Category Archives: ClownSchool Interdimensional

Get Addicted

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Get Addicted!

the unicorn of addiction

 “Please get addicted. Just say yes. Please get addicted quickly. Them as have tut-tutted about your addictions were way wrong, dood and doodette. Addiction is cool stuff if you’re addicted to licking the blue sky like an ice cream cone with your eyes. Addiction is delicious if you bask in the sea of bright air like a dolphin lazing luxurious in the ocean.”

 Immersed in the topaz shimmer of twilight, some rhapsodists were gathered at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />FortItude for a potluck summer supper. Cha Racter was regaling them with tales of a whole world hooked on raw radiance. Cha was a very fat, very chic black lady whose soul was rich and baroque with intriguing decoration. She sang so sweet and compelling, your heart unfroze. “Hey, baby,” she would whisper huskily to you, “I sing the blues, the peaches, the pinks, the greens, the aquamarines. You gonna know from ‘color’ when I get done with you.” Cha was wearing a tight scarlet satin jump suit which left no doubt about the intimate geography of her mountains of flesh. “Tough to trust the thin ones, honey,” she would confide, “they can resist stuff.”

 Cha crooned on, impelled by scattered applause and appreciative laughter, “We have spent a lifetime perfecting our pernicious habits. If we could apply a modicum of that zeal and cunning to crafting positive addictions, we’d thrive, we’d soar, we’d gambol.

 “Frankly, on the face of it, the mystery is not how to get radiant, but rather how we get ensnared by the stupid blandishments of boredom, guilt, and self-pity, those life-wasters.

 “Once you have turned on the radiance, it is the essential and immutable condition of your life. You cannot deny it, cannot defy it. The ice in your soul is melted. You know the sun will rise in the pearly morning. Once you have the knack, you cannot unsee the inner light in each thing dwells, you cannot unfeel the pulse of each living thing—each existing thing. The stone, the wall, as well as the polished leaf, the glistening crow wings.

 “Go on. Swallow radiance, guzzle radiance, snort radiance, shoot up radiance. Air should sear your soul; that you can breathe, that your eyes blink should shock you with glory and raw joy. Once reverence has gotcha, once reverence is your modus operandi, once you’re hooked, you can just get on with living your life in a lively, passionate, sensible way.

 “Once you get the balance point, you cannot unride the bicycle. Once you get the balance point, you cannot unswim. Once the black squiggles coalesce, crystallize, you cannot unread.

 “There is a twofold trick to ‘seeing’ radiance. One aspect is like sending out your attention through your eyes to touch and taste all the objects you perceive ‘out there.’ Most of us do this automatically when we see an adorable kitten or a scrumptious smorgasbord. We know how to do this radiance trick. We just severely, I would say pathologically, limit the objects of our wholehearted attention, affection, and delight. If we’d find it all interesting, riveting, galvanizing, we’d be rich in radiance.

 “The other aspect of the raw joy trick is to open or widen your eyes and let more of the radiance in. Each pulsing ‘object’ and ambience emits a particular fragrance of light which we can inhale through our eyes.

 “Let’s not deny we’re addicted. Let’s proclaim we’re addicted. Then we can get all the garbage out in the open, out in the light. If we can examine how we so loyally and perfectly perform our present de-structive addiction, we realize with the stark clarity of a bolt of lightning that we already own the tools, the accomplished skills to perform con-structive addiction.

 “It may well be that some of you need a gap, a synapse of refusal of your present addiction-content in order to bring the pattern into your consciousness long enough for you to watch it and capture it for happier uses.

 “Pretend that your addiction is a unicorn, this elegant, brilliant, fabulous creature, elusive in the dappled shadows of your inner forest.

 “When you finally contrive to gently capture the unicorn, you look into her (or his) eyes, look into her eyes, those deep golden eyes and with a shift in your very molecules, you swear you will never feed this exquisite creature anything but beauty and whatever wisdom you forage for with all your whole devotion.

 “Would you feed this belovèd, blessed unicorn the poisons, the toxins of gambling, smoking, drugs, gorging, or alcohol? Would you? Could you?

 “This is not a moral issue, my darlings, it is an issue of beauty, of sanity, of well-being.

 “In ancient Chinese legend, the unicorn is the colors of the rainbow. Where her hooves fall, no blade of grass is bruised. And music is heard in the air as she passes.

 “Destructive addiction is a darkness. Constructive addiction is in light, is in a sweet song.

 “A lullaby?

 “My pal, Toby Morton whose addictions led him to the slammer asked himself how in the world he would deal with his drinking buddy, George, when they got back together after Toby gets out? I said, ‘Toby honey, it ain’t your friendship on the line, it’s your life at stake.’”

 Cha Racter continued, “Sweethearts, if Toby were lucky enough to be out here with us in this sweet free air, he would tell us that we don’t have a clue, not one clue, how deep free is, how deep beauty is. His world is heavy, metal doors and cinder blocks. Do you think that when he gets back out here in our carnival, our Mardi Gras, our Fat Tuesday, our Fat Wednesday, Fat Thursday, our Fat Days, he’s gonna soil and spoil this free, this glee with destructive addicted garbage? Or is he gonna fall to his knees and kiss the free Earth? And rise a knight of light?”

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8 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North . tzol 138  10.17.05  mon

ffwofw 1000§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1100

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

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

    Purrs Nicety addressed a seminar of clowns about to be deployed into the Dream Scheme to terrorize the Insane Leadership of the USofA Inc with sneak barrages of marshmallows.

     Purrs was a master strategist of guerilla Ridicule. “The RovBuCondRumsChenian Ilk can be howitzerily guarded in the K1, the full kinesthetic, solid-density, daylight plane,” said Purrs with a sly, if not snide, chuckle. Purrs sported the Puss in Boots look, complete with large blue hat with swashbuckling pink feather. Feline-pirate chic. She was, however, a Ridicule Assassin who fought fang and fought claw to embarrass the Putative Mighty.

    “Do you realize,” growled Purrs, “that they steal the happiness of their kittens to build weapons systems?” Her hackles bristled with furry fury. “No one – and I mean no one – dares speak out against the bloated, obscene, insane military budget. Not a chirp, not a squeak, not a bark, nor a howl. Either the hypnotism or the intimidation is complete.

    “Last class I told you all to memorize the Far Looney Bleeding Heart Extremist Agenda. Lobosuave, can you recite it for us?” Lobocake was something of a teacher’s pet, it must be said. Purrs clearly preferred him to any other comrade-in-marshmallows.

    Lobocake gave her his taunting wolfish grin, “That pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband. We’re asking those who generally agree to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Ultraband.”

   “Thanks, Lobo,” preened Purrs who was clearly smitten. “Now, these jerkbeciles are talking cutting Medicaid and the prescription drug benefit, closing schools, and gutting American civil rights, and we may not talk about – even mention – the next-generation DDX destroyers or more Trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or F/A22 fighters or V-22 Osprey aircraft or the strangelovian Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program? Their present destroyers, submarines, aircraft, bombs are going to be challenged by whom?

    “We could put a non-maintenance moratorium on all Weapons of Mass Mutilation development for 5 years. Simply buy out all the workers and companies affected and re-deploy them to build super schools and the infrastructure of the WiFi Nation. We’re spending $820,000 per minute on theoMilitarism, not counting the extra $200,000 per minute on rubbling the rubble in the quagsands of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq.

     “Fundamentalist Christianity is an anti-jesusian, virulent sidebar. The real 8000 lb gorilla in America is the Church of Militarism. To speak out against it is a burn-at-the-stake heresy-equivalent. They do you with the gatling gun and finish you off with a flamethrower.

    “Dare to suggest that 99% of military spending is a colossal waste of money and in come the bunker-busting bombs, soon to be nuclear for cruds sake.” Purrs derisively settled her bright silver fur with a quick shake.

    “Sir Nickety,” said Lobo with that insolent droll drawl, “Before you outline the Dream Scheme marshmallow raid, Operation Pelt, can you elaborate on the stealth psychology of theoMilitarism in 21st century USofA Inc?”

    Purrs cheshired. The clowns at Clown School InterD were a droll rowdy and raunchy lot. The nice thing about traveling in OtherLand was that you could change your body style as handily as the earthbound could change from a denim workshirt to an Hawaiian shirt. Last night she and Lobo had shapeshifted into human guise for some claw hammer and tongs recreation. Because their passions were medieval, he called her Sir Nickety as a kind of petitchouism.¹ Last night between bouts of smackdown, they’d discussed the sickening dangers of theoMilitarism.

    “ It’s probably easier to use the magic glasses of the view back from Y3000,” said Purrs. “In the Year 3000, we do not mutilate the children of strangers to solve adult disputes. We do not allow overwrought young men to drive suicide cars, the cheaper death, nor suicide tanks, the expensive death. The accumulation of stockpiles of WMM, Weapons of Mass Mutilation is seen as obscene and stupid.

    “The cult of Militarism is a very very virulent disease, and sadly its extirpation takes all of human and cosmic ingenuity to accomplish. It takes a drug cocktail of 3 parts Ridicule, 1 part Kindness, and, for the caretakers, huge doses of Vitamins OH and DD. Vitamins Obsidian Humor and Vitamin Damned Doggèdness.

    “All addicts’ hallucinations hijack the basic bio-survival circuits. Similarly the paranoid is unshakably convinced of the perils because the seamless internally-generated evidence is so intimate. External evidence does not access the theo-romanti-spiritual-sublime circuits where the self-generated molecularly-intimate tinctures are enzymily oozed, igniting a conviction for which people will actually end their existence. When these constellations of hallucination are lemming-amplified by fellow cultists, koolaid will be swilled.

   “Even most of the white-hats in 21st century America are either semi-infested themselves with milder forms of the theoMilitarism disease which are still potent enough to distort vision — or are clear-eyed and justly damned afraid.

    “Luckily, in OtherLand, Marshmallowists can be deployed with Weapons of Mass Ridicule and begin the psychic rehabilitation these hijacked entities, the Ilk, need to begin recovery. Their oneiro-security is negligible. We invade their sleep with our improvised marshmallow devices, our IMDs. Into each doppelsleeper’s gaping and snoring mouth, the Ridicule Counter-Militarism squad leader drops a marshmallow. The rest of the clown troops glide by, and marshmallow by marshmallow bury an Ilk’s dreambody in derisive marshmallows. The caboose or last clown out leaves a small keyring-sized plastic pineapple as a sign that it could have been grenades instead of marshmallows, but the uninfected soul goes for k-suave.

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to be continued .. ..

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quik Glossary .. petitchouism = petit chou is little cabbage in French, an endearment; extirpate = uproot; k-suave (k = K1 or solid earth day-density/suave – soo-ah-vay  = sweet, mild, smooth, gentle, harmless, uninjuring);

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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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6 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 136  10.15.05  sat

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Horizontal Model & the art of collaboration

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Horizontal

The Horizontal Model and the art of collaboration

An introduction: equality of qualities

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

    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.

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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3 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 133 . 10.12.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The Part of Art

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The Part of Art

What part does art play in solving the quantum equations of the next human leap into a kinder destiny?

Idyll # 1

I wanted to tell you about the kilim exhibit. Some years ago in the De Young, I think. I wandered through the immense marbled halls hung with remarkable kilim or ‘Turkish rugs.’ The work, the dedication. They were beautiful. They were compelling. Their symmetry spoke of a holy determination to honor God. Everything had to be tended — the sheep, the thread, the dyes, the wood of the loom. The apprentice becomes the master. How many moons rose gold and set silver? The songs chanted. The water fetched in a battered wooden bucket after morning prayers. The rugs appeared in a powerful and obedient symmetry.

There were rugs more than 700 years old. Some men worked on cathedrals. Some men worked on kilim. Honor was paid to the Creator.

After more than an hour of rapt contemplation, I came around a corner and saw yet another kilim. It hit me with such a shock, like I’d been struck by lightning — seared like that. From the 14th century, there like a message straight to the secret center of my heart was this magical, astonishing, asymmetric kilim. It was wildly celebratory, and broke all the rules. I felt a surge of joy so deep and fierce I wasn’t sure I could live past that very moment. Yes, oh yes, one could be different. I was not ever completely alone again. He dared. I dared. As long as we sought as much beauty as we could stand, it was wonderful. Tears just ran silently down my face in greeting, in gladness. People swarmed thru the galleries, but somehow I was alone around this corner as if the universe wanted to grant me this special audience with this kindred spirit from the deep past.

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Addendum tothe Part of Art


I should add a sentence or two about the symmetry vs asymmetry.

The key is that all of the other kilim or rugs “appeared in a powerful and obedient symmetry.”

'My' kilim, on the other hand, was “magically & astonishingly asymmetric kilim. It was wildly celebratory, and broke all the rules.”

The symmetry of the others was a visible & outward & deliberate & expected sign of the obedience to God, presumably Allah. The exquisite and intricate care taken to have the left side mirror the right side and the top mirror the bottom was part of the woven reverence itself. This as the way it was done.

And all the symmetry was either completely or very abstract & symbolic, also part of not daring to suggest any imitation of God Allah.

Whoever this other weaver was, s/he wove a scene which would be quirky avant garde genius even today. It had bold birds and vines, not photographic, but filled with juice and mischief and coyness and just verve. It was sophisticated, funny, brilliantly wrought and utterly against the tide of the time. Dangerously so probably.

Having never myself danced to my time's tune, I felt this savage sudden kinship with a fellow spirit across the centuries. It fortified me and gleed me too in my quest for the grail of untamed truth.…………….<^>……………..
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for wonder, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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1 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 132  10.10.05 mon      
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa! .. a newer, funnier physics . .

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Note: please check pogblog’s Glossary for coined (invented) or unfamiliar words, tho for this article, there is a quick glossary below.  If you read this material with your mouth, as if out loud, it will be clear as a bell.

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Quantum Optics & the Great AhaHa!

part 1 .. otter around in the utter .. a newer, funnier physics

 

     The Nobel Physics Prize people are sweet, but antique in their visions and versions. One of the recipients of the Nobel Prize for ultraviolet laser short-pulse-light study , Dr.Theodor Hänsch of Max Planck Institute of Quantum Optics in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Garching, Germany and a professor at the Ludwig Maximilians University in Munich, says, “Eventually, we may be able to enjoy 3-D holographic movies.”

    Eventually, like last night?

    Oh, oh, oh, these pesky physics prof lads are so behind zee times, golly. Our brains do the 3D holographic movies we call dreams every night, physics doods.

     Holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino – holosentido — movies around in which we walk every night. Nobel Prize that, profs. Put on your dreaming caps and do the pioneering study on the semi-permeable filter that separates the actuality planes so niftily for us and which we call the brain, de hersenen, le cerveau, el cerebro. Those photonic physics punks called artists and shamans otter around in the utter (study the exotic physics of  iziz, all-of-it) with considerable skill. Now we all need to get our terms of engagement more intratranslatable.

     The first of the 9 Gandhi-King Steps to nonviolence & to collaboration is to Define the Conflict. Peeps are often fighting about totally different stuff. You think we’re fighting about money; I think we’re fighting about whether you care about me vividly enough. So we need a rapprochement between repeatable science and photonic science.

    To be blunt, mon amigoas, what we’re doing ain’t working so good for millions of fellow sentients on our Planet Home. Planet Home could be a garden if we turned militarism to educationism, from lead to gold indeed. But the meta-physics matters – the what we allow to be really real – to count.   

   The scientists have got to belly up to the UniekBar, the Unrepeatable Bar, the thrilling and chilling realization that because Eternity is so long or vast, only the unique can in fact actually exist, tho there are bands of areas where the similarities work as repeatable for all macro-practical purposes. Scientists already know this but it’s awkward doctrinally when “repeat the experiment’ is like ‘Jesus is the only way to Heaven,’ not true but theo-bolstering to the exclusivity of one’s views.

     So there needs to be more truth in advertising from the scientists, and some more occasional semi-sobriety from the mystery-surprise-drunk photonikists who need to be better journalists of the otter-in-the-utter experiences and quit being boors and borrachos to the dear scientists who just rightly wanted to cool down the chaos from their own fundamentalist-religions-ridden era, cerca 16th c.

    Ole Plato had the quintessentially useful construct: the charioteer. You are the charioteer and your chariot is drawn by the white horse of reason and the black horse of passion – and if you do not get them pulling together, you just go around in a circle, one way or the other. Both horses being dappled is the eventual burbanked hybrid solution. Integrate lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the two sides of the brain, all the false dichotomies that keep us blindered if not blinded to the holospheric and presently vertiginous truth. There’s no way out of the reality sea, you might as well swim. Sulking only curdles the blood.

    Some general advice – the scientists need to burn their neckties and only do science in hawaiian shirts and Bermudas, and the photonikists need to quit always wandering around in their not recently washed boxer shorts idly itching their gonads – or the female fashion equivalents. There is peace possible in this Valley of Earthly Delights if we each have to learn a good deal about the language of reality with which we’re uncomfortable and less fluent. Multi-lingual, lasses & lads, that’s our figging salvation – more physixes, more ecumenical.

     And we have to with our eyeballs bleeding with misgivings and raw hope make the photonic leap to grokking that our real security is not in militarism but in educationism. We need to teach people to build and invent, not kill. It’s the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for reality, 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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Quick glossary.. holosentido – the inhabited senses, the senses we can dwell in & not just view from outside like tv. Our earth experience is holoV, a holograph in which we dwell, except that it includes all the senses, not just seeing. Auditory/hearing; gustatory/tasting; olfactory/smelling; kinesthetic/feeling; Therefore holosentido includes holographic, holoaudic, hologusto, holoolfact, holokino. /// link to the 9 Gandhi-King Principles of Pro-Peace Collaboration; /// grok = deeply understand, drink in understanding; /// photonic physics &c = the post-quantum physics where the physixes of  all our experiences are integrated. /// borrachos = drunkards; /// Uniek = unique in Dutch; I like the polyglot or many-tongues feel – it makes me less parochial or narrowly local; /// peeps is affectionate slang for people; /// amigoas like felinoas sapiens is trying to balance up the gender wrongs embedded in the language; It’s not ideal, but it’s a start; /// Iz Iz, iziz,  cf Is Is .. the only completely true thing you can say; /// the future, il futuro, de toekomst, zukunft, le jour suivant – all of them mean future, except ‘le jour suivant’ in French literally means ‘the day which follows.’ /// dichotomies are divisions into two; /// burbanked is a tip of the sombrero to Luther Burbank who was the wizard of hybrids and who talked some roses out of their thorns, for instance.

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10 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 127  10.06.05 thu  

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

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Kafka Reels && Re-Reels +

Kafka returns to lend a hand. Notes from his pals pogblog & Cara Mel:

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ… ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

One does reel at BabsToinette of Laissez-les manger le gâteau infame. I keep thinking the maze & spinning lurching besmirched kafka qualities of our time will — must (how much quease can one universe stand? — slow down, ameliorate, at least abate? But no, every day when I wake up it's beaucoup plus bizarre, mucho màs extraño, veel bizarder. Note: pinching myself doesn't help. It seems this nightmare is for real.

Naturellement, like a marble cake, the dream swirl in the nightmare confection is excruciatingly beautiful, appallingly exotic and erotic. I have had the bone-marrow sweating privilege of inhabiting the Planet at the same time as The Funniest Man Who Ever Lived (for someone with a taste for obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape) and at the same time as the Silverest Cat Who Ever Lived.

I ask myself — WHO in the Hell is the Script Writer? What grim and humorless ArchGod can keep coming up with new dizzguzzting twizts for KarlBoy to creepily perpetrate? The mind surboggles. The language lurches drunkenly. Who can keep up? The synapses are in a constant state of head-on collision shock. from pogblog

 

ÞÞ..Þ..ÞÞÞ…

     ‘Dear Frankie, at first I thought I should be formal with you – the great Kafka — because of all the esteem we hold you in and the fact that I have always seen you look like something out of a coffin but upright.’

    ‘Ah, Miz Mel — or seeing as we’re being so intime, may I call you Cara?’  Seeing a moue, a small shrug and a slight wildly becoming blush, Franz continued lustily. ‘I have been mistook. I love sunbathing by and idly dogpaddling in the second great <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />river of Hades, the river Mnemosyne, indigo in the evening and turquoise at dawn.’

    ‘Oh Frankie – we thought you’d covered the silent despair, the peculiar, the creepy traps the modern Greed-Ridden World was chaining the frolicsome souls of men in. The self-inflicted conformity that we walked unwhipped back into our cages, our lionhearts dazed, our wild bright eyes glazed. That was then we thought in the often brighthearted Sixties. Now we see, now we’ll be free. No one ever imagined, I swear to you, that that, that your time was the mild, the less lethal version of the crippling disease of Greed and of Greed’s slavering handmaiden War.’

    ‘Cara Mel – you are lovely by the way – we return a few bardos or layers of K¹ closer because of the emergency. Plato’s napping but near. Rocket Socky, an original in any agora, is speaking with me this evening at your friends’ Clown School InterDimensional. What’s your greatest danger? What would you have us speak to tonight in the dreaminar?’

     ‘There’re a few. Cynicism. Apathy and its cousin Inertia. These are what I fight every day, fearing the young and the dreamers will be wounded and quail, be dimmed of eye, hidden of heart.’ 

        ‘OK, We’ll address tonight the mass inoculation by clouds. We took to heart your excellent paper on the ingenious water transport system on Earth, What better way to move vast quantities of water around than with clouds? Therefore what better way to move mass amounts of inoculations around. We plan to seed the clouds world-wide with what you might call a humor vitamin or tonic. Everyone will be refreshed with what your friend pogblog, also winsomely plump if I may say so, calls an obsidian humor, the darkest, the snarkiest, the malarkiest, the flirkiest, a humor from which no light can escape. Nothing else will get you all through this great battle with Greedor, the forces of Aggrandizement and use of people.’

    ‘Frankie, I saw a paper by Rocket Socky on the distribution of brutal humor by cloud and then river then corn then tortillas. I saw a pict of him by the way on the holonet and he was wearing a pair of bright red high-tops. I love seeing him as a 30 year-old, gallivanting around. The stupid history books were all so bonebreakingly boring. Socrates. Kafka. We thought you all were duds on the stud front, not doods with tood.’

   Kafka preened. It was fun. These new folks had élan.

   ‘I understand that you all will shortly do the more essay form of action items?’

   ‘Yeah 7/8 of the folk won’t even be conscious of the inoculations of obsidian humor. their blood will be a more dark, sweet candy apple red, but they may not grok or funes it. Most of your fellows in harmless arms are still quite linear, though warm of heart. We try to do 1/8 fractal and even that quite grammatical. Only you and Gato Gateau are cleared for the grb mad ride.’

    Have you ever done a grb, Frankie?’ Cara Mel handed him a card with grb defined on it in holobraille. He ran his fingertips over it lightly and read it outloud to her, like a spoken song.

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‘grb .. stands for gamma ray burst – discovered in the 60s; “exotic, mysterious flashes pack the output of many galaxies into a single pulse that lasts seconds or less” – and that is exotic on any plane, cf  “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center.”  This relates to the Mayan energy-matrix calendar which pogblog honors because the path forward is holospherical not linear like the cursed Gregorian calendar and that ‘convenient’ atrocity, the metric system, may it boil in many liters of oil, which has taken measurement of distance and quantity out of poetry in one fell fell swoop. “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely miles, oh my beloved?” “Could you hear the heartbeats of my anguish across the lonely kilometers etc.” I wasn’t trying to defend ‘good poetry,’ just the on-the-endangered-species-list poetic impulse. A poetic impulse looks not unlike a zebra. They tend to be solitary animals. They don't do herds. ‘He inched across the searing sand on his belly, a pilgrimage to an oasis, a mirage no doubt like other wet heavens.’ You can’t 'centimeter across the searing sand.' It’s a sin to kill an inch. 

   ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Frankie the Kafka. ‘Well make their first oneiro-project choosing a totem animal and doing some shapeshifting. That always lubricates the poetical and the hilarious.’

    ‘Remember to define all these terms like oneiro as dream for them. this will be a very mixed group. Some of the oneiroscouts come from cultures like the Senoi who grow up with dreaming skills and others will be from places like America where no one ever asked them even once how their dreams went last night or what did they learn or bring back in trade from the FarStars. So remember to at least put in some clues for the treasure hunt along the way.’

   ‘The first thing I’ll get Rocket Socky to do is send them to pogblog’s Glossary and the powerful Search function on the left side of her blog. They can find all the secret handshakes there. How we all hate obscurity. It’s time to tell the secrets as brazenly as possible.’

    ‘Sweet dreams, Frankie,’ said Cara Mel.

  ‘And thee, Cara, and the lovers of sweet Earth, a jewel of the Galaxy which will shine again.’

from Cara Mel

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¹ K = kinesthetic degree. Standard waking Earth is K1. Many dreams and alternate experiences have less stable K. It a genius of masterpiece Earth that it has such sturdy, persistent K.

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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: pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

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 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West .  tzol 111  09.20.05 tues

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Evil Ain't Always Bad

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Evil Ain’t Always Bad   

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    “This is a subject so difficult to talk about that my throat constricts as the words rise into the air. I who have lived with this knowledge for 23 years can hardly breathe to speak. Yes, I have come to tell you that what is evil ain’t always bad.” Belle Z. Babe spoke at the Tribunal as the lidless eyes of the Judges bore their fear, distaste, and fury like crossbows into her heart.

    At once, in the dappled inner glade which was her refuge, Belle Z. turned ruefully to Oak, her friend with the bright dark amber eyes. Like herself, Oak was of the ancient druid line of star-seed who loved the home planet Earth with concentration and glee, diligence, devotion, and somersault joy. The druids knew there was more than one time line, a fact they playfully and reverently portrayed in their intricate and passionate Celtic knots. Lightning is a druid sign because druids zigzag between times.

     While one thread of her experience had Belle Z. in a leg chain, in her glade, Oak put the back of his fingers to her cheek and suspended time with her. It was this ability to dwell in parallel and mobius time lines that gave those of druid blood their air of mystery to the single-sighted. Oak’s eyes were that dark amber struck by a shaft of sun. Not too far hidden under the surface of those lion’s eyes was merriment, mischief, and a daunting ability to concentrate. Oak shrugged, “We knew they weren’t going to like the wider truth being brought into the day light. Stay brave, Belle Z.”

     Back in the Tribunal, with no more apparent time dislocation than a heartbeat, Belle Z.Babe continued. “You didn’t like what Galileo told you either. The transition to an openly multi-dimensional consciousness is going to be rocky, but the costs of living a lie are too tremendous.

    “In the most simplistic terms, what is good’ in our Earth density of experience is not the same as what is good’ in our less dense ethereal realm of experience. “Thus evil’ ain’t always bad. Most true evil comes from confusing the layers of consequence between dimensions of experience.”

     Monger, the grim judge sneered at Belle Z., “If you let this evil out of the bottle, Mz. Z.Babe, you cannot contain it. We have kept the multi-dimensional truth from people because they are not ready for it. The danger is too great.”

    Belle Z.Babe shrugged one shoulder, “Monger, I have thought most of my lifetime about that —. It is a staggering concern. But I am convinced now that we must dare the whole truth. “If what is evil earthside is not necessarily evil in the ethereal realms, we must learn and teach how to act fittingly.’ How to act in a way that fits’ the realm of experience we presently dwell in.

     “Imagine for a moment that you and I meet in a dream and you murder me. In the land of dreams, murder could be a gotcha’ game you and I play. Or it could be symbolic between us of some rotten feelings. But because in the less-dense or ethereal realms where we inhabit dreams and other differently-consequential experiences, we pop right back up, the consequential meaning of murder is different. Therefore the ethics is different.

      “In our beloved earth/solid, relatively sequential-time realm, the consequences of war and pillage, rape, death, and promiscuity are all awful to our sturdy hearts. Yet simultaneously we dwell in levels of experience where such things have little more consequence than our actually being a character in a book we’re reading.”

     Belle Z.Babe looked at Monger’s pale ice-grey eyes directly with her green Celtic eyes and continued, “The kinesthetic intensity and time-duration intensity of Earth experience, as well as the depth and durance of emotions make consequence and responsibility different than in the diaphanous, more plastic realms where experience manifests at the speed of thought.

      “Here in this material masterpiece we have to collaborate with the nature of a stuff which has its own integrity and sturdiness.

     “Our behavior must be appropriate, must fit the space, the place wherein we immediately dwell. We cannot bring dream behavior into the solid day. This mis-taking of realms, this leeching of lusts and power struggles and emotional chaos into the consequential Earth is the source of most crime, legal and emotional. By staying primly and sentimentally blind to our multi-level experience, we avoid the complicated responsibility for our whole behavior.”

      In the glade, Oak grinned at Belle Z and said, “The constant aesthetic and ethical many-layered decisions that we hope are increasingly elegant and compelling finally make use of the 90% of that ultimate holographic and multi-D organic Celtic knot, the human brain, which has lain mostly fallow for all these centuries.

     “Of course it’s complicated and terrifying to juggle several time lines and densities in a clear, sound consciousness at once , but it’s complicated and terrifying now — and based on a wrong premise, a false foundation.

     “We must dare to trust the whole truth, to dream well and live fittingly at once.”

      “Deft and apt,” Belle Z.Babe agreed.

 

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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: pogblog@yahoo.com

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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

2 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 106  09.15.05 thur

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Jesus & Jesusia

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 Jesus & Jesusia

 

   Ja Guar was the renowned Director of Planetary Films. He staged what might be called morality plays on the stages we call continents in earthside lingo. His consort and cohort Gata was the chief script writer for the plays which melded actors and amnesiaized participants.

     On Earth the distilled venom vs honey – Are you poisonous or are you sweet? – melees of consciousness were focused a lot on the hairless biped, where on a more watery planet, the ceffs or cephalopods, the octopi might dominate the soap opera scene.

    When the script writers lost control of the domineering Religion Christianity, Gata was called in to do some re-writes before this Religion of Peace blew every one off the planet. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Hiroshima and Nagasaki hadn’t made enough of a dent to sate the virulent ebolaesque e christiani, a disease where you made damned sure that your enemies whom you were supposed to love bled from every orifice and from bullets holes if the other orifi weren’t enough. This was the most virulent strain of the Religion Virus that had been developed any where in the Cosmos. And the Galactic Palaver was plenty worried in case the plague became space-borne. Everyone longed for the spread of the Worship of the Gigantic Teapot from Terengganu instead. But that was not to be. To have a really virulent strain of Religion, it has to be absent the humor gene.

        “Well, Ja Guar”, said Gata, “I’m trying to back-burn this puppy. We moved in an half million extras, the finest psychic-stunt beings in the cosmos – beings willing to wear the stifling and constricting fleshsuit and to live in deep cover for from 2-80 years to play this one big scene of devastation on the Gulf Coast of Turtle Island.

    “Each of them is Jesus or Jesusia and the hope is to wake the dormant kindness in the e christiani afflicted by exposure to the real suffering of Jesus and Jesusia. The Afflicted are resistant to norfloxacin, cefotaxime, clavulanic acid, and to reason or evidence. In addition to the drugs, there is evidentiary therapy, but the Afflicted, like those affected by the barley Blight madness in the Middle Dark Ages, are raving mad and it is difficult to interrupt their acute theophrenia.”

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to be continued    

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

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

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 105  09.14.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Fronds

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Fronds

   
    Stiffly folded, elegant palm fronds are the origami of our local gods, Gla and Glo. The palm trees soar eighty feet in the air on preposterous one-foot diameter bare trunks and burst into a fireworks cascade of fronds at the very top.

    Gla and Glo are tricky and somewhat slothful. Hedonists at heart. They absolutely refused the iceberg/polar bear/penguin gig when it was offered.

    “Forfend!” Gla had put the ‘d’ on the end of the word like a hammer giving the last whack to a nail. With acid sweetness she had added, “Give that ghastly gig to Pessie, the Grumpy Pussy who thinks stark white is becoming and who likes to suffer. He’ll say, ‘Frozen, bleak. Howling wind. Yum.’”

    Gla and Glo settled in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Northern California and indolently and brilliantly set about making it the gentle paradise it is. If you think stirring some dirt, water, sky, sun and presto —  palm tree is ho hum, you’re one of the bleating blind and deaf who’ve come to inhabit this swell planet in such ignorant herds.

    Into a nut the size of the end of your thumb, Gla and Glo managed to pack the holo-holo of the sky-sweeper palm tree. The holo-holo is the minute, whole sense (holo-optic, holo-audic, holo-olfact, holo-kino, holo-gusto) rendition of the tree which will emerge magically making itself out of dirt.

    Gla and Glo knew that Sol3 was going to be issued grade D, biped sentients which were agog-impaired with limited attention spans. In addition to making these benighted beasts comfortable, Gla and Glo hoped to stir sparks of grade C or even grade B sentiment from these dull Processing Units with dazzling tricks like the sky-sweeper palm.

    Among the felinoa sapiens who guard Sol3 from the malignant space vulteros who feed on the brain-dead and soul-tepid and the Republican, the sky-sweeper palm made Gla and Glo’s reputation. The palms were a splendid and impossible joke. Glo had done the preposterous soaring trunks — a glorified stalk really — which swayed dangerously in the strong local afternoon winds.

    Gla had fashioned the ecstatic spray of pleated fronds with their large stiff folded fan-shaped ‘palm’ attached to the tree’s crown by a five-foot long stiff flat stalk. Hanging from the end of each stiff fold is a languid fringe whose sensitivity is akin to whiskers for a cat.

    Decoding the merest breeze delicately, the slender frond fingers answer the gossip, the news with an ethereal melody. In the very late afternoon when the angle of the sun is just right, when the winds subside to evening zephyrs, the frond fringe flashes with crackling molten gold sparks flung with passion and abandon into the sunset air.

    The lion-drawn chariot of Day departs, gaudy, resplendent. The shadows lie like panthers stretched beside the emerald bushes. The Night Gods arch their eyebrows and spread indigo softly across the landscape. Gla and Glo, content, watch their beloved sky-sweeper palms turn to pen-and-ink silhouettes against the spangled sky, settle to slumber, and purr.’ 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for beauty, 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

8 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  99  09.08.05 thur

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Cat .. & Braised Human

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Cat 

    When they finally landed again, there was a devastating misunderstanding. They set down on the Jasco plain in southern Mexico, the place from where they’d departed in the Pleistocene. One of the startled terrestrial greeters, in the confusion, the billowing dust stirred up by the starship, the shock, had blurted, “Habla Espanol?!”
    The translator implants embedded in most galactic citizens were marvels of ingenious technology, but millennia come and millennia go in star travel and in spite of updating, mistakes creep in. “Habla Spaniel?!” the translator implant relayed — the star creature’s countenance clearly fell, the air of beatitude replaced by distaste or maybe even horror. “Spaniel? Indeed not,” the star creature declared, whiskers twitching, calico fur bristling, “Hablo Cat.”
    Felinoa sapiens had of course been masters of the universe since time’s infancy when riding the bucking galactic waves of furious young energy required reckless and brilliant deft sleek courage. Cats had evolved a welding of intellect and emotion, savvy and instinct that was the envy of lesser sentients. Cats had planted experiments on suitable planets and periodically revisited these planetary sites to observe the progress of the stock. The human stock on planet Earth, for instance.
    Fire Cat, Owl Cat, Nova Cat were the first master cats to set foot on Earth since the Pleistocene. They had been getting mindgrams from their miniature cousins whenever they wanted an update on the human herds. Humans were among the most vicious and intractable of the experimental stock being grown in this minor galaxy, but the young ones made excellent veal. “Braised shanks,” Fire thought, licking her furred lips. “Chops, charbroiled, rare,” Nova laughed, gold eyes blackening at the tasty thought.
    Owl Cat rumbled, “They thought their God was a large pale fellow with a beard. We ate God steamed — with a glaze, didn’t we?” Nova and Fire snickered.
    The three masters of the universe were making a courtesy call on one of their young cousins, a Burmese who lived in Mountain View, California. Jester was an elegant glossy dark-chocolate-colored cat who kept two humans of middle age — beyond being half-decent veal really. Jester planned to plead on behalf of his human housemates, Ned and Nelly. Through the mindnet, he knew of the planet-clearing roundup which was coming, and in spite of the fact that humans were unkind to their own kind, generally greedy, and certainly ungenerous to other species themselves, Jester just couldn’t bear Ned and Nelly’s being butchered up into steaks and chops and ground round and put on the deep-freeze freighter for the trip to the Galactic Center warehouses where the terran delicacies would be dispersed to rich Cats.
    Let them round up the Dog People who were dumber anyway and had fewer sensibilities. Jester wanted to save his pals who could almost be cats. Couldn’t a handful of Honorary Cats be spared?
    Though a tenth the size, Jester was as beautiful as the star cats. His short silky fur was a burnished nutmeg, his eyes gold. Fire Cat was vain, a rare calico with an antique pattern from the First Days. Nova was jet black with a white tuxedo front. Owl Cat was a barred subtle gray, a full six-foot-high with a plumed tail. Bravely and with great dignity and glee, Jester faced his enormous star cousins and pleaded Ned and Nelly’s virtues.
    Glancing quickly at the others who were also suppressing smiles, Fire nodded gravely and said, “Sure, kid, cut a few out of the herd if you want. The Meat Merchants at Galactic Central don’t need to know everything.” Nova added, “Tell you what, little friend, we’ll send out the Dog-Loving Humans first. Spaniel!” the fur puffed out on her tail. “We’ll leave all your cat people on Earth til next trip in a millennia or two and maybe they’ll mend their grotty ways, get more kind and respectful, and finally get smart enough to be worth taking off the Big Menu.”   
     Jester purred and cheshired. Ned and Nelly would never know, but he was glad to have saved them and the other cat people too. He was pleased the dog people would be gone. He hated Roscoe, that loud dumb mutt next door. It would be less smelly without them, canine and caninophiles alike.


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for irony, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. askdrdruid@gmail.com
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It’s an honor to have you visit Ask Dr. Druid.
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://www.wendyfleet.com
7 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 98  09.07.05 wed  
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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