comrade-in-marshmallows.

    Lobocake gave her his taunting wolfish grin, “That pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband. We’re asking those who generally agree to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Ultraband.”

   “Thanks, Lobo,” preened Purrs who was clearly smitten. “Now, these jerkbeciles are talking cutting Medicaid and the prescription drug benefit, closing schools, and gutting American civil rights, and we may not talk about – even mention – the next-generation DDX destroyers or more Trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or F/A22 fighters or V-22 Osprey aircraft or the strangelovian Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program? Their present destroyers, submarines, aircraft, bombs are going to be challenged by whom?

    “We could put a non-maintenance moratorium on all Weapons of Mass Mutilation development for 5 years. Simply buy out all the workers and companies affected and re-deploy them to build super schools and the infrastructure of the WiFi Nation. We’re spending $820,000 per minute on theoMilitarism, not counting the extra $200,000 per minute on rubbling the rubble in the quagsands of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq.

     “Fundamentalist Christianity is an anti-jesusian, virulent sidebar. The real 8000 lb gorilla in America is the Church of Militarism. To speak out against it is a burn-at-the-stake heresy-equivalent. They do you with the gatling gun and finish you off with a flamethrower.

    “Dare to suggest that 99% of military spending is a colossal waste of money and in come the bunker-busting bombs, soon to be nuclear for cruds sake.” Purrs derisively settled her bright silver fur with a quick shake.

    “Sir Nickety,” said Lobo with that insolent droll drawl, “Before you outline the Dream Scheme marshmallow raid, Operation Pelt, can you elaborate on the stealth psychology of theoMilitarism in 21st century USofA Inc?”

    Purrs cheshired. The clowns at Clown School InterD were a droll rowdy and raunchy lot. The nice thing about traveling in OtherLand was that you could change your body style as handily as the earthbound could change from a denim workshirt to an Hawaiian shirt. Last night she and Lobo had shapeshifted into human guise for some claw hammer and tongs recreation. Because their passions were medieval, he called her Sir Nickety as a kind of petitchouism.¹ Last night between bouts of smackdown, they’d discussed the sickening dangers of theoMilitarism.

    “ It’s probably easier to use the magic glasses of the view back from Y3000,” said Purrs. “In the Year 3000, we do not mutilate the children of strangers to solve adult disputes. We do not allow overwrought young men to drive suicide cars, the cheaper death, nor suicide tanks, the expensive death. The accumulation of stockpiles of WMM, Weapons of Mass Mutilation is seen as obscene and stupid.

    “The cult of Militarism is a very very virulent disease, and sadly its extirpation takes all of human and cosmic ingenuity to accomplish. It takes a drug cocktail of 3 parts Ridicule, 1 part Kindness, and, for the caretakers, huge doses of Vitamins OH and DD. Vitamins Obsidian Humor and Vitamin Damned Doggèdness.

    “All addicts’ hallucinations hijack the basic bio-survival circuits. Similarly the paranoid is unshakably convinced of the perils because the seamless internally-generated evidence is so intimate. External evidence does not access the theo-romanti-spiritual-sublime circuits where the self-generated molecularly-intimate tinctures are enzymily oozed, igniting a conviction for which people will actually end their existence. When these constellations of hallucination are lemming-amplified by fellow cultists, koolaid will be swilled.

   “Even most of the white-hats in 21st century America are either semi-infested themselves with milder forms of the theoMilitarism disease which are still potent enough to distort vision — or are clear-eyed and justly damned afraid.

    “Luckily, in OtherLand, Marshmallowists can be deployed with Weapons of Mass Ridicule and begin the psychic rehabilitation these hijacked entities, the Ilk, need to begin recovery. Their oneiro-security is negligible. We invade their sleep with our improvised marshmallow devices, our IMDs. Into each doppelsleeper’s gaping and snoring mouth, the Ridicule Counter-Militarism squad leader drops a marshmallow. The rest of the clown troops glide by, and marshmallow by marshmallow bury an Ilk’s dreambody in derisive marshmallows. The caboose or last clown out leaves a small keyring-sized plastic pineapple as a sign that it could have been grenades instead of marshmallows, but the uninfected soul goes for k-suave.

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to be continued .. ..

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quik Glossary .. petitchouism = petit chou is little cabbage in French, an endearment; extirpate = uproot; k-suave (k = K1 or solid earth day-density/suave – soo-ah-vay  = sweet, mild, smooth, gentle, harmless, uninjuring);

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

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6 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 136  10.15.05  sat

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

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

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa!

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

 

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

    Eventually, like last night?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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10 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 127  10.06.05 thu  

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

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A Pagan Goddess Does Irony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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