Category Archives: TOADSPAWN Appendixes

Go to Mutilation .. “War” is a Euphemism

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Go to Mutilation

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    Instead of saying Go to War, if we say Go to Mutilation, we strip away the monstrous notion that War, that Mutilation is noble. We’re going to Mutilation for fight for freedom? People need to recoil if they hear a Mutilation-monger – whether it is their neighbor or their president.

     Remember, dear reader, that my premise is that in Y3000 human reject war as absolutely as we reject child abuse today. (Of course war, of course mutilation is the worst degree of  child abuse – no worse harm can be done to a child than death or mutilation.) I believe that we end Mutilation as an accepted tool of cloved-hooved statecraft much sooner that Y3000. I’d reckon we will have eradicated the mutilation virus by 2038, 33 years from now. But because I don’t find it fruitful to get hung-up on dates, I’ve picked a timeframe only the NeoNutCons can dispute. Once we refine the memes, the mind-vaccine will spread very fast. People will recoil and rebel against the obscene waste of humane resources that the Mutilation Machine sucks out of your child’s brain.

    Because we are learning to stay on message, let’s have today’s recounting of the Extreme Left Wing 5-Point Agenda: universal healthcare; superb K-College education; a treasured & revered environment; a robust living wage; and nation-wide wi-fi.

    When we spend $200,000 per minute on Iraq; $820,000 per minute on the Mutilation Machine annual budget beyond the Iraq quagsands – those sum are being subtracted from healthcare, education, environment, robust wages, and a wired nation.  

     The pro-Mutilation crowd will jump up and down and hiss ‘n holler, ‘Whoo, whoo, Remember 9/11, They’ll get us here if we don’t mutilate them there.’ Balderdash.

   3000/425,000. The plane-wielding jerks are much less destructive than the cigarettes-wielding jerks. Yes, we should be vigilant and smart. But not, I may inject mildly, hysterical. This full-bore red-line the Mutilation Machine hysteria has not served us well even in its own terms. We have proved a red-coat dinosaur among insurgent lemurs. We have already lost.

    But we will have wiser leaders and, more important, we will teach ourselves not to be bamboozled by false fervors.

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Notes:

(1)On 02.27.1968 Walter Cronkite said about the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam debacle, “To say that we are mired in stalemate seems the only realistic if unsatisfactory conclusion.”  It was seven more years until it was finally over on April 30,1975. I hope we can do better. Mr. Kissinger implies that it was the divisions at home that prevented us from winning. Ho Chi Minh said, “We would have fought you for 300 years. We live here.”

 

(2)Cindy Sheehan spoke of people “who don’t have skin in the game.”

 

(3) Karen Meredith, Gold Star Mom from Mountain View noted that since Mr. Bush’s vacation (‘hanging loose time’) began, 31 soldiers had been killed in Raq.

 

(4) Whole cities are getting wired by MetroFi and Aiirmesh. South Korea has 60% broadband penetration in its country. And its broadband pipe is 20 Mbps moving to 100 Mbps compared to Comcast’s broadband boast of 1Mbps. We is smokèd. Effit, we is radically charred.

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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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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

8 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 86  08.26.05 fri

ffwow 472§8769§24d7h47m33s1047


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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Real Pornography

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The Real Pornography

Toad Spawn Be Gone! Chapter 10

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     Obscene Accumulation is the Real Pornography.

     Back in the also obscene nuclear-weapons accumulation days, I used to wail and rail, “Let them steal our tiny piggybanks to build enough nuclear weapons to obliterate all living things and reduce all human structures to vapor and/or pebble-sized rubble 5x over. I won’t even squawk about that. I am willing to go that far in assuaging their paranoid fantasies.

     But the 6th world-rubbling? The 7th? The 10th? No. They have powerful inner demons that have to be fed. But they don’t have to be fed our children’s education and universal heathcare (certainly a jesusian idea) and a minimum wage which does not bring us shame. $14000 a minute for the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars? $200,000 a minute for the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq war? Nope.

     So, there is a sin of scale. SUVs seriously suck, but Hummers are an Express Ticket to Hell.(Arnold has 8 Hummers – you do the Math on how fast he gets to the 10th Circle of Frozen Tears.) SUVs are the vehicular equivalent of microencephaly – the smaller the brain (& no doubt the dawg), the more bizarrely enormous the vehicle.

    I’m hoping to get us to think about not an Utopia, but rather an Buenopia – not perfect but good enough. In that world which will be wrought by the progressive work we begin and continue now, we will have solved the pathology of the real Pornography, Obscene, Filthy Accumulation. How? Well, the main task of artists is to show the Frantically Rich that those riches, like ole Midas did find out, don’t ultimately satisfy. There is enough money that makes you and your family comfortable and safe. Massive accumulations of Money that sit in your bank account fester spiritually. You don’t earn or need $33 million dollars in some year. It’s sick. You don’t need $90,000 bucks a day. You don’t need a tax break. You need prayer. That the poor sonsabitches whose lives and labor you hoovered all that lolly from don’t wake up and think “It’s a lovely day for a Guillotine.”

      It absolutely earthquakes my mind that people are offended by a glimpse of Janet Jackson’s bosom or the burning of a flag and we are talking Mt. Everests of Bosom & Flag Dudgeon here and Congressional Hearings with pompous and pious speeches, — and somebody gets 33 million bucks and the minimum wage is 7 bucks an hour and nobody twitches? My mind-heart struggles with the human Math – how much does what matter what?

     I have to recommend to you an always free consultation with my friend Dan Gero, a journalist and philosopher from Mars. Of course he’s in disguise. He doesn’t want to get incinerated, smithereened, or dissected. I can get you in touch with him though if you’re earnest. A long chat and a cup of tea with someone from another planet is very sobering. Excruciatingly illuminating. You try to explain that a free market (hahaha) always brings the best result. It doesn’t. It brings random and insane and clearly stupid results, but it an article of  economic theology that it always works better than, say, that Satan of Capitalists, the Government. I got a Rapture Ticket I can sell you if you believe that.

   Explain slowly and clearly to a patient philosopher from another planet why we get so twisted in a nutknot about Janet Jackson’s bosom or some such and the polite sympathetic look in his kind alien eyes is unbearable. When you see your species from the vantage of someone from another planet whose insight isn’t clouded by tribal prejudices (the human tribe), there’s a fair amount of nonsense that’s too ludicrous to defend.

   “Well,” I said, “in the dominant Religion in my nation . . .”

    “Excuse me,” he will say softly, “What’s a nation?”

   “Uhh. Well, it has a square rectangle of colored cloth that you wave on a stick. Your rectangle of striped colored cloth tells you which nation is yours, sort of. You have a special rousing war song. You hardly ever kill people who wave the same colored rectangle of cloth even if you hate them. If they have a different colored rectangle of cloth and your government says to, you kill them even if you like them. Or you kill them even if you don’t have a clue whether you would like them or not if you sat down together to have a burger and a beer.You kill people who step over your border if your government is really mad at them.”

   “What’s a border?”

   “Uhh. Well, it’s a line that separates my nation from Juan’s nation.”

    “We have very powerful holo-telescopes on Mars. I’ve never seen such lines. We can count the trees in your forests, but I have never seen these lines?”

   “Uhhh. Well, they’re there. Uhhh. Well, they’re on pieces of paper we call maps. They matter. We kill for them. We die for them. I’ve never seen one either. But. But they’re there. They’re very real to us. I don’t know why.”

   “So you were telling me about the dominant Religion in your nation, now that I understand what a nation is.”

    “Yeah, in the dominant Religion in our nation, they have one special day a week where they go drink the blood and eat the flesh of their God’s Son.”

   When you tell these kinds of things to a philosopher from another planet, and you see the politely veiled recoiling look on his face, it’s hard to want to have ‘Human’ stamped on your Galactic Passport.

    As a friend of mine says, “We have our work cut out for us to get 'equality of human value' around our whole spaceship. Capitalism has significant strengths. One of the great flaws of untended capitalism, however, is its collateral-damageizing of workers. Stupid becomes bad becomes evil when you aren't watching. It'd be better to go back to beads and barter if paper money and then just chicken scratches symbolizing paper money become more important than the people.”

    The idea that unless people are motivated by Continually Basted and Stuffed (like the Thanksgiving Turkey) Greed, we will devolve into uninventive sloth is absurd, but it is an Article of Faith justifying the Grotesque Accumulations Of Cold Gold. Let’s take three counter-indications. Most artists make zilch until after they die and then all the Richies buy up these symbols of something more meaningful than that Bottom Line.Us artists work like dogs for zilch.

    Legions of  women before the modern era did godszillions of useful volunteer work for centuries without money remuneration. Similarly almost all of the people who labor like dogs in non-profits are lousily underpaid, but they do the work anyway.

    Europeans who are hugely more taxed manage to have verve enough to continue to be entrepreneurial at a rate comparable to America’s verve — with much more public accountability.

     So we can take greed as necessary motivation off the table. It’s a hoary crock that gets hauled out in these arguments and somehow stops all further thought. Forget it. It’s stupid. It’s not true. 

    We’ll explore more of the solutions to the Real Pornography of Obscene Accumulation under the kind but relentless gaze of our Martian friends, unblinded by economic creeds, but for the moment, begin to study and dream and mull over a future in which you cannot feel or be lionized as powerful and successful if the planet, our Buenopia, is not pleasant and prosperous for also the least among us. Where you don’t get to have Two Mansions until everyone has one Swell Hut with indoor plumbing. A kind of inner gyroscope of justice, or a  justice-cap to Obscene Accumulation. I am not, by the way at all against your having a lot more than Mark or Mary, but there is a sin of scale. Along with them 3 Rs, we might want to start also teaching one J – the simple human math of justice.

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

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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 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 58  07.29.05 fri  8783§24d8h36m59s

♫ffsk 1295

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Militant Pacifism as Daily Bread

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Militant Pacifism as Daily Bread

 

..

 Now that I’m settling into being a militant pacifist, how does it feel?

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 Fierce pacifist, c’est moi! Well, I’ve burned almost all my bridges to politics as usual or life as usual. I am no longer considered part of any fold. As you can see in the Hector & the Abolition of War piece, I’ve seen too much to go back. 

 

 

 You realize you’ve gone further out on a limb to the future than any of your friends. They’ll still default to some version of the good or necessary war.

 

   I don’t see any point in arguing about any past wars. We should stand where we are in history and in human rights and see our way forward. I say without fear of contradiction that in Y3000, we do not fight wars to resolve conflicts anymore. The idea then is repugnant, is preposterous.

 

   So what I’m trying to grok¹ and funes² (big picture/drink deeply; little picture/inhale details) is how we make our way through the individual consciousness; the social consciousness; the practical restructuring – to take care of the buggywhip makers and to re-orient the grooms. And to paint the murals of how we can inhabit an energy and fierce creativity comparable to the addictive personal & collective bloodthirst?

 

    What are the new memes³ or idea genes we need to manifest as talismans for people to make it to a whole new way of thought? Of course in retrospect this process will be seen as having happened organically, but there are quantum nudges.

 

    The Military Industrial Ship has hit the Iceberg. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq has proved that War doesn’t work even if you are the only Gigantic Bully on the Whole Planet. There is still pro forma and habitual Chest Thumping, but if someone with ¼ a brain can get the word out about the Cost of this Sucker, the populace is going to take major incoming of disillusionment. It was swell – this very night I saw one of the guys who pulled Mr. Hussein out of the hole say 'No, Don’t stay in to honor the slain.'

 

      How many people like me will have to be thrown in the leaf-chopper before it becomes generally accepted that War is Toast that fell on the floor butter-side down?  I’m ready to take on the reviling and the ridicule so we can refine our language. It’s going to be a brutal time of Whak-a-Mole.

 

    Someday soonish a few more people will say, “Some of my best friends are fierce pacifists!” I long to be claimed by someone, anyone.

 

     There is a great liberation being out of the cocoon, beyond the gestation. I’m not sure how to handle all this bright light and the zephyrs and gales or to handle these glorious if ungainly wings. Quite the long while I’ve been willing to be arrested for the right to stand with my Teach Peace sign in public places where I was not so welcome. This now is a quantum leap – I have to be willing to die not to kill.    

 

¹ ² ³  See pogblog's Glossary

 

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part 1

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

pogblog

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
7 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 85  08.25.05 thur
ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..part 1
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
for jamie 981§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

Hector & the Abolition of War

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pls read this as slowly as you can read

 

Hector and the Abolition of War

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

¹ 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 Lizard . <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Kan . South . tzol 84  08.24.05 wed 

forfullersb 1036§8769§24d7h47m33s1049

zondaarheeltar 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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George Bush: Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump

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George Bush: Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump

 

Because my line is drawn at Death and Mutilation, I could care less how vehement people are in their speech.

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I could care less how violent movies or video games are, tho I'm happy to remark on their idiot tastelessness or wasteoftimefulness.

 

My laser focus is on actual Death & Mutilation about which there seems much less outrage — about which we speak in hushed tones.

 

I am happy to call Mr. Bush a Gigantic Canker on a Pig's Rump and consider it a sycophantic civility.

 

I suppose I can applaud “calm & peaceful foci” for those to whom that is a soothing m.o., but in the last decade, there's been far too much civility in the USofA Inc re these Death & Poverty-Dealing Bastards who are sucking human resources out of the human system like Monster BloodSuckers from the Planet Mortetsang.

 

Yes, I would prefer that Rudeness and Coarseness be wielded by folks of pogbloggian skill, but rather than one single bullet in one single brain, I'll take all the rampaging tasteless jerkoffs who want to piss on the tulips and call it wit.

 

The one-to-one relationship between violent speech and K1¹ (daily life) violence is, per se, zero. I can stem-wind trenchant loathing with the best of them and actually with dandelion-puff-preserving delicacy gently pick up flies so as not to bruise their tiny wings and let them go outside. I’m not the one who countenanced shock-and-awe with actual ordinance and called the resulting kids with arms blown off and eyeballs blown out, collateral damage. Pish-tush, I say. We’ve been under the thumb of Norman Rockwellism too unbloody long in this tepid nation.

 

The language of loathing has all been on the Right in the USofA Inc. Some tiptoeing girded-up soul from the Left pulls out a water pistol (with lukewarm water, “lest you feel a chill”) and the Right howls with rumpelstiltzkin indignation. My fellow citizens find Mr. Bush “likeable” because nobody has bothered to rip his masks off. There has been entirely too much apology and civility from the Left here. More people should be declaring, “Death & Poverty Dealers be Damned.”

 

Presidential candidate John Kerry had an excellent, detailed plan repeatedly and civilly laid out with complete sense and elegance, and the media and the public went Yawn. Did the Washington Post beat the drum for this civil and sensible, humane and far-seeing plan? Or even give it column inches and discussion? No. Every columnist at the Washington Post and other so-called major newspapers in this country slunk along with the war drums plenty tho.

 

If any major columnist had the spine he was born with, he’d stir up some loathing-hued ink for the appalling robbery – in broad day-light, thumbing their noses and laughing out loud – of lifesavings and lifehopes of the middle and lower classes. We need a lot more blistering loathing,  not less. Call a Greedy Bastard, a Greedy Bastard. The Left here has been gelded for at least decade. Gelded, hell – they don’t even bleat like sheep. In the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />UK, you cannot imagine the tedious tepidity of the American Left.

 

Finally one candidate, Paul Hackett, recently returned from Iraq and running for office in the rabid-Red Ohio hinterlands, called Mr. Bush ‘a chicken hawk’ and ‘a son of a bitch.’ Both true and long overdue for out speaking. Mr. Hackett suggested that some chicken hawk commander in chief who was so stupid as to inflame the enemy by saying, “Bring it On,” when it was the troops who would have to bear the mutilating brunt of his poll-raising bravado was a son of a bitch has got it exactly right and should say it loud and often. Louder and oftener.    

 

 The Far Looney Extremist Left does have an agenda: universal healthcare; superb K-college public education; a living wage; a treasured, revered environment; and broadband (ultraband) as widespread as phones – all five of which goals so Americans can join a sane and sensible future.

 

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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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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 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 82  08.22.05 mon

ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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God shrugs. Satan smirks.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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God shrugs. Satan smirks.

 

I, 96.66% of the so-called time, have the distinct sensation that I am visiting from the future.

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

One of the clues to me is the very great difficulty I have in translating you all's apparent facility with linear time. I am embedded in an holospheric, photonic spice (space-time) funeszing the galloping or snoozing details and someone will say “When's your birthday?”

 

Innocent question to them. But panic comes over me, “This should be easy. I know they want, they expect an answer. Of course the question is nonsensical in spice, or holo-space-time, hurry hurry, what was the damned answer I gave last time? They expect the same answer every time. I'm ancient in death; an infant in skateboarding. Birthday? Birthday? Dagblast it. Oh my oh my.”

 

So while I dither, an odd look crosses their face because of course they have met me in their dreams many times, that panoply of spices, but they can't quite lay quit of darling K1, the solid reliable Earth masterpiece of density-engineering, and slide into kaleido-time for a splash.

 

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Another clue is the notion I wrote about recently: “the solidarity of the living – the civil right to remain unmaimed.” In the year 3000, we would be somewhere along the emotio-spectrum from agog to appalled at the idea that sentient creatures could deliberately maim each other.

 

   I realized that when I visited you in the summer of 2005, you had some serial murderer, repulsive & loathsome, who had murdered a dozen people. There was huffing and puffing and clucking, “Monster. Remorseless. On & On.” In the exact same days, your remorseless Murderer-in-Chief who had by proxy killed or maimed 100,000 non-combatants was swaggering around being protected by strong and handsome young viriles who had at hand a special Device where MaimerDood could cause the destruction of  millions in one very fell swoop. There was no recoil. No shame. No projectile vomiting of disbelief. It was all considered not only normal, but very fine. Sketches of official portraits were being prepared and a new official chef to fed the Maimer and its family was just hired.

 

   In Y3000, we couldn’t even write a nice cathartic horror tale with a character this grotesque, least of all imagine this servile a populace who sent cabbages to his kitchens for coleslaw. And no one cries out? No one, shuddering, points a finger with a pealing cry of anguish and falls to the earth turned to stone?

 

    One of my fellows from Y3000 searched in our dusty nano-digital archives and found that in Y2002, 425,000 people in the USofA Inc alone died of tobacco-related causes. 3000 people died in the ‘terrorist’ attacks which generated the mobilization of vast armies and shock&awe. Not one battalion was mobilized to attack either R.J.Reynolds or Philip Morris, clearly a huger danger to the public life & lung than some scraggly measly minor league terrorists of Arab descent. Citizens are not losing rights, being patted down in airports, and profiled to see if they are wielding a pack of Winstons.

 

Where in the Hell is Reason? (Note to right-wing imbeciles: Of course the officially designated terrorists suck. No, I do not support ‘terrorists.’ No, I am not against our troops. Yes, I am actually trying to do my damnedest to bring them home alive and unmaimed. And if there are any other idiot and pre-psychotic twistings of what I’m saying that you might be churning up in your febrile brains, don’t. Like with the bible, I mean literally what I’m saying. Unless I’m taking a flyer off into the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Land of Irony, a subject, like jazz – if y’gotta ask &c.)

   So we’re all a tut tut with revulsion at someone who offs 12 people and not only la de dah, but actively hurrah about the mega-mass murderer & minions who have offed enough Iraqi non-combatants to fill 30 World Trade Centers? How is the future to get their minds&hearts around this impossible concept?

    And the people who make timid little demur around the edges, who like little mices squeak out – they are reviled with a vehemence which has to be witnessed to be believed. Satan doesn’t even have to break a sweat to put this planet in His column. God shrugs. Satan smirks. People didn’t even put up a fight. That’s what so damned sad when it gets looked back on from Y3000.

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

16 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 81

ffsb 732§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Education Industrial Complex .. please!

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The Education Industrial Complex

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

“Our government has kept us in a perpetual state of fear — kept us in a continuous stampede of patriotic fervor — with the cry of grave national emergency… Always there has been some terrible evil to gobble us up if we did not blindly rally behind it by furnishing the exorbitant sums demanded. Yet, in retrospect, these disasters seem never to have happened, seem never to have been quite real.” — General Douglas MacArthur 1957

 

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron.     — Dwight D Eisenhower, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />April 16, 1953

 

 

I have taught high school. I have taught adults for the last 26 years.
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 As you’ll see over time on pogblog, my rage at the waste of war and of the disgusting Military Industrial Complex is the fissionable plutonium incandescing in the zircalloy synapses of my molten brain. It’s the education, stupid. Not these tame little underfunded tweaks reluctantly couched up by a cowed Congress, but a massive Manhattan Project to quantum the  human experience thru intense, delicious continuous continuous continuous education. (Education to me is NOT trade school whereby you become a doctor or a lawyer or a plumber, as worthy as those may also be, but prejudice-shattering, mind-egg cracking, raw blazing discovery.) 

 

When people tell me that “you can't throw money at the problem of education,” they simply  do not know what they're talking about.

 

If we put the kind of primo-vigesimo-centillion money into Education that we put into the Military Industrial Complex, some of that $200,000 a minute, that $820,000 a minute, we could have a superb K-College public educational system that serves every single child with the best teaching and the best facilities. (As well as sending and sending adults back and back to school.)

 

This would be a quantum step toward the deeply human and humane species we could, well gee, intelligently design ourselves to be.

 

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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

15 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 80  8.20.05 

ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Real Pornography is not spending enough on schools.

What's the Euphemism for Screaming?

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What’s the Euphemism for Screaming?

  

    Next time you hear the phrase 'collateral damage,' I want you to leap up out of your chair and start screaming.

   Too boat-rocking for you? Too impolite? People will question your sanity? Your urbanity?

   You get to scream. The dead are very quiet. Perfectly polite. Perfectly polite are the collaterally damaged. You get to scream the scream they can not.

   Doing what’s right ain’t comfortable, ain’t polite. Solidarity of the living. The civil right to remain unmaimed.  

    Well, if every damn one of us leapt up and started screaming any time we heard some obscene mealy-mouthed insane euphemism like collateral damage, may be we could make a dent in their denial systems that lead to mutilated children – not collateral damage – children mutilated.

   There came a time when you had to say, “No, you can’t say ‘nigger,’ it’s wrong, it’s evil, and I won’t stand for it.” Now many a cocktail party in the early ‘50s was ruined by someone boat-rockingly, impolitely, finally, speaking up, speaking out.

   Living is a civil right. War is the last insane bastion of the double-speakers, the lunatic justifiers. War is state-sanctioned murder. War is state-sanctioned mass murder. Ohmygods, the ‘m’ word! Murder.

    As a planet we must pick a day – 9.5.05 would be good enough. Before that day all of history people were blind, do not blame them. Move on past the past. Til that hour they have an amnesty.

    After that day call it what it is. Killing is killing. Dead is dead. Murder is murder is murder.

   We do this telling of the whole truth now on 9.5. Or some other day, some other year, some other century. The abolition of war can be delayed but it does occur. The sooner, the sooner we can look our species in the mirror and bear it. The abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you.

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

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     Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.

    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “You cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.

    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”

      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”

    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.

    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke he had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.

    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne Layers of Denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know. Collateral? Damage?

    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us. If you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

14 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  79  8.19.05

ffsb 872§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Fight for the Soul of Earth

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Fight for the Soul of Earth .. slumped over keyboard . .. .

 

6:03:34a.pdt.us

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 Fight for the Soul of Earth .. Hmmm, found myself slumped over the keyboard of the Faithful Computer at Dawn, having, well, slumped against the wall of Castle Fati Gue apparently. The last thing I remember was at about 2:44am writing about us far-left looney left fringe left folk at a Solidarity with Crawford Vigil.¹ Then I was swaying & swooning trying to stay awake to do Preview at a Comment Screen one more time to make sure the html angled brackets were all closed.

 

Who even knew that in the Fight for the Heart of Earth one would learn some rudimentary html? It ain’t the Da Vinci Code, it’s HTML code in the <a href=>“http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/7/11/1018320.html”>noosphere</a>. No, no, no, I did not slump because I was ahopin’ beyond hope, that His Beastly Worship YouDon’tKnowWho would give me a buzz on Ye Olde Fashioned Phone Lines. It’s not that I actually long to hear his dulcet tones or nothin’ – nah, he can go sniffa sock for all I care, but we have a kinda deal that I won’t drink no beer unless he’s visiting or we’re aphonin’. Well, I really coulda used a beer, Boyo, after a hard 48Hours in a row Fighting the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

I have been derelict in my Task #1 on The Stay Outof the Culvert List which is finding an agent or publisher who would dare to handle my avant-reve giga-futur fractal-radical prose. You’re out there, or you, dear reader, know that person. Do by all means or by email contact me so we can begin that Publishing Adventure. (pogblog@yahoo.com) It would be nifty to be able to concentrate on the Writing rather than The Worrying about how long I can stay outa the Culvert² – or outa Gitmo for that matter. Financial Ruin Looms. I was clearly born to write a trenchant column, so somebody please hire me.

 

I have been derelict because I have been so offended. So offended that our country has been invaded by stenched souls willing to call dead &/or mutilated children, the born, collateral damage. Now, with my name-doppelganger Swift, I certainly ain’t against the occasional “stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled” plump milk-fed child. I am not a sentimentalist. But just blowing them to smithereens is an offensive waste in both nambi-pampi moral and strict capitalist Greedo terms. The least we could do is make tasty sausages out of the freshly killed. I mean where are the Entrepreneurs when you need them? Give the no-bid sausage contract to Halliburton.

 

Usually I am in a Rage against the LOML (Love of My Life – it may already be that acronym for all I know. I am not the LOHL –Love of His Life, but then nobody else is either, so it works out for the nonce), the Bringer of Beer, Harp preferably; or against the really rapacious Mr. Cheney, known not affectionately between me and my putative pal as Dick the dxxk.

 

 But the whole CollateralDamage Nation is rising my gorge this Dawn whose pearlescence they are spoiling because they Immensely Stupidly keep caterwauling on about The Far-Left Extremists. And we let them, friends.

 

Own the Far-Left Exremist Agenda. Say kindly and with patronizing patience and sorrow, “Yeah, that pesky Far-Left Extremist Agenda – We want [recite the List below] We need to learn a simple simple List and Stay on Message for 100 years if need be. Every question or challenge or insult is answered thusly: “Well, tho you may think that I am a far-left duck-billed platypus who is a danger to the nation, but the real far-left agenda we got is [see below]. Do not be derailed, do not be side-tracked into Talk about Homosexuality or Abortion. (Those are matters of Personal Ethics we will not solve here today. The Agenda we can fruitfully discuss is [re-state The List])

 

Remember, and tell ALL your friends, this is not about changing minds. Do you really think you are going to change Dick the dxxk’s heart with your Incisive Arguments? Well-observed, he doesn’t have a heart – I’ve seen the real x-rays – they take him in for a coronary lube job periodically. But even if he had a rudimentary heart, neither you nor I are changing his well-honed greedy and vicious mind. The political Trick and Task is to ID or identify your own voters and to energize your own voters. You peel off a few on the cusp or fence, but neither core group ever changes its mind.

 

We can de-fog the veils over the eyes of our natural allies, however. So, damnit, Stay on Message. What they know, and we’re tooo Damn Dumb to have figured out yet is that the audience that day or speech or chat at the coffee shop hasn’t heard The Message before or hasn’t heard it the required 10 times necessary for it to stick in the busy mind. And tho your friends may be ready for projectile vomit or projectile feces if you mention The Far-Left Agenda one more time, just bloody do it anyway until they too can recite it in their sleep.

 

Ye Owls, I just put “Gitmo” in my Spell-Check dictionary. Brave New World. (I’ve held out on “Rumsfeld.” Just can’t put it in the system as, like, normal.)

 

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¹ Below is the description of the Solidarity Vigil and includes a Handy Pocket-Sized Version of the Far-Left Extremist Agenda.

 

Flickering Candles, Steady Hearts

 

I wish everyone could have been here at the Mountain View CA Vigil — it was so touching.

 

There were 230-ish people gathered in our central city plaza at twilight.

 

One of the things that is so mis-reported is that the so-called 'far-left looney fringe' is an astonishing assortment of ages, races, creeds. I love looking across the earnest faces.

 

So many experiences shine like a lovely light from these folks, united in radically wanting an end to the killing; wanting wonderful healthcare for all our citizens, like the health care Mr.Bush and his family get; wanting an undeniably splendid K-college system in all 50 states; and a tended, treasured and revered environment. Real radical stuff. The “hateful, radical, looney left.”

 

Of course the 'looney left' stereotype is silly, but you look around and think am I really so crazy to want these things for our future?

 

(KIA 5.30.04) Lt. Ken Ballard's proud Mom, Karen Meredith spoke compellingly of the spark in Crawford; of all the amazing parents she's met in Gold Star Families. And of Ken, her beloved son. As she spoke all the candles flickered on the faces listening to her. She held a large photo of this handsome young man in his uniform looking out at you so intently. A young man, a consummate professional — who never gets a day older.

 

“What noble cause? What noble cause?”

 

“The idea of “staying the course to honor the dead” seems so absurd and obscene to a mother who knows the cost of that delusion.  More dead sons. “How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”

 

No occupier beats insurgents. Ho Chi Minh of Vietnam said, “We would have fought you for 300 years. We live here.”

 

Ken and his friends did their jobs and did not complain. There were a few odd bits that stick in the mind though. The troops resented that Rumsfeld would show up in new desert boots, when so many of them had not received those boots yet.

 

It was thoughtful, grieving, determined people who gathered to send Karen Meredith off to Crawford on this coming Sunday and to be deep in their thoughts about what it is to be a true patriot, to love your country with all your steady, faithful heart.

 

..

http://pogblog.myblogsite

….

http://www.ltkenballard.com/

 

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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

13 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 78   08.18.05 

ffsb 1310§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

.. 

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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9 Principles of Militant Pacifism

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

 

please post these on your website or email them ..

 

Gandhi's 9 Steps for Teaching Peace

 

Dancing Penguins Should Have Long Nights Doing Fancy Polkas

1. (D) Define the conflict.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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