Monthly Archives: August 2005

The Burning Child .. .. Quantum Schools

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The Burning Child .. Quantum Schools

draft 1

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“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” Bucky Fuller

 

   We cannot fix where we are. We cannot fix the gordian snarl we’re in. We must take the small but distinct quantum step to the Sane Fruitful Vision where we act in the gloryful, gleeful, liberating light of the fact of The Burning Child.

    Once you see that, as every bush burns, every child burns in the forests of delight, you will be honor-bound, duty-bound, future-bound to make complete superb K-College education an emergency Manhattan-Project national priority beginning today.

    The once-stolen treasure of children who blossom, not stunted, whose education is subsidized at $14,000 per minute + $200,000 per minute + $820,000 per minute – the treasure once stolen for death-dealing instead of life-dealing now fuels armies of carpenters and artists who build schools, schools that look like the vatican, the cathedral-care taken, the whimsical gargoyles, the sistine chapels cafeterias. Your learning, burning child, is sacred to we.

 

What can’t you tell about a society by what its schools look like? We got enough to lay off taxing you so you can have a 2nd mansion and a 3rd Hummer — and the school buildings completely suck? Is this what we want to say about ourselves? Shame.

 

   We should have a Manhattan Project of building and equipping the next quantum level of schools. Quantum schools. In 10 years all national schools should be splendid. We should be exporting school technology, not weapons technology. Our national security utterly depends on this urgently expanded education technology – most of which is wetware obviously. We will need to integrate lucid waking with lucid dreaming to make use of the full range of humane experience and resource.   

   We do not need one single new weapons system. The weapons we have now are sufficiently plentiful and sufficiently hideous that we can declare a moratorium until 2029 on any consideration of new weapons. It’s not like even in the dungeons of their sick and sickening fear-ridden imaginations the Death-dealers can conjure up some opposing power fiendishly devising weapons that will unman us. We are the Boogie Man. Claro que si, so shuddup Weapons Mongers.

    So the new Manhattan Project, the Fierce Education Project, “It’s the Education, stupid!” starts fomenting education by in 3 years establishing South Korean-grade broadband – wi-fi – not wire the whole country, but unwire the whole country, every hamlet, every alley, every valley immediately.

   Hello, Mars to Earth, it is a scandal, the USofA Inc is a 3rd world communications-capacity country. We’re losing the race that matters. We’re running the last century’s race. Just like we needed the electrification of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America, we need the wi-fi-ification of America. Don’t blather on about how the government can’t do things well. Piffle. It can do lots of things well. It built the InterState Highway System. It built the fxxxxxg atomic bomb in  two blinks. Now we want to explode brains-&-hearts wide open and bring aesthetic and invention power to an intense and playful, sustainable crescendo of lambent planetary lights — northern, eastern, western, southern lights.

    The nation must invest in a giga-light 14” titanium metal-hinged laptop for each citizen to go with the continental wi-fi. This would cost about 150 billion dollars max, roughly ¼ of the 2006 projected military budget. If  America is to survive, least of all thrive, this is the first investment to make because the Future Fierce School is mainly mobile, the world is your school, and you plug in anywhere. (The nano-cyber-enhancer is implanted and telepathic, but that’s a few warp-miles down the star road.)

   

    The glorious schools we will build or restore have a 90% social function so people don’t lose total flesh touch. Presently we in the USofA Inc are the atavistic fight-or-flight old-Reptile-brain-stem equivalent in  the  rampanting symphonikizing noosphere, the world brain-soul.

    Every hour we spend in the fear-based theo-milito-think, we are losing ground.

 

Notes:

(1) We will need to invest in a buy-out of the military-industrial complex and a retraining of those personnel for a constructive rather than a destructive mind-set. This will be fabulously expensive, but it’s as cheap now as it will ever be.

 

We will be responsible for the promises made to the present military personnel and veterans. They are, however, as out-of-date as buggywhip manufacturers and the sooner we quantum-step past our old-rut-thinking the sooner we begin to blossom in the new world now being pioneered by others.

 

(2) $14,000 per minute (cost of the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars) + $200,000 per minute (cost of Iraq quagsand) + $820,000 per minute (partial annual military budget, not including most veteran costs); 

 

(3) We have to keep our eye on the 3000/435,000 (9-11 vs annual tobacco-related deaths) prize — so-called terrorism, as revolting as it is, is a blip in the dangers the country actually faces. The obscene and absurd skewing of resources to this false Bogeyman is crippling our future, retarding our children.

 

This is draft 1 of The Burning Child – Quantum Schools.

 

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10 Rabbit . Lamat . South .  tzol 88  08.28.05 sun 

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Heed the Hurricane

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 Heed the Hurricane

 

    Some driftwood & detritus washed up by Katrina, Hurricane Suprema. Hurrikan; orkaan; ouragan; uragano; huracán; furacao.

    I’m not sure how vivid a demonstration we need about the meta-requirement to quantum leap to the collaborative model from the competitive, cutthroat model. Gee, a hurricane flattens the mansion and the hut alike and leaves us naked and wind-shocked, water-shocked sitting on the rooftop.

    The re-building task is so vast, requires such massive funds and coordination – that’s it, ain’t it: Coordi Nation – that’s where we’re supposed to live.

   Of course our nation is actually bankrupt – our Notes are held by the Chinese and the Japanese and the and the &c. But we get to pretend and preen because it suits the needs of the Economic Structures as they presently exist. Like in the Cold War, MAD –this is Mutually Assured Delusion, nudge nudge, wink wink.

    How much would we like the National Guard to be back here at home doing what they were supposed to do – guard the nation, and humbly and doggedly clean up and help rebuild the pick-up sticks, the damn mess? Instead of making the punier messes that testosterone can wreck with bombs in a foreign land.

   //I ‘m so sad for the forests tonight. There will be chains saws a plenty cutting the lumber for this reconstruction and clear cutting here we come.

  //Thirty years ago I was in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Puerto Rico in a barrio on the low-lying sea short in a might storm where we were eventually evacuated from the flood. The weirdness of flood is how inexorably it rises. It complete quells and daunts the imagination because there is so nothing you can do about it and obsessively you watch the wall as the water rises – it is a slow-motion levitation.

     As a little girl I was in the legendary Hazel, a ferocious furacao who uprooted our mighty oak tree casually. I remember leaning against the wind not sort of, but actually, completely.

    I’ve been watching weather screens on tv since they invented them and I never saw anything the size of Katrina. Now that we have Undisputed Global Warming, we are going to get routine monster storms because they will have all this warm water to feed upon – to make them furious and dangerous. I think of the Red Spot on Jupiter, a giga-storm which has lasted for centuries since we could have the lens technology to see it in 1655.

   Will we have to live underground? Will we have to live in strange domed stilted dwellings that don’t resemble houses. I mean if in five years, every orkaan is the size and relentlessness of Katrina? Suppose she is the First HorseWoman of the Apocalypse?

    Whatever the sunstorms will have wrought, we will have little time for discretionary wars. Katrina may have been the Hitlera of storms, but we can’t strut Mission Accomplished with our codpiece baked-potato-enhanced like Mr. Bush so embarrassingly on the USS Abe Lincoln. She is only the first Iron Mistress who is going to flatten the shores of God’s nation.

    We know Mr. Bush will strut through the rubble with carefully selected, carefully grateful Victims fawning over his Help. We have to live through that – hopefully we can see through it. The Ultimate and repeated Photo-Op. One cringes – like at Bob Dole’s Viagra ads – please don’t, Bob. Imagining you rampaging around the Kansas mansion after Lizzy for four hours is even worse than having to think of one’s parents being procreative. The Ick & Yuck Factors rise with one’s gorge.

     We will wish we had the $200,000 per minute we’re spending in the quagsands of Iraq to bring to bear in the Good Times Town and its neighbors. The expenses to come will clearly be staggering. It would be handy to have the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile CrackPot Scheme aka Star Wars to get the flood-delivered sewage-petroleum slime off the walls of 500,000 houses.

   To Mr. Bush’s Great Joy, this wind-&-water Hell will wipe Iraq completely off the front pages. # 1880 will come and will go. To Hell with Bread & Steroid Circuses & Terrorists. We got Monster Storms to derail rebellion. And windblown anchormen are so photogenic. Halliburton & subsidiaries  will make a zillion on the clean-up and reconstruction and all will be well in the Coffers of Family Bush and Family Cheney and their Ilk.

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But those of us heeding the hurricane will requadruple our efforts toward peace and towards justice. This hurricane cloud will have a silver lining if we can sidestep fear – and press on, regardless. 

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The Eloquent Lamentors .. Yes, you. Yes, me.

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The Eloquent Lamentors .. .. Yes, you. Yes, me.

 

    “You seem so blue tonight, my turtle dove,” Fuller said. “That’s not your usual m.o. You usually insist on Pressing on, regardless.”

 

“Yeah,” said Flan wanly. “Well, I see that we don’t save Known Soldier, Juan Smith, Death #1999. We’re at Death #1878. That leaves 120 Deaths until it’s Juan’s fated turn – unless we rise up as ardent Lovers of Peace and pour into the street by the millions on Saturday September 24. But most people won’t be bothered. They’d rather eloquently lament. And then go to the Mall on that Saturday. Or to a wedding. Or worry about whether they’re too fat to be seen in public. The rut, the familiar rut will embrace them instead.”

    “Remember that a Peace Rally is an unknown to most of them. They worry that they don’t have a sign. How will they get there? Will there be a bunch of slavering rowdy young noisy people? Or a bunch of graying old hippies that one would lose one’s cred to be seen with,” said Fuller.

    Flan looked at him nonplussed. “Hmmm. I never thought that they might be shy about going to a Peace Rally. Well, they don’t need a sign. They just need to  be a body milling around to swell the crowd. They’ll see the huge papier mache dove which needs three people to carry it – one for the body and one for each wing. They will see some graying hippies and for you that’s a down side in cred land, but also there will be a fascinating horde of people just like their own genre of folk and constellations of people not like them at all. They’ll grin and grin at the unexpected sweetness and variety of humankind who have showed up for peace. They will be so happy they took the chance. That they bothered to go. They’ll remember it for the rest of their lives.

    “I go up on the train to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Millbrae and take Bart to the Civic Center stop, a few steps from the Plaza behind City Hall. I don’t actually do the March part. I arrive between noon & 1pm & I go directly to where the March will end at the Plaza behind City Hall, across from the new Asian Art Museum and the Main Library. A day pass on the train costs $7. The Bart will cost about $6. I call 511 & have them help me plan the trip exactly. No parking, no fuss. Once you’ve done it, you’ll always go to the city on the train, then Bart. It’s so restful. If you do have a sign, neither the train nor Bart minds. I usually stay til 2 or 2:30 and then wander on home.

    “It is as instructive a few hours as you can possibly spend in your life – all that hope on the hoof. You will feel at once humble and bursting with pride – all these kind and earnest and wry and hopeful people in one place. You will be able to go back by the watercooler at work and say, ‘Guess what, I did the most astonishing thing.’”

     “Who would not go if they knew how cool and important it is?” Fuller said.

    “Those who would prefer to eloquently lament. The ones who will let Juan Smith, Known Soldier, Death#1999 die rather than outwit their own inertia. A Peace Rally is like the Justice Union striking against the Military-Industrial Complex, the hummernaut that has us all in thrall. ‘The madness  of militarism,’ Doctor King called it, and a Peace Rally is like a strike against that.

   “Do the psychic forces of KarlRovism have us cowed and enervated or can we take a stand? This is the question we will answer with our whereabouts on Saturday September 24 at 1pm. Like where were you when you heard Kennedy was shot if that was your era? This September 24 Peace rally is a barometer of how deep our resistance to war has become. Will it move us to a small but actual action? Or will we continue to eloquently lament?”   

       

part 2 

The Grave of the Known Soldier..Save Juan Smith #1999

 

What do we know about Sgt. Juan Smith who is doomed to die on Tuesday November 22 2005? 

 

Why does it bother me particularly that he is a huge fan of the fey movie Spinal Tap, a celebration if there ever was one of harmlessness? Perhaps because it is unexpected that a 26 year-old has such quirky taste. I like that in him.

 

Well, he'll be 26 when he is shot in the head. The left side of his head. His brains will splatter onto soldier Raymond Callahan, his second best friend, a 22-year-old from Alabama whose mother, Joyce Callahan, voted for George Bush in  2000, but will never vote Republican again. Mrs. Smith, Juan's mother, dwells in a twilight of sadness.

 

Juan Smith's birthday is on November 8, so he is 25 now as we watch in August, waiting for him to die. Just turned 26 when he dies. He is a Scorpio with Pisces rising. Brave, dreamy, very very smart about the conscious world of day and of tanks, RPGs and rubble, and of the unconscious world, which runs the whole shebang in Iraqi, but which is never spoken of. 

 

Juan Smith does not have to die. He does not have to be #1999. We could stop it at once. Someone will be the last man's name on a stark white cross. The last man on The List. Maybe it could stop at #1888? Mr. Bush could see that piling up more dead in flag-draped coffins we are not allowed to view will not make the war end better. It is going to end badly. We know that. Nothing will keep the insurgents from blowing up American soldiers for the next 300 years. Cheap explosives. Countless idealistic young men, sold, like ours, a bill of goods.

 

There will be some morning when The Lizard Leaders lie no more. Because nobody's buying their snake oil — well, lizard oil, I guess.

 

Damnit, Juan, I don't know what to do to save you. I do not know what to do. We talk now a little. I'm psychic. I've seen his death. He's seen me seeing it. He's imploring me to turn back time before it is reached so he can go home, marry the very pretty — not beautiful, but very pretty, Felicia, buy the blue pick-up truck his cousin could sell him in the first week of December if he could only live that long. Their first child would be named Joseph.

 

Is it Baquba? Taji? Al Asad? Abd Allah? I cannot read the address of the bullet yet. He has written the name of Felicia inside his helment with a Sharpie. Felicia es mi ángel. He drew a heart above and one below.

 

Felicia keeps his toolled cowboy boots by her bed, waiting for his return. Which does not happen because we did not pour into the streets soon enough. We lamented, but did not act. As if our being embarrassed or discomfited was more unbearable than the death of #1999.
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08.16.05 98 days 141,120 minutes until the Death of Juan Smith #1999

 ∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

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Today, 08.15.05,  we're at 1852 American soldiers dead. To me this isn't only about Ken or Casey or Roberto or Rachel  — it's about Juan Smith #1999 — is there ANY way we can save that kid?¹

 

Is there ANY way we can save Juan Smith #1999 using the energy and the smarts of people like you and Cindy and me and any darnbody at all?

 

“How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”²

 

I actually asked myself when I woke up this very morning, “Would I sleep with Karl Rove if it would stop the war today?” I have to tell you it was a sobering question which I could not answer at once. You cannot possibly imagine how much I despise slitherer Karl Rove and how much stealthy evil he has done malice aforethought. But now after a few hours of thought, clearly yes, to stop the senseless death of another kid, I'd even do that.)

 

As I write this mid-August, 1852 American soldiers (sons daughters fathers mothers individual unrepeatable lives) have died in the quagQuicksands of Iraq.

 

Can we possibly pull our ingenuities and resources together and save Juan Smith destined to be #1999?

 

That would give us 146 dead to wake up, write our Congress people, write Letters to the Editors. Save Juan Smith #1999. Or does the count drone on and we sit baffled, lamenting?

 

Save Juan Smith #1999.

 

pogblog

 

ps. Please send this Save #1999 link to your friends.

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/8/15/1140249.html

 

Put democrats.com on your Favorites/Bookmarks and visit every day. http://www.democrats.com/

 

All the contact info for House & Senate is at afterdowningstreet. Get on their emailing list for Actions. It is beautifully and heartfeltedly organized. http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/

 

² adapted from John Kerry’s 1971 speech before Congress; 

 

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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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12 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 90  08.30.05 tues

10 Eagle . Men . West .  tzolkin 75  08.15.05 mon 

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Nader & the Triumph of the Shadow

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Nader & the (Temporary) Triumph of the Shadow 

 

   Of course I have several tons of trouble forgiving the idiot Nader voters in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Florida in 2000 who voted for Nader The Unspeakable instead of for Al Gore. (That Nader allowed it was Unspeakable.) This was an historically insane case of  letting the perfect become the enemy of the good. No, they are not “all the same.” Yes, there is a huge, a gigantic difference between the Parties. 90 thousand Nader voters in Florida. What were those people thinking?  A case of rampaging political immaturity and political petulance at its very worst. You make a protest vote in Idaho or California, not in Florida, you under-informed flaming imbeciles. Don’t even talk to me about the cousins of rats who didn’t get around to registering at all. Or didn’t vote at all “because they’re all the same.” We’re supposed to forgive you this self-indulgent nonsense? Like suicide – stand on the ledge and do your drama so we know you’re really upset, but don’t actually jump. Ruins too many lives, including your own.

    I remember going to sleep a couple of days before the Election thinking, ‘In World X, Al Gore wins and in World Y, George Bush wins — and I wonder which world I wake up in?’

   Well, ole Fat E woke me up in World Y. How in the Hell could it have happened? We had a vast budget surplus. Al Gore was a man of depth and insight who was a champion of the environment and a champion of the Internet slash Future and of civil rights. We were set to take our place as a leader of an increasingly free and just future of humane development. It was clearly in the stars and in the cards.

    What the hell happened? The Shadow. Jung’s Shadow. The atavistic forces of fear and paranoia; the primitive, fundamentalist, future-fearing, dark underbelly which lurks maggotily writhing under all our enlightened rocks. We have to have a Reckoning with the Shadow before we move on.

    These Shadow-ridden folk are the apotheosis, the manifestation of gigaGreed and Religious zeal and perversion of the kindness, the tenderness the mature can dare, the kindness required by all the Sages, including the impetuous young Jesus, an undeveloped, somewhat inflated and delusional, but occasionally inspired incipient Sage.

    We have to slog through the gruesome recognition of the capacity for nastiness and selfishness in our own selves – these horrible people are our very own family – we cannot keep sweeping this garbage under the rug just because it’s so skin-crawlingly embarrassing. We have to speak out clearly, we have to draw the lines. War is an unspeakable violent mess. Capitalism has strengths and grotesque weaknesses. Addiction to Patriotism and Religion blinds people to kindness and fellow-feeling. It is harder to be adult, sane, humane, and sensible than it is to say those words. Our country has been bloated with hubris, power-drunk – George used to do Jack Daniels, now he does PowerAde – both incapacitating of the resources of the heart. We haven’t listened or consulted or collaborated. America must spend some serious time in a dunce cap.

    Nationally and internationally we have submitted to Bullyism, the delusional entitlement that the Have-Mores have accrued unto themselves in ugly spasms of self-righteous Greed multiplied by Creed.

    We can discover a sweetness of purpose and the enduring strength of that if we keep our own hearts bright and refuse to succumb to the ghoulish perils of Seriousness.

    More about antidotes anon.

 

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

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11 Water . Muluc . The River . East  tzol 89  08.29.05 mon

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Go to Mutilation .. “War” is a Euphemism

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Go to Mutilation

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

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

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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

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

♫ffsk 1295

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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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:
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2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
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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

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

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¹ 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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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 

..


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

………….<^>……………..

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

………….….<^>……………..

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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

ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu

..


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.

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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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