Karl Rove: a cur sans coeur

Karl Rove: a cur sans coeur

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If bless-ed Jason is right, we'll get a mental reprieve — if Senor Sadist(“I don't just want to defeat you, I want to ruin you, pluck all the feathers from your better angels' wings, one by naked & raw one”) gets the frog march.
 
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the frogmarching of Karl Rove ..
 
Oh Pleas upon pleas, Fat E, let us have this one. Karlie's pudgie rump in jail is a Fine Idea. Death no, humiliation yes.
 
It took brain tumors to bring Lee Atwater, Karlie's guru of grueling, to beg for mercy at the end, & LeeBoy was a midget to Karlie's monster. Atwater was a rotter, but not a oialt (once in a lifetime) sadist. May be in the jail, Karlie could wish for fairer play. Atwater blubberingly begged for forgiveness from his victims at the end (Don't we all?), but it didn't save him (Does it ever?).
  
Still, listening to some blubber from Karlie would salve if not solve the reign of pain. A cur sans coeur.  
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Jason Leopold Friday May 12
Jason on Saturday  May 13
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frog march image, google images, apfn.org
oily rove image, google images, nrk.no,img,500183.jpeg 

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'sans' means 'without' in French;

'coeur' means 'heart' in French & is pronounced 'cur' —

cur sans coeur was a phrase meant to be for Mr. Rove — i am proud to have coined it. 

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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 2006 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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8 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 84  05.13.05 sat

983 days/2y8m07d left .. full moon

ffwofw174§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;  

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

    Friends, I hope you escape this very sudden and very harsh presumably non-avian sore-throat-from-hell Event that attacked me a few days ago & felled me for awhile. I wouldn’t mention it, other people's misery in specific being tedium times ten, except that after a few days of a throat so sore, I was wavering – (I haven’t been to an MD since 1979 except once to get an inch long splinter pulled out from under my thumbnail – yes, you would say anything if they started shoving splinters under your fingernails – an answer I could have let someone else discover) – I thought, maybe, you old fool, this is the dreaded avian flu or who knows. But a friend suggested gargling dissolved Bayer aspirin in water – which I take every day any way. Willowbark is the miracle drug for sure, but chalk this in its column too. As an aspirin junkie for 15 years, only Bayer aspirin has the magic. Sorry, something is missing from the generics in this case. Anyhow, gargle away. I am not cough or other revolting drooling symptoms free, but the scary sore throat is Gone, hallelujah, bro & sis.

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But to the real subject du jour.

 

Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

 

    We either pursue the Burning Child shifting of the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex or we end up, baffled, as a backwater in history. We are spending our $820,000 per minute on an absurdly, obscenely obsolete model of dominance. The new dominance is invention for fun and for survival.

     Thomas Friedman’s China’s Little Green Book, a Nov 2 NYT column, tells how the Chinese are putting a giga-press on getting green. Not because it’s a nice idea, but so they don’t choke to death on the effluents of modernity.

    <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />South Korea, or SoKo as I ultramodernly call it, has grokked that nationwide ultraband is the kiss the frog & turn it to a prince smartest move. The frog being stuck in the past troglodytism and the prince is the collaborative and colludenative future 

     And we are stuck with a bellicose Administration all hopped up on the drugs of weapons and war. Everyone else is looking at us with horror tinct with pity or pity tinct with horror. Ye gods, I’m ashamed for our de-evolution, and a different thing, I am skin-crawlingly embarrassed that we are so belligerently and theistically stupid. We actually, tho admittedly barely, elected Al Gore an environmentalist and futurist who grokked green and the noosphere, the internet change from the competitive model to the instant and intimately collaborative, colludenative model. It is catastrophic to America’s hopes for joining – yes joining, what a novel, almost Navaho idea! — the future that we are stuck with an entire administration with at least three fatal flaws.

    The whole BushCo mindset is a throwback to anti-ecumenicalism in its many useful varieties. First let’s take a breath, as dear Fitz would say. I am not a communialist at all. I like my little personal space without having to pretend to like people’s company more than I do. I like it sometimes, sometimes I don’t. I like have a lair to retreat to – my garret as it were I suppose. I am not a happy hive person, always rubbing and buzzing like in bars on Friday night. So don’t think I have some sloppy sentimental notion of us all hunkering down in some loving commune. Piffle. However, we could care what happens in the next hovel, I think.

 

     How, for instance, does someone get to take their second dwelling off their taxes before everyone has a first dwelling? And tax payers should subsidize mansions? Really? No one makes their f***ing fortunes in a vacuum. You wouldn’t be so damned rich, FattHoggist, if the janitor weren’t making an impoverished wage. You are not worth 431 times more than your secretary per hour.

    So Robber Baron greediness and a complete gelding of the Labor Movement are flaws which pit us in the US against the future.

   In the general BushCo backward-looking, I see no one who groks the niftiness of technology. And, be sure, it is its niftiness which is what wins you over. Anyone who does not have access to home broadband is crippled. If that sounds like a blunt statement, it is from experience that I speak it. I had an overlap of dial-up and broadband. The broadband crashed one day (a rarity) and I discovered that the dial-up was all but useless. You cannot go back without feeling like an exile. All people who do not have a decent exclusive personal  computer and at least our clunky USA broadband are parapeligic, period.

     Going from broadband (as embarrassing as our USA broadband is – more like teaspoon-band compared to SoKo’s gallon-band) back to dial-up is like going from a fine 10-speed bicycle back to a tricycle. Yes, they both have wheels, but they aren’t in fact comparable.

    Please don’t be swayed by people who are not happy computer nuts. What do they know? I have the zeal of the converted. In 1988, I was still sure computers would be depersonalizing tools of an inhumane Corporate Structure. Maybe someone meant them to be, but trippingly around the gigantic feet of the dinosaurs, the tricksy lemurs began dancing under the moon after school.            

    A greatest fear I have is that with the changes happening so rapidly, those kids without computers or broadband, those not rhapsorg, are dusted into a different social species faster than could have happened before in history. The ability to augment your thinking with access to much of the world’s greatest knowledge all-but-instantly makes you different, more concrete, more specific – not disconnected, not more abstract. Now, obviously the same kind of training that a giga-reader of poetry or of the world itself is fortunate enough to get ought be vouchsafed to all these burgeoning brains so that they don’t only get addicted to cotton candy and giddy trivia. But the wonderful possibility of the noosphere is that you can pinball around from profundity to trivia in a trice.

    The freedom I feel as a writer now that I can check up on every nuance of what I’m writing about makes me just plain better in a substantial way. The melody is a gift I’ve practiced and earned, but the ability to check that SoKo has ¾ penetration of 4 times to 64 times faster broadband from an 11.05 article is a micro-solidity I can pass along that is both bloody cool and also makes us both smarter.

    I use rhapsorg instead of cyborg because the word rhapsody means woven song at root. And this future is orgged or organized more like a woven song than the cybernetic-org – helmsman-org model. There is no helmsman. Yet it is not chaos; there is an anti-entropic tendency to melody; therefore, woven song.

   So the kids (or any of us, really) not wired into the symphony are, ipso facto, deprived.

   Please don’t waste our time listing all that’s stupid and wrong with the internet. The same things that are stupid and wrong with people’s private minds – just the old mind was less on display to the non-psychic. Us psychics don’t notice so much difference, sooth to say. The vast garbage ground of pretentious nonsense and davidletterman sophomoric proto-humor is now in every Comment column of every blog that the generic imbecile-redneck-dave can find to bray on. However, I have found more thoughtful and resonant moments than ever I might have before. It requires a rhino-hide for a writer and super-quik junk-thought filters – like surfing the tv if you’re the one used to holding the remote – at a glance you see that it’s just britneyesque or whatever ain’t your poison.

       So the Chinese are doing giga-green and SoKo is leading the probably unwired way. We have got to instantly get this nation to have universal hotspots – the whole damn nation, like the MoonShot. Why were we woken up by Sputnik and not by SoKo? This is an Emergency & it is not a Test. You should hear that noise of alarm This is an Emergency until you shout at your Representatives urgently and constantly. WiFi this Nation Now.

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collaborate = working together;

colludenate = playing together;

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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 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 157 11.05.05 sat 

ffwofw 1321§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1121

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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the World Government Game

Profounder Flounder

& the World Government Game

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This piece starts fable because if you don’t playful-up your mind, you won’t grok the quantum leap-frog to a new model near the end. Lube your mind.

 

   Profounder Flounder often preferred resting in the mud to being a super-hero. She liked lying in the mud thinking, like Faberge eggs, small great thoughts. Interwoven with sophisticated fishy erotica. Piscine eros was all about brushing one another with melodies of fins.   

    Her beloved, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was also a super-hero. It was easier, frankly, to fin with someone who grokked the difficulties and addictions of tovenaar rescue. There was much promiscuity among the 27,000 poikilothermic species, but Profounder was a faithful flounder.

    “Admit it, Profounder, it gets you off that he has a title,” said Clod Cod, one of their retinue. Profounder glimmered her dappled hide, the fish-equiv of a blush.

    “Yep, it’s slick. He’s so flagrant of fin.”  She nestled deliciously into the squishy mud.

    In spite of his royal heritage, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was legendary fish-freedom-fighter. “Dolphins, dolphins,” he would say. “Howsa ‘bout the tuna?”

    Side-butting was the octessence of erotic fishy action. Reproduction had zero to do with eros in the carnival of fishes. One laid. One sprayed. It was a function. But side-butting was a conjunction of hilarity and eros that humans had never joined. Side-butting was rather like jousting under the sea. Sir Cuss would coyly present his magnificent side to her. She would swim full-speed into his side, pushing him through the water and tumbling him over. Only in a supporting yet yielding medium like water would this be so violent, so playful, and cupidesque at the same time. One took turns. Part of the leisurely pleasure was the waiting while the slow motion sleersh and tumbling bloomed arabesquely in the quicksilver water and so slowly slowed. ‘You bowled me over’ has more meaning in the sargasso depths.

    The last time Sir Cuss 'Cuda had been home, they’d had a fairly hut discussion about the lot of psychic tovenaars, a kind of wily wizard. Most of their discussions were gehry or calatrava, more baroque and cognac in force and feel, though streamlined. The architecture of their conversations was one of their gifts and treasures.

        “What I’m worried about, Profounder,” said Sir Cuss, “is this epidemic of Nero Flu on Planet Paisley. I'm not sure what us tovenaars are going to do about the Nero Flu?”

     Planet <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Paisley is what we call Planet Earth, but seen in its expanded etheric dimension.  The Nero Flu is an astonishingly contagious and debilitating condition. It got its name from an ancient character in Paisley’s exoteric history, an emperor who was said to have shrugged and plucked his lyre as his great city burned. The catchphrase was ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned.’ Nero Flu led to chronic defeat. Keep your head down, loot what entertainment and distraction you can on the sly, and hell with heroism. Heroes have to hero; hero moles get whacked. The Nero-afflicted were pre-wounded. They’d seen the ruthless usurpers, the bloated corporate gloaters, and had learned to hide in the shadows or blend with the fog.

    “Well,” said Profounder, “the young on Paisley have watched the middle-aged and old capitulate to gigaGreed, gigaCreed, and methed theoMilitoPatriotism. Who stands up? Who hollers? Silence of the Sheep – Obedient Americans is the longest running reality show they’ve seen. Who needs the SS? Malls, mortgages, football, and petty political bickering on cable tv quell the masses just fine.

    “Everyone who squawks at all is just twiddling around the edges of change. The difference with these young and the hippos is that these ones aren’t dis-illusioned . . .”

     “Hippies,” said Sir Cuss, “I think they called them ‘hippies,'  the ones hopped up on hope. Hippies, not hippos.”

   “All this shapeshifting from planet to planet, from dis-ease to un-ease, from pretty to giddy, from eyes with lids to eyes without lids. Do I have claws this week or fangs or fins? I’ll confess that keeping the lingo pristine irks my spleen,” said Profounder.

      “So, in the next triad of months, the otromundo themes are Ignite hope in the Apathos. Join Myrth, Salma Nella, The Blue, Quetzal, and pogblog in the Militarism to Educationism/Burning Child project. Backlight the Lizards with Ridicule. And do the odd torvenaar psychic rescue gig.”

    “And plot in some delicious squish in the mud time for you,” said Sir Cuss.

    Profounder Flounder fluttered her fins. It was so thoughtful of him to say that. He was a BarraCuda, a Lord of the Ocean, so silver and sleek, the handsomest fish in the sea. Mud was for vassals. But love does stranger things than make us cherish mud-dwellers.

    “You think you got if not a cure, an ameliorative for this Nero plague?” asked Sir Cuss.

   “Yep, sweets. I duz. The Apathos I know are so smart and so ingenious. And they have no interest in wielding blood-violence – violence that actually draws blood. I say we get them to invent a World Game. Like Sim City, except they would have to deal with the actual conditions in actual regions. They would get to run the virtual World. The Rebels would be the Builders. The CreedoGreedos would run things in the beginning. The Game task would be to transform the world from Creed n Greed to Equality & Happiness.

    There would be 3 World Games running simultaneously. You would be assigned to one randomly. There would be running counters of the EHQ, Equality & Happiness Quotient of each model.

    For every certain quantum of gained E & H, you’d get to spend time Through the Looking Screen in virtual Movie Houses where you’d enter sub-games of giga-GTAesque intrigue and violence and lust. We’d get them to design ways of getting credits from actual action in a local community to give you access to Game-in-Game powers.

    “Fuck, if I may say so, nation-building. Nations should be neighborhoods. World-building is the name of the future. As our R.Bucky says, ‘You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.’”

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Frank Gehry architect .. scroll down when you get there.

Santiago Calatrava architect .. clik slide show when you get there.

piscine = fishy.

poikilothermic .. unlike mammal blood, blood temperature changes with environment.

otromundo = OtherLand; lit. other world.

tovenaar = wizard, shaman.

GTA = Grand Theft Auto, a classic video game.

 

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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

8 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 151  10.30.05 sun

ffwofw 1002§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1117

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Make a Poetry .. MAP .. elan waking x elan dreaming #1

Make a Poetry .. MAP ..

elan waking x elan dreaming #1

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     “Attention is a substance. Attention can travel amongst the intersecting spheres of densities. Monsieur Einstein fussed about his e=mc2 which holds up pretty well in K1, the semi-standard shared steady or fairly predictable and persistent solidity. But attention — the attention point can travel jaguar-like thru the forests of the night and of de-light. A=ec8″.

      Purrs Nickety, the feline assassin specializing in felling hypocrites, had a planet-side putative pal called Spiteful Puffadder. He was cute, sexy, and asked good questions once in a maroon moon, but he knew exactly how to needle her. She knew that when she wrote up the Make a Poetry MAP chapter for the Elan Waking x Elan Dreaming Manual, there would be a flurry of knives that would all impale the bullseye of her tender heart. But, press on regardless was the assassin’s creed even if ridicule and sweet talk were your only weapons in a mean world.

    Purrs said, “Lucid or elan or lively waking (& lucid or elan or lively dreaming, sooth said) is all a matter of deft attention. I put together a whole nice package of pogbloggian angles on deft, deft attention, and deftly intent for you to consult.

       “It’s the awww-kitten theory. When you see a kitten being held by someone, you feel safe. You go , “Aww, how adorrraabble. (Well, I do and many people do. Spiteful Puffyadder would probably like to, but it would de-cool his imagined tuff-guy image (pronounced im-ahhshuh). I use this aww-kitten example because once you get onto the recognition of attention as a thing, as a substance, you can experiment with it, or at the very least observe.

    “Compare also,” said Purrs, “That NLP I think said in some seminar, ‘Notice where you somatisize anger.’  Get over the horrible word somatisize (about which EB White said something like, ‘I’d as soon Simonize my grandmother'). I assumed I knew where I somaticised anger – in other words where in my body did anger concentrate? I assumed my chest, my shoulders, my jaw. But the next time I actually got angry, I realized that I somaticized anger in my forearms. Who knew? So we need a PestPatrol utility scanning our attentions to check out if they’re genuine or have gotten lifeless, juiceless, or just mis-taken.

   “You can send your attention anywhere in time. Or anytime in where.  Now, we like to allow our attention to be manipulated by stories and dance and song and stock tickers I suppose for some. That’s fun and I like it too. It would add to the repertoire of your consciousness though if you began to pay attention to your attention. Not with a furrowed brow tho, nor gritted teeth, but deftly – with no more effort than it takes a butterfly not to crash into the flower upon which it’s landing.

     “Attention that is euphonically and harmoniously deftly formed is often called the zone. Now, a baseball pitcher can be in the zone with his slider but almost slice his thumb off cutting a grapefruit in half. Pitching he can handle his attention brilliantly — tres zone. Halving grapefruits – not-so-zone. I swear that one summer there was a rash of baseball players hacking themselves up trying to halve grapefruits. Anyhow, attention is an undersung substance until you begin to grok it. Have you ever had the phenomenon of learning a new word and then for a week you suddenly hear it being used all over? As you add attentions, it’s like that.

   “Ye owls, now I’m in for it from Spiteful Puffy. But we gotta remind you about the Eskimos and their 25 words for snow. The Eskimos have a refined attention for many more qualities of snow than you and I do because snow is a life or death issue for them. All learning is refining and distilling attentions. And the astonishing thing is that you can have a zillion of them and it’s only more fun.

     “Properly funesed and grokked, attentions are nada but cool. We get tripped up when we lose deft. Deft is the lodestone. There’s a certain effervescence to deft. If we, as we are wont to do but don’t want to do, fall into a leadenness of attention, we are bored or angry or irritated.

   “Obsidian humor may be required to keep the quantum skipping up – when the self-evident stubbornness or stupidity of others seems to be ripping the wings off one’s butterfly of attention on some subject. or other. Obsidian humor is the Advanced Class – harrowing hell is nifty work and if you can’t asbestos up your heart, y’gonna char.

      “But happily and luckily, there’s a lot of attentions honing that all of us can do before we have to throw the lamb chop of our heart to Cerberus. Deft and droll attentions.”

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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

2 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 145  10.24.05 mon 

ffwofw 806§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1111

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

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The gigantic & glorious & terrifying planetary changes of the next six years or so will be a lot more, well, fun for you if you both frantically and serenely gobble down the glamorous and nifty tricks, slick & delicate & brazen, of interweaving lucid waking & lucid dreaming, amigo, amiga.

 

In the juggling integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the octessential leitmotif epistemological or practical trick is being deftly intent. The following tidbits give you a gist of what deft grokkedly means. You can always check with pogblog’s Glossary to see what other coined words or unexpected usages mean.

 

I have linked the essays/stories/articles so you can read the rest of them as you wish. 

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from Eclectic .. muy yum

. . . 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.

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from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

It was ridiculous to take drugs in the Sixties – an invitation to synapse-snafu, but the impulse was completely understandable. People knew immense amounts of experience were being neglected or ignored. With proper training, you can be lucidly awake – deftly intent – all the time and see that the whole world is burning in the forests of the night and of the day. With proper training you can lucidly do alternate experience without crapshooting your faithful synapses – you can learn to shift gears or shift dimensions.

    There are a lot of vaganzas we can have for some practice and if lucky some instruction. (Avoid serious instruction like the plague. Serious instruction must be false. Carpe comedy, however obsidian.)

     Ah, extra vaganzas. Muy yum. Starting with licking everything  as if it were an ice cream cone which is what good poets do and is a good beginning. 

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Homo Hilariens .. obsidian humor .. we evolve at last ..

 

Flan flicked her deft to the megaloreligio she had deliberately encountered for study. Like many beings brought up by animals, Flan used her sense of smell in a symphonic spectrum that people brought up by bipeds could never fathom. It was partly why she was so smitten with Digrif who smelled of late summer grasses and salty waves splash and the bittersweet smell of their mating. Gods know that was better to swim in than the sickly sewage stench of the fear-sweat megaloreligios. 

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Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

    Great education is like putting a permanent IV in your arm renewing you with a plasma of fascination, with an ignited enthusiasm. Great education doesn’t teach you anything except how to learn, an earnest deftness of mind and heart which you can apply to the electric present. It’s splendid and lucky to be confidently curious all the time.
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Brown Bird of Happiness

 

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

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50.5% Crazy

 

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

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Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

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

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Fegg .. Quantum Perception

 

   Fegg. F[aberge]egg. Fegg. Simple, splendid, extravagant, delicious, reverent, jeweled. Fegg. It is seeing and tasting that richness in the little world that is fegg. One of the Earth Decorator's most fegg is, of course, the hummingbird, an outrageous jeweled miniature envied on all planets of all stars. “Ah, Madame Deco,” an offworld Designer would sigh, hardly concealing stark envy, “How did you do it!?” Planet Designers are a good lot on the whole in spite of their universally being riddled with admiration twinned with envy. It's just that when you see something unbearably well done — the concept, the craft, the flash, the diligence, it haunts the heart with gratitude that it has been done–and envy that you didn't think of it first. Gratitude and applause minutely outweigh envy. .. .. The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin) are fabulous, and the notion of fegg derives a portion of its charm from the pleasure that human artisans can be so deft. But the planet's Designer has simply strewn our path with marvels upon marvels, has all but stuffed riches down our throat like fat corn down the foie gras goose's gullet.

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the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

    Pal Ace 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. 

   From the audience Sherrard Gray said, “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, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />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.

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Church .. deftly intent

 

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.


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 the Universe Moved or reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .

 

    I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.

     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.

     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.

….

     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.

    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.     

    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly. 

………….

You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.

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Vulture Culture

 

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

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

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

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

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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

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

ffwofw 855§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Jane the 4th Coming, the BeelzebuB Gospel

Jane, the 4th Coming,

the BeelzebuB Gospel

   

    Ace could not believe that he’d bagged Jane, the 4th Coming herself for another interview for Carpe Comedy, his rowdy and a little raunchy holozine. Jane had told him, “Zebras & warthogs, Ace, I’ll keep coming back until they finally figure out that 'Yep, this is she tho we expected a he.' Just like poor ole Migs Jagger – nice bloke at the bar, a tad tepid in the sack – has to sing Satisfaction over and over. They, the herds, the hordes, the sheep want the same scenario, the same drama. Tho JC and I talk about how if he ever came back himself in a robe and sandals with a gleaming halo and an entourage of angels, they’d freak out.

   It could be a little disconcerting talking to Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings. She was often on the telepaphone, espering away while she was chatting with you and so there was a sense of the music of the spheres surrounding her. Not that she didn’t give you her whole attention. It’s hard to explain. But,thought Ace, that’s what we’re trying to explain multimind.

     “Well,” said Jane, jolly deity, “the first trick to multimind is to unclench your mind. There is no difference between your fist and your useful hand except that you unclenched it. The clenched mind causes no bloody end of harm.

    “Oh but Ace, I wanted to remark on the travails and trawoes of that creep Karl. If you don’t get him, we will. We just slap the Empathy SlashVolter into his brain and turn on the rerun of his life. Aw, it’s great. He feels everything the folks he villainized felt, but just slightly slowed down so the molecular drip of the shame and agony plays its full neuronic amplitude through his sullied synapses. No compartmentalizing here. Karl cannot partition off his lousehood in the full Quark Activation of the Empathy SlashVolter. The villainized get to download all their distilled dismay into his circuits. Fair is fair. He can’t run; he can’t hide. The Truth Dawg has got a perfect nose. And nothin’ is hid from the Record. Every gasp of joy and wonder is recorded on the Akashic Vinyl, and every putrid moment. Ole Karl has to re-eat his own vomit.

    Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings gazes at Ace. Was it worth getting a crush on another mere? The meres. Yeah, they could be daggone cute and a heck of a roll in the straw, but they had the attention spans of fleas and the depth of a puddle. But this one was funny. That mitigated the other merenesses somewhat, maybe. Mere mortals – ho hum, or fa la la – that was the question. Multigonads. Well, they weren’t ready for that yet. That would have to wait for the 8th Coming or later.

    “Multimind. Now we’re pretty much stuck in cerebro izquierdo – the left brain. What we neglect except on more hidden and forbidden occasions is the cerebro divertido, the droll brain, the right brain. The trick is to be niftier hopscotching back and forth. The transitions, the warping and wefting, the gliding and sliding betwixt and amongst are too sluggish for major splash and glee and knife-keen seeing. Integration is elation. We’ll talk about seeing with poetry next time.”

   “Next time?” thought Ace. The challenge with gods, however pan and dionysian, was that the beginnings and endings could be abrupt. They appeared. Then they unappeared. There was a lot of poof and presto and arbadacarba. It was like a secret handshake this prestoing and poofing and arbadacarbaing, and you were supposed to laugh in a most jocular manner. Out of the blue, it occurred to him. Tapas. That was it. He hadn’t remembered to provide a spread of snacks. So instead of accusing him with that piercing emerald gaze, she’d just decided to romp off and have a few tacos al pastor. She liked him tho, he thought. She refused to hang out with the BloodDrinkers. There could be worse things than being a toy boy to a goddess.        

        

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Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a joke ..

.

   Jane never set out to be the 3nd 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 and now there's the entirely unnoticed 2nd Coming — so 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, nor in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke to get some guffaws around the supper table! Only crazy people would, like, do it. Yuck.

    “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. “Not kill is, ah, hmmm, let's see — not kill. Not not kill with codicils. Not Not kill except if you've got on a different colored uniform (Murder by fashion offense?). Not not kill except when I hate your guts you stupid foreign (different [ skin; accent; taste in good cheese; quality of ululation. Check one]).     

     “Thou shalt have much more fun. Thou shalt not interfere with the fun of thy neighbor or of thy enemy. The endlessly tedious & unfun white aka pink splotched christians in the USofA Inc left out the very very funny Gospel According to BeelzebuB, the only non-sycophantish, non-power-serving Gospel that J.C saved for his own scrapbook. The others he turned into confetti — 'Who writes this kind of pious rubbish? They should take their meds,' JC told me before he left soon after the denouement of the 1st Coming for a refreshing galactic gallivant. 

    “One of the white christians' 10 Greatest Sins — the real pornography — is that they are as terminally unfun as they are greedy. Note, Ace, that the ultra-holy Americans don't put the chiselled list of their 10 Greatest Sins of Seriousness on the CourtHouse Lawn.”

   Ace said, “By the way, all I ask is that in even years, we change out the word God for the word Zeus on money, prayers, and in any pledges of allegiance so us good American polytheists get our turn. Fair is Fair.”

    Jane impaled him with a green-eyed look. A nerve, he thought, I've struck a deitific nerve. He quickly said, “I hadn't heard of the Gospel According to BeelzebuB?” hoping to deflect a present but unclear danger.

     “Of course JC was a polytheist, Ace. Not that you could call him a theist really, but he sure was poly. Poly and pan. All of his frisky and cheerful and artist-eye stuff got cut out of everything but BeelzebuB's Gospel. All this monotheism crap was a pure power-grab by the 12ftTalk Lizards in Human Disguise of the day. Had there been the Cuneiform Times back when, the Country Club Set is pretty much the same from millennium to millennium. Especially the simply ghastly nouveau riche like your present Bushes. There's nothing so agonizingly awful than a parvenu. These pipsqueak people have no class, only faux piety and genuine pretension. How one's skin does crawl at the idea that the Bush & ilk are allowed in the front parlour. They are all noise and graceless greed.

    “After a large and fattening lunch, we'll get to what a crock the creed of gigagreed is. But I want to say a bit more about poly and pan before smorgassnacks. Monotheism is as ugly an idea as ever reared its scaly head in the pantheon of Religious Wrong Turns. JC wasn't an Exclusivist. Never. He was genuinely generous and gentle of mind. He knew that a simple holiness was tricky to come by and that everyone had one pretty piece of the Giant Spinning holoKaleidoscope. Nobody has it all. And nobody has none. Ye owls, Ace, I'm hungry. Waffles, eggs, bacon, syrup, himalayan amounts of butter, french toast stuffed with hell, and even an honest omelette to finish. Muy yum.”

 

 

 

Swords into laptops — $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

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

 $820,000 per minute buys ultraband

 

 In my experience of so many schools, they are afraid to have their kids' fingers in the socket of the universe. I know that kids have a right to a radiant, mischievous, surprising life and that such a life can be more or less sensible.

Just like electrical engineering can be taught so you can get your house and town wired, radiance engineering can be taught so you can get your inner mansion lit.

We use at best 10% of our on-board computer. Quantum Schools will shoot for 20%. Double the capacity to seamlessly handle experi-data — the intoxication you mention as a foundational, steady state, the base rate, drunk without slurring or hangovers.

.

Adding the first 2% is already exhilarating & somersaulting. Getting high on 'air' will put a hole in alcohol & drug sales but is otherwise quite benign.

The neonutcon lizards are a drainingly dreary distraction from the future much more ruled by art than by commerce. When artists and teachers are applauded & paid, not so obscenely as the Corp-Hogs were, but well — and mainly the art in EVERYone and I mean YOU too, pilgrim, whoever you are — the art in EVERYone will be the duty of the society to foment & ferment & tend. We're only a decade or two from that. Ultraband, free wireless very broadband, will bring the art-in-each revolution to a simmer which then Educationism will bring to the lovely boil. People will not ask What do you do for a living? — but rather What do you do for a living?

Once we start the Big Turn from all the resources being poured into the rathole of Militarism to the same bounty being poured into Educationism, the world will begin to bloom like a fxxg flower. When you look back from Y3000 you can see the faintest of the dawning flower light — or flowering dawn light — rising in our time. I am not seer enough to see the exact timeframes from that distance, but the collective unconscious is harrowed of these unfun fundamentalizms — the shadow, fear-ridden — that we have to salve & solve while we can more merrily press on, regardless.

Basically we change out violence for art and eros. We still have lots of invigorating violence, but not not not in K1. (see pogblog's Glossary for definitions.)

I am always amazed by how someone like Peter Jackson (love-slave material) can orchestrate so much cathartic violence & no one gets hurt at all. Sweet.

As long as violence remains in a medium (dreams for instance) that allows for all but instant regeneration, who cares what consenting adults do?

You could say that this K1 masterpiece of reality engineering is just a dingy Dungeon & Lizards and that we signed on for a bit of bleak & high-moral dudgeon in the dungeon — but see Ethereals on that nasty & brutish hobbesean theory.

 

More Island time & less RatRacery.

//////////////

Some more on art and violence. We’ve talked before on pogblog about the addiction-survival-circuits along which run all but irresistible desires to drink, gamble, snort, whatever. I think it’s safe to say that in general artists don’t use Uzis – except maybe Norman Mailer. (Just a joke, Norms.) The kind of fierce and controlled or even chaotic zone-energy that addicts soldiers with a sense of meaning and aliveness is found in art in a less ragingly virulent form than bloodthirst. Your brain on art. Now, there have been stupid cultural cross breeding with art and drugs or drinking or smoking. I myself recall that when I quit smoking cold quetzal in ’88, my bigger fear than weight gain was the loss of some creative intensity. To which I can now say Nonsense. A clear brain is fiercely lovely to live in. A half-gallon a day of Carlo Rossi white isn’t necessary fuel. Air does work fine.

   But these are niceties. The big militant pacifist cause celebre is getting us off the death &  mutilation jag. I use Sandy Calder of mobile fame and myself as examples that artists can manage to lead a life of intense and fruitful art without have to drink or drug themselves into stupor or death. Rather like Gandalf’s Shadowfax, the wild horse can be honored and partnered with.

     The connection of great art and misery is a crock. Many artists of a certain era were conned into that semi-tragic pose. Now, sooth be said, the loneliness of being out on the edge is an acquired taste. But not all art has to be philosophic or psycho-illogical or psychic edge exploration. The zone is a swell invigoration. And when more of us are doing it instead of just being corporate mules, we’ll have the chuffy fellow obsidian humor that illuminates the darker passages of art’s delving.

    Vivid life on Earth is at risk with these theopatriot cogists in league with militarism to the tune of $820,000 per minute. I don’t know the tax break to the midasses making over $600,000 per year exact figures, but they’ll congeal your blood. Alchemy rises: change militarism to educationism.

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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 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 139  10.18.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

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.

.

to be continued .. ..

….

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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

ffwofw 1000§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1102

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Horizontal Model & the art of collaboration

Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

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    G.Ro TesQ had been rescued from the thin air of the Grueling Heavenly Realms. Back home on Earth in new washed if not new-minted simple humble happiness, G.Ro had returned to laud the Horizontal.

    “I am G.Ro TesQ,” she said quietly as she gave the keynote speech at.the ConCon in the millennial Earth Year 3000. ConCon was the global.consciousness convention that convened annually in these times. “All of Earth's old troubles came from the Vertical Model which had

kept its heel on the throat of the human spirit for centuries.

    “Simply turning the axis of understanding to horizontal solves 99% of both human horror and human awkwardness.

    “First consider the range of densities our consciousness crisscrosses in a life's experience. We have spaceless/timeless thought. We have dreams, daydreams, fantasy, imagination, memory. We have the precious. moving kinesthetic present, seemingly sequential and solid. Now, in the dominant Vertical Model, as invisible as space, our religions have posited a non-solid, spiritual realm which is above us–is better, purer, less gross than our terrestrial experience, all muck and rut.

    “Of course, conveniently, the priests, monks, gurus, and shamans had the key to our escape.

    “What I'm about to tell you is radical because I have searched the literature of the globe and that literature is invariably full of the higher self or the soul or spirit, all more valuable and more wise than we sluggish, lesser, benighted earthdwellers who will ascend' in death or enlightenment to our truer selves.

    “If we see consciousness vertically, a ladder to be climbed, we are falsely forced to see ourselves on the lower rungs staring up at the compassionate rump of the priest, guru, monk, shaman who precedes us to the heights.

     “If, on the other hand, we rotate the axis of consciousness to be sideways, we can more correctly and coherently see the spectrum of our consciousness as including all the densities with no greater value implied. Just as in light, ultraviolet is not better than infrared, our less-dense experience is not better that our solid experience, only different.

    “The old Vertical Model organized millions, then billions of people for millennia. In a rough sketch, the Vertical Model puts God up in Heaven & the Devil down in Hell. God & his angels in idealized pure heaven and us down on gross, coarse Earth. The lower chakras are coarse energy, the upper increasingly more sublime. We are basically a colony of heaven. And when we refine ourselves enough, we'll get a white robe, join the junior ranks of the choirs of angels and be allowed to kiss the big toe of God. And then when we've really refined our unruly consciousness, we get to dwell in the vast seamless rippleless nirvanic stillness for our Good Behavior. Thus, depending on the phase or fullness of my rage, the virulent or pesky Vertical Model came about because the daggone Head got an inflated or puffed-up view of its importance to the whole system though it can not even digest a single groat–not a single grain of barley or grow a single toenail.

    “The higher self doesn't have digestion and mucus and dirt under the fingernails. One could wax as rhapsodic about digestion as about Christ consciousness if we were less prissy and overfastidious about what qualities we invited through the spiritual front door.

    “A simple shift of 90º¸ puts us in the new Horizontal Model where all the considerable ills of the vertical hierarchical model fall away. The Horizontal Model shifts the axis of metaphysical, ethical, epistemological, psychological, economic, and sociological understanding from hierarchical to equal-and-various.

    “The Horizontal Model is a model of collaboration. In the Horizontal Model we discover the preciousness of the immanent vs the transcendent. The immanent is an indelible relationship with the brilliant manifested world, recognizing mobius how it's lit from within. The transcendent energy is too thin, not sufficient, not sufficiently engaged, leading to spiritual anorexia. True compassion must be horizontal. No judgment, only evaluation. The body is not neurotic or restless or even greedy. It is the ethereal which keeps pushing the adrenalin button or drives the body to eat when it is not hungry. All sins are sicknesses of the soul. The excesses of the soul. The most natural state for the body is joy. What body would choose suffering? It is the confused or thwarted soul which incurs morbidity. The ethereal drives the body to visceral or lower chakra disturbances or distress when it pushes the sweetness buttons past grace and elegance and delight. The ethereal drives the body to anorexic or upper chakra disorders when it idealizes deprivation and detachment.”

    G.Ro TesQ chuckled, “Certainly constructing the Horizontal Model requires a lot of naps. Perhaps it is because, catlike, I take so many naps that I don't have this head/intellect/spirit prejudice that infests the holy and alternative literature. Napping, my head's not at the  top, it's not higher, it's just to the left and my feet to the right. These distinctions are not trivial. The hidden prejudices in the language deeply affect our profound feelings of value. I sometimes think I should wear a shoe upside down on my head as a hat to remind us to keep our heads on the ground.

    “Your horizontal waking brings democracy not just to politics, but to thought and feelings, an equality of qualities. We need to bring all our qualities and talents–woven–to bear on the moving present. The emerald earthflame in each molten molecule. The honey in each enchanted molecular dance.

    “We need to internalize and eternalize this new model, the horizontal spectrum. Co-llaborate. Co-amaze. Co-applaud. Co-kindle. Co-ignite. Co-weave emerald strands of enchantment from whatever qualities apply to the precious moving present.

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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The Land of the Dead is Lively

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The Land of the Dead is Lively

 

    The first one who died, my father, I was numb. The second one who died, my first husband, I screamed. By the tenth big death before I was 29, I was pissed. Furious, not drunk.

    This heaven-and-hell folderol is a misleading way to talk about the Land of the Dead because though the heaven-mongering Christians, who began as a simple religion of the powerless, have had the power, the press, and the propaganda for a lot of centuries, the AfterLife Truth is much more complex, and, luckily, a ton more fun.

    I didn’t think when I was a child feeding the shiny newborn black-and-white Holstein calves their buckets of faintly pink milk that I would grow up to become an expert in death. It just happened. There’s no degree you can get in this one. The Major Universities don’t have Death 101 on the curriculum. The Major Religions Lie because they got detached from Mystery. The Other Side, the non-carnate, the less dense — of which the AfterLife is but a facet — is often too raunchy, sly, anarchic, boisterous, and fragmented to be a useful example for a solid, sequential existence. Thus the preachers and teachers, seldom lit from within, hid the truth, abridged it, sanitized it, pietized it, forgot it.

    When, to my shock, I met my disoriented father shortly after he’d died, his color was quite blue. He was swaddled in bandages, and was being cared for by bustling midwife-like beings who were tending his unreconciled passage from the solid carnate world to the non-carnate realms. They were kind. He had died too young at fifty-two. The hospital had killed him with misdiagnosis. The doctors said Whoops, shrugged, looked abashed, and then down at their brilliantly-shined shoes. When I first met my father in OtherLand, of course I just thought I was crazy.

    When I met my first husband, Michael, who had died too young at twenty-eight — his car slid off an icy Vermont road into a tree — When I met Michael in an other-density garret, cooking a hamburger, the fat sizzling loudly in the frying pan, I was just utterly glad to know that he hadn’t vaporized into some black hole of nothingness. The black hole of nothingness being the most cruelly unbearable. I still thought I was probably crazy.

    Depending on who you are hearing this, you either think I’m still crazy or are holding your hand to your mouth grateful that it happened to someone else too or you’re so used to this inter-realm stuff that it’s not exactly ho-hum, not really old hat, but it isn’t molecularly shocking nor bone-marrow creepy, throat-clutchingly terrifying anymore either.

    Father, husband, brother, stepbrother, stepfather, mother, mentor, headmistress, eighteen-year-old cat, all the eight grandparents of course. By now my horror has transmogrified to raw rage. Higher realms indeed. Our dear Earth realm is so high and glorious that non-carnates, responsible and derelict alike, shove and claw to get a ticket on this most intriguing of galactic roller coaster rides. I distinctly blame religions for grabbing power by devaluing this solid terrestrial experience.

    Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful for my non-carnate and semi-carnate experiences. Learning to fly, walking on water, floating through the ceiling. Giddy stuff. But I will not have us be a colony of heaven. We are the experts on relatively sequential time, on solid experience, on being able to actually eat a whole chocolate chip cookie, to drive where we’re going and not end up somewhere else.

    Our beloved realm is a masterpiece of reality engineering — there is no higher place to be. Different, just different. I sometimes think that if I could get that single point across, I could be at peace. Of course that single point would change the world. We would know that every daily thing is holy, radiant. Awe and delight would be our steady state, daily little explosions of radiance. We could then greet heaven with the strength of our own earth beauty and stand in the galactic councils not as slaves or puppets or children, but as tellers of our own tales, proud and various.

    I had never met my ex-husband's parents when they were alive. Mr. Martin was a high school principal in a medium-sized <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iowa town. Mrs. Martin taught home economics and was a devout Christian. I was a vivid redheaded pagan. They would have disapproved of me mightily.

    When I met Mr. Martin in OtherLand, however, he was driving too fast in a bright-yellow open touring car, had on a loud black-and-white-checked sports jacket, a jaunty hat with a sprightly red feather, and a tiger lounging in the back seat with whom I sat. We got along famously to my huge and relieved surprise.

    Mrs. Martin when I met her was almost nun-like in her retreat and shyness of soul. I think Earth had been too rough and ready for her. But she loved her brilliant, vulnerable son, and could, freer of Earth's particular prejudices, honor that I loved him too.

    These pow-wows with the dead are not frequent; we don't hang out. My dead, anyway, do not hover. I think it is wicked that the veil is so impenetrable. When I get the chance to rail at heaven's haughty hierarchy, I shall.

 

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2 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 132  10.11.05 tues    

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