Monthly Archives: November 2005

Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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   Psychic Forensics pursues crime with tools unavailable in 2005. The ability to use these tools through warp-rinths mapped through the Akashic Record didn’t get discovered til 2211 by Myrth, part of the S. Finley Breese Morse communications-inventions bloodline.

   Before we begin our story about the horrific discoveries about Karl Rove’s diseased brain using Psychic Forensics, let’s clear up some lingo for you.

    The Akashic Record is that indelible record (or imprint really) of experience upon the all-senses papyrus of the multiverse. It’s all there in infinity for those who can read it. Your cat can’t read a book, but that doesn’t mean that a mammal (you) with a different skill set can’t decode a myriad of information distilled in those squiggles.

    There is no thought, no envy, no patience that can be forged (faked) or forgotten. The multiverse is an incomprehensibly gigantic information system. You are embedded in the multiverse – it’s not like you can step out of it, have a rotten thought or action and step back in — in disguise by deceit. Yes, it is all recorded. A sobering thought.

   Anyhow, Myrth was into maps. Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s.

    A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces.

     Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell.

   Myrth and Quetzal were time-riders and psychic detectives. They returned through a warp portal to confer with pogblog, an early 21st century bloggelist.

    When you deal in nanotime (later called luzime or light-time), it’s a question of angles, not of distance. It’s very origami, very folded. It’s all potentially immediate.

    Karl Rove was a very nasty piece of work. He derailed planet progress, equality, and happiness, and added to the sum of human misery as much as any sick villain who ever trod the dear earth.

        Psychic forensics examines crime with a psy-ray. A psy-ray is like an x-ray in that it reveals interior things. It just reveals mental/psychic realities (shapes, forms, sequences) rather than bones and tissues. All a matter of tuning frequencies – and what isn’t?

    Instead of wanting to tenderly and effectively do good, somehow there came to pass a group of greedy and empty people who wanted to aggrandize and rule.

    The question in 2211 was no longer how to psy-ray a deviant psyche, but rather how to translate the forensic info back into the less holospheric 2006 brains.

   Karl Rove stank. His diseased mind fed on misery, on the pus of fear. Pain, especially humiliation, tasted good to his herzgeist, the spirit of his cold heart. Deep in his dna, he was not a mammal. He was cold-blooded. The only way he could feel warm was to drink the blood of the mammal – of the kind, the tending, the care-full.

    In addition to being inherently cold, he shared dna with a long bleak line of cold creatures which were anti-empaths. They invented the rack and burning people alive. They rose in the Dark Ages in the Inquisition, justified their atrocities in the Name of God and of protecting the world from sin and sinners. That strain of cunning and sickness went recessive in the dna until it exploded back on the scene in about 1950 in a batch of killers born on Earth in those years. Karl Rove’s birthday was <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />12/25/50 – an anti-christ indeed – in deed.

    Karl Rove likes to humiliate people. He so resented not being the romantic lead, the handsome swaggerer, that he is making the planet pay. The reason madmen often come to power is that they have no doubts. Sane people have doubts. It is very hard to avoid being swayed by coherence (cf a laser) – it is simply a stronger signal. The form is strong. People are convinced by the form, the conviction – amplified by mob effects. It takes serious discipline to see that the completely convincing form may be a vial of poison – what it contains may be evil. (What do you do anyhow if you look behind the curtain and see the maggot-writhing corpse of Dick Cheney pulling the levers? The potent hallucinations of patriotism and religions are certainly more apparently comforting that the bizarre and terrible and lonely truths.)

    Karl Rove is psychotic. “But he doesn’t look psychotic,” you cry. They seldom do except in movies. The real nutcases have perfected cunning to a degree that mere fairly sane you can not conceive. Look, we all have some complex, hidden peculiarities or worse. But you’re just milling around in the wooden handle of the ice pick, vanilla in your deviance. Karl Rove is the very tip, the perfectly piercing sharp tip of the ice pick of dark and grotesquely disturbed. What is your swath of destruction? Your own peace of mind? Your family’s peace of mind perhaps? You’ve stolen from yourself, your family, and your community your fruitfulness you might have more developed if your hidden deviances hadn’t stolen so much of your better discipline.

     But Karl Rove’s swath is the planet. The creeps he’s enabled have derailed all of America’s crucial collaboration in tending the health and education of its own population. It has poisoned the international atmosphere not only Kyotoill, but in its paranoid and hysterical response to 9/11. (3000 people died. It sucks, but 485,000 people die of tobacco-related deaths every year  and there’s no comparable hysteria about that – we don’t do shock and awe on Philip Morris and invade North Carolina.)

    We were on a relative fiscal even keel in 2000. Obscene and abzurd kick-backs to the Have-Mosts capsized the fiscal ship with no lifeboats for the poor. Let them swim.

   The outer world deeds are catastrophic and your children’s children will still be paying for the Have-Mosts self-centered profligate indulgences. But the ugliness of Karl Rove’s cold soul is a genius of anti-pity stealth. He is a hungry ghost. He is a ravenous ghost. He always goes for your strength: he cuts your balls off. The thing you honor in yourself; the thing you did that was good. That’s what he twists and pisses on. And he doesn’t just twist it into a bad light – he triple twists it into a disgusting, into a shameful light. And if you retort, you are deepened into the shame. It is not ever unproveable.

    Dick Cheney is severely psychotic, which we’ll talk about another night, but Karl Rove is even more dangerous because he’s trickier. Cheney is less skilled at the façade. Karl Rove is a supreme shapeshifter. (A tragic shame that he is a wounder rather than a healer.) He never wastes effort. As with all consummate psychopaths, he can ape rationality with all but seamless conviction. (You have to have been repeatedly lied to by a professional liar like a compulsive gambler to have a glimpse at how good these people are at deceit – deceit fits them like their skin. There is nothing tentative about their deceit. They have learned that boldness works. The Big Lie works. They enjoy jerking you around – stupid, honest, ordinary you. You may be smart enough in your day job, pilgrim, but they’ve got you completely smoked in cunning.)

    People like Karl Rove who get addicted to other people’s extreme humiliation can wreck a world. You must remember that nothing is what it seems with him. Even then you’ll be conned – again. Don’t look at him and his legerdeflak – look at the consequences.

   End of preliminary KRB Autopsy Report.      

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

9 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 165  11.13.05 sun

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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All Four Quadrants of Your Brain

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    The reason I like to use the allegorical essay rather than the strictly formal and putatively rational essay is that there is a part of the mind to which you as a reader get access if there are story elements. It engages all four quadrants of your brain and the collective unconscious. It’s a way of giving philosophy its juice and its irony back.

    I read linear essays with admiration, but I always feel like I need to have better posture when I read them. As if I were having tea with the Queen.

    I happen to have always had an inclination to the sort of Celti-sci-fi version of allegory because it makes an end-run around the reason I’ve never been so much of a devotee of post-Faulkner American Literature: neurosis. Pieces set in the semi-quasi-future obviate neurosis because they aren’t worming over one’s narcissistic melancholies with as confessional or thinly veiled confessional modes. There was a kind of perpetual adolescence to so much 50s + literature.

     I like the more angular, odd, well, allegorical stuff.

     The following piece is certainly as important a piece as I could either think or write, but I like to think it has a defter touch – is less sledgehammery when it’s set in the future. It’s less directly judgmental. And though it is mind, heart, soul-bogglingly serious, it doesn’t take itself seriously. I like droll.

     Part of pogblog’s job is to make the ‘horizontal’ point both clarionally and subversively. We only fool ourselves that we aren’t still fascio-feudal with different clothes. Democracy comes eventually, but not before we grok and contain and maintain the horizontal model.

 

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Co-cheetah. Co-wall. Co-play.

    “Immanent not transcendent. Co-radiant.”

 

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.blogharbor.com        

7 Night . Akbal . Hearth . West . tzol 163  11.11.05 fri

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Obsidian Affinity

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Obsidian Affinity

 

Sometimes you've been so bleak that you conclude that there is too much tunnel and too little light. Then vicious and cunning Fate arranges a tryst so sweet and funny that you figure you will forgive her one more time for her unfathomable treacheries.

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Affinity is not on the Periodic Table of Elements. But it is elemental, yes, and sublime in its alchemies. There are all kinds of magnetisms that Science don’t scio, but something keeps the kaleidoscopic patterns of dust adhering to butterflies’ wings through storms. (Touch a wing carelessly and you can see how easily this could be smudged, gratuitously wrecked) – somehow in all our fond and fierce bashing of each other’s sensibilities, the patterns remain pristine, though changed. It is a magic. Obsidian humor. Ours is always an Orpheus and Eurydice story, though who is lost and who is found varies. The dark and the danger, the precipitous, the quicksand, the changes of danger – the flak of ancient stories, the skein of  dreams waiting to be dreamt – the druids invented us and tell our tales, our infinity of affinities, in Faery.

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 162  11.10.05 thur

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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IBM vs Education

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IBM vs Education .. a melodrama

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   If you send your people to an IBM Leadership Seminar, the instructor will guide and prod, say, 25 people through a highly distilled and interactive experience. All applaud, eat expensive boxed lunches, and may heed a point or two.

   Bill Blarney is a famous well-paid instructor whose renowned programs are available in boxed sets on DVD.

    As the IBM events planner, you go up to Bill Blarney at the end of the day as the late light filters through the graceful weeping amber trees beyond the huge picture windows into the plush seminar room. “Fine job today, Mr. Blarney,” you say. “I want to talk about the terms of your next engagement with IBM.”

      Deeply at ease with his fine status, fine suit, and porsche reputation, fat-cattish, post-canary, post-saucer-brimming-with-thickest-cream, Bill Blarney beams all but beatifically at you.

     “Well, Bill, next week starting Monday at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />8am, we want you to teach five different seminars before 3pm.”

     “What!?” Bill expostulates, snorting like a startled stallion, “That’s absurd!”

     “Additionally,” you add, “each 58 minute seminar will have between 30-40 students, a different group each hour. Between most of the seminars, you will have no break whatsoever – one group will file in as the other files out.”

    “What?!” Bill’s eyes begin to bulge. A vein on his sweat-slicked forehead visibly pulses. “That’s absurd!”

    “Moreover,” you continue, “each seminar plan involves completely different material.”

    “Well, I, well, er, I – I guess I could do that on Monday if absolutely necessary to keep the lucrative, I mean important IBM account, but well, but it’s overwhelming, it’s unprecedented,” says Bill.

     “And,” you say, “you must do the same pattern with all new materials and enthusiasms on Tuesday and then Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.”

     “What!? You mean I can’t just repeat Monday’s materials? This is preposterous. I’m a leading professional. This is not humanly possible.”

     “Well, you must also give assignments each day which you must correct and comment upon each evening – from at least 150 daily participants.”

    “Nonsense,” barked Bill. “You’ve lost your mind.”

    “Yes, and you will be paid 1/5 of your current salary and have no car allowance.”

    Bill could no longer speak.

     “And after next week’s five days, you will do five days a week thusly every month for nine & ½ months of the year.”

     Weakly, licking the froth off his lips, Bill said, “No business could possibly demand this level of performance from any imaginable instructor. The energy, the organization, it’s simply inconceivable. You couldn’t pay me enough even if I could handle it for one single marathon week, least of all 36 weeks in a row. What has American business come to?”

    “Not American business, BillBoy,” you say, “you’ve been made an American high school teacher.”

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pls send this to your dear teacher friends as a holiday confection from both of us .. if only there were a way to thank them enough.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Light . Ahau . Flower . South . tzol 160  11.08.05 tues

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

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    I saw a tv program on grisly diseases like river blindness and malaria. River blindness gets into your blood and causes constant horrific itching – to the point where you just peel pieces of your flesh from your body. And then when you are about thirty, you go blind and hold the end of a broomstick with a child holding the other end, leading you around for the rest of your life. Until that child goes blind and so on and on. It costs a buck a year or something to prevent this. You probably make 50 cents a month in this country so you brutally itch and go blind.

    Where does the list have to end for you, pilgrim, in order for you to throw up your guts and say FUCKING STOP spending money on weapons? I try to avoid swearing on pogblog because profanity is usually just a failure of imagination, and when you really need it like here, its impact is diluted. But the Military Budget madness is what swearing is for.

    As I said to chancelucky: Dwight Eisenhower pushing the massive interstate highway system was justified on national defense terms tho it actually benefited commerce. The idea was that troops could be shuttled around the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />US better, were there a need.

     The point about universal ultraband and cheap tough cool laptops (wolfbooks I call them 'cause it's cool) is that they'll explode cheap trivial low grade crud, yes, <b>but they'll also explode invention.</b>

    It is invention which will preserve America and a decent standard of living — not more destroyers and fighters.

    Yes, it will take us time to buy out this idiot war in Iraq and all our obligations to its mutilated and their dependents, but at $820,000 per minute for the Military Budget and $200,000 per minute more for Iraq (It's 'off the books'), we can make the transition to an education-invention economy forthwith if we just change the meme or the controlling idea.

  This invention and the savings on destructive projects could be flooded into education and health.

   What BushCo & Ilk completely miss is that we win both allies and friends with spreading what you might call ‘practical love.’ Instead of multiplying vengeance, we would multiply affection. Train paramedics instead of soldiers – the same people, folks, the very same people. Train para-engineers instead of soldiers. The same recruits. The same team work, the same camaraderie. Minus the future nightmares that we bequeath to so many of them. We should use our massive strength (tho we’re owned by the Chinese banks & it’s hard to know when that bubble bursts?) to build for the downtrodden, champion the sick. The Earth is pleading for peace in broken people — they are the runes, the hieroglyphs. You just have to have another tank — and you let another sister go river blind? These things are connected.   

    Is our legacy as America all this hell and hate? I don’t believe it. I believe that we can export engineering and education and medicine — and movies and cruddy hamburgers.

 

    Take a deep breath – we are going to have to believe in actual democracy for better or worse. The Security Council has got to go. No veto. We have to educate an international multilingual police force to do actual peace-keeping. With ceaseless citizens' oversight. Not power decreed by the Old Guard, but elected. We have to stand for our beliefs. It can’t be democracy except when that doesn’t suit us and we go all Adolf Stalin. We have to put our sword in the pit of fire and strike it ourselves into a pen and a plowshare. We cannot tyrannically declare our belief in democracy. We act it or we do not. People can see. Unilateral action can’t be countenanced because all peoples are created equal and have a right to the pursuit of happiness. We are supposed to help with that. Bombs are not help, ever. 

    How can you imagine that corporations should less than tithe? I have a real question as to why a genuine and humble leader needs to make one centavo more than the janitor – what real leader would not want to raise up the janitor and share his bread & or cake with her/him? (I just don’t recall Jesus being into aggrandizement, but maybe I missed that gospel? Maybe the Gospel of Greed was left out of all 36 tapes worth of the New Testament I listened to? Can you imagine Jesus being elected to office in USofA Inc with his platform? I think someone should comb the New Testament and update the language, chapter & verse & try to run on that.)
   Our leaders are supposed to be citizen servants – not bloated have-mores. How can we empower and include more citizens in a relative abundance of education and happiness? How can a leader call themselves prosperous if there are poor, unhoused, unhealed, unhappy? How can we trust any leader who rides in a phalanx of gas guzzlers? Is where they are getting to more important than where you are getting to on the 32 bus? If the leaders rode the bus and lived on minimum wage one week a month, I could listen to one syllable they have to piously mouth. Otherwise it’s all hot air and broken wind.
     Please, some leader, dare to try it. Try it and write a blog about it. We would rally around you like the whirlwind. One week a month. Then testify. Tell the other leaders how hard in fact it is. Put your life where your mouth is, Mr.Bush. Do democracy. Do humanhood.

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

………….<^>……………..

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 159  11.07.05 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

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

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But to the real subject du jour.

 

Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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collaborate = working together;

colludenate = playing together;

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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The Psychic Spy & the Cure for Milito-Theism

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oneiro is the Greek root for dream

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the Psychic Spy

& the Cure for Milito-Theism

 

 

      Two of the main projects on pogblog are the Burning Child .. Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex (Let’s spend the $820,000 per minute on education instead). And the Integration of Lucid Waking & Lucid Dreaming.

   The hope is to pry open your mind for the pearl of wisdoms and delights that you hide from yourself because you were brought up in a culture which never taught you about Dreaming in the way that it taught you about riding a bike or how to decipher these black squiggles on a page. Both worlds are actually your birthright – an integration will make you happier, saner, and startlingly aware of your true equality in the cosmos.

   One of the immediate benefits of attending to your OtherLand experiences is the disappearing or radical diminishment of envy or feelings of deprivation. When you have such spectacular  inner riches, you don’t fuss yourself about needing another Hummer.

    Another benefit is a quantum leap in humor. A pleasure in sloth and silliness. Below is an instructional confection for your Clown Mind.    

 

     One of the most festive ways to change the outer reality is to plant clown flowers and clown forests in OtherLand. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Clown School taught silly songs to eager plants who were sick of being solemn. To wheat and rice, they implanted a flavor of the absurd so that the new bread from the Clown Bakery made people chuckle. Cows who ate giggle grass gave milk that allowed people to laugh out loud so cheerfully that it was called the full montypython syndrome. The Clown Oneiro Products were so popular that Digrif and Flan could afford to subsidize oneirotists who were searching for a vaccine to wipe out the Serious Disease and the Megalo-religiophoid Disease. These epidemic diseases destroyed the natural happiness of billions of Earth inhabitants on every continent planet-wide.

     Alohaha was Digrif and Flan’s favorite parrot friend and an absolutely brilliant oneirotist. “Pina colada,” said Alohaha when Digrif asked what was her favorite flavor of the new ice laughter made of the thick cream from cows grazing on the lush giggle grass. “Coconut and pineapple, muy yum.”

     Just as all the creatures had been asked not to harm Baldar in ancient times, all the furred and feathered and finned and even the cosmically retarded bipeds were asking the local plants to mutate their genes to montypythonize themselves – thus giggle grass and anti-ava-rice and chaffing wheat. Black Adder Beer made people drunk with laughter, hopped up on fun. People were laughing themselves well. Guffa Wing products flew off the shelves. Joy was ordinary. Salacious, delicious, topsy-turvy, somersaulting joy. You could infect people with it. It was great. The Giddy Revolution had begun beyond the rainbow, turn sharp left at the left-most star of Gata Grande’s constellation.

     Alohaha ruffled her shocking feathers. Her head feathers and ruff were a glistening green, her wing shoulders scarlet, her long wing feathers alternating scarlet and ripe banana yellow, her soft belly feathers a shimmering chartreuse. “These pious suckers earthside are seriously serious,” Alohaha said, rolling her eye. She probably rolled both eyes, but you never saw both of her eyes at once so she often seemed to be winking at you. “We’re trying to cleese the vaccine – it needs to mutate its wit at lightning speed to outwit the ever-dirging seriousness of this megaloreligiophoid virus that is epidemic on Earth. Brave Pog surreptitiously collected some, ahem, ‘samples’ of Fuller’s genetic material from some rags in his trash and we’ve been trying to isolate that radiant hilariens mutation so we can graft it onto our virus for our vaccine. We re-hydrated his, ahem, fluids and put them in that new clownclone holofuge that Aunt Silly designed.

     “Homo hilariens. Viv Id said he was new. Homo hilariens. I like it,” Digrif gave a quick private glance at Flan. He continued, “Alohaha, we can’t emphasize the urgency, the panic really to develop this vaccine.” Flan grinned and grimaced, “No joke, Alohaha. Earth is fucked if we don’t figure this out and soon.”

     Alohaha stretched her shocking wings, “No clown rests. All of Gata Grande is tinkering and napping and puttering. And vats of ice laughter are being licked and spooned. With you two as, ahem, exemplars, there is giga-mating going on. All creative resources are being brought to bear. Everything to stir the dream, bestir the dream.” She clicked her bright blue beak three times which is how you know a parrot is laughing.

     “Flan did a vision for us which we put on holovid. Now we can study the frightening pathology of their auras.”

     Flan shuddered. For a clown to get that close a sample of the radioactive aura of a person afflicted with full-blown megaloreligiophoid was completely dangerous. She still had flashbacks she hadn’t told either Digrif or Alohaha about.

    “Tell us again, honey,” Digrif said softly, his turquoise eyes watching her with special concern. He knew something was wrong. “Maybe we missed a clue.”

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

     “Unnatural fear,” Flan murmured. “Unnatural fear. That’s what hunts and haunts them. Natural fear alerts and protects you. It has a real beginning and a real end. Unnatural fear is self-generated and self-perpetuated and the copious stale adrenalin toxic-rots the flesh, the body-flesh and the psychic-flesh. These poor pizzles are rotting alive – you can smell it. That’s what we need – in addition to the cleese hilariens element, a vulture element to clean up the rot at the molecular level so the hilariens can take hold. That’s what it smells like.”

     Digrif put his fingers on her forehead and moved them slowly and lightly. Flan far away heard the whisper of his fingers on her skin and her nausea at the grim smell subsided.

     She said, “A megaloreligio’s aura looks like a dense layer of grimy white coagulated exhaust with many prongs of barbed wire flailing in it. A ‘normal’ aura has huge varieties of weather, of flux patterns but it isn’t this styrofoamic foot-thick mummy wrapping of frantic static and flak that isolates them, insulates them from fun or spontaneous thought. They’re safe from the challenges, the choices good and bad, of the novel, the quixotic, but they are the living dead. And anyone different from them is a menace to them whom they hunt down in slavering hyena packs. They are so fear-ridden, so fear-laden.” Tears ran down Flan’s still face. She fainted. Digrif looked at Alohaha, “Do you have what you need?” “Yeah, some new clues. She’s never fainted at anything. I don’t like it. Getting too close to the megaloreligios is damned dangerous. Put somebody else on this until Flan clears up. Give her some ice laughter. Some sunshine. Take her to the damn beach.”

     “She’s the best and toughest psychic spy we’ve got,” said Digrif. “She has to foray again soon.”

     Alohaha clicked her bright blue beak three times. Except for the connoisseur, it was hard to tell the difference between parrot-laugh beak-clicking and parrot-vexation beak-clicking. But this time Digrif had no doubt and was chagrinned. “Take her to the beach, Digrif. She won’t do you or us any good dreared and dimmed, heart-dead. She needs to breathe salt. Do you hear, take her to the beach.”

     “I hear. I will,” said Digrif as Flan woke slightly and looked at him dully. Digrif felt a chill crawl his skin as he thought of the mind parasites infecting their beloved Earth. The clowns would win. But at what cost, at what loss? Pizzle the megalos. Grinning, he put his finger in the carton of Pina Colada Ice Laff and wiped it across Flan’s lips.

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

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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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12 Eagle . Men . West . tzolkin 155  11.03.05 thurs

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Alito .. More Promiscuous Piety

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Alito .. Sick at Heart .. More Promiscuous Piety

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Preliminary thoughts on Alito.

 

Oh good, another old white guy. Go Guns(especially machine guns) & constrain them uppity womens. If you don’t have enough money for Health Care, give ‘em some tuff luv. “It’s tuff that you don’t have Health Care, but God luvs you anyway, even diseased, in pain, or, better, dead.”

 

My clarion North Star is that the poisonous, pious suckers do die off. Sadly not in my lifetime. I do dream of the Rapture when all the Interfering Pious vanish in 43 seconds or what ever snippet of time is required for them to be whooshed into the Lovin’ Arms of an Angry God. They don’t know the LambChop Plans, but who am I to tell them?

 

When you see yourself sliding back down into the sulphurous pits of the Middle Ages with “Ask Your Husband Before You get An Abortion & BTW, Walk Three Feet Behind” Alito, it's about not just reproductive rights but the right not to be a slave to any other human being.

 

Ask Your Husband?! Ask Your Husband??!! Ask Your Husband???!!! Shall we return to Wives & Husbands drinking fountains too?

 

A return to the chattel mentality is a storm the battlements fight. I'm not sure even wise and thoughtful men can imagine what it feels like to face a return to this repugnant world and cocoon some of us spent a lifetime battling out of. Let them eat communion wafers.

 

Sharpen the guillotines.

 

????????????????????????????? 

 

A friend said “I’d personally like to see Roe v. Wade upheld, but it’s far more important to me that whoever serves on the court have both wisdom and vision.” Way too rational a view, my friend.

 

I gotta say that losing Roe v Wade means hacked-up young women, often self-mutilated. “Far more important” seems odd to me. I personally can't imagine wisdom or vision overturning Roe v Wade. But then I'm a woman who lived thru the era of hacked-up young women — friends of mine even. Not anecdotes, but first hand watching the blood pour onto the floor. I’ll never forget the smell of all that blood.

 

//As for the present court — nothing harmed the whole sacred(small 's') concept of  the rule of law beyond influence more than the completely wretched decision to stop the votes being counted. Never can we claim purity again before the developing democracies. Nepots will always go 'Wink Wink — oh yeah, you gotta count the votes even if you don't like the results, nudge, nudge.' This was a catastrophically short-sighted decision.

 

People said to me then that my frantic concern was because Al Gore didn't 'win.' I said NO — it was because the sacred (small 's' — no voice of God) idea of democracy itself had been indelibly defiled.

 

+++++++++++

I always thought that if each of the Ranters outside a Planned Parenthood would hand each young woman a check for the child's upbringing through <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Princeton, I might think about taking them seriously. (A Pro-Decent Life Account?)

 

I went to a boarding school in the 1950s. One night when I was a sophomore, my roommate & I woke up and a friend who was a senior was bleeding to death on the floor of our room. I have never seen so much blood. We soaked it up with towels and towels which we later buried. I can still remember the smell of all that blood.

 

Our friend Jane (not her name) had tried to do an abortion on herself with a knitting needle. I swear — we were all so incredibly ignorant. Of course we didn't call for help or a doctor because pregnancy was such a Terrible Thing.

 

I always shudder when I think that we would have let her die. It never occurred to any of us to tell anyone — so dread was the secret. (Which is why this parental notification is SUCH a bad idea.) Jane just barely didn't die. Her naturally olive skin was white as chalk for two months. I'm not sure if she ever could have children later in life. She butchered herself pretty badly in her panic. (She may not even have been pregnant — she might have just missed a period and freaked out, tho we didn't know that word then.)

 

The idea of losing Roe v Wade gives me very personal & vivid nightmares. I know better than many what we could go back to. 

 

The hideous hypocrisies of these ‘pro-birth’ folks are chilling.

 

Karl is clearly back. Alito has a list of revolting Inquisition Ideas. Keep your mind and ears open.

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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11 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 154  11.02.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Fencing .. the Duel For Deftness

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Fencing ..

the Duel For Deftness

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Sam Breeze throttled back on his snazzy new HelioJetter, the latest two-seater sport jetabout. He settled the tiny craft on the rooftop jetter pad at Max Thorn's InnerSpace MindGym, ISMG. Sam's previous full-passage Earth Trip had been in a cruder era, but he had made his useful mark in that lifetime. He'd been a pretty good portrait artist and had invented the telegraph which had revolutionized outer-world communication at the time. He came out of each lifetime with a deeper conviction that art had an essential part in any constructive endeavor.

 

Art, fencing, and invention all shared a creative quality or posture that Max coaxed into your body's and psyche's muscle memory by merrily hollering or hissing “Au point” at you for an hour every instant your body and mind lost the perfect deft balance good fencing requires. “Au point.” (Oh pwa-n. The 'a-n' sound is like the beginning of 'angle' just before you put the 'ng' sound on.) Poised. Equally ready to pounce or to retreat. Not relaxed, but not tense. It is this deft state that Max cajoled and bullied his fencers into maintaining. Properly performed, it became nearly effortless.

 

Sam grimaced cheerfully at the memory of the early days when he'd all but collapsed from the effort to make no effort. Learning like a butterfly to let his attention alight on things,  to hover like a hummingbird sipping nectar.

 

 “Breeze,” Max would hiss suddenly behind his left ear, “Are you a humming bird? Do you skim like a swallow? Are you a zephyr?” Christ no, Sam would think, I'm a waterlogged, weak-kneed, lily-livered lump. At first, all these alertness exercises made him feel even less competent, kindergarten awkward. Perhaps it was not worth feeling this ridiculous?

 

“Dogs waste effort, cats waste none,” Max would insist. “Purr. Cats are always balanced, au point, poised. Watch them and admire. Learn.” The thing Sam liked best about Max was his refusal to guru. “I'm just a technician, kid. A batting coach. Keep your eye on the ball. Everything is a ball,” he'd cackle. Wise guys always cackle.

 

In fencing, your weight is not on either foot. It goes straight down from the top of your head through your spine down between your two widespread feet. Though this position is physically useful in fencing, the au point, poised attitude is also always required in order to live vividly. Alert.

 

With his white canvas fencing jacket open, Sam waited for his turn on the piste, the arm-span-wide special fencing strip laid out on the Gym floor. He recalled when he had learned to fly in his own body in the less-dense Realms of Experience, and the first time he had levitated in his own room at home. What both adventures had in common was an un-gravity, a not-grasping, a not-clenching.

 

Levitating, he had floated up like some large Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon and bounced gently off the ceiling, feeling at once delighted, incredulous, and entirely a fool. He was like a baby in this action. He couldn't control his motion yet. When he flew in dreams, he had careened and hurtled, and when he was about to run into a wall or a mountainside, he would flinch, duck, but dream-crashing never hurt anything except his terran pride and expectations. He got grace when he stopped trying so hard.  

 

ISMG, the InnerSpace MindGym, was for people who found samuraiing a tad belligerent. All the disciplines and arts sought the Zone. The monk who illuminated the manuscript, the baseball player who had to concentrate but must not squeeze the bat too tight, the fencer on guard. The Zone.

 

ISMG with a certain glee disdained 'peak experiences,' that treasure hunt of the previous century. Max had put his huge ruddy hooked nose up to the end of Sam's aquiline one and gazed owlishly at him, “Bloody hell, kid,” he whispered, “I want a peak life.”

 

ISMG made every client keep a journal to remind them that all action, all repose was equally a chance to practice or perfect being au point, lightly intent. “If you can't do it washing the dishes, y'ain't gonna suddenly do it here on the piste,” Max chided. Like a photograph, each action has to become focused.

 

Sam thought that perhaps our blessed eyes were too well-engineered for our own good. If we actually had to “manually” focus our nifty dual full-color, 3-D bio-cameras on the front of our faces, we might better appreciate the infinite adjustments of attention required to really focus on each thing. Visually we are lazy because it is done for us so automatically.

 

As Sam took his place on the piste, the special fencing strip on the Gym floor, drew up his fencing foil before his face, Max cried gleefully, “Au point, Mr. Breeze, au point! Deftly, please.” 

 

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

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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 153 . 11.01.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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