Category Archives: Planet Beauty

Make a Poetry .. MAP .. elan waking x elan dreaming #1

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Make a Poetry .. MAP ..

elan waking x elan dreaming #1

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     “Attention is a substance. Attention can travel amongst the intersecting spheres of densities. Monsieur Einstein fussed about his e=mc2 which holds up pretty well in K1, the semi-standard shared steady or fairly predictable and persistent solidity. But attention — the attention point can travel jaguar-like thru the forests of the night and of de-light. A=ec8″.

      Purrs Nickety, the feline assassin specializing in felling hypocrites, had a planet-side putative pal called Spiteful Puffadder. He was cute, sexy, and asked good questions once in a maroon moon, but he knew exactly how to needle her. She knew that when she wrote up the Make a Poetry MAP chapter for the Elan Waking x Elan Dreaming Manual, there would be a flurry of knives that would all impale the bullseye of her tender heart. But, press on regardless was the assassin’s creed even if ridicule and sweet talk were your only weapons in a mean world.

    Purrs said, “Lucid or elan or lively waking (& lucid or elan or lively dreaming, sooth said) is all a matter of deft attention. I put together a whole nice package of pogbloggian angles on deft, deft attention, and deftly intent for you to consult.

       “It’s the awww-kitten theory. When you see a kitten being held by someone, you feel safe. You go , “Aww, how adorrraabble. (Well, I do and many people do. Spiteful Puffyadder would probably like to, but it would de-cool his imagined tuff-guy image (pronounced im-ahhshuh). I use this aww-kitten example because once you get onto the recognition of attention as a thing, as a substance, you can experiment with it, or at the very least observe.

    “Compare also,” said Purrs, “That NLP I think said in some seminar, ‘Notice where you somatisize anger.’  Get over the horrible word somatisize (about which EB White said something like, ‘I’d as soon Simonize my grandmother'). I assumed I knew where I somaticised anger – in other words where in my body did anger concentrate? I assumed my chest, my shoulders, my jaw. But the next time I actually got angry, I realized that I somaticized anger in my forearms. Who knew? So we need a PestPatrol utility scanning our attentions to check out if they’re genuine or have gotten lifeless, juiceless, or just mis-taken.

   “You can send your attention anywhere in time. Or anytime in where.  Now, we like to allow our attention to be manipulated by stories and dance and song and stock tickers I suppose for some. That’s fun and I like it too. It would add to the repertoire of your consciousness though if you began to pay attention to your attention. Not with a furrowed brow tho, nor gritted teeth, but deftly – with no more effort than it takes a butterfly not to crash into the flower upon which it’s landing.

     “Attention that is euphonically and harmoniously deftly formed is often called the zone. Now, a baseball pitcher can be in the zone with his slider but almost slice his thumb off cutting a grapefruit in half. Pitching he can handle his attention brilliantly — tres zone. Halving grapefruits – not-so-zone. I swear that one summer there was a rash of baseball players hacking themselves up trying to halve grapefruits. Anyhow, attention is an undersung substance until you begin to grok it. Have you ever had the phenomenon of learning a new word and then for a week you suddenly hear it being used all over? As you add attentions, it’s like that.

   “Ye owls, now I’m in for it from Spiteful Puffy. But we gotta remind you about the Eskimos and their 25 words for snow. The Eskimos have a refined attention for many more qualities of snow than you and I do because snow is a life or death issue for them. All learning is refining and distilling attentions. And the astonishing thing is that you can have a zillion of them and it’s only more fun.

     “Properly funesed and grokked, attentions are nada but cool. We get tripped up when we lose deft. Deft is the lodestone. There’s a certain effervescence to deft. If we, as we are wont to do but don’t want to do, fall into a leadenness of attention, we are bored or angry or irritated.

   “Obsidian humor may be required to keep the quantum skipping up – when the self-evident stubbornness or stupidity of others seems to be ripping the wings off one’s butterfly of attention on some subject. or other. Obsidian humor is the Advanced Class – harrowing hell is nifty work and if you can’t asbestos up your heart, y’gonna char.

      “But happily and luckily, there’s a lot of attentions honing that all of us can do before we have to throw the lamb chop of our heart to Cerberus. Deft and droll attentions.”

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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

2 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 145  10.24.05 mon 

ffwofw 806§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1111

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

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Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

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The gigantic & glorious & terrifying planetary changes of the next six years or so will be a lot more, well, fun for you if you both frantically and serenely gobble down the glamorous and nifty tricks, slick & delicate & brazen, of interweaving lucid waking & lucid dreaming, amigo, amiga.

 

In the juggling integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the octessential leitmotif epistemological or practical trick is being deftly intent. The following tidbits give you a gist of what deft grokkedly means. You can always check with pogblog’s Glossary to see what other coined words or unexpected usages mean.

 

I have linked the essays/stories/articles so you can read the rest of them as you wish. 

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from Eclectic .. muy yum

. . . really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

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from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

It was ridiculous to take drugs in the Sixties – an invitation to synapse-snafu, but the impulse was completely understandable. People knew immense amounts of experience were being neglected or ignored. With proper training, you can be lucidly awake – deftly intent – all the time and see that the whole world is burning in the forests of the night and of the day. With proper training you can lucidly do alternate experience without crapshooting your faithful synapses – you can learn to shift gears or shift dimensions.

    There are a lot of vaganzas we can have for some practice and if lucky some instruction. (Avoid serious instruction like the plague. Serious instruction must be false. Carpe comedy, however obsidian.)

     Ah, extra vaganzas. Muy yum. Starting with licking everything  as if it were an ice cream cone which is what good poets do and is a good beginning. 

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Homo Hilariens .. obsidian humor .. we evolve at last ..

 

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. 

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Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

    Great education is like putting a permanent IV in your arm renewing you with a plasma of fascination, with an ignited enthusiasm. Great education doesn’t teach you anything except how to learn, an earnest deftness of mind and heart which you can apply to the electric present. It’s splendid and lucky to be confidently curious all the time.
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Brown Bird of Happiness

 

    Of course. I knew at once the breathtaking truth. Our ideas of happiness are quite rigidly conditioned. We are all searching diligently or frantically for versions of happiness, items of happiness, that are imposed upon us by the subtle tyranny of the past. Birds of happiness are blue, we are quite sure. This tyranny is distinctly insidious. It prevents what’s happening right under our noses from being happiness. Instead we have restless, inchoate longings for happinesses defined, not by our own present deft attention, but by other agents. Parents, friends, movies, books, religions, the patterns of our own past. 

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50.5% Crazy

 

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

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Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

    He had powerful benefactors, did Hector FerdeLance whose knowledge of subtle neurotoxins became legendary in rumor. He played the stringed zambal, attended the king, was a pretty, winning youth. Who was to know for sure that he wielded death so deftly? He was not employed to snuff the sparks of little lights, there were crude minions enough for that. His use was to outwit the shielding wards, those protecting woven words, that rhapsody of other kings.

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Fegg .. Quantum Perception

 

   Fegg. F[aberge]egg. Fegg. Simple, splendid, extravagant, delicious, reverent, jeweled. Fegg. It is seeing and tasting that richness in the little world that is fegg. One of the Earth Decorator's most fegg is, of course, the hummingbird, an outrageous jeweled miniature envied on all planets of all stars. “Ah, Madame Deco,” an offworld Designer would sigh, hardly concealing stark envy, “How did you do it!?” Planet Designers are a good lot on the whole in spite of their universally being riddled with admiration twinned with envy. It's just that when you see something unbearably well done — the concept, the craft, the flash, the diligence, it haunts the heart with gratitude that it has been done–and envy that you didn't think of it first. Gratitude and applause minutely outweigh envy. .. .. The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin) are fabulous, and the notion of fegg derives a portion of its charm from the pleasure that human artisans can be so deft. But the planet's Designer has simply strewn our path with marvels upon marvels, has all but stuffed riches down our throat like fat corn down the foie gras goose's gullet.

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the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

    Pal Ace said, “Between us we might be able to make the chariot and the black and the white horses tangible enough that our audience can actually get the lively sensation of the Third Thing. We can explain that all great thought is in stories because people there get images which give force and vitality to ideas. Abstract ideas are about as attractive as plucked chickens.”

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

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

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

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

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

    “We are focused on the Third Thing, not ourselves.” Risma smiled at Sherrard Gray, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />NorthEast Kingdom, Vermont, USA. She said, “The way it feels is that there, between us, is a land ne’er seen, an air pristine, in which we two can now create a new wonder to fascinate our fellows later. This place alive, this Third Thing is our refuge from our only selves.

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Church .. deftly intent

 

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.


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 the Universe Moved or reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .

 

    I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.

     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.

     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.

….

     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.

    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.     

    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly. 

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You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.

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Vulture Culture

 

    Lord Ord became, reluctantly at first then ravenously, rapturously interested in the Behind-the-Scenes necessities that support the splendid on-stage Show. When he had invented the vulture, he had felt a deep marrow-tingling pride. There are many quirks in the solid Earth dimension. There were surprises such as the glamorous peacock’s awful cry. Lord Ord’s ugly vulture of ghastly mien could soar so sweetly that all gaped, envied. It was sufficient recompense.

    When the gods wished to soar, they became vultures, effortless, cloudstalkers. Hot sun on the top of the bold broad feathers, the rise of the ebullient air under your wide wings. If you wanted to do enormous, you did elephant, hippo, rhino, whale. If you wanted to soar, you did vulture.

    Some gods were too fastidious, too tepid of imagination to pay the gustatory price. Lord Ord’s sense of humor escaped many. Putting the galaxy’s most fabulous soaring with the galaxy’s most repulsive and rancid cuisine was a mobius twist trick that the prissier gods couldn’t follow.

    Lady Onyx, his brilliant deft partner, had also become intrigued by the design of the Odd. Her tour de force had been spiders. The challenge had been to devise a vertigo-less creature whose webs were art and worked as well.

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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

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

ffwofw 855§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Jane the 4th Coming, the BeelzebuB Gospel

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Jane, the 4th Coming,

the BeelzebuB Gospel

   

    Ace could not believe that he’d bagged Jane, the 4th Coming herself for another interview for Carpe Comedy, his rowdy and a little raunchy holozine. Jane had told him, “Zebras & warthogs, Ace, I’ll keep coming back until they finally figure out that 'Yep, this is she tho we expected a he.' Just like poor ole Migs Jagger – nice bloke at the bar, a tad tepid in the sack – has to sing Satisfaction over and over. They, the herds, the hordes, the sheep want the same scenario, the same drama. Tho JC and I talk about how if he ever came back himself in a robe and sandals with a gleaming halo and an entourage of angels, they’d freak out.

   It could be a little disconcerting talking to Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings. She was often on the telepaphone, espering away while she was chatting with you and so there was a sense of the music of the spheres surrounding her. Not that she didn’t give you her whole attention. It’s hard to explain. But,thought Ace, that’s what we’re trying to explain multimind.

     “Well,” said Jane, jolly deity, “the first trick to multimind is to unclench your mind. There is no difference between your fist and your useful hand except that you unclenched it. The clenched mind causes no bloody end of harm.

    “Oh but Ace, I wanted to remark on the travails and trawoes of that creep Karl. If you don’t get him, we will. We just slap the Empathy SlashVolter into his brain and turn on the rerun of his life. Aw, it’s great. He feels everything the folks he villainized felt, but just slightly slowed down so the molecular drip of the shame and agony plays its full neuronic amplitude through his sullied synapses. No compartmentalizing here. Karl cannot partition off his lousehood in the full Quark Activation of the Empathy SlashVolter. The villainized get to download all their distilled dismay into his circuits. Fair is fair. He can’t run; he can’t hide. The Truth Dawg has got a perfect nose. And nothin’ is hid from the Record. Every gasp of joy and wonder is recorded on the Akashic Vinyl, and every putrid moment. Ole Karl has to re-eat his own vomit.

    Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings gazes at Ace. Was it worth getting a crush on another mere? The meres. Yeah, they could be daggone cute and a heck of a roll in the straw, but they had the attention spans of fleas and the depth of a puddle. But this one was funny. That mitigated the other merenesses somewhat, maybe. Mere mortals – ho hum, or fa la la – that was the question. Multigonads. Well, they weren’t ready for that yet. That would have to wait for the 8th Coming or later.

    “Multimind. Now we’re pretty much stuck in cerebro izquierdo – the left brain. What we neglect except on more hidden and forbidden occasions is the cerebro divertido, the droll brain, the right brain. The trick is to be niftier hopscotching back and forth. The transitions, the warping and wefting, the gliding and sliding betwixt and amongst are too sluggish for major splash and glee and knife-keen seeing. Integration is elation. We’ll talk about seeing with poetry next time.”

   “Next time?” thought Ace. The challenge with gods, however pan and dionysian, was that the beginnings and endings could be abrupt. They appeared. Then they unappeared. There was a lot of poof and presto and arbadacarba. It was like a secret handshake this prestoing and poofing and arbadacarbaing, and you were supposed to laugh in a most jocular manner. Out of the blue, it occurred to him. Tapas. That was it. He hadn’t remembered to provide a spread of snacks. So instead of accusing him with that piercing emerald gaze, she’d just decided to romp off and have a few tacos al pastor. She liked him tho, he thought. She refused to hang out with the BloodDrinkers. There could be worse things than being a toy boy to a goddess.        

        

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

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   Jane never set out to be the 3nd Coming, anymore than she set out to be fat or a redhead. She chuckled frequently when she told Ace, her chubby chum, that she understood why Buddhaha had laid on the lard – it was the laugh ratio, the ratio of chuff to chaff. You can’t trust thin people to be seriously funny.

    Jane had met Ace when he’d interviewed her for Carpe Comedy, a holozine he started on 02.11.2011, at the height of the planetary turbulence. “Well,” said Jane The Messiah, “ever since they so screwed up the reporting on the 1st Coming and now there's the entirely unnoticed 2nd Coming — so we are never ever doing Coming gigs without holovideo. You gotta actually see my lips move so you can’t lie about what I said.

    “The Nazarene was an OK guy, but without the holovideo, he got seriously tabloided throughout a gore-fest of history that he never had in mind, nor in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke to get some guffaws around the supper table! Only crazy people would, like, do it. Yuck.

    “The point of the 1st Coming was supposed to be to perk up poor people – to sock it to the stupid greedy who were pointedly un-invited to the stupendous party in heaven.”

    “Mz Messiah – may I call you Jane? – are you going to offer a less distortable delusion to pleasure the masses.” 

      Jane gazed at Ace for the first time. Sexy. Very sexy, she thought idly.

    “A less distortable delusion. That’s our scheme, that’s our dream,” said Jane T. Messiah, laughing like a bowl of strawberry jello. “Not kill is, ah, hmmm, let's see — not kill. Not not kill with codicils. Not Not kill except if you've got on a different colored uniform (Murder by fashion offense?). Not not kill except when I hate your guts you stupid foreign (different [ skin; accent; taste in good cheese; quality of ululation. Check one]).     

     “Thou shalt have much more fun. Thou shalt not interfere with the fun of thy neighbor or of thy enemy. The endlessly tedious & unfun white aka pink splotched christians in the USofA Inc left out the very very funny Gospel According to BeelzebuB, the only non-sycophantish, non-power-serving Gospel that J.C saved for his own scrapbook. The others he turned into confetti — 'Who writes this kind of pious rubbish? They should take their meds,' JC told me before he left soon after the denouement of the 1st Coming for a refreshing galactic gallivant. 

    “One of the white christians' 10 Greatest Sins — the real pornography — is that they are as terminally unfun as they are greedy. Note, Ace, that the ultra-holy Americans don't put the chiselled list of their 10 Greatest Sins of Seriousness on the CourtHouse Lawn.”

   Ace said, “By the way, all I ask is that in even years, we change out the word God for the word Zeus on money, prayers, and in any pledges of allegiance so us good American polytheists get our turn. Fair is Fair.”

    Jane impaled him with a green-eyed look. A nerve, he thought, I've struck a deitific nerve. He quickly said, “I hadn't heard of the Gospel According to BeelzebuB?” hoping to deflect a present but unclear danger.

     “Of course JC was a polytheist, Ace. Not that you could call him a theist really, but he sure was poly. Poly and pan. All of his frisky and cheerful and artist-eye stuff got cut out of everything but BeelzebuB's Gospel. All this monotheism crap was a pure power-grab by the 12ftTalk Lizards in Human Disguise of the day. Had there been the Cuneiform Times back when, the Country Club Set is pretty much the same from millennium to millennium. Especially the simply ghastly nouveau riche like your present Bushes. There's nothing so agonizingly awful than a parvenu. These pipsqueak people have no class, only faux piety and genuine pretension. How one's skin does crawl at the idea that the Bush & ilk are allowed in the front parlour. They are all noise and graceless greed.

    “After a large and fattening lunch, we'll get to what a crock the creed of gigagreed is. But I want to say a bit more about poly and pan before smorgassnacks. Monotheism is as ugly an idea as ever reared its scaly head in the pantheon of Religious Wrong Turns. JC wasn't an Exclusivist. Never. He was genuinely generous and gentle of mind. He knew that a simple holiness was tricky to come by and that everyone had one pretty piece of the Giant Spinning holoKaleidoscope. Nobody has it all. And nobody has none. Ye owls, Ace, I'm hungry. Waffles, eggs, bacon, syrup, himalayan amounts of butter, french toast stuffed with hell, and even an honest omelette to finish. Muy yum.”

 

 

 

weather report from the aleph ocean

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note: sometimes in life, you get very lucky & you happen upon a unicorn.

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weather report from the aleph ocean

 

yo swine-swill,

 

   If my fury at you were a wheatfield or the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Aleph Ocean across which the winds strode and showed the fierce or soft flames of the wind on that golden sea of the grain or the indigoes and the amethysts of that molten Aleph Ocean. Thus fury. Zephyrs of fury. Furacaos of fury. It is always fury with us, however hidden or forbidden, limpid or opaque. The storm or the eye of the storm, gored by eros, chaste, the assault, the salt, the insult, the tumult, the stealth of the obsidian sea.

    I am occasionally exempt from your contempt. You do not much reveal how you feel in the Land of Sweet, tho you eclair your whimsical affections in the words of small birds and other jeweled winged things, the visible notes of a melody of mystery, a treasure hunt clued across a maze of times, obsidian & amethyst, cursed & blessed, insane with pain, and memory in the rain, of mirth.

    Some day this times-juggling will be routine, it will be overt, not covert. Still, few enough will be expert at it, have the psychic circus athleticism, the mastery, the danceryness to careen or dervish, pirouette through the portals as they randomly appear. It requires a deft concentration & an hilarity of mind, the new spherical empirical, skidding, skating, scudding, there is rhyme in time, and season, but no reason. Or rather the reason occurs – it is not pre-ordained. You must dance – poorly or surely, times do not stand still.

 

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the aleph ocean .. the aleph ocean is where we live when we seemingly sleep or when we dearly & daffily muse or other meanderings of consciousness from the rigider paths of sense and logic . Its leitmotif, its signature feel is a melodic celtic knotting of times and of densities.   

 

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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

11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

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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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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New — The Universe Moved .. reality ain’t what you think – or is ..

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note: this whole piece has been re-done as of 10.16.05

 

The Universe Moved ..

reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 


 
   About 15 years ago I was washing windows one autumn afternoon. I was a self-employed window washer. It was a job. I was simply wide-awake, sober, unstoned, normal. The house was a one-story house two blocks from where I live now. I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.
     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.
     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.
    For those of you not from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Northern California, there was this nifty item called a Berkeley Farms milk crate that most everyone had stolen at least one of from outside a market. A Berkeley Farms milk crate is a 5-sided blue heavy-plastic cube that they put ½ gallon cartons of milk in to deliver them uncrushed to the grocery stores. The sides were not solid – they were a diamond lattice in the plastic. In the good old days they had a strong metal bar bent around the top outside edge of the cube to strengthen it. People used them to build furniture, to store things in, to prop all manner of things up. I used mine as a light box I could put a towel and some sponges in and also use as a kind of quick stool to stand on. You need to stand somewhat cleverly on the edges of the crate so as not to bust its sides and to be balanced so as not to ankle-bustingly tip the crate over. I bopped up and down on the thing a hundred times a day, so was definitely milk-crate savvy to the max. I, by the way, was given mine by a Berkeley Farms driver and was the one person on the planet who had not stolen theirs.
    Another piece of equipment we need to understand for the story to be clear is the squeegee. A professional squeegee is not one of those plastic hunks of junk that people use at a gas station to wash their car windshield. A proper Ettore squeegee is a sturdy handle with a straight solid brass metal blade into the groove of which fits a rubber strip which can be changed out as its rubber edge dulls. Accept no substitutes.
    You need to know that, unlike amateurs, professional window washers never wash the inside and outside of the same window at the same time. It’s extremely annoying and distracting to have someone else fussing with the same pane of glass you’re cleaning.
     What else is up on this day when I’m about to step on a metaphysical landmine? Well, you need to understand window screens a little too. The usual window screen is a metal frame with a screen stretched across it. You can take off the screen and lean it against the wall. Oh, yeah, and there is what’s called a sash window. A more old-fashioned window now with a top half and a bottom half. The bottom half slides up.
    When you wash a window as a pro, there’s none of this water and vinegar and crumpled newspaper nonsense. You have a fabulous potion of chemicals – ‘wetners’ – designed by brilliant bald chemists named Howard who wear coke-bottle-bottom, owl-eyes glasses. You apply this sudless solution with a fake lambs-wool scrubber sleeve which also is on a t-shaped wand handle arrangement like your squeegee. After you wet and scrub the window, you stick the wooly scrubber handle back in a loop on the left leg of your denim overalls.
   You take, in this case, your 12″ stiff, solid brass squeegee, ‘cut’ or swipe with your tipped squeegee end an in inch of dry glass across the top edge of the window pane and draw your squeegee at just the correct firm pressure down the stiff smooth sheet of glass to sweep the water off.   
    Back in my window washing heyday, I used to charge $50 extra if I had to listen to gigastupid blusterer Rush Limbaugh but when this incident occurs, BlowHard Rush hasn’t been loosed upon us yet. This was in the era of charging $25 extra if someone played 3rd rate rock & roll too loud for the several hours I was there, disturbing my intelligent musings and noticings.
   This day the jagged rock & roll was severe ear-drum-pain loud, blotting out all other sound – a full sound eclipse. I could have asked 'em to turn it down, but didn't.
   So we have the elements for the metaphysical drama about to unfold in the light of day. I was standing on my trusty milk crate. I’d deftly squeegeed hundreds of thousands of panes of glass before this late afternoon on the southwest side of the house #403 at the corner of Hope and California Streets. I drew my stiff squeegee down the stiff glass when suddenly the glass bulged out into a deep curve as my squeegee pushed against it, almost causing me to lose my balance on my trusty crate. “What the heck?!”
    The glass stayed transparent and smooth and shiny and the  same thickness. Its hard, shiny, transparent self just stretched into a deep curved valley of glass about 4″ deep – and not just the 12″ where the squeegee was pressing, but evenly across the 2 ½ feet of the pane. I was completely alice-in-wonderlandedly shocked .I held onto the squeegee’s swooping stroke into the half-pipe of the wave of glass. I steadied my balance.
     This was 2 seconds? It was very detectable & stunning & definite – clear like a thunderclap. I stood straight up on my crate, staring at the window. What the hell happened? This was hard apple-clunking-the-head fact. What everybody thinks is real and how it’s real — isn’t.
     OK. I sherlocked it. Here’s what happened. All sound cues were drowned out by the ear-blasting 3rd rate rock & roll. I was looking up at the top edge of the window frame. Unbeknownst to me, my assistant who could have been anywhere on the outside of the house had unloosed the bottom of this window screen of a type which I had never heard of before. This particular kind of rare, old-fashioned screen had no stiff metal sides. It had a band of metal at topand bottom and was held taut by small lever fasteners at the bottom corners.
     When my assistant loosed the levers, with the tension released, the screening sprung into several deep waves or troughs of screening.
     My brain or reality-projector had no notion of screening-in-troughs in such a circumstance so to account for the visual troughing, it allowed or made the glass go into a trough shape. Of course very quickly, its reality-logic-earth-physics-scanners caught the error and the glass righted itself. 2 + 2 had = 5 for a few moments in the stern light of day.
     One isn’t supposed to see behind the stage-set – the damn flats are supposed to stay flat. The universe giggled, shrugged, said Whoops, and we both carried on.
     But I was never the same.
     I have had a bunch of fascinating standard-reality-defying experiences but never so simple, so stark in the stern light of plain ole day.
    I had, of course, as a serious, highly-trained metaphysician and epistemologist since I was 7-years-old, to re-consider every thing.
    I had incontrovertible experiential evidence of a brain-matter connection and collaboration that proper Science did not account for. It was a knowledge-quake, the universe moved.
    My 7-yr-old’s vow to stay alert and to not pre-deny any experience had been redeemed in 2 agogging seconds on a late afternoon at the corner of Hope & California.
    I was ‘in’ shock. When everything you’ve been told in school, by your parents and teachers may be wrong, you are in shock. This was the seed moment, the big bang of a totally new knowledge that would bloom like nebulae through the coming years, having been vouchsafed this spectacular nuclear dear grail moment of intimacy with the universe – entrusted really. I knew I’d been entrusted to handle it with beauty and glee. Because it so easily could have been wiped, amnesiaed, clouded with doubt or confusion.
     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.
    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.      
    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly.
    Notice that if the timing and the conditions hadn’t been exactly right, I would have missed the grail. The sound; where I was looking; stiff-hard squeegee, stiff-hard glass (no maybes about this experience); standing on the tippy milk crate so I would be unbalanced — all of it conspired to bolster the grail truth of the occurrence. You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.
    In my experiences, those extra-vaganzas never happen in places prepared to capture them – churches, meditation. They are too mischievous. They thrive on surprise. Shyly expect surprise.  
  
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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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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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4 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 134  10.13.05 thur
7 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 137 10.16.05 sun 
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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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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 Land of the Dead is Lively

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

The Land of the Dead is Lively

 

    The first one who died, my father, I was numb. The second one who died, my first husband, I screamed. By the tenth big death before I was 29, I was pissed. Furious, not drunk.

    This heaven-and-hell folderol is a misleading way to talk about the Land of the Dead because though the heaven-mongering Christians, who began as a simple religion of the powerless, have had the power, the press, and the propaganda for a lot of centuries, the AfterLife Truth is much more complex, and, luckily, a ton more fun.

    I didn’t think when I was a child feeding the shiny newborn black-and-white Holstein calves their buckets of faintly pink milk that I would grow up to become an expert in death. It just happened. There’s no degree you can get in this one. The Major Universities don’t have Death 101 on the curriculum. The Major Religions Lie because they got detached from Mystery. The Other Side, the non-carnate, the less dense — of which the AfterLife is but a facet — is often too raunchy, sly, anarchic, boisterous, and fragmented to be a useful example for a solid, sequential existence. Thus the preachers and teachers, seldom lit from within, hid the truth, abridged it, sanitized it, pietized it, forgot it.

    When, to my shock, I met my disoriented father shortly after he’d died, his color was quite blue. He was swaddled in bandages, and was being cared for by bustling midwife-like beings who were tending his unreconciled passage from the solid carnate world to the non-carnate realms. They were kind. He had died too young at fifty-two. The hospital had killed him with misdiagnosis. The doctors said Whoops, shrugged, looked abashed, and then down at their brilliantly-shined shoes. When I first met my father in OtherLand, of course I just thought I was crazy.

    When I met my first husband, Michael, who had died too young at twenty-eight — his car slid off an icy Vermont road into a tree — When I met Michael in an other-density garret, cooking a hamburger, the fat sizzling loudly in the frying pan, I was just utterly glad to know that he hadn’t vaporized into some black hole of nothingness. The black hole of nothingness being the most cruelly unbearable. I still thought I was probably crazy.

    Depending on who you are hearing this, you either think I’m still crazy or are holding your hand to your mouth grateful that it happened to someone else too or you’re so used to this inter-realm stuff that it’s not exactly ho-hum, not really old hat, but it isn’t molecularly shocking nor bone-marrow creepy, throat-clutchingly terrifying anymore either.

    Father, husband, brother, stepbrother, stepfather, mother, mentor, headmistress, eighteen-year-old cat, all the eight grandparents of course. By now my horror has transmogrified to raw rage. Higher realms indeed. Our dear Earth realm is so high and glorious that non-carnates, responsible and derelict alike, shove and claw to get a ticket on this most intriguing of galactic roller coaster rides. I distinctly blame religions for grabbing power by devaluing this solid terrestrial experience.

    Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful for my non-carnate and semi-carnate experiences. Learning to fly, walking on water, floating through the ceiling. Giddy stuff. But I will not have us be a colony of heaven. We are the experts on relatively sequential time, on solid experience, on being able to actually eat a whole chocolate chip cookie, to drive where we’re going and not end up somewhere else.

    Our beloved realm is a masterpiece of reality engineering — there is no higher place to be. Different, just different. I sometimes think that if I could get that single point across, I could be at peace. Of course that single point would change the world. We would know that every daily thing is holy, radiant. Awe and delight would be our steady state, daily little explosions of radiance. We could then greet heaven with the strength of our own earth beauty and stand in the galactic councils not as slaves or puppets or children, but as tellers of our own tales, proud and various.

    I had never met my ex-husband's parents when they were alive. Mr. Martin was a high school principal in a medium-sized <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iowa town. Mrs. Martin taught home economics and was a devout Christian. I was a vivid redheaded pagan. They would have disapproved of me mightily.

    When I met Mr. Martin in OtherLand, however, he was driving too fast in a bright-yellow open touring car, had on a loud black-and-white-checked sports jacket, a jaunty hat with a sprightly red feather, and a tiger lounging in the back seat with whom I sat. We got along famously to my huge and relieved surprise.

    Mrs. Martin when I met her was almost nun-like in her retreat and shyness of soul. I think Earth had been too rough and ready for her. But she loved her brilliant, vulnerable son, and could, freer of Earth's particular prejudices, honor that I loved him too.

    These pow-wows with the dead are not frequent; we don't hang out. My dead, anyway, do not hover. I think it is wicked that the veil is so impenetrable. When I get the chance to rail at heaven's haughty hierarchy, I shall.

 

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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.

…………….<^>……………..

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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2 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 132  10.11.05 tues    

ffwofw 927§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1098/3yrs & 2 days

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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.

~~~~~~~~
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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Church .. deftly intent

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Church

   “Church. You’re always in it. Actually there’s no way out of it.”

   Bunga Low was the favorite daughter of the famous fin-de-siecle low-cost housing architects Pavi Lion and Ken Nel. In the new century Bunga was being interviewed for the cover story of Global Gazette, a mildly progressive rag. Bunga was transfixed by the architecture of consciousness — How do you get people to fling open their doors and windows to the zephyrs of awe? She was one of the three interviewees for ‘The History of Hypocrisy,’ one of Global’s more adventurous cover pieces. 

   Bunga continued, “What an hilarious con job got perpetrated upon us. From being every where and all ways immersed in and accompanied by Holy, some slicks snatched our birthright right out from under our noses, and we hardly even quacked in umbrage.

   “True, this happened a long time ago, but their perpetual propaganda has kept us from too much awkward questioning about who holds the reins. We remain obediently doggèd, or is it cowed?

   “Whatever, they got us buffaloed to the degree that even those of us who have slipped the traces feel at least insidious echoes of guilt. 

   “If the keepers of the keys ripped open our brains and poured in joy, tore open our hearts and poured in beauty, they’d bloody deserve the job, but when was the last time you came out of any church, mosque, synagogue, or meditation hall laughing out loud, hugging the lamppost, grinning like a fool?

   “Imagine if you knew you were always in church, that each of your 2,522,880,000 seconds was under the Scrutiny and within the Freedom of the Divine. (These are our words too, you know, Freedom and Divine and SuchLike.)

   “Imagine if you knew that you could dare put your finger in the socket of the vivid universe. Indeed that you dare not not dare.

   “If you do not violently love the sky, you must be all but dead. Blue, all that blue, deeper than the blue sea. They should teach you rapture, how to find it, how to feel it, each of your two-and-one-half billion unrepeatable seconds.”

   Bunga laughed at a sudden memory and said, “You never know what will be the key to irrevocable reverence. Of course, the ultimate point is that every single thing is a key, but there are odd favorites that, because they are so unexpected and personal, accompany you through your life.

   “Oh, there’s all the flashy stuff, sunsets, full moons, gorgeous mountain views, thundering ocean surf. They invigorate, illuminate, stir, amaze. If they were jewels, one might wear them to a ball.

   “But what took my secret heart was a wall. I am so mammal, impatient, frolicsome. When I really met a wall, I was astonished, and a little wistful that I had gone so much of my life without knowing any walls. That walls were so willing to stay walls. To stand tall and be a wall and never cut out and go gallivant.

   “I was so touched by a wall’s willingness to be a wall that I was suffused with faith and joy. It was so bloody sweet and preposterous to have all spiritual contumely and fear felled by a wall.

   “Earth is defined really by its steadiness and sturdiness of image. You can count on it. You can particularly count on a wall.”

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.

   “I agree that all this energy can be dangerous and disorienting because unfortunately we are not taught in school or church to hold ecstasy naturally and simply in our hearts.

   “I would be the last to suggest that the standard church, mosque, etc. cannot be a delicious and generous part of the whole smorgasbord of wonder. I just regret and even resent that they have aggrandized such power and exclusivity unto themselves. Forbid. Sin. Punishment. Detachment. Us. Them. These are bludgeoning power words.

   “I don’t for a minute suggest that there are not rotten things we ought not do, but under the influence of wonder, one is reluctant to do harm.

   “If the churches led us to wonder, let it bloom in us, careen in us, then I would go back, and we could share glee. Perhaps one day soon.”


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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
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />
…………….<^>……………..
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
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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