Category Archives: TOADSPAWN Appendixes

Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

 

the abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you

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If I may unexpectedly speak up for the dumb and tasteless. I have one friend on Earth with whom I have burrowed well-below Hell in our obsidian humor. Nothing has been more cleansing of neurosis, cleansing of the aegean stables of the soul. I never would have guessed, but the really darker and more preposterous we go, the more tender and softer and sweeter of soul we become — because we are lying a lot less.

As a small example, my dearish dead mother had the mildest almost unnoticeable case of german measles when she was pregnant with my older brother Peter. He was born a 100% vegetable. It was always a hushed-tones, look down pensively at your shoes family tragedy. (He lived with no function but breath & bowel in an institution until he died when he was 25.)

When my friend started to beat upon and mock my 'retard' vegetable brother in the crassest terms, I was completely shocked and offended. But this friend is very funny, and he was pitbull and would not over some weeks let it go. Finally, I really laughed and it amazingly released my wegetable brother from this grim prison of miserable memory and I could have the several pretty memories and not have to dwell in memory-hell. It was like bursting a festeringly secret bubo.

I'll admit there are Hells we've, he & me, harrowed that I would not dream of sharing publicly in this present world yet, but I

can say that obsidian humor will be a necessary psychic-medical technique to excise what is mostly prissy and janus-faces & rump-saving about our protections of the immobilized and fossilizedly Sacred Past.

Now of course we are not mean to the naive or unarmed. We are only that pristine and fiend mean to each other, as master teasers must be. But, in truth, I can hardly talk any more to those who can't be teased. EggShellism is so terminally tiresome. I have a very longstanding friend who is from the US MidWest and the slightest tweak gets a Kicked-Puppy look. Our real communication is significantly truncated.

 

I am convinced that art is the eventual primary substitute for war. Let’s posit as a thought experiment that we do get to, as I believe we must, the Abolition of War as we got the Abolition of Slavery. Now some very smart folks thought slavery necessary & inevitable, predicted economic collapse without it, &c. War is now the Inevitable Social Condition, the sine qua non of immutable human nature..

    Pish tush. Balderdash. Piffle. (That’s a hat-trick of disdain.) If we set our minds to the Abolition of War as a grail goal and we make every decision in its light, we will outwit the slouched Beast and spend out Lives, Fortunes, and Sacred Honor on the Pursuit of Happiness through Art and other Ingenuities.

    There are several Golden Keys. Art, about which more anon. But obsidian humor. Now that is what let’s you travel on the dark side of the moon and return intact. Traverse the bardoes from which have arrived these heartshrunk, serious Leaders who betray their humorless humanlessness daily more vividly. Laughter, dark laughter, is in my experience the final strength, the anti-gravity, the lead turned to gold.

      Obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

  [Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

   A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

   Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the  letter after zed. Few jeopard 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 Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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9 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 74 . 08.14.05 sun
ffsb 829§8783§24d8h36m59sikhoudvanu
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Futile, Ignoble, Murder, & Daleks

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Futile, Ignoble, Murder, & Daleks

 

I’m moving this blogversation Above the Fold. The first half is from friend of pogblog, nicodemus, and nic gives us the justly appalling perspective from the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />UK – see ousels as ithers see us.² The second ½ is pogblog’s response.

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

 “Cindy's son died for an ignoble cause, peddled by a bunch of satanic minions, lusting for oil, gold and power, driven by hatred of humanity as their only god. Their weapon is fear which they used to stun good people of America to put them in charge of their destiny. Meeting with the soulless Dalek¹ asking it questions to which it has no answers would only deepen brave woman's grief and despair. The slave media would praise Dalek's answers, prepared by its spin-doctors and embargoed for the end of a 3min meeting. They would ridicule her questions and call her an enemy of the USA.

If Cindy's son had died defending his country and his family from an invading army, that could have been seen as a noble cause. But dying for a bunch of self-obsessed liars and their mad schemes is, to my mind, a murder and should be dealt with as such. Something the great and noble American people should seriously consider. Today, if possible, but tomorrow will do.”

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from pogblog

Thanks, nic,  for the savage eloquence.

Yet, the dictionary and all our distilling and training fails (or quails?) at the evilly symphonic menace of these bastards. It's like using brightly-colored cowhide shields against phalanxes of M16 wielding zombibots. Our words aren't horrible enough. We have words fit for a human world beset by the Plague and Plagues of Ignorance, Dark Hearts and Dark Ages. These clearly anti-human Menaci require colder, ruthlesser words. To even say cold or ruthless implies that they dwell where there may have been warmth to lose or pity to lose.

I've only slowly been realizing how much more infected we are, how far the societal blindness & hypnosis has spread in enervation. How neutralized our white blood cells were.

A few of us have had an immunity, but translating clear sight for clearish action is where the noos.blogosphere is going.

The Big Lie slouched its way toward America to be re-born.³ It is so simply difficult to believe the Lies as Big as the ones these brutes slide about, detectable only to those listening keenly for a tell-tale faint hissing-of-snakes sound.

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My only reservation about using the conceptually-icepick spot-on Daleks is that even evil in Dr. Who had a comic quality and these Menaci are as absent comedy as they are pity. (Not whatever that we therefore should be. Obsidian humor is indeed our only Ultimate Shield.)

The theofascist menace is every bit as dangerous to the simple and delightful cause of humanity as nazism was. By theofascist I mean the unholy, the obscene ménage a trois of hyper-inflated Religion, Government, and Corporations, a purpose & policy meld of such power and reach that ordinary warm-blooded people mammals were not evolved physically, psychically, emotionally, or culturally to be as lidlessly vigilant as these Snakes require.

The theofascist menace is every bit as dangerous to the simple and delightful cause of humanity as nazism was.

 

People say Oh no, don't use that word nazism to compare. I mean this word theofascist to be more strong,, more fuerte, more strident of danger.

The deaths are billions of little lessenings of human cheer and prosperity that the Snakes suck out of the global system. It is its relative invisibility that makes it so hard to fight. The major weapons are mis-used words and twisted thoughts. They use our very cognition against us.

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pogblog

 

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¹ from Wikipedia

The Daleks (pronounced “DAH-lecks”; IPA: 'dɑːlɛks) are a fictional extraterrestrial race of mutants from the British science fiction television series Doctor Who. The mutated descendants of the Kaled people of the planet Skaro, they travel around in tank-like mechanical casings, a ruthless race bent on universal conquest and domination, utterly without pity, compassion or remorse. They are also, collectively, the greatest alien adversaries of the Time Lord known as the Doctor. Their most infamous catchphrase is “EX-TER-MIN-ATE!”, with each syllable individually screeched in a frantic electronic voice (download sample). Other common utterances include “I (or WE) OBEY!” to any command given by a superior.

 

² from Robert Burns The Louse

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An foolish notion . . .

 

³ from Yeats — here's the poem I echo, one of the great poems of the 20th century .. and, forlorn it is to say, “the darkness drops again.” The emphasis below is mine.

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

 

Do visit nicodemus & be fascinated.

 

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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 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol  72  08.12.05  fri

ffsb 613§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Sacred Honor Ground — Do NOT Move .. rules for peace protest

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Sacred Honor Ground .. Do NOT Move ..

rules for peace protest

 

I have suggested to the protesters in “Working Vacation” Crawford on their website (below) some parts of these tactics gleaned from a life of protest since when I first had the discussion in Northern Vermont with my first husband Michael about whether I (the appointed wielder of the ax) would have to chop off one big toe or three of the lesser toes. He was not going to go to a land in civil war, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam, and kill people he did not know well enough to hate. Generically hating any Them was not in his nature.

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The key to this threat to Cindy Sheehan, a Gold Star mother protesting outside the Imperial Ranch is if the Crawford 50 protesters are threatened with arrest:

Do Not Move One Inch.

 

The last civil disobedience I had with being wrongly bullied by riot police a month ago (carrying my teach peace sign), I said, “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this city tonight and I am not moving.”

 

The hundreds of riot police in their black riot exo-skeletons milled around me and had both furtive & frantic conferences, hissed in my face, and threatened me with arrest, but finally they did not arrest me. For three hours, my stupid knees were shaking as they had their noses in my face, but there is something about stillness that doesn't activate the attack in the predator or something.

 

Several episodes in months before this, they slyly would get me to “just move over here out of the way” or “just come talk to the Captain so we can see what we can work something out.” They’d been trained. I hadn’t – yet.

 

Now, my old gams hurt so much that I shook my legs around like some dervish after a few hours, I was so tired, I just wanted to go home, but I did not move out of my Sacred Honor square. One police officer tried to tempt me to move by being nice and saying, “You must be so tired. You can go sit over there if you want. I would.” The one other nice officer offered me a bottle of water, for which I would have normally killed by the end of the third hour. No. Bad cop, good cop. No. Just don't move out of your Sacred Honor square.

 

Several would stride so close to me that the stiff starched sleeves of their uniforms brushed my face. It was pretty much their whole bag of intimidation tricks. Most of them were hissers or shouters or bullhorners. “This has now been declared an illegal assembly,” from the bullhorn and the black(!) heliocopter deafeningly clattering ominously and endlessly overhead, “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

 The percussive noise of the heliocopeter is a very effective weapon. It instills fear at some level out of conscious control. “Disperse at once or you will be subject to arrest.”

 

No. Be smart about where you're willing to stand for 3 hours, and you have to be willing to be arrested, but the stillness works.

 

And steal this line— it made me feel braver and it flummoxed them: “Arrest me if you must. This 3-feet-square of ground where I stand is the last piece of real and free America left in this [city, town, road, &c] today and I am not moving from here.” I said it over and over, every time they tried a new gambit. Those darn long black riot sticks are scary. Do not move.

 

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙ 

 

The following is how it felt to begin to Damn It do something on-going and local and not just go to the safety-in-numbers big marches. If we had just two in every town doing this, think of it. This was a Guest Opinion piece published Jan 31 2003

 

Why I walk for peace

How does it feel to go out the front door and put your heartfelt convictions into public action?

 

Since late September 2002 I've been a lonely nutcase wandering preposterously up and down Main Street carrying my 16”x18” “Teach Peace” sign on a 4'7″ pole. At first you feel darn silly. But finally, after 46 solo peace walks, the acute self consciousness is wearing off because it is of course not at all about me, but about the future and about not smithereening young folk just as treasured as my 20-year old coworkers Silas and Gareth, or your happily careening young folk Pete and Jim, only with Iraqi names.

 

A droll and unexpected tidbit is that I think it's important to smile the whole time so that any given person seeing me doesn't think, “there goes that ole crank walking for peace.”

 

Well, I've always thought of myself as quite a jolly and smiling person. But now that I have to smile for peace and the benign future of humankind, I've discovered that we do not smile for two hours at a time. In the early going, my smile ached so bad in the grin muscle that I had to take aspirin to get through the day. Now, with all this “working out,” my smile is getting more buff and there's hardly a twinge anymore. But who would have guessed?

 

One of the chastening lessons of public action is the overturning and overturning of these stupid little stereotypes that lurk in the underbrush of your mind. “This kind of person is going to hate my sign,” you think. As you gird yourself to pass by them, they smile and whisper, “Great sign.” Some dude you're sure spends nights tossing back brews and blowing people up in video games says, “I want to thank you for being out here.”

 

I hand out wallet-sized cards with Gandhi's nine steps for decreasing violence. I found these in Colman McCarthy's book I'd Rather Teach Peace, which shocked me into realizing that we never teach peace in our schools, only war after war.

 

Yet in spite of the gloomsayers, in my own lifetime — a quick blink of the historical eye — we have made real steps to get past segregation and the trivializing of women, for instance. One day we will be beyond war too. We will teach peace. We will understand non-violence as a vivid force.

 

We'll stop spending more than a thousand million dollars every day on the military. We'll stop calling mutilated civilians “collateral damage.”

 

I'm telling you about my small, very local public action in hopes of giving you the courage to dare to take that dreaded first step out the door. Even if you are the only one out there for awhile, you give heart to people who see you. Only two folks have sworn vilely at me. If we want a more tolerant and sane world, I think we must accept feeling awkward, must act one step beyond our comfort zone in order to speak out, to show up.

— pogblog is a 31-year local resident, a former high school English teacher and window washer, and has worked on three San Francisco ballpark campaigns. She has been an anti-war advocate since Vietnam and has walked out downtown in her small some of every day with that teach peace sign for 1034 days in a row now. Just do a little every day. It adds up.

 

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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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pogblog’s Glossary for many brave & nefarious words;

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

 

Cindy Sheehan & the Crawford Protesters

[This meetwithcindy website has been down, but should return.]

info on dick cheney & collateral damage;

democrats.com, on-going & real

 

 

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 68  08.08.05 mon 

ffsb 1176  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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08.06.05 .. unbearable echo .. Do one small thing

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Friends,

 

 2:13:36am.pdt.usa  08.06.05  . .

It is the unbearable echo-day of the first atomic vaporizing bomb being dropped on humans by humans.

 

I thought I bloody well better do some small thing to whisper, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. We have changed.”

Below is the short letter I sent to the News organizations emails I found at this Downing Street Memo url: http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/?q=node/1202. 

     I copied each email address into my yahoo address book because I've messed up my primary email sender somehow. But there is a big push to get reporters to DO something different in this Crawford “Working” vacation for the next 50 days. You're welcome to copy and paste this letter if you want. Even if you emailed ONE, it would be great. Thank you, pogblog

 

ps. You can do any subject with these addresses As Much As Possible forEver.

 

//////////

Dear [Newsperson or Organization];

 


Please challenge the Iraqiazation myth & delusion with hard and repeated and repeated questions steeped in simple historical understanding. If you could interview some knowledgeable people from the Vietnam era who aren't just doing the fortune-cookie Talking Points. 
..

“We live here. We would have fought you for 300 years if need be.” That’s what Ho Chi Minh, winning Vietnamese leader, said. Remember that figment Vietnamization? It didn’t work.

 

Iraqiazation will not work.

They have a 300 year supply of cheap explosives and young men willing to die. They live there.

What delusion allows any one to think it will get better?

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

My neighbor's 24 year-old son got his whole head blown off in Iraq.
Support our troops by Bringing Them Home Now.
 
It is not going to get better.
Who wants to be the last soldier to die in Iraq for a mistake?
 
Thank you,
Your Name
 

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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
ffwofw
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..

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

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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.

    “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]).  <?xml:namespace prefix = o />   

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

    “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 they 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 Exclusiveist. 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.”

 

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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  Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 65  08.05.05 fri

♫ffsk 790  8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu ♫

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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the Dark Heartlessness .. the horror, the horror

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the dark Heartlessness,

 the horror, the horror

in two parts       

 

 

     It is with woe that I confess to you that I had a hidden prejudice that I harbored all my life that came with karmic stealth back to bite me in my achilles heel a few years ago.

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    I grew up in the American South when there were still water fountains that said ‘Colored’ and ‘White.’ I was luckily born knowing that that was balderdash. I didn’t have any of the reigning festering hates of my time. But there was one determined secret grudge I held: I could not forgive ‘the good Germans’ for not standing up and speaking out against the rising murderous fascist tide, especially before the tide of blood got too deep for many to withstand. Why, I would inquire of myself in anguished inner inquiry, Why did they not stand up, not speak out?

    A few years ago, my breath was sucked out of my lungs in a karmic coincidence, my poor head caught between two giant invisible cymbals — lo, symbols – a silent percussive concussion, one cymbal from my uncompassionate past judgment and the other my own very self standing there on the street in GeorgeKarlCondiRumsDickica, a ‘good American.’ Now I knew how it happened to the ‘good Germans.’

     What are we ‘good Americans’ doing? $14000 a minute is being spent on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. $200,000 a minute is being spent on the Iraqiazation Miazma. Dwight Eisenhower warned about the Father of this  TheoMonoMonstroColossus. He spoke of the Military Industrial Complex and that has gigantized into a Theofascist Corporate Complex, a goliath against which we must david.

   So I was chastened enough and on 10.09.02, 1031 days ago, I started walking out a little every damn day with my 16”x18” teach peace sign on a 4' 7″ stick. Yes, of course I felt like a bloody idiot when I began, but now I feel dumber when I don’t carry it.   

  Good Germans stood by. Good Muslims are standing by. Good Americans are standing by. Good Christians are standing by. It aztek-rips my living heart from my chest that we decent enough ordinary folk are not standing up for simple and shared Pursuit of Happiness with a living wage and universal healthcare and spectacular free education for every child.

     Write a one-paragraph Letter to the Editor of your most local pennysaver paper — dying for opinions to print. Short is the key. 

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    When I read a gruesome quote from our Lizard Leader, “See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda,” my blood coagulates. 'Catapult the propaganda'! Or “You work three jobs? … Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that.” —George W. Bush, to a divorced mother of three, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005. Then  I feel like my head is in some boschian horizontal pinwheelily spinning like I think may have happened in some Horror Movie I missed.

     Hey, it's not like I'm some stinking amateur in political Horror. JFK murdered on my birthday and the whole ensuing list of death and outrages stealing from a shared Pursuit of Happiness we might have embarked on had Kennedys (J & B) lived; Martin lived; Jimmy, Walter, Michael — all smart & decent & not GigaGreedy. Dear Bill & Hillary, I am a devotee. And Al an environmentalist who Yes, GOT the internet (We'd clearly have universal healthcare and universal wifi by now.)

 

Instead, horrible ole Tricky (& Henry the K, a minion-creep); Ronald who made the first big fateful TheoFascist Bargains; Dad George had horrible slithery underlings (Dick & slithery ilk), and as Ann the Divine said, “George was born on third base and thought he hit a triple.”

 

It was bad enough I thought — the horror, the horror outside a book — but little did I know the Dark Heartlessness to come.

 

I'm a tough old buzzard, but these Present Menaces have got me spooked.

 

Not that I don't get up every day and fight the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

with all the unquenchable spunk I can muster,

pogblog 

 

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12 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 64  08.04.05 thur

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Giga-politics .. humans as galactic pets

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Giga-politics ..

humans as galactic pets
 

Dan Gero’s Interim Evaluation

Regarding Terran Incarnates

Report to the South Mars Gazette

08.03.05
 

    Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Presently Terran Incarnates have no inherent rights under Galactic Law. Only recently have Incarnates developed sufficient consciousness to be considered galactics rather than merely humans, the galactic slang for clever pets.    

     The raging Question that divides the Galactic Council is where the line is drawn for full sentience privileges. Terrans have been considered spiritual chattel, and few of these Earthers are given more than minimal attention by their occasionally resident Ethereal or Noncarnate. Among those rare earnest Ethereals who do bother to honor and tend their Terrans, there is an outcry against Incarnate abuse — abuse of the human creature 
    Most other Ethereals are indifferent to the well-being of their Terran hosts. Many Ethereals use Incarnates or solid Earth bodies as an amusement ride or as an experiment. Too few bother to weave a mutuality of experience that gives a steady and reliable élan to the Earthbound.
    It is inconvenient to tend your Terran creature. Their reaction time is slow. They do not speak Galactic which is an holographic multi-dimensional oneiro-language. Terrans can be — well, usually are — stubborn and sulky, and, in relative terms, it must be admitted that they are one degree or another of just plain stupid.
    It is hard to resist wanting to see them react in a frenzy to the most simplistic propaganda. It is especially fun to give them a jolt of cupid juice and watch them make fawning fools of themselves. If you have not forged an irrevocable empathetic bond, it is easy to dismiss them as a gaggle of clever geese.
    At best, most of the multitude of Ethereals can be brought to pity these Terran beasts, these vessels, but damn few respect the creatures.
    It is the contention of the Sentient Rights Party that Ethereals should be denied access to a personal Terran unless the Ethereal is willing to have some training and to sign a set of Incarnate Interaction Guidelines the flaunting of which incurs genuine repercussion.    The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

Get this point — you careless Ethereals:

 heed it, grok it —

 

The kind of behavior suitable and amusing in a disembodied or ethereal condition — in oneiro-density — can be from hurtful to grotesque in the solid terrestrial state.

 

     Spiritual physics and spiritual psychology are very different in density, intensity, and consequence from those of the solid Earth Realm, and the Ethereal who thinks the Terran can recover from mayhem, mutilation, and misery with the quickness that it does in the more protean, less-dense lands is deluding itself.
    You enjoy the Terrans’ augmented sensitivity, and though you can, you may not torment these tender creatures for your own kicks. Perhaps worse is the boredom you inflict on your Terran partner when you erratically withdraw your attention in order to pursue quicker, slicker galactic games.
    No one requires that you partner a solid realm Terran, but if you do, you must comprehend at least the rudiments of how they experience time. To you, time is in most regards ephemeral and holospheric, a quixotic erotic zephyr. To them it is largely sequential, a river, and what to you would seem sluggish.
    If you spend some least effort, Terrans can learn some of your quicksilver ways, and you for your part can swim in delicious thick water that could actually drown you. The consequences of ethereal action and of the more dense incarnate action are so different. You give Terrans glimpses of a quicksilver and golden life and they call you angels who live in heaven and you are so flattered that you accept the superiority and bask in their adulation when in fact Terrans are better, more accomplished and more gifted and doggèd in their own dense realm than you can ever be.
    If Terrans had full Sentient Rights, if they joined the Galaxy, you could speak together in respect, you could each impart your special knowledge. Incarnate abuse poisons the whole Galaxy in the end. Incarnate abuse cannot be kept a filthy little backwater-world secret forever. It stains our souls.
    You don’t care if you slaughter them in warring herds, crush and splinter them in car wrecks, twist them with disease. It’s all a frisson to you: you get a buzz from their flood of adrenalin. You are detached from their terror; they are embedded in it.
    It is that creature’s only direct life, and there ought be limits to how you toy with that precious span. Terrans have become sufficiently sentient to deserve Galactic recognition as Sentients with Protected Rights.    Early on, it was a cool trick to inhabit the more dense realms and to discover the particular spectrum of experience that a solid body and linear experience gives. As the creatures developed culture, civilization, and history, you shifted from being their masters to being their partners, or those without hellish arrogance did. It became their world while we weren’t watching.
    The ethereal experience may be the pearl in the oyster, but when you’re hungry, it’s the oyster itself that gratifies.

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11 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 63  08.03.05 wed

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The Anti-Christ Nation

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The Anti-Christ Nation

appendix J, ToadSpawn, Be Gone!
   

     Where the Rub is – the Unholy Alliance between Golden Calf-ism, that Obscene Creed of GigaGreed, and the Wicked Uber-Patriotic Violence is the Anti-Christ or the Anti-Christ-Equivalent. Like brave, baffled Bill McKibben (Harpers Aug 05¹) and Bill Moyers, moderate Christians must speak out against these fundamentalist and extremist quintessential perversions of their potentially sweet and modest faith. And if in an inflated moment, Jesus said he was the only way, he was mistaken. There are perspectives few 32 yr-old can have, however inspired.

    One tiny revelation, one brave sentence at a time, moderates have got to put the Christ back in Christian – not as a tedious mantra but in acts that Jesus would be proud of.

     The imagination quails – shrinks back, shudders – at the violence of the delusion, the wickedness, the nastiness, the awful arrogance of our present Golden-Calf-ridden Nation. Christ would certainly be turning over in his grave if he were still there. Looking at it from the Anti-Christ angle, one trembles at the audacity of it (By the way, Karlsputin Rove³ was born on December 25, 1950 if you want an Absolut Reba’s Baby³ moment of chilling synchronicity tinct with frostbites of ironies.) Look at the conversion of GeorgeBush, Barbara’s Baby, from alcoholic to christoholic. It’s the same addiction circuits.

       I’m saying that Bill McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox¹, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wittenberg church door, is one of the most important watershed moral upheavals of our generation. An avowed Christian insider, one of the 85% of American professed-Christians, a conscientious objector, has broken-heartedly spoken out. He has flinched at the glaring, blaring sight, insight of each scene of carnage, the unChristian, the anti-Christian acts and non-acts done in the name of a tortured version of Jesus. McKibben has flinched at the terrible pain, as one must, but leaving distinct footprints of blood with each sentence, he has honorably taken the awful journey to bring his fellow Christians the unspeakable truth of what is and is not being done in their name. He kept Jesus’ radical and fierce sweetness, the uncompromisable kindness as his only compass on this harrowing Hell-journey.

   The radical vision of Jesus was to be tender – that we tend our fellows, tend our earth, our earth is our hearth. Like opening the 3rd eye, Jesus blew open the sealed doors to the heart and left us naked and gentle in the face of each other, each brother, all kin, all kind. Daring to be tender, the power in powerlessness was the gift Jesus gave, the unconditional surrender to being tender. How few jesusians there have ever been through these centuries. The satanic bargain with worldly power slammed shut those gates to the heart. Kindness became slogans not acts.

    As an interesting sidebar, I’m not sure that the word ‘Christian’ has not become too poisoned to associate with anymore? That much carnage, that much hypocrisy, that much burning of other visions and traditions. Too deep in blood. Myself, I would not bear that word. It’s on the scale that if the word ‘Nazi’ had begun benign, it’s too steeped in blood to keep it.

    McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ opens the heart’s door to moderate Christians to begin humbly talking about acts, as moderate Muslims must do about suicide bombers. Where’s the living wage? Where the spectacular education we owe to each child as a birthright, not a richesright? Where is the splendid health care we owe to our beloved brother and who is not our beloved brother, sister, mother, son, daughter? Acts. Jesus would fly a bomber and drop jellied gasoline on his brother, his sister? No. The madness must be woken from. If it is not tender, if it is not tending your friend, your fragile, frightened friend spinning in the same gigantic dark as you, if it is not the tender choice, don’t dare do it. Don’t Jesus and the Good Samaritan say that every person is your friend? The radical calculus is to figure out how to step aside from revenge. Alchemy. Turn rage to courage. Greed to kindness.

    There is nothing Jesus would recognize in perpetuating the obscene tax cuts for the eye-of-the-needle folk. They sneer, They dwell in contumely – they are swollen up with snarling pride. They do not rush to comfort.

      The Democrats are an ungainly bunch but they are trying to combine mind and heart, to bring the tender to bear on policy. It’s all very awkward because mind matter and heart matter are of different substance and frequency, but that is the path and there is no shirking that mystery in the end. It’s where we go. We might as well get started.  

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tDo subscribe to Harper’s Magazine. 15 bucks a year. Brilliant.
¹Bill McKibben, The Christian Paradox
¹(Just change the word ‘Zeus’ for the word ‘God’ in prayers, commandments, and on the money and see how that hubbub quiets down. Every year a different prayer, commandments, money deity by lot. Fair’s fair. All comics like me ‘n Riffie will go for Beelzebub, the buffoon’s patron. What a droll name. In Beelzebub, we trust. Thou certainly shalt not take the name of Beelzebub in vain.)
³ Reba’s Baby. Reba is Karlsputin mother’s name; cf Rosemary’s Baby. See also Karlsputin in pogblog Glossary.
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9 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 61  08.01.05 mon
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Judith Miller Drinks KoolAid — The Unsung Sin of FixedIntelGate

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Judith Miller Drinks KoolAid —

The Unsung Sin of FixedIntelGate

     Remember Chalabi? The re-Rise of that Snake, that Crook Chalabi is appalling.

    What never gets told in the nefarious FixedIntelGate is that Ahmad Chalabi is the Svengali, the rotten manipulating liar, the chalabi, and the snake who charms the snake charmers. Like quisling, chalabi should become an ordinary lowercase word of indelible infamy. Chalabi was the guy who fed barely cooked lies to the eager Bush neocon America Imperium Hubrisites.

     What never gets told is that Chalabi’s Lying Cabal of supposed defected or escaped informants told quickly-swallowed-whole Lies to Dick Cheney, his champion, and then to Judith Miller about supposed exact locations of Weapons of Mass Destruction (a terrifying phrase, gods know). I remember Dick on some show saying in effect, ‘We have precise intelligence about where Saddam is hiding chemical and biological weapons and labs, weapons of mass destruction. We have actual addresses.’ The implication was that Intelligence had the specific addresses not from these opportunistic conmen (as we found out much too much later when grimly too late the proper in-depth, less credulous reporting was finally done), but from men sold as heroic escapees. Chalabi made sure they each had an harrowing, usually blood-curdling story even if as it often much later turned out, they hadn’t set foot in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq for a decade. The Weapons of Mass Destruction were at 1239 Al-Rashid Blvd, 2466 Khulafa Ave., 791 Rabia St., 1438 Al Thawra St., 12379 Qutaiba St. — in the basement, in the back courtyard, in the shed. In the palace buried under the cistern. When they weren’t in one of those also never-found sinister mobile labs being ever shuttled around the dunes.

    Remember this is before the war when to everyone’s flabbergasted surprise, Saddam was jujitsuily letting inspectors go wherever they wanted to go. (One of the great Reptilian Big Lie Talking Points still to this day is that Saddam refused to let the inspectors inspect. That had been true years earlier, but was not true in this time frame.)

     The sleight-of-hand was that we could have sent the inspectors to all those basements and secret rooms at the ‘specific addresses.’ We could have revealed that no WMD existed before the war if we had waited even a month because the inspectors were proving and proving daily that no WMD was where it was supposed to be. The inspectors could have run the whole table of addresses of these supposed “secret” caches of  weapons of mass destruction before the war, but I believe that NeoCon Boys duped Judith Miller et al, but didn’t drink their own KoolAid. They wanted to get the war well begun before too many questions were awkwardly asked. And the doubts suddenly cast by Mr. Wilson on July 06, 2003 struck a raw nerve about FixedIntel, intel fixed to fit the policy as the Downing Street Memo calls it – which Mr. Wilson called ‘intelligence twisted to exaggerate the threat.’

     Judith Miller goes way up the Food Chain of Lies in terms of contacts. Subverting the New York Times was a great coup for the mongrel Mongers of War. (The NYT apologized for 13 gullible articles, 10 of which were written by Ms. Miller.)

     I wonder who up the Food Chain of Lies is letting her rot in jail to cover His janus-faces &/or rump?

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What I Didn’t Find in Africa  .. Joe Wilson;

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Chalabi emerges, once again .. Hannah Annam;

 

pict of ‘Rummy’ being Chummy with Saddamie;

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7 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird . West  tzol  59  07.30.05 sat
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the Third Thing . .. .. Photonic Physics

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the Third Thing  .. Photonic Physics

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “This punitive mentality does not lead to rehabilitation.”

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

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

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

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

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