iz iz 6-8-05 12:17:20pm 7 Deer . Manik  tzolkin 7 wed

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   Sometimes it just strikes you like a bolt from the Blue, the impossible isness (iz iz) of yourself, of all of it, your & its unending stupendousness.

   You know in this flash that it is not possible, this abundance, this fecundity, yet here it is. Because it is impossible yet undeniable, it is a miracle. This miracleness sustains me always in all ways. It preens and purrs while you, stunned, admire it. The multi-verse,  many-poem place, is a cat I’ve discovered – it loves to be admired and petted. It is my job and my honor, my devotion and delight to relish it and to speak its wonders with whatever precision, explosion, and caress I am able.

   I have a responsibility for the universe – responsibility: the ability to respond. I take this responsibility with serious glee, this being the pal of the universe. We hang out.

    It wants to be noticed. That’s what I do with my daynights, my 1400 minutes, I notice it, I cherish it, I bury my face in its plush silver fur, whisper sweet cheery nothings into its ear. It’s hard to describe how lonely the universe can get. It lavishes everybody with tiny and with magnificent presents in a constant and fervent invention, and they hardly take notice, seldom say thank you. This baffles the universe, frankly. It gets so wistful sometimes; I take it as my job to cheer the universe up.

    I do not take my palship lightly — well, as lightly as dandelion down – I embrace many-poem with my astonished attention in all my seconds. The root of the word ‘astonish’ is ‘to strike with thunder’; I am thunderstruck; dandelion-puff-struck; keylime-pie-struck; vulture-struck; dirty-socks-struck by the filigree of the panoply in all my 86400 danightily seconds. I reel, a dance, a lurch, in a constant unsteady state of awe at the mischievous, elegant, raunchy, stately, languid, uproarious profusion of presents that many-poem lays at my tipsily dancing feet.

  I can’t stand for the universe to be so lonely, so I keep it company. It doesn’t want worship, it bloddy wants a pal. We hang out. We croon, giggle, gossip – the things pals do. I write it billet-doux. We tease and please. We celebrate, we hullabaloo – the things pals do. Being a pal of the universe is not for the timid. (Twelve important people in my life died before I was 29; I didn’t say this was easy.) You remember that photo of Koko the enormous gorilla holding AllBall the tiny kitten? The universe is a lot bigger than I am but, mostly, it holds me very gently.

   I have no ‘faith’ –who needs it? It isn’t distant. There’s no guesswork. Boom, the universe here it is right now. Luckily it never blinks. When I hear folks maunder on about ‘my faith blah blah,’ I know they ain’t got their finger in the socket of the universe yet. But that’s another bedtime story.

    We stroll a lot me ’n many-poem, and loll. And nap and snack. There are those hurricane episodes and other convulsions and revulsions of the dark that also dwell in its unfathomable heart, but mostly we do snoozing and amusing.

    Being a Jester to a lonely, proud, restless, and, well, ceaseless universe requires legerdewit I can tell you. You have to be on your wits all your seconds or many-poem will out-play you. I have free wit. You do not want to bore the universe.

    Being the universe’s pal is 99.66% up-side. There is a sliver of down-side. (Who woulda thunked the universe would be so insecure?) It has been known to wake one up in the middle of the night for a sniffle and a chat. “Hi.” “Hi.” Sniffle. “Tell me I’m beautiful.” “You’re very beautiful.” “Tell me you love me.” “I love you.” “A lot?” “Very a lot.” “How much?” “With all my heart and all my seconds.” “I love you too.”  “Thanks.”

     Then there’s a pause. It’s quite quiet. “Are you sure you love me?” “Yes, I’m utterly, otterly sure. I swear on the whiskers of cats and the leathery wings of bats. Now, c’mon, universe, I have got to get some sleep .Go play with the kangaroos, plump up some pumpkins, polish some crows’ wings. Aww, c’mon, don’ look so sad. Wake me up at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />noon and we’ll do a gallivant. I promise.”     

mnemonic devices .. I was so flayed again today by the galloping greed of the 12 ft lizards, 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.   

     My fat pal who wanders the Earth with her Teach Peace sign sent me the 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 or seeds that increase cooperation.

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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 I’d Rather Teach Peace

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These steps unfurled show you can teach peace indeed! I hope you'll copy & paste the little piece & send it along to people. Some folks put it on their websites. 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 ft lizards getcha down. We do win. Because we’re more fun, & the multi-verse or many-poem place finds calculating success in money bizarre. Eat lots of buttered toast.

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copyright http://pogblog.myblogsite.com 2005

. ./ 6 Death . Cimi  tzolkin 6  06.07.05  2:31:30 am montues

ff .. for fuller, siempre y todo

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />1:49:34 p  3 Hearth . Night  tzol 3  06.04.05

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fizzy cider: drinking your mind can be like what the bog Irish, my people (grt grt grandmother “ravished by an Irish pirate & taken off to sea”) call fizzy cider. Not the fake coorsesque weak junk people drink in the US; The taste of apples is all still there, a barest hint of languorous syrupy on the tongue, too rich almost, just in the ferment one crucial step short of rotting, but whettingly keen like a damascus knife blade in the finish; hiddenly rambunctious & mischievous; an apple is an hyperbole of a fruit – the deer would have carted the pampered seeds around for less – but the fermenting hides this excess slyly – it’s like the lover hidden, bottom-half naked behind the voluminous velvet folds of the drapery in a medieval castle having to listen while the unexpectedly arrived lord takes the lady whose heart is really his; you cause this voluptuous confusion in my heart; your mind tastes like this, like fizzy cider;

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />11:08:00 am 06.03.o5 fri  2 Wind tzol 2

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Squirrels, a fable

   So you think you’re so smart. I think I’m so smart. One does – it makes the day go more merrily. But I gotta break it to ya, it’s really the squirrels.

   Let me tell you how it works. You & me, we (secretly) strut around all full up with vintage hubris, a fine wine of self-appreciation, a bordeaux perhaps of ego, richly rewarding with caramelly undertones. We be suave.

    Well, it’s really the squirrels. I have sleuthed this with a lifetime of vigilant detection. Ask yourself: where is the next word you’re about to say or think coming from?! Be honest, cowboy, cowgirl – you have no clue.

    There are squirrels who scurry around your brain & grab the index card with the next word on it & toss it on the conveyor belt & out your mouth, ventriloquist’s dummy, it comes. Thoughts, sentences, it’s the same thing, it’s the squirrels.

   Piffle, you say. Well, triple piffle, I say back. Check it out, Sherlock. Do the sleuthing. Get quiet. Listen. Shhh. Slow it down. What are you going to say next? What are you going to think next? You have no clue. You don’t know. No more than you know what or why your spleen is loyally oozing at this very moment. It’s weird. It’s a blow to all that Image of God folderol.

   You & I are so fine, and, hey, look, I’ll agree to like you well enough if you’ll like me well enough, but we both serve at the pleasure of our squirrels.

   Listen very carefully and you can hear the little click-clack of the tiny claws as they race through the shoeboxes of index cards to find the words for you, the pictures for you. Think of your first bicycle or first-bicycle-equivalent. Poof-presto, there’s a picture of it, maybe a home movie, and some probably maudlin voice-over. Aww, your first bike. Oh frabjous joy. The squirrels throw all this [fill in your name]-media onto the conveyor belt for you to wallow pig-in-muddily in. Where’d they find the ‘first bike’ footage? Do you know where it is? No. So don' be piffling me. The squirrels rule.

   As an upshot of my sleuthing, I can make some recommendations and offer some erudite observations. First, if you’re not happy, fire your current gloom-saying, tediously melancholy squirrel staff and hire new cheerfuller, funnier ones. It’s that easy. If you’re a bleeding heart liberal, you can say to your present squirrel team, “Look, squirrels, either you lighten it up, brighten it up, or I’m gonna fire you all and hire a whole feast of frabjous squirrels who gallivant, cavort, and amuse me til I laugh 96.66% of the time.” It’s that easy.

    There is no need to  huff & puff, to freud or jung this til icicles of tedium drip off your inner eaves. Y’got lousy squirrels? Get better ones. Y’got frumpy squirrels? Grumpy ones? Get cooler ones. I prefer squirrels who fetch little fortune cookies for me that say things like “Instead of duty, let’s do tea.”

  Think about it, friend. You spend most of your life with your squirrels. Not with the wife; the husband; the pals; the gals. The squirrels. It’s you and the squirrels. Don’t let the damned squirrels bully you.

   The dagblasted squirrels should be making fondue for you in there – lovely melting dark chocolate to dip pieces of your life into.  

    “Nonsense!” you cry, the gigantic macys-thanksgiving-day-parade balloon of your self esteem aquiver with offendedness, “Squirrels indeed.”

    Shhhh. When you can tell me what your pancreas is up to. Or tell me how the rods and cones in those tiny eyeball-shaped projectors you carry around in your skull provide on-demand 3D blazing technicolor movies 24/7/365? You got a better theory than the squirrels? (Well, I admit that the theofascist wing of the republican party [It’s more like being in a perpetual Sunday school than a party.] uses rabid piranha-reptile-rodent hybrids for their search engine, but that’s another story.)

   Remember you don’t have to mollify your damn squirrels; they have to mollify you. You don’t have to coddle your damn squirrels, they have to coddle you. When you get better squirrels, poof-presto, let me know how it goes.

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />5:10:23 am ft   o6.01.05  13 Light   tzol 260

   So it comes the new tzolkin round not with one or two, but with an impossible flock of tiny birds in the loquat tree at twilight – you had to look intently or they might have been just leaves in the evening zephyr, but once you saw them, they were undeniable & adorable.

   That, & re-noticing familiar things: What color is dawn light anyway? And, like a holoizic chess game, you can choose which piece to notice, because that’s how you win this new game – by noticing and nurturing stuff worth noticing.

  Iziz iz the Next Age go-go-goddess, raunchy, lambent – you dare not not fall heels over head in curiosity, in curious fey devotion with her. One heartbeat at a time, we will choose which energy thrives, gets polished. Each dawn is a fawn of possibility – it depends on what we tend and attend to – it’s all about the attention-point. To notice or not to notice – that is an answer, unquestionably.

    Then there’s the question of John Bolton’s moustache & how it relates to the existence of God. Do we hold God responsible for creating John Bolton’s self-indulgently gigantic moustache? Does God need fashion lessons? Like whether innumerable angels may tango or  only waltz on the head of a pin, perhaps we must have naughty questions to divert us from the fact that GBush, CEO of USofA Inc, absolute power addict, is obdurately in denial about the grisly acts our remaining taxes are paying for at Gitmo, Abu, & Bagram.

    We need to remember why we came, why we came to ride the Earth-go-round, the greatest carousel ride in this backwater side of an undistinguished galaxy – it wasn’t to mutilate children, collaterally or otherwise.

  It’s a heck of a rock-&-roller-coaster ride, amigo. When BushRoveCheneyRiceRumsfeld are too much with you, think of flamingos, preposterously pink, winged. If they weren’t real, you’d have to assert that they were clearly mythical. Flamingo time, an oasis.

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ff/for fuller   

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   mon gateau,

       I want to take the mango vow, to make, to search, to blossom the rest of my life to be as mango as is octessentially possible. I take the mango vow in addition to my vow of comedy: carpe comedy – seize comedy. I don’t do a lot of vows because they are so bloody hard to keep, but I am going to grok the hidden mango in everything. I’ll invite you to the Esfera Mango ceremony – the renaming of planet Earth to planet Mango: Esfera Mango. A nested planet with the old planet Earth, separated by one blink or by one mischief. (The measuring system is different on Mango; I’ll tell you more before the ceremony, but as you can imagine Alohaha and G.Ro Tesque are running me off my mango feet (I can still be a genius!!) getting ready for the mango mayhem to come. I sustain myself on mango mojitos. I only have time in this postcard to toss you a few tidbits, sweet heart. Ye owls, I miss you. I hate your trip to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Eastern Europe. This exile from our Kingdom of Strange Mirth is harder than I let on. From seeing you every day to never seeing you is cruel & gulag punishment. I deal with it with my usual noble wry grace, my damned legendary cursed leitmotif, but that’s because I’m a genius at emotional alchemy-fu, not because I’m not fockall flayed. 

   In addition to the measuring system being different, they have fruit lights here – the juicy gold light of twilight is called pineapple light. Dawn is sometimes apple light, pale, silver, sweet tart.

   To get to Mango is just a knight’s move in your mind – one step to the left, two forward. There is only a divide of a semipermeable membrane – most of old Earth simply prevails, sails through, but there is a toxin marker like the color that shows up on marked bills in a rigged ransom handover which prevents the spread of pernicious mental diseases like religio-patrio-zeal.

   Everyone cheerful is issued one mango buck which will buy most anything continuously in a miracle of the mango buck, anything except projectile, noisy, or silent weapons or any Holy Books.

   Anyone can visit Mango who is light enough of heart – they only weigh your heart at the magic border – legerdecoeur & presto, you’re in.

…………

o5.28.o5 11:o9:26/27 am 9 Owl tzol 256

for Fuller, a fablet

copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

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Gwatwareg

    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for the soul to survive. I knew that doom with a Damascus-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

    By the way, the legendary Damascus steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut a waft of silk cloth in half before it falls to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force after-magnetism, an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that – symphonically buoyant.

   It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. His humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

   All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

   When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

   Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

   He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. His humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.

…………………..

copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

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gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;

Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan:  

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats