Category Archives: Psychology

Ing-Ing .. ToadSpawn Appendix B

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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.”

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6-21-05 1:54:52a.pdt.us  ../ 7 Light . Ahau . Flower  tzol 20 montues
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Put An Icepick In Nice

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />le Bleu = the Blue out of which come the comets of ideas; see pogblog's Glossary for fuller definition;

 

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Put An Icepick In Nice   

 

    A friend whom I treasure as much as one might treasure one’s next-to-last breath or the sudden sight of the red bird in the dogwood tree just after one first learned the word scarlet – a treasured friend knows to a tedium how beowulfianally besotted I am with assonance.

    When you’re standing on a cliff looking down way across a beach at the froth of breaking waves, you can perhaps hear the concussion, that muted thunder of the waves. You climb down a steep staircase of many small steps to the beach and make your way across the sand. Now after a wave crashes, that lace of foam that slides up the beach purrs over the small pebbles in a glistening glissando that you couldn’t hear from back up on the cliff. It is that woven song of more intimate sound that is assonance, the echoy sweet nothings of vowel sounds that privately and with wicked whisper seduce you.

   Staccato consonance is the other wing of alliteration, the condor of sound whose high flight mesmerizes the reader.

    So when le Bleu dropped the condor feather, “Drive an ice pick into the right eye of nice” at pogblog’s feet this morning as she went to hand out little pogblog posters at a farmer’s market, the assonance seemed whipped cream on the meringue of the deliciously unpleasant sentiment. Drive an icepick into the right eye of nice.

    Beowulf, the ancient epic, was addicted to alliteration. It’s like in the Depression of the 1930s – you had to put all the sugar you had into the teacake to show your hospitality. Alliteration showed that the poet bothered, cared fully that you’d come to visit.

    Of course in the mid-late 20th century, like the harsh architecture – gods forfend you have a turret – any playfulness with the language was haughtily frowned upon. (I am sure Hemingway shot himself in metaphysical recoil at being forced by the fashion he created to write another corseted sentence in a writer’s world in which slutty decoration had become sin. That puritanical tyranny of enforced spareness was an aridity that parched poor Ernest in the end and death became preferable to the desolation.)

   Anyhow, pogblog has a good friend we’ll call Velv Eeta who has gone out in a nearby city carrying a Teach Peace sign every day since <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />October 9, 2002. Velv has guts in her own doggéd, eccentric way. She says that a vesuvial irritation out on the protest-hustings is that if you say something tart, least of all a remark flagrant with battery acid, one of these birkenstock people will say, aggrieved as if deceived, “How can you carry that Teach Peace sign and be so mean? You should be nice.” No, the sign doesn’t say Teach Nice, you tepid cow. I’m out here every day nudging people to quit letting their tax dollars be spent on blowing kids’ faces off. That’s the not-nice to worry about. It’s about bombs, triple imbecile, not the normanrockwellian horrors of being compelled to listen to Larry Whelk with you.’ Velv doesn’t say that but it runs through her mind.

   “I know it’s awful,” Velv told me, “but I find myself longing to give them a single swift jab to the nose just to wake them from their cottoncandy daze”    

    What cathartic solace may a pacifist have except the stiletto satisfactions of verbal violence? (From which, unlike the bombs thing, the victim may rise from the crypt in the storied three days to have a banana split or mow the lawn.) Niceness can be a vice.

   Actually, most people aren’t smart enough, full of care enough to be skillfully, jocularly mean. Vile as an excess of belligerent niceness certainly is, the bludgeon most amateurs wield as wit is even worse. But we’ll flay them another day. Let’s stick with the nazis of nice for this tutorial in the glories of assonance.

    So, my devilish darling dervish, let’s drive an icepick into the right eye of nice, and all manner of things will be well.

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6-18-05 7:59:39p.pdt.us  ….4 Earth . Earthquake . Heron  tzol 17 sat

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Jane, the 2nd Coming ..

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Jane, the 2nd Coming    Jane never set out to be the 2nd Coming, anymore than she set out to be fat or a redhead. She chuckled frequently when she told Ace, her chubby chum, that she understood why Buddhaha had laid on the lard – it was the laugh ratio, the ratio of chuff to chaff. You can’t trust thin people to be seriously funny.

    Jane had met Ace when he’d interviewed her for Carpe Comedy, a holozine he started on 02.11.2011, at the height of the planetary turbulence. “Well,” said Jane The Messiah, “ever since they so screwed up the reporting on the 1st Coming,  we are never ever doing Coming gigs without holovideo. You gotta actually see my lips move so you can’t lie about what I said.

    “The Nazarene was an OK guy, but without the holovideo, he got seriously tabloided throughout a gore-fest of history that he never had in mind, or in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke! Only crazy people would, like, do it.

    “The point of the 1st Coming was supposed to be to perk up poor people – to sock it to the stupid greedy who were pointedly un-invited to the stupendous party in heaven.”

    “Mz Messiah – may I call you Jane? – are you going to offer a less distortable delusion to pleasure the masses.”  Jane gazed at Ace for the first time. Sexy. Very sexy, she thought idly.

    “A less distortable delusion. That’s our scheme, that’s our dream,” said Jane T. Messiah, laughing like a bowl of strawberry jello. 

…….

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1:20:56 am o5.o3.o5  10 Monkey tzol 231 montues

for james, my unholy angel, my holy demon

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