id-ridden

Posted on December 20, 2010 by wendy fleet

Note: I posted this 20 days before Tucson where clearly an id-creature or tulpoidal form seethed up to make havoc. I did not write this in response to Tucson — I wrote it to warn of Tucsons. I wish I had been wrong.

id-ridden

This subject has been nudging me sometimes, hounding me
sometimes. It's a meta-consideration of What the Heck is Going ON?
Forgive the ramble — this is just fancy notes. A friend mentioned Pandora's Box, & I do think a key
to this, a portal, was the bizarre picking of P***n for VP by John
McCain. It was a truly peculiar, shot-in-the-dark 'choice.'

First
tangent; P***n is a nitwit; she's *not* stupid, tho you could say she
is stup-ID, she is definitely id-ridden; she is belligerently ignoRANT,
relentless pursuing her freedom of screech; She & fellow pipsqueak
Adolf are/were puppets of the Realm of Archetypes. There is a charisma
or glamor that attends such people. You might say they are possessed by
the Id. They bypass the forebrain. The upwelling of previously
unconscious contents spews forth an Absurd which we can all but not bear
to grok (Grin & grok it?); our minds select for order, eschew the
obvious rampant madness that lurches abroad; You could say that P***n is
a genius of cunning.

With P***n were loosed the TeaBaggers; Sue Lowden, the lady who
seriously & repeatedly suggested that “poor people” pay for their
health care with chickens — and when she was defeated in the primary,
we got the wongoier-bongoier Second-Amendment-Remedies Sharron Angle, a worse nutter. We need a
nutter-o-meter now. Harry Reid was at, like, 18% approval or somesuch —
NO way he was going to win in Nevada period. Then there was Mike
Castle in Delaware going for Biden's old Senate seat. One of the last
ordinary old-school Republicans — hugely popular in Delaware. Zero
chance a Democrat could win that seat with comfy ole Mike running. Then
out of P***n's Box slid Christine O'Donnell — a Bagger who beat Castle
handily (6 points) in the primary, a candidate so preposterous, so
fraught with nitwittery that the Democrat, Chris Coons, won by 17
points.

Anyhow, I've been feeling the nation, in a very slo-mo avalanche, having
a psychotic break. Loonland has become the new normal. Instead of
pointing at these people and either laughing highpitched hysterical
laughter or semi-kindly taking the folks away in jackets with long arms
that tie behind, we actually interview them on tv shows. We are truly,
as opposed to figuratively, become an Asylum Country, if not an Asylum
Planet .

In the upheaval (What a great word. You have 'heaving up' and it gets
packaged into 'upheaval' Yum.) of the Financial system was revealed —
the entire serious 'occupation' of White Guys for 30 years — to have
been (“Charlie, don't let anyone ever tell you that Wall Street is
anything but a Casino for Suits”/1992) this behemothily mighty fooking
giga-fraud. Gravity, what we took for solid ground, all, all is
quicksand. We cling to shreds of putative reason to shelter our minds
from just how bloody unhinged it's all becoming. Oddness and much worse
are ricocheting around the country and probably the planet. Mordor
always re-rises. The Gulf oil volcano was as vivID an illustration of
the upsurging of buried contents as could be imagined. Too many pelicans
are collateral damage of corporate capitalism, their dear feathers
slimed. We pelicans.

On Friday night, I got this wyrd magazine from EastWest in which I
indulge periodically. It's called Atlantis Rising. New Age. Half
Loonland, half fascinating, often alternating between those sentence by
sentence. There's this peculiar article about Romania and the Violet
Flame, psychic warfare in the 1989 Romanian Revolution. (Written by a
Boston University professor with a phd in geology from Yale. Not that
those credentials mean you're not crazy, but it's not as automatic as if
you graduated from Falwell U.) So I'm reading contentedly along and
then this comes up. “Former U.S. Army Lt. Col. Thomas E. Bearden,
writing a decade before the Romanian Revolution in his book Excalibur
Briefing (1980), explained such phenomenon [cf foo fighters] as
tulpoidal (thought-form) manifestations from the collective human
unconsciousness stating, 'A war is a typical example of a situation
where the group consciousness of a country is under enormous pressure.
In such a situation, the targeted population is often exposed to
tulpoidal manifestations from time to time.'”

Well, knock me over with a (large) feather. A tulpa is a Tibetan word
for a magically wrought thought-form. (pronouced tull-pa, I think, not
tool-pa, 'tull' rhyming with hull or dull or lull; tull-POY-dull;) I've
never seen or heard the word tulpoidal before. But this war-induced
release of unconscious contents is exactly what's happening now and it's
trez fookme wyrd. Not just quirky, but Boschian. Only Bosch possibly
begins to illustrate it. Now, we don't have WW1 or WW2, but there is
some other odder seismic shift afoot, some major shifting of the ground.
I keep telling myself as I watch the politics that superlatives are
failing, my beloved beloved English which has served for thousands of
years to say the most, the most savage and the most dainty, is failing
to hold the degree of wyrdness. You want to cut your right ear off.

I think I remain sane, such as that is. But I feel a slipperiness in
reality. Even the daggone New Yorker had a long article in which science
and its once vaunted “method” is getting slippery; once solid results
carefully achieved are no longer holding or maintaining. The New Yorker
this very week fer gawds sakes.

The veils that are supposed to be between the bardos or layers of the
onion, the layers of realities, are suddenly, randomly patchy. There
have always been vortexes, portals, but whether the magnetic field is
ready to flip (as it “scientifically” does now & again) or 2012 is a
true prophecy, or who the heck knows, but The Something is going on.

One's timbers shiver; well, shudder. Duh, of course it would be just
fascinating if so many little people weren't getting mangled as a side
effect of these feckless feints of fate. It is very very good that however slimeordial, it's slithering into the light. Only in the light can we be woken to act more sanely.
…
…
picts from hieronymous bosch, the only possible illustrator of our 3G Era (Gilded Gloating Greedy)
..
wendyfleet@gmail.com
copyright 2010 all rights

The Doom of Dick .. Cheney Sickens

Posted on July 29, 2007 by wendy fleet

The Doom of Dick

this is in response to a Mark Morford column about the Doom of Dick.
///
Dear Mark of the Quarks,

The 07.27.07 Pr[yyyyyy]nt Ch[yyy]y piece said it so much but not so all. You tell of “ . . . the great low moan of deep chthonic pain” which hunts, haunts, and taunts our beloved distance-defying molasses-slow deep lyric of whale song. Sicker Dick evokes an anti-whale song of the Malevolent, of the severely paranoid Bleak Hole where all hope is sucked in to die, after torture just short of organ failure.

The best ult-irony (ultra, cult, exult) in the DickDoomeozoic Era came in the new L’il Bush show on Comedy Central where it’s established that SickerDick will randomly and frequently grab any passing bird, wring its head off, and, throwing his head back making the guttural signature cheney grunts, through the remaining long neck, gulpingly suck its blood and innards out as its forlorn body deflates.

The apotheosis of grim grins in this gag came when the “Gang” (of L’il Bush, L’il Condi, L’il Cheney, L’il Rove) ends up in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Emerald City in 'Raq. From the ugly, pulverizing, filthy chaos of outer Baghdad, the Gang is suddenly in the Burger King bliss-out of the Green Zone. Birds alight on Cheney’s shoulders, Bambi and Bamba and puppies cavort at his feet. Cheney reaches up and seizes the Blue Bird of Happiness off his own shoulder, rips its head off, sucks out its juices in a few gulps and throws its husk angrily aside, as if the very existence of any remnants of happiness in the World are a personal affront.

The following is not figurative. Suspend disbelief for a few paragraphs and then decide. As a life-long psyentist studying all layers of the reality onion, I was trained to see with h-ray (holo-ray) vision and in this case was just able to survive it. I had been musing on the underground theory that SickerDick et Ilk are a brutal branch off the once-human tree, a kind of reptile-human hybrid from the infamous ‘Atlantean’ tinkering for better and much worse with the human DNA structures. Where you and I pre & post words reach down and find mammal, warm-blooded, SickerDick et Ilk reach down and aren’t mammal, are reptile, cold-blooded, slither. And lidless eyes.

This was difficult speculative material to study, a deep revulsion, a molecular disgust. But none of my decades of druid training and psychic stabilization, gyroscopic wizard ways, wyrd and wonderfull, remotely prepared me for the ghastly holovision my peeled eyes were to encounter. I undertook this assignment on behalf of the sane, the poetry-keepers, the kind of folk unwilling to call killed kids collateral damage.

In any spectrum of ‘normal,’ (even including criminal), human auras have a northern-lights quality. They can range from radiant to disturbed. You can be tested by what you see, even detest what you see, or be made molten in smitten delight.

SickerDick’s ‘aura’ has never known dawn. The best I can factually describe it is to say that it looks like a 15″ layer of thickly, sickly coagulated cottage-cheese clots of densely whirling styrofoam white soulless material embedded with furiously spinning remorseless flak of tiny spikes like the barbs off barbed wire.

It took all of my training and the focused succor of my lineage from the deep past through the deep future for me not to be struck blind and struck dead by the hideous unhumanness of this unveiled vision. Nothing remotely human remains in the essence of Mr. Cheney.

His ‘aura’ is so opaque, so perfectly violently and rabidly vigilant against allowing light or information in. Or out. It is a system of such distilled and eternal suspicion and contempt that our mammalian human comprehension of motive, reason, thought, feeling shatters against its implacable malign disregard and rejection of human longings, insight, wist, mobius interaction. We have not begun yet to be frightened enough.

(Part of the reason our darling language keeps collapsing as the best word-slingers try to describe the baleful effects of SickerDick et his zombie-obedient Ilk is that language is an human ornament and implement and is not prepared to describe the airless, unhuman, strangely odorless hole-where-stench-would-be sensation these reptiloids in human suits evoke.)

As a valiant human outcry, your 07.27.07 piece re-ignited my congealing courage. I would amend your last sentence to “Dick Cheney, busy cackling ominously [and omnivorously] deep in his bunker, was unavailable for comment.”

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

Cheers,

pogblog

ps. I meant this to be shorter but my disbelief & dismay are so great.

Notes:

//All images Hieronymus. Only Bosch seems to get close to the feel.

…………<^>…………

Ask Dr. Druid, 88 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21;

……..……<^>………..…..

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You may comment anonymously.

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.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.

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<^>..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military-Industrial Budget on education instead ..

………….<^>…………….

Madame Speaker. Sweet.

Posted on November 13, 2006 by wendy fleet

Madame Speaker. Sweet.

Whew. Frajous joy. Herein mostly new phoning-for-MoveOn tidbits.

Of course my favorite tidbit was the Spunky Very Old Lady from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Montana which I reprise below for its tastiness and, if 1666 angels can dance on the head of a pin, I oughta be able to tattoo The Rock in My Front Yard quote on my forehead. Read it again now that we've WON.

The Rock in My Front Yard

Aw shucks. Doing my election phoning, I was talking to this spunky very old lady from Montana (Jon Tester v Conrad Burns.) She said her husband who sold farm equipment had had to work with Conrad Burns way back before he was a gleam in the Republican juggernaut eye.

When Burns got elected she said her husband said, “What's that boy doing being a Senator? He wasn't even a good cowboy. He was only good for kicking s-h-i-t.” She delicately but ringingly spelled out the s-h-i-t.

I grinned. She went on to say, “Hang on, I got a little story to tell you. This young man Republican called me to ask if I was going to vote for Conrad Burns. I said, 'Young man, I've got a rock in my front yard with more brains than Conrad Burns.'”

I'm at 2280 dials and 600 contacts and 300 earnest answering machine messages now — and tho I have blisters on my ears and clearly a growing brain tumor from all that phone next to my head, it's worth it for that blessed line. It's the “in my front yard” which sells it so sweet.

Misty from Arizona, first time voter

I got Misty from Arizona along the way on Election Day afternoon. I relayed my earnest spiel, including the golden line, “Kennedy beat Nixon by one vote a precinct — your vote is so important.” (Kennedy was killed on my 19th birthday which made me deeply political in an irradiating flash. The next morning I saw Ruby shoot Oswald 'live' on the small flickering black & white tv in the common room of my college dorm at Mount Holyoke.)

Misty asked me about the ID she needed. I vaguely remembered that some states had instituted a draconian ID system. I asked if she could check online? 'Well, my system's so slow.' (How could America be so Third-World behind in broadband? It's a crime. We're spending $820,000 per minute on the military budget and another $216,000 per minute on Iraq and we don't have the interstate highway equivalent of broad band? Shame.) I said, “If you have a minute, I'll check for you on The Google.” I get to some Arizona site. Misty has a license but the address hasn't been changed. She has voter material.. The only substitutes for the up-to-date photo ID are Utility Bills. Well, how many kids or apartment dwellers have utility bills in their names? Oh and you can have Property Tax receipts. Sure — college kids and poor people are going to have property tax receipts. This is just the 2006 equivalent of the poll tax. Limit the Democratic vote basically.

I suggested she put everything with her name and address on it in a grocery bag and if they didn’t accept it, demand a provisional ballot.

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

Vicious HangerUppers

Do you ever ask yourself if this new breed of feral Republicans is a snarl of pit bull-human hybrids? If you make 2280 phone calls you will. I understand that phone calls from strangers can be really vexing, but Hey you vicious rabid person in Idaho, it ain’t a sharp stick in the eye. Of course I never ever hinted at my disbelief that Americans could be so damned nasty and rude. As a major-league phoner, the nastier they are, the more cordial – with no snideness – you are. Give them zero reason to say at the water cooler the next day that some snippy Democrat called.

I realized in the last six years that Rove et ilk were always feral. Without a nano-hesitation they always defaulted to painted-in-a-corner, slavering attack. It’s why the breakdown of government nationally and internationally was so dogastrophic. Dear compromise reason-‘n- reality-prone Democrats just didn’t have the knee-jerk attack mentality. Maybe it's a piranha-human hybrid that they are.

An interesting phenomenon is that if you’re going to be a great political phoner, you have to be very vulnerable. Being vulnerable is the only way to come across as genuine in the brief moment you have with most people. This openness is a gift and a necessity but when someone really is gratuitously mean, it actually hurts. Then of course you have to learn to shake it off instantly so the next dial is clean and sweet and fresh.

Less heart than a tree

Usually of course you don’t have long chats with folks because you gotta cover the territory but over weeks of phoning, there are oases where you chat for a bit for your own refueling or to give someone a boost of fellow humanity. There was this dear lady in Webb land (Virginia) who had a husband with Hodgkins and they were in some horrible straits and she’s been trying to get some help from Charles Taylor, her District 11 representative. Her baffled and exhausted voice recounted how Mr. Taylor shined and shined them on until her rich sister who “sells tomatoes to brokers” called on her behalf. Mr. Taylor apparently had his office check if the sister was “big time enough” to sell tomatoes to brokers before he would take her call. I thought here was The Nub of this Giga-Greed Era – if you got money, you get connections. It’s the Republican Way To perk her up I told her the Montana Rock storyette. She said at once, “I’ve got a tree in my front yard with more heart than Charles Taylor.” In the coming planetary alchemy to the enriched light, the shaped panpotent light, we should put in a memo for brains and hearts for the Reptilians.

At 3pm, 2039 dials, gent from NY Congressional 23 told me “Bush actually wanted to go to Iran, but he can’t spell.”

One evening last week I called a number and the woman screamed at me, “Do you know what time it is?” Well, yeah, it’s on my computer screen. 8:08 pm. “You woke up my husband.” I am acutely sensitive to the time I’m calling. I wish we wouldn’t call people after 8:30pm their time. I think it’s pretty counterproductive. I always ask after that if it’s too late to call or take a break until the hour turns over. I’m sure the theory is that many more people are home between 8:30pm and 9pm. But 8:08pm?? Who goes to bed at 8:08pm?

On the last several days we began to leave messages on answering machines. Though I love leaving great answering machine messages, I have an inherent quease and dread of leaving messages at un-IDed numbers. With your impassioned plea, you can just stir up the folks who are agin you. Of course by 2008, we’ll have IDed more thoroughly. On Election Day we had 50,000 phoners. My bet is that in 2008, it’ll be 85,000 phoners or more.

MoveOn.org

Please The Google ‘MoveOn’ today and send them 15 or 25 bucks for sure. (The Google is a dig at our Imperial Decider George who when asked if he used the internet said, “Oh yes, I use The Google to look at my ranch.” It’s one of those revealing phrases that shows you haven’t a clue. A friend of mine trying to pull the wool over the eyes of a theater group was reading a list of the equipment they had and said “Eight ‘Freznell’ lights.” I saw all the glances go around the room. The ‘s’ is silent in Fresnell and they all instantly knew he didn’t know what he was talking about. Similarly with Mr. Bush, saying “The Google” showed he knew nada. Like “the Decider,” “The Google” became an instant ironic piece of the language.)

There is no praise enough for MoveOn.org which organized a nationwide phone bank 5 standard quantum leaps better than in 2004. Much more user friendly and except for a few glitches, always there.

By some computer magic, for all 50,000 phoners there was a little counter on our phoning page that showed Dials or Attempts and Voter Contacts.

As I said after 15 hours of phoning on Election Day, Thanks for allowing me to feel so useful where it mattered. That will always be a highlight in my life. I feel like part of a dear future which we're just beginning. I'm amazed and thrilled.

Stories later. 600 contacts; 2280 dials. Feels good. You all worked magic, you giga-geek Techno Elves. Hurray.

Another encomium was: I just want to take a moment to thank the Techo-Geek-Elves who are somehow keeping the data river flowing so those of us whose own races won't change history whatever feel useful in the places which will decide the fate of Earth for the next 807 days. Your wizardry and lambent and rampant intelligence is appreciated yattally.

//Never will I forget nor will the shininess dim of being able to maybe matter in the Biggest Election of my lifetime. The idea that I could call my heart out into all the key races is a tribute to MoveOn and the beautiful job they did of setting up the data bases and the interfaces and the support systems. Amazing. It was giga-swell to feel like such a pioneer of The Future. I ended every answering machine message with “Keep your heart bright.”
Most important are people like my friends CL & Curt who are not such phone geeks but who Did It Anyway, and next time, it'll be even easier — they'll be an old hands. Hurray for you and the roughly 50,000 like you. It adds up. To about 7 million dials.

The challenge and legerdephone is to make each call sound like it's the only call you've made. Pretty much the same words, but earnest and new each time.
My best line was 'Kennedy beat Nixon by one vote a precinct — your vote really matters.' We all phoned for hours into the Webb precincts and in 2008 I get to say 'Webb beat Allen by 3 votes a precinct.'Suggestions to MoveOn re phoning for beginners:

Remember to smile. People can hear it in your voice.

Remember to say 'Remember to vote' or Your vote is so important' or 'Thank you so much for your vote.' If you say, 'Don't forget to vote,' this is what's called an 'embedded command.' In order to comprehend the statement, you have to imagine forgetting to vote.

You'll get some very cranky people — water off a duck's back — they're having a bad day or a bad life. Kill'em with kindness. It is extremely important to be utterly and unfailingly gracious. One guy said to me, “I can't believe how polite you are. Everyone else who's called has been shoving it down my throat.” I never give cranky people a reason to say at the water cooler, “Hey, Marge, you won't believe what a snippy Democrat called last night.” I want them to have to say, “The nicest, most earnest Democrat called last night.”

In between the ruthlessly rude people, you'll find the sweethearts who say, “I wouldn't vote Republican this year if they pushed needles under my nails.” Or the cool lady who owns a small business who is giving a bonus of a movie ticket to each employee who votes and brings back the’ I voted’ sticker. Is that cool or what? “I want to make sure they know how important I think voting is,” she said.

Then there’s the middle-aged woman who is probably considered a pillar of the community (before I had a chance to say more than Hello) who snarled, “Kiss my ass and don't call again.” At least we had a chance to get her off the list.

Idaho, Maine, Minnesota, New Hampshire, Wisconsin, and Wyoming have EDR or Election Day Registration.

[I am not keen on boasting whatever, but I am pretty darn proud to have been the Top Caller in the nation on Election Day for MoveOn — at least til they closed down that dashboard page. I started at 6:13am pst and phoned til Alaska at 8:45 pm pst. I made about 500 phone calls, 300 voters and 200 answering machine messages left. And there it was under Top Callers: #1 Wendy F. Mountain View CA. I made 2280+ dials in the last 10 days-ish I think. 'Twas cool.]

MoveOn — let me count the ways.

Flayed

When John Kennedy was killed on my 19^th birthday, I was flayed. Then Martin. Then Bobby.

When three English teachers and the three art teachers piled into an art teacher's Volkswagen bus (No kidding!) to go to D.C. for the Big March on Washington, the math teacher at the New Hampshire boarding school where I taught said, “I hope each one of you gets shot.”

We and many other utterly non-violent demonstrators were peppergassed. Nice volunteer doctors were stationed along the street with lemonjuice-soaked paper towels to ease one’s streaming eyes and burning skin. A dead soldier’s mother from Wisconsin just stood mute holding a huge bucket of quarters so us demonstrators could take the buses.

I was vehemently idealistic and uncompromisingly purist til the early 80’s when a tall Texan activist named Wayne told me that the pace of political change “is glacial.” I began to want half a glass of milk for a poor child rather than no milk at all. I guess this was Clintonism before dear Bill, my favorite president. As someone later put it, “Don’t let the perfect become the enemy of the good.”

A vivid lady whose name I don’t remember had been one of the 50 state organizing leaders for the Republicans in the early 80s. She had been the wife of some corporate giga-rich guy in some southern state like Arkansas or Alabama. Every month these 50 women flew to the Waldorf Astoria in New York City. They flew in the husbands’ Lear jets. They met for lunch around a great table in a room with paneled walls and enormous chandeliers. There were butlers alert against the wall, one for each two ladies. “What did we talk about?” she said. “Not about shoes or handbags. Precincts. Specifically and exactingly, precincts. And we did all the precinct work by phone.” This lady like Arianna much much later had had a lightning bolt tell her that she was really a Democrat. She dumped the coldblooded husband and came out West to work on the Nuclear Freeze in Oregon, I think. “All on the phone. We did it all on the phone.”

She was about to go off to the South of France with her artist friend and his black Cadillac. She wanted the California Democrats to have benefit of her insider knowledge. My activist friends and I certainly beat the phoning drum on deaf ears for years.

But finally now with computers and MoveOn, we are at the beginning of proper nationwide phone-driven precinct work. It isn’t detailed and personalized enough yet, but we’ll get there.

My own wish:

Tierra del lollipop.

wayne thiebaud

Beseechment for November 8. Please let me wake up in lollipop land. There is a unicorn where where she walks music plays in the air and where her hoof falls the grasses are not bruised.

Déjeme por favor despertar en tierra del lollipop. Hay un unicorn donde donde ella camina los juegos de la música en el aire y donde cae su enganche las hierbas no se contusiona.

macula, tv

It’s time I think to frabjous some joy, to no se contusina the grasses, and to sing a lullaby to our precious planet Vuravura, our precious planet Jeegoo as we walk.

Has not your heart been trampled on, bruised upon bruised these six years? Beneath your feet are caverns of ruby, great rivers of emeralds, inner constellations as brilliant and real as the stars above. The stars below, the stars below shine when you admire them — your marveling ignites them. As you walk, you surf slightly and lightly on the great jeweled light which rises in ruby and emerald waves to uplift you. Legerdetopaz.

It’s time to frabjous some joy and to rise on the raven’s strong obsidian wings out of this valley of darkness. Like the Northern Lights, the great waves of jewel light rise from the earth in rhapsodic patterns of sweeter duty and beauty. Satan the Silly watches over our laughter with a tenderness the coldblooded religions which made cruel bargains with power eschewed. They would kill people to save them. They would kill people who erred. They would kill people who strayed. I’m a non-kneeler and I will never recant.. The first fox I met as a child in the forest where I walked at night when my parents thought I slept, the first fox I met was as black as a panther. We gossiped of forest secrets.

I think the antidote to being fear-ridden is to be beauty-ridden, and ye gods know this planet does countless exactings and exquisites of beauty.

Poetry wins as any seer will ascertain — it just takes a bloody glacially long time for the poetry virus to spread far & wide enough to have a poetry plague.

……..

11.08.06

The hardest thing to grok is the idea that we have to be grownups now and not just indulge in loathing Mr. Rove, richly does he deserve it. How to use the whole brain poised au point ballerina-like in the corpus callosum, the nerve-dense radiant interface between the two hemispheres of our brains — the corpus callosum waiting all these centuries to be ignited.

……….

11.12.06 7:47:46 pm pst

Well, friends, welcome to Lollipop Land and the steady work of getting about re-building our country.

cheers,

…………<^>…………

……..……<^>………..…..

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10 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 10 11.13.06 mon

799 days/2y2m7d left of the pipsqueak despotism/1496

ffwofw3016§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

mozart..9.77g

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

………….<^>…………….

Vote or Get Leprosy

Posted on October 27, 2006 by wendy fleet

Vote or Get Leprosy

10.27.06 thurfri

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

Mon un et seulement pal putatif,

Vote or get leprosy.

One is, one supposes, with you and all the others, on the fulcrum of history, the cusp of history, a new constellation fraught with gigantic meaning, the blood, the song, the champagne in the blood, the sorrow as long as the shadows of late twilight.

On est, un suppose, avec toi et tous les autres, sur le point d'appui de l'histoire, le tranchant de l'histoire, une nouvelle constellation chargée de la signification colossale, le sang, la chanson, le champagne dans le sang, la douleur aussi longtemps que les ombres du crépuscule en retard.

There are signs, portents of import. Twenty-two bright white cockatoos facing West on a telephone line along Foothill Expressway far above the dusty green olive trees lining the center of the road. “Are they doves?” “No. Oh, ye gods, they are – they are little white parrots! No, cockatoos. They have that pointed crest. It must be a sign.” “It is obviously a sign.”

travelblog

Il y a les signes, augures et présages significatifs ou dangereux ou merveilleux. Vingt-deux cockatoos blancs lumineux faisant face à l'ouest sur une ligne téléphonique le long d'autoroute urbaine de colline loin au-dessus des oliviers verts poussiéreux rayant le centre de la route. “Sont ils des <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />colombes?” “Non. Ah, dieux de ye, ils sont – ils sont de petits perroquets blancs! Non, cockatoos. Ils ont cette crête aiguë. Ce doit être un signe.” “C'est évidemment un signe.”

Then in the early afternoon waiting at the stoplight on El Camino Real at Shoreline next to the garishly pink Baskin and Robbins ice cream store – in the cup of the red stoplight rested a pigeon. Truly. It was clearly a sign. Fate is moving the markers along the grand three dimensional board. The answers are already arrayed if we could but attend and translate. Fewer children would have their arms ripped off and their bright eyes blinded with the white phosphorous which does not stop burning until it reaches the bone. So it matters. Vote or get leprosy. Does it matter, however, to the butterflies?

Alors dans l'après-midi tôt attendant au feu d'arrêt sur le EL Camino Real chez Shoreline magasin à côté de Baskin et de Robbins de crême glacée d'une manière voyante rose – dans la tasse du feu d'arrêt rouge a reposé un pigeon. Vraiment. C'était clairement un signe. Le destin déplace les marqueurs le long du conseil tridimensionnel grand. Les réponses sont déjà rangées si nous pourrions mais être présent et traduire. Peu d'enfants feraient déchirer leurs bras au loin et leurs yeux lumineux être aveuglés avec le phosphoreux blanc qui ne cesse pas de brûler jusqu'à ce qu'il atteigne l'os. Ainsi il importe. Votez ou obtenez la lèpre. Importe-t-elle, cependant, aux papillons?

Entonces por la tarde temprana que espera en la luz de parada en el EL Camino Real en el litoral al lado almacén del helado chillón rosado de Baskin y de Robbins – en la taza de la luz de parada roja reclinó una paloma. Verdad. Era claramente una muestra. El sino está moviendo los marcadores a lo largo del tablero tridimensional magnífico. Las respuestas se ponen en orden ya si podríamos sino atender y traducir. Pocos niños hicieron sus brazos rasgars apagado y sus ojos brillantes ser cegados con el phosphorous blanco que no para el quemarse hasta que alcanza el hueso. Importa tan. Vote o consiga la lepra. ¿Importa, sin embargo, a las mariposas?

As one asked each thing to gently tend the beauty and the innocence of Baldar, missing only the unmenacing mistletoe, I will go ask them, the butterflies, in my dreams, if it matters to them? The great silence is a great drum about to be struck.

Comme on a demandé chaque chose pour tendre doucement la beauté et l'innocence de Baldar, s'ennuyant seulement du gui sans menace est-ce que, j'irai les demande, les papillons, dans mes rêves, si elle importe à eux ? Le grand silence est un grand tambour presque cassé.

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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.

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http://pogblog.blogharbor.com

6 Cane . Ben . Reed . East . tzol 253 . 10.27.06 fri

817 days/2y2m25d left/1478

ffwofw666§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

mozart..9.77g

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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pogblog Glossary .. [on-going .. update 09-19-06]

Posted on August 14, 2006 by wendy fleet

pogblog's Glossary .. updated 09<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />-19-06

pogblog's Glossary amplifies pogblog's fierce & droll vocabulary — both the coined or invented stuff & the nifty or nefarious words you may not have discovered yet; for people who love words as much as mangoes or a great forward pass or an icepick in Dick Cheney's right eye; or for the just plain baffled .. With obsidian humor and assorted other confections and delicacies of a certain melodious madness ..

includes: àdroit; aleph ocean; amethyst; anodyne; après; assonance; Big Lie; blogovel; blood-dimmed tide; Blue/Bleu; Bush html stop; carpe comedy; cf; chatoyant; clint; clive/full; contest(pogblog Glossary Game); crapaud; Digrif; e=mc2; eclectic; enfers sanglant; enriched light; filigree; FixedIntelGate; frabjous joy; frisson; full clive; funes; gallynipper; gateau; grb gamma ray burst; grok; gwatwareg; hasyasattva; hoi polloi; holosphere; karlsputin rove; legerdelengua; lq/lizard quotient; luddite; Mardi Gras; masochists; maw; meme; mobbal; multiverse/many-poem place; mystery; nada; noosphere; obsidian humor; oneiro; passive belligerence; perfect pain; pinguid; pog; political engineering; polyglot; reagan's law; riro/reptile in reptile out; spooner; spiteful puffadder; stele; stynking synnes vile; suburbanality; sursurly; third base; toot doot; tzolkin; vouchsafe; vrai; wmd brain; warp-rinth; wolfofwolfs;

05-05-05 dedicated to obsidian fuller, an daily birthday present tinct with whimsy — enfers sanglant, amigo lobo, ami de ma vie, toujours et un jour ..

andy goldworthy please see dvd rivers & tides

àdroit .. clever or nifty from French; C’est àdroit – That’s clever. (Sorry about this recent obsession with àccènts – I just learned the trick of doing the accents on the keyboard in balky, not-so-friendly usually, mostly passive-belligerent MS Word. I’m in a zèal; no worries, it will pass. [To do the backward accent, it’s Ctrl, accent /on key left of the number 1/, then type the ‘e’ or ‘a.’ To get the other accent, it’s Ctrl ‘ (apostrophe), then the letter.] Actually the root of the word is à droit. Droit = right in French. Gauche = left.) I’m going to add ‘agauche’ to ‘adroit.’ One could say “That was a tad agauche perhaps” and have it be more a glancing blow than declaring, “You are clearly an imbecile.” (Yes, yes, I know ‘gauche’ exists, but it’s more harmful and doesn’t have adroit as its escort to the Word Ball.) Très àdroit .. very clever .. trezahdrwah. 06.05.06

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. 10.22.05

amethyst .. The OED entry is:1580 SIDNEY Arcadia II. (1654) 141 The bloodie shafts of Cupids war, With amatists they headed are. //Oh my. Beastly Cupid’s arrows are tipped with amethysts? That explains it. My heart is stilled. 06.18.05

anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of the forked tongue. 08.13.05

après .. means after in French, as in après-moderne which is what comes after post-modern; will probably get gutterized as après-modern, but I'm fond of the French flair; ah-pray-moh-dare-n; 06.03.05

assonance .. is the vowel echoes, often internal that give a phrase or a sentence its full-bodied richness. Consonance is the consonant equivalent. Both these elements of the music of writing comprise alliteration. 05.30.05

Big Lie .. The Big Lie was perfected by the Nazis and slid into American politics in a brazen way in the 2000 coronation. The basic idea is that you can say something even the opposite of the truth often enough and with convincing conviction enough and the innocent will believe it. WMD. Healthy Forests Act. Clean Air Act. . . .How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fablet, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced — your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

“On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil. And even Dick Cheney sounds avuncular so they say.

The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like with a killer, we're sure we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 20 years until this very day that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. . . Cynicism is not the response though. Alertness is. Trust but verify. 07-31-05

blogovel .. a blog novel — like pogblog's ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul — a mad dickensian masterpiece of serial venom. We coined the word as far as we know. Read ToadSpawn, Be Gone! 05-05-05

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blood-dimmed tide .. from Yeats, The Second Coming; http://www.well.com/user/eob/poetry/The_Second_Coming.html The ‘slouches’ in the last line is also echoed in the beginning of pogblog’s Love letter to Lewis H. Lapham, June 2, 2005.

The poem’s “The best lack all convictions, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity” remains as forlornly chilling as when he wrote it. And “…but now I know/That twenty centuries of stony sleep/Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle” describes the present berserk jesus-mania with a grim precision.

Blue/Bleu .. the Blue, as in ‘it came out of the Blue’; le Bleu (lu[r] Blu[r]), cf sacre Bleu! in incestuous permutation leading to diabolique (devilish) Bleu or diabol Bleu – to whom/which one is damned grateful for the shower of present it suddens upon lucky one. Bleu happens. Suddenness is its mischievous leitmotif, its signature. It’s the opposite of an iridescent, a chatoyant big floating soapbubble popping & pooff, it’s gone, nada, nothing. Pooff, presto, magic, the Bleu arrives chatoyant with no unsightly gestation & no annoying labor pains. (Things may arrive out of the Glum, the gelatinous color of mucus, but not with the pristine delight of the ohyippee presents the tricksy Blue abounds upon you.) 05.30.05

</bush> .. my favorite bumpersticker of late. (Tho I was pretty chuffed by Is it 2008 yet?)

The Bush thing is an inside joke and it’s probably evil of me to explain the punch line, but this is how it works. In html, the behind the scenes code which allows you to make things bold or italic, for instance, it goes like this: begins the bold. Everything is bold until you put which stops the bold. So </bush> would be stop or end Bush. Droll. 01.29.06

carpe comedy .. seize comedy. If I were to have some leitmotif other than besottedness with beastly Digrif, it would be carpe comedy. My good friend jeweller, Mark, who has his cool stuff in the SFMOMA, made me a silver dogtag that says carpe comedy. 10.22.05

cf .. means compare;

chatoyant .. is from the reflection in a cat’s night eye; it is that strange glistening eerie-descence that tiger’s eye stones have; a luster like shot silk or oil on water; 05.30.05

clint; clinting; clintful; clintness .. My thoughts about “Clint” have previously been unprintable because I was one of the unfortunate thousands who saw that denture film-noir, Bridges of Madison County, a penance for some unknowable wrong. This wretched film in which Meryl Streep did star shows you can do a silk-purse turn in a pig's-ear flick. ¶ At least as comiko-horror films go, the shots of Clint in the bathtub with his crêpy neck wattles are memorable if only one were into gigadizzguzzt. Not because he was old and horrible (gee, we all will be & will want to have been kinder), but because of his ineffable, upwelling-of-stench clintness — he whittles his lines. Wattles and whittling — what a treat. With the shower-stabbing scene in Psycho, we can induct the infamous Clint's-wattles scene into the Horror Scenes Hall of Fame. ¶ Usage: It was so clint, so skin-crawling to have to see Karlsputin Rove gumming up the phosphors on my tv screen. The overflow of sewage onto the street was clinting with the eerie glisten of mucal rot in an oily corruption attended by those paparazzi of insects, the dung-eating flies. (for cedral755 who planted the first pogblog poster across the Pond!) 6-25-05

clive, full .. many centuries ago, or tomorrow depending on where you are in elegantly celtic-knotting time, there was a bloke from Avalon, the mystery island of magic off the British Isles where the air always smells like sun-hot ripe apples — a bloke named Clive Owens who was a ‘movie star’ with well-more than his share of smouldering élan, and the damned English accent. There was some woman I talked to who said, “Oh, him, he never moves his face.” Well, that’s because he can move what’s between him and your face, you stupid cow. // There was a slangy phrase at the time, ‘the full monty’ which meant you were willing to take it all off and show your dangly bits. A step up the Michelangelo’s-David ladder is, luckily preserved on celluloid, the full clive. So if one is willing to go full out, (and I like you), it’s full clive. You don’t use it for bastards like the Maggoty Minions. 06-12-05

coin .. to mint or invent a new word or a new usage of an existing word;

pogblog poster Global-Game-CONTEST: you can email pogblog@yahoo.com & we’ll send you the template for the small two-to-a-page pogblog ToadSpawn Be Gone! posters. Or make up your own. (Be cool.)

Send us a pict of pogblog poster in any place and you’ll win a PRIZE, and an automatic entry into My Own Custom Entry in pogblog’s Glossary – you pick the topic, pogblog writes the entry for YOU.

Wall Drug was this “mega-tourist trap” in South Dakota. It had signs for a hundred milesevery 200 feet saying “See the prairie dogs at Wall Drug.” The prairie dogs were mangy stuffed things, but as it was the only place to get a root beer in the hellsummer heat. You went to Wall Drug , or died. Wall Drug had this global sign game going for years and they even ended up with someone holding up a Wall Drug sign on Mount Everest. Pogblog wants Mount Everest too, but also Vermont and the Gobi desert or wherever you’re going. Pictures with cows get bonus points, as picts with giraffes or cats. Gehry’s museum in Bilbao gets, like, an entry in the Glossary AND in the Love Slave Hareem. Yo Yo Ma, Bela Fleck, or Clive Owen holding a pogblog poster, and well, gee. 06-25-05

crapaud .. toad in French; crah-poh; as in C'est crapaud, mon cher .. That's really rather toad, my dear. 06.03.05

Digrif .. an on-going character; the word means laughter in Welsh; 05-05-05

e=mc2 .. the formula is wrong which is why they can’t understand the 90%, all that dark energy and dark matter !haha!; all that extra stuff that they don't grok is the tissue, the fabric of your dreams and imaginations — standard science is still looking through the wrong end of the telescope so it cannot measure this substance yet; the formula is really e=mc8 (infinity sign) because anything that ‘exists’ has a nanomicro signature that makes it unique; cf no giraffes, only one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe; 05.30.05

eclectic .. if you only get one word, take this one — it means taking the best from all possible sources; so you get wide-hearted; rich (not the greedy kind but the embracing kind) the golden rain of abundance; and oh frabjous joy, you get the somersaulting luck of having to pay lots of attention so you can separate the chuff from the chaff; 06.03.05

enfers sanglant .. Enfers sanglant, visages des porcs! means Bloody Hell, face of pigs. I’m mostly in the inventive invective mode of William S. who could swear at you in more vivid guises than a porcupine has quills; ohn-fairs sang-glaw(n), vee-sahzhuh day pork; 06-11-05

enriched light .. the CatsPurrDynamagik Machine uses the more elastic lights as you come and go from sleep or, if you're a little used to it, in blissfully slothfull musing states. This is cheaper than Walmart — free! and no exploited labor. The whole point of the coming ahaus and quetzals in the next five years and onward is to give the alchemic techniques of 'turning lead to gold' to everyone. Pb–>Au. Once I get Zin Nia & Fucky's Manual amanuensissed out, just reading and re-reading the pieces will switch on the patterns of energy dynamiks as much or as little as you want. Like the crop circles, the healing is a kind of anti-congealing or unclenching of intellectual and emotional toxins — a fountain of truth if not of perpetual youth. Amused truth.Cheaper than Ginzu knives. It's as if the vrai or true crop circles are miniatures of the gobos of enriched light that are being pulsed into the EM grid of Planet Home.A gobo is a patterned filter you put over the end of a spotlight, say, to make patterns of light & shadow fall on the stage. Thus, the shaped light that is coming into the planet is phototuning your dna et cet. Some of the enriched, shaped light inpulses will have a hummingbird quality, others will be slow and serene as a swan swims. It's all free and yours all yours if only you pay some deft attention and relax your eyes — and unclench your mind + heart + viscera. 09.19.06

filigree .. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigree is a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell. 07-11-05

FixedIntelGate .. Please remember that this outing the identity of Joe Wilson's wife is just one big spoke in the wheel the hub of which is FixedIntelGate. We sent people to war on 'intel fixed to fit the policy' (Downing St. Memo) a facet of which Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.' . . .FixedIntelGate is a deep shame and danger to our freedom. Going to war on what the rest of the world clearly sees as fixed intel will increase the recruiting terrorists for generations.

frabjous joy .. from Jabberwocky, LewisCarroll; 06-11-05 http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html

frisson .. (free-zzaw[n]) frisson, or French for shiver, is a sort of onomatopoetic (cf buzz & murmur) kind of word – if you say it out loud in what you imagine is a very French manner, you will feel cool. 05-05-05

full clive .. see clive, full;

funes .. Funes is the borges character who remembers everything in a blakean heart-exploding honor of universe-in-a-grain-of-sand detail. The key image is that Funes cannot understand not only how any 'dogs' can be lumped together, but even more, how dog, Swen, asleep in the idle sun-blasted afternoon street at 2:13 pm can be considered the same dog as that dog at 2:14 pm.

We smear and lump and clump stuff to a dimmed degree of dullness that we surely live in the back broomcloset of Plato's cave, unalert and unillumined. Anyhow I add funes to grok as a more whole and paganly holy embrace of perception. I will, thus, give myself this credit: te funes — I 'get' rather a lot about you, tho I forlorn of painting your portrait as it really deserves in any medium except my curiosity and devotion. 5-18-05

gallynippers .. are faeries, they floppily fly between worlds, appear & disappear. They look like enormous mosquitos (as if they could drink or nip a gallon of blood, hence gally-nipper), but they are achingly harmless. They are preposterous – their legs are so long & spindly. It’s a sin to kill a gallynipper.

gateau .. means cake in French; gah-toe; 05.30.05

ginger rogers .. “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels.” One of the greatest drolly liberating lines of all time by the treasured Ann Richards, 1988 Democratic Convention keynote. Succinct. 06.18.05

grok .. indispensable Martian for ‘understand in a way that you utterly drink deeply’; from Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein, an very interesting old sci-fi, sadly steeped in an appalling misogyny, but there it is. 5-18-05

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, http://www.space.com/scienceastronomy/astronomy/mystery_bursts_020516.html;

cf “the consciousness-altering pulses that are emitted by the Hanab-Ku, the Cosmic Center” [http://www.calleman.com/– 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. 06-18-05

gwatwareg .. means irony in Welsh; 05.30.05

hasyasattva or silliness warrior; increase the gladness of all sentient beings by as many very tiny kangaroos as can waltz on the head of a pin; pogblog coined this hasyasattva word because the notion of ‘decreasing suffering’ breaks the hypnotic suggestion rule of putting the ‘command’ in a positive cast. “Don’t fall off the ladder!” is an embedded command to fall off the ladder: in order to comprehend the statement you have to imagine falling off the ladder. “Hang on to the ladder” is the better form of the statement. So kind folks wandering the Earth talking earnestly about 'decreasing suffering’ are causing all of us to gloomily, if unconsciously, contemplate suffering, oh woe is we. On the other hand, if you talk about ‘increasing gladness’ — in order to understand the statement you have to imagine some facet of gladness, a step on the somersaulting path. 06-11-05

hoi polloi .. the many, the unwashed mere mob before whom one ought not to cast one’s pearls; not the elite like us; it really should just be the polloi, but this is the way it slid through history; cf the El Camino; Greek; hoy puh-loy; 05-30-05

holosphere .. The next quantum in élan, in vivid being, is the holosphere. Right now as you read this, out of your noosphere hearing is whalesong, the infrasound that drones magnificently, often plaintively, sometimes mischievous, from planet side to planet side in the depths deeper than Everest is high – below the abysmal depths are the hadal depths, Hades deep, miles upon miles down and dark. According to both bizarre and fairly measured traditions, we are coming to the ‘end of time.’ Soon. This does not mean the end of being. It means the expansion into the wider holosphere. The end of the dominance of linear time. And of patriarchy, hierarchy, the exploitative models. We won’t give them up just because they are bad and sodden with shortsighted ignorance, but because they are like looking through the wrong end of the telescope – they’re limiting. It will feel awkward to give up the familiar boxes, the comforting structures and become aware that we all look at the same moon and are held from escape velocity by the same molten core. Under all our feet are twinkling jewels and lots of irony, I like to think….When we quantum to holo, we will be appalled by some things we stood by for. Allowing the mutilation of children in the name of any jingoistic fervor, for instance. We will not be hypnotized by moving striped pieces of cloth no more. Sometimes it’s hard not to be a lemming when all the little rushing furry bodies are flashflooding toward the cliff – how could so many fellow lemmings be wrong? . . . One of the swell things about the holosphere is that if you want to tune into the whalesong, you’ll be able to. Like after the telegraph, your reach of attention and perception will be augmented. It will be like the aliens landing, but they land inside your understanding and whether they are allies or demons entirely depends on your filter, your translator. See also noosphere. 07-31-05

Karlsputin Rove .. 'nuff said. (cf Rasputin, the creepily evil powerracker who actually ran the deaththroes of the czars); 06-26-05

legerdelengua .. slithering sleights of the forked tongue; cf calling mutilated children collateral damage; or the Clean Air Act, that boondoogle for major polluters (aka campaign contributors);

LQ .. Lizard Quotient; If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee. When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in your insight, one by one we see clearly, the ghastliness is that his scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on. [This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.] 06-14-05

luddite .. a luddite is someone who sees machinery and technology as dehumanizing. In reaction to the industrial revolution in the early 1800s, the actual Luddites homecrofting textile lace & knitter folk were precursors to the Union movement. But the notion of luddite has an undertone of being against progress, against the newfangled. As a gizmos-geek, I tend not to be a luddite tho I am strongly pro-Union – I love weekends which they brought us, and the middle class, sadly fast disappearing into the maw of the FatHog Cogists. 07-31-05

Mardi Gras .. “No Mardi Gras,” sez the sursurd and vile and vapid Rev. Shanker. ‘It was God’s magnificent mercy that wiped out the City of Sin and Mardi Gras.’

Me, I say, Mardi Gras? Why not Lundi Gras, Mercredi Gras, Jeudi Gras, Vendredi Gras , Samedi Gras, Dimanche Gras? Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, Fat Everyday. All days Yippee & Yummy. God forfend we have fun, I suppose. Pffffttt, I say to these Reapers of Grim. 9-10-05

masochists .. ‘For masochists in Hell, there is no suffering.’ Ye owls, that’s droll. It is not original to pogblog, but is one of three jokes I’ve ever been able to remember. Don’t know the adroit devil who made it up, but bless them. Lucifer loves you. 06.05.06

maw .. gaping mouth; dragons who gobble maidens have maws; gobbets (or large hunks of as yet unmasticated maiden) often stuck in the jutting teeth in a dragon’s fetid maw; cf corporate maw: you are devoured by the corporate maw; you disappear into the corporate maw; 06.04.05

meme .. a meme is the idea equivalent of a gene or virus; it’s an idea (good or offal) that spreads around the world; e.g. “the world is round.” For a long time, the prevailing stench was that the world was flat. Then the meme of the world being round infected the general understanding. I’m not sure it exactly fits in with meme – I never thought about it til this very moment, but that picture of the planet from space had meme qualities; also that horrific picture of the napalmed little girl as if a sane species could drop jellied gasoline on people. me-m(uh).

¶ One concept I want to have be a world-sweeping meme is the idea of 2ThenAdopt. Now the world population is 6,446,038,867. Please every-sparrow-fall recall that one billion is 1000 million. Projected in 45 years about 9 billion. It’s absurd, friend, it’s obscene. We can’t take care of all these people. Our sweetly blossoming good will and lessening prejudices and ignorances keep getting tsunamied by a population running amuck. If the notion of 2ThenAdopt could spread, then people could have whatever sized families they wanted or could afford, but we could stop flooding away all the progress by holding the biology at a standstill, behind a dam of good sense until the social systems could catch up. 2ThenAdopt. Think about it. Pass it along. 06-06-05

The more people you ask, “Did you know that we are spending $200,000 per minute in Iraq?” – the more people can be disgusted by the waste of human and financial resources in this benighted war. Disgust can lead to action finally. (The real figure is more like $416,000 per minute, but I use the $200,000 per minute as a figure that no one can argue with. See the Math, sources, and more detail.) This way we can spread the $200,000 per minute meme and accelerate the process of Declaring Victory & Coming Home – the true support of our troops – wanting to save their lives from death or mutilation.

Beat the drum. Tell one friend or colleague. No one believes it. They shake their heads and say, “Really?” 09-10-05

mobbal .. mah-bull, of the mob, also euphemistically called tribe, nation, town; 06-30-05

multiverse .. multi-verse or many-poem place; where we live. The fables often refer to manypoem as the blossomer-forth of all this fascinating tinder in which we are immersed. 05.05.05

mystery .. Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins. 08.13.05

nada .. means nothing in Spanish; nah-dah; 06-04-05

noosphere .. Our lively mote awash in galactic seas is waking up. There come big surge-times in our story – the invention of the printing press, the steam engine, the telegraph. Expanding our attention-point, turning on more of our transformer, our brain and bones. We are presently in a crescendo of rising, of brightning energy, élan. . . .The Next-Age weirdos, of whom, like of the Democrats, I’m wryly and proudly one, are attuned to various facets of this shimmering phenomenon. I don’t cleave to any version with the zeal of a convert, but I can feel the stirring, the purring of the planet and its denizens awakening quantumly to a new holo-mosaic of how consciousness is patterned. One can literally feel this alchemic symphony of pulses in one’s bones. If you don’t notice it yet, you will. It is both fuerte or strong and dulce or sweet. . . . . Dear Teilhard de Chardin, mid last century philosopher, spoke of the lithosphere, the biosphere, and the noosphere. To which I, with humble glee, add the holosphere. . ..Litho means stone The lithosphere was the primeval furnace, lava rock of the planet which dreamt and cogitated and desired for a long long time and blossomed forth the biosphere which is the lichen and the lemurs, the octopuses, oaks, giraffes, and us. (Culminating in cats, the quintessence of terrifying design.) This all rambled around, raucous and timid, amoeba, hippopotamus, and condor, until forth was effervesced the noosphere, a knowledge sphere, a heady stew of trivial and stupendous information. (Sadly, you cannot call the noosphere a wisdom sphere, yet.) See also holosphere. 07-31-05

obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

[Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the letter after zed. Few jeopard it. 5-18-05 1:49:06 pm ..

oneiro .. (oh-nigh-roh) the Greek root for dream; 05-05-05

passive belligerence .. passive agression on steroids; deeply, sometimes slyly sullen; one of my favorite coinages — you know people who are passive belligerent; you may even live with one, and, if so, may gods help you in your hours of need for universal mercy. 06-25-05

perfect pain .. perfect pain is an intensity of grokking and intricacy of affinity coupled with a helplessness — as if you must be on parallel tracks, always together, never touching. And eternity is very long. 10-10-05

pinguid .. 'fat, unctuous, greasy' from 1828 Webster's; its root meaning is roughly fat juice or fat sap — the sap of fat. Fits Karlsputin's pinguid pipsqueakery. I first came across it a 100 yrs ago in the secondbest book in the universe, The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary, a book about an old artist, Gulley Jimson, who has to paint walls — with heroic paintings of feet. Gulley saw an oil slick on the Thames and used the word 'pinguid' as I recall. Though I'll admit that the word does sound more Nabokovian. All artists must read Horse's Mouth which taught me to see and to take laughter as my highest value, tho often obsidian. (The movie has zero to do with the book to which the plot is adjunct. It's the sentences the sentences and the raw seeing.) 07-21-05

pog, pogs .. This word pog is coined to escape all the labels for all the organized Religions. The acronym of People of goodwill and good works only –> POGWAGWOs – pogwagwos — pogs for short. (Only should really probably be often . . .); 05-05-05

political engineering .. I heard this from either Eugene Jarecki of Why We Fight (which I tenter-hookedly await) or Franklin Chuck Spinney, a Pentagon insider who says we’re spending the ½ trillion Military Budget for – not much. The notion of political engineering in this case is that the fabulously clever manipulation of, say, the B2 bomber. Instead of building & assembling it in one locale which would be efficient, every single state has a piece of building the B2 bomber. Thus when a new generation of the B2 bomber comes before the Congress OR the notion of stopping the program entirely as being obsolete, everyone has a stake in maintaining it. Jobs in the district. Money dispersed.

The tentacles of the Military Budget Colossus Octopus are so entangled throughout the nation that the Gordian Knot seems simplicity to cleave compared to this Octopoid sucking the lifeblood from our future. To supply gigaTaxCut payola to the gigaRich, medicare, school loans, and food stamps were gutted – yet the gargantuan $820,000 per minute Military Budget is never mentioned, like the Seventh Name of God. The fake Big Boy Republicans bathe in the midal gold which they send in geysers and gushes of ye Olde Faithful — the Military Budget she nevair go dry, swig down the Dom Halliburton champagne, Big Boys, theys macho mucho more where that came from, Ponce de Military Budget, the Perpetual Fountain of Graft.

Then my dear Democrats are gonadsless – afraid to be seen as soft on Killing & Dismembering & stomachless for Collateral Damage. (That the Republicans are soft on healthcare, soft on education, soft on the environment, soft on the future no one seems to be able to say out loud.)

“The military industrial Congressional complex is a political economy with a big P and a little E. It's very political in nature. Economic decisions, which should prevail in a normal market system don't prevail in the Pentagon, or in the military industrial complex.

“So what we have is a system that essentially rewards its senior players. It's a self… what we call it, we call it, we have a term for it, it's a self-licking ice cream cone. We basically take care of ourselves. And that's also why we have this metaphor it's Versailles on the Potomac.” Chuck Spinney in interview with Bill Moyers on NOW. [http://www.pbs.org/now/transcript/transcript_spinney.html]

“Have you seen these figures that CEO pay at Lockheed Martin went up from $5.8 million in 2000 to $25.3 million in 2002. I mean, that's five times increase in less than three years. CEO pay went up at General Dynamics from $5.7 million in 2001 to $15.2 million in 2002. It went up at Honeywell from $12.9 million in 2000 to $45 million in 2002. It went up from Northrop Grumman from $7.3 million in 2000 to $9.2 million in 2002.” Bill Moyers, same interview. pog entry 01.29.06

Reagan's Law as the moniker for pogblog's Campaign to Inititate a Child Mutilator's Registry is the coinage of chancelucky(http://chancelucky.blogspot.com/), a frequent pogblog commentator. It is a felicitous phrase indeed and as Digrif noted “pitchperfect.” Goaaaal! chancelucky! Pogblog tels us that “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re freakin’ insane.

“If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.

Please read the whole Child Mutilator Registry piece called Blog Throat, Radical Pacifism, & reagan’s Law, the Child Mutilator’s Registry on pogblog’s Main Page.06-25-05

riro .. reptile in, reptile out . . .Sad to say, once you've 'seen' the Lizardry in Our Leaders, you simply cannot unsee it. I've tried, longing to sleep better. I reckon it's like seeing auras or something, once you can see in that spectrum of light, you're stuck with that new knowledge. //There was a time about four years ago when I saw a pict in a newspaper of Mr. Bush in profile. I gasped. there it was — the unmistakable resemblance, the reptile profile. Holes in moles, I thought, maybe this rumor about the super-scientists in Atlantis doing dna experiments of reptile human hybrids wasn't just some gaseous New Age crock. (Now, now, a lot of New Age stuff is rivetting and inspiring; you just have to keep your discernment.) No doubt about it, riro –> reptile in, reptile out. 06.13.05

spooner .. as in darling spooner. Spooner was a daffy if not daft professor who had a legerdetongue which led him to transpose initial sounds in a phrase; the most famous is blushing crow for crushing blow; spoon, spoonerism; cf quisling & google which have also become lower-case ordinary words – sometimes a nifty, & sometimes a dubious alchemy. A quisling is a traitor (you know who you are who broke my heart, you quisling) — interesting that it never became benedict or arnold who was much more famous really. 06.05.06

stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be. 08-13-05

stynking synnes vile .. from OED, 1450 NE. Stynking sublime phrase. 12.01.05

suburbanality .. To torment a friend, I thored the word ‘suburbanality’ at him, as the master of lightning wielding, dear Thor might have, had anything in his experience prepared him for suburbs or banality. It was part of the patois of devoted mean by which we communicate in our obsidian way. There is the Golden Mean, a pleasing & harmonious proportionality. There is our Obsidian Mean, a pleasing and reckless splash in the sea of ebullient chaos and returning, so far, to the Shores of Reason with barracudas of odd truth.

Because my putative friend is an original in so many ways, it irks him no end to be lambasted with suburbanality. It would be one thing to be called a hick or a hillbilly or a rube, a kind of reverse pride of which one might preen. But suburbanality? There is no pretzeling which can make that in any iota cool. Just as it tickles him secretly to be called an original, it prickles him to be dubbed suburbanal. Even Achilles had that pesky heel, dear. 01.29.06

sursurly .. cf sursurreal .. sometimes a word needs some steroids to possibly comprehend the horribleness of the totalityranny of the Reign of the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised As Human Beings. It surboggles the surbewildered mind, not sursurprisingly. 06.18.05

third base .. “George Bush was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple.” A line from the splendid Ann Richards, ex-governor of Texas, in her 1988 Democratic Convention keynote speech. As nifty a remark about the presumption-of-privilege have:mores as one might whittle. See also ginger rogers; 06.18.05

toot doot .. A silly rendering of ‘without any doubt’; sans toute doute – without all doubt. Either avec (with), pron avek; or sans (without), pron saw(n) – you just think the ‘n’, you don’t really nail it. (Anglicized it’s sans—like sands without the ‘d’. 05.30.05

tzolkin .. roughly, a tzolkin round is a 260-day piece of the Mayan energy matrix (which we mis-name a calendar); it’s like setting out a new holo-chess board; each day has its own pulse or energy or note or pitch which shimmers through that day; a tzolkin is a gobo – a gobo is a cutout shape in tv & theater that goes over the end of a ‘spotlight’ and as the strong light is shone thru, that shape is cast on the curtain or on the stage – spinning stars, say. 06.01.05

vouchsafe .. means that you grant me a special privilege; can have hints of ironic undertones; it means that you ‘trust me with x or z, or even with your ecstasy’; is very formal & medieval – the kind of way knights talk – ‘If you vouchsafe me with your honor, cousin, I will defend it unto the death’; 06.03.05

vrai .. vrai is true in French; pog uses it also as truly – which is a tad fractured, but c’est la vie; pron. vray; 05.30.05

wmd brain .. if pogblog has an “accident” or an “heartattack” — it isn’t an accident; it isn’t an heartattack; pogblog drives very carefully and hasn’t been to a non-chiropractic doctor since 1979. Pogblog does have a wmd brain and the Lizardos are not going to like it! I’m under the radar now, but they’ll be hauling out the hemlock soon enough and I want you not to fall for their lizardiavellian lies. Keep up the fight after they get me: Duelling epic poems, dueling satire, the clang of unsheathed irony. We’re better armed than they are for the battle of wits which will appear slowly in the next decade like a polaroid developing. But they are exceedingly cunning and they hunger after our warm-blood. Never underestimate a cornered Lizard. 06-14-05

wolfofwolfs .. mon lobo suave, mon lobo feroz hecho del agua, .. .. .. In the waters of delight, honey, you is the waterfall, all lavish splash. In the forests of delight, you is the wolf of wolfs, all silver danger under the moon. In the cosmi-circus, you is a four-trick pony with hoofs of gold and a mane of fire. Kismet dealt me a hard hand with thee, a new and terrible tarot And the reason I cannot leave or deceive is that it would be like betraying dawn or a fawn – done by some but it would be wrong. The fun we get to have is so damned earned. Our relationship is distinctly, probably entirely, medieval. It’s like open-heart surgery before anesthetic. The pain is profound; the laughter can be as bright red as blood and pure. Pure laughter is the lead turned to the gold. .. .. .. ps. Like Clive Owens, you have a sudden stillness which is all potential – you could explode in a any direction at any time. (With you behind your lazily easy façade, it’s strobed – sequential sudden stillnesses.) It is a very dangerous and distilled and compelling quality. It is why you are both so unbearably sexy. It is achingly rawly male. It is feral barely cloaked with civilizedness. You are both brothers of the Great God Pan – nothing remotely Christian about you. Untamed, and untameable. Damned dangerous is what you both are. Luckily I am a mutant with a very high tolerance for brutal radiation. o8.27.o5

warprinth .. warp-rinth ..Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s. .. A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces. .. Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell. 11.13.05

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8 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 216 09.20.06 wed
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.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead
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Cheney's Mistress' Diary pt 2 .. Pamela’s Pomeranian

Posted on August 10, 2006 by wendy fleet

Pamela Pitzer Willesford’s Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela’s Pomeranian

Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.

Note: This material is extremely scurrilous and scatological, remarkably tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain’t your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.

If it weren’t of such excruciating historical significance I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.

A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. (‘Darth’ is the zetta-secret Knights of Jest cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth’s valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford’s Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.

Don’t birdshot the messenger aka Don’t be shooting the messenger – at least not in the face and chest. (see also Pamela’s Diary part 1😉

Pamela Pitzer Willesford’s Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela’s Pomeranian

How will anyone ever forgive me!!?!! This struggle between moi and GiganDick may incinerate the whole world, but I have my pride & GiganDick’s horrid little henchmen have Marshmallow, my prize Pomeranian.

GiganDick wants disgusting favors to which I said No! and then they stole my fluffy sweetums Marshie. When GiganDick gets denied, his ‘condition’ gets exacerbated – he starts raving about dune snakes and Conplan 8022 and B61-11s (nuclear-tipped tac nukes). We were having one of our romps in the RBA Zentral Bank private vault knee-deep in Halliburton billions when he, buck-naked, a tripod, so visibly manly, looks at me with that sweet little sneer and says, “I’m gonna bust their bunkers and their balls over there in Tehran, Pammie, and ain’t nobody gonna stop me. I will rain tac nukes down upon their sinning, heathen bunkers until they scream Uncle, Uncle, Uncle Sam!” When GiganDick gets moody, I know some country’s got to pay.

I looked up the tactical nukes and my God, I’m very afraid. A tactical nuke is about 1/3 the yield of Hiroshima. Nobody, even Karl, as nasty a bit of business as I’ve known since I was born, dares speak up to GiganDick. Not even the Gorgon Babs Bush, who looks like she has fifty writhing snakes for hair and is the coldest, most self-impressed woman I ever met, dares naysay GiganDick.

Karl is walking botulism, utterly sadistically toxic. Once at one of GiganDick’s orgies, Karl got flattened on Utopias beers at 100 bucks a bottle and Duoro River Fladgate Port at 100 dollars a glass – it’s fortified with peasants’ blood or some such. He told me that when he was five years old, he realized that he’d been born on December 25 and that he was the Anti-Christ. It was his duty to hurt and ruin people to soften them up for God’s lidless-eyes interrogation in the Last Days. “Besides,” he said with the reptilian little thin-lipped grin in his cherub face, “It’s fun causing pain.” He likes people to know that it was him who ruined them and that they cannot lay a finger on him. He’s a genuine creep. But he can’t call out the bombs like GiganDick.

I’m actually pretty deviant myself and I and GiganDick get up to all manner of no good, but this new disgusting stuff he wants to perpetrate with me is just too sinful for even someone as steeped in sin as moi. I mean I actually love it when we gallop along with GiganDick in the saddle while he brandishes his precious Brescia Perazzi 28 gauge hollering, “Bombs away!” I like it when he growls, “I’m your Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrator, Pammie!” Of course he was never actually in the military, but he sure like to play General Dick and Army Nurse Pamela. Now these little games (Lynne is terminally dull dull dull) used to keep him a little defused out on the world-conquering front, but since he blasted Harry with birdshot for flirting with me and I won’t participate in these new perversions, he’s gotten dangerously restless and even more peevish than usual. Last week he sent me one of my darling Pomeranian Marshmallow’s paws in one of those velvet jewelry boxes in which you expect a big diamond ring, which I did.

Marshie’s paw!! Both Iran and I are in deepest doodoo. There is nothing whatever Iran can do, no submission, no capitulation servile enough. If you aren’t a eunuch, forget it. They are doomed. The world can cry out. The American people (those sheep — unlikely to do more than whatever the baaa equivalent of whimper is) might be aghast. Only I could stop him or slow him or divert him, but he cut my Pomeranian’s paw off and wants to make me watch and join activities I refuse to. WMD = Wickedly Mutilated Dogs.

////Yes, dogs. Now I’ve learned that GiganDick has a kennel of important dogs. Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I went thru GiganDick’s briefcase while he was getting his post-coital massage at The Sanctum at our pet Borgo La Bognaia, the 6-star resort so exclusive that only billionaires and their hotsie tarts get to stay here. No wives allowed. So, I’m not so young and bimboesque, but I can hunt quail and he likes his gals to be good, ahem, with big guns.

He has got this whole kennel of 3-pawed important dogs. JCS chief General Peter Pace’s poodle pup is there. Rove’s Rottweiler. Condo’s Borzoi. Colin’s Chihuahua. Scooter’s Schnauzer (who lost a second paw after the Plame Leak court filing last week!) GiganDick’s got Polaroids of the dogs in various states of mutilation. It’s like Abu Canine. He sends audio tapes of a CIA interrogator saying “Here, Marshmallow, here Marshmallow,” and then the horrific doggie screams as they hack off the first paw. Then you hear the officer say, “Cauterize that wound, soldier. We don’t want it to die. The VPOTUS may need more paws from this animal.”

GiganDick has clearly gone from bonkers to berserk. Only a gigagenius of evil would conceive of kidnapping people’s dogs. People might sacrifice a child to the nobility of saving their country and/or the world and tell the truth anyway, but sacrifice their dog? Never. The covert kennel is in Easton, Maryland in the basement of the Tidewater Inn where Robert Mitchum drank himself blotto for a time and where on white starched-linen tablecloths, you can be served bowls of thick, greenish sea turtle soup for your hangover.

GiganDick plans to do both Iran and NoKo (North Korea) on the same night with “a blizzard of tacs.” He shouts, “I’ll cut the nuts off Mahmoud and Dear Leader Kim with one sword,” as he struts himself nekkid in front of the mirrored wall of our secret Site R suite in Sabillasville, Maryland, the under-the-mountain city where our Leaders go “to copulate and contemplate,” as it’s said by the servants behind our backs. The really Enormous Cheeses like GiganDick, Karl, Condo, Donnie walk around the underground city naked. GiganDick carries a riding crop to instill discipline among the minions. Under Raven Rock Mountain is the ultra-luxurious Safe Haven for when the Bad Guys Drop The Big One. There are gold-fringed American flags jutting out above the headboard of our big round bed. All the hand-painted wallpaper is huge American flags with huge portraits of GiganDick being gigantic on every wall that’s not mirrored. There are slave-artists kept in the Site R dungeons to perform enforced decorating tasks. Some people you think are dead are down there. They cloned Norman Rockwell and they make him paint their portraits for their rooms. (Norm2 told me, “I should have been a lot edgier when I had the chance. I got hooked on that Saturday-Evening-Post covers money.”)

(Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I hear GD coming down the hall. It’s a clumping shuffle with a kind of snorting and slurping that he’s learned to disguise in public.) Iran has got him crazy. He salutes himself in the mirror, naked and, ahem, manly, and shouts, “I’ll show those un-American bastards who not to jerk off.”

a Note from Mr. Azul came in this package.

wendy, in haste – Here’s the next shipment of Pamela Pitzer Willesford’s Diary. She hadn’t known about the dogjacking operation — K9 Insurance, Leverage and Liquidation, KILL. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Then VPOTUS had her adorable little fluffy Pomeranian, Marshmallow, snatched to keep her from blowing the lid on the Iran Plan . (VPOTUS requires the servants in private to leave off to leave off the ‘V’ and just call him POTUS. I heard VPOTUS snickering and sneering it up with KarlBoy about “curtising that upstart Iran with tacs and spaying Dear Leader at the same time.” (Re ‘curtising,’ remember General Curtis LeMay was the genius who called for ‘bombing Vietnam back into the Stone Age,’ becoming a hero with ostrich huevos for Cheney et Ilk back when.

Vice and KarlBoy do an unseemly amount of hammer & tonging, by the way, often yelling, “In Jesus’ Name” at what one assumes are the apogeetic moments. I find religious perversion especially unsettling tho I am certainly not religious myself — having seen up close the hideous hypocritical harm it can lay waste with. No way one remains religious after you’ve seen what religionism has done to this crowd. Give me a crackhead over a christhead any day. Poor, sweet Jesus is utterly absent around here, to be sure.

I don’t know how you get the word out on how avalanchingly dangerous it’s getting now that they’re feeling cornered. For awhile I thought that Mrs. Pamela could mitigate some of Vice’s pyre of ire and insane moods, but now it’s all drumbeat of bombing, tacs this & tacs that. They’re all obsessed with ‘tactical nukes’ which is perhaps the ultimate euphemism and delusion – like ‘smart bomb.’ “We’re gonna show those sandeaters who’s boss,” Veep utters or mutters a dozen times a day.

Sometimes I wish I weren’t a certified shrink with a sheaf of putatively prestigious degrees. Recall the definition of ‘paranoid schizophrenia’: “In this type of schizophrenia, the individual has feelings of being persecuted or plotted against. Affected individuals may have grandiose (over-the-top) delusions associated with protecting themselves from the perceived plot.

“The key symptoms are delusions and/or auditory hallucinations. Paranoid schizophrenia usually does not involve the disorganized speech and behavior that is seen in other types of schizophrenia. Patients with paranoid schizophrenia typically are tense, suspicious, guarded, and reserved.”

Well, Veep and KarlBoy are both meganoids – meganoid schizophrenics. The reason this kind of megalomadness is so very hard to detect is that their own delusions are so self-consistent, so self-coherent that they seem more convincing, more truthful than a normaler person whose version of anything is tinct with a few hesitations and doubts. These Ilk are 100% doubt-free. Does God speak to you? Their versions of things are made radiant, illuminated by the pure testostermoronic patriotism and religiousism drugs they inhale, ingest, and swill 52/365.

Their conviction gave the country a contact-paranoid-high. Rather than hypocritical, they are insane. They drink their own koolaid and do chasers of their own snake-oil.

For the time I stay safe by portraying a perfect stupid, devoted shuffling obedience. To them, all servants are invisible and being black doubles my invisibility. As long as I say “Yes, Massah” and keep my eyes sufficiently submissively downcast, I should stay stealth.

They’ll get me of course, as they will you. We’re doomed. But maybe we can give some courage to some undeluded militant pacifist rebels on the way out. The Old-Lace Option crosses my mind with increasing frequency. But they’ve made The Menace so hydra-headed, where does one begin, or end?

It dismays me, wendy, that people get so disgusted up about the hideous things these SansSouls do to dogs, but barely ruffle a feather at the incendiary rending wrought upon children in their Kill Zones. ‘Collateral damage’ thinking. It stinks.

Do not doubt, by the way, that Cheney Reigns with his Prince of Vicious, KarlBoy, as his henchboy-in-chief. But Barbara Bush is the Queen of Nasty. I can see where the vacuous Prezzie gets his essential meanness – in all facets of that word. The clueless hubris of the nouveau riche.

Stay alive, wendy.

Mr. Azul

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Notes:

VPOTUS is a Secret Service acronym for Vice President of the United States;

Old Lace Option – cf Arsenic & Old Lace;

Militant Pacifist – my favorite teeshirt. Pacifism in its strong, in-your-face mode;

The formal definition of 'paranoid schizophrenia' is from Merck Source.

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7 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 58 04.16.06 sun

ffwofw2173§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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nazi-lite: frog-in-cold-water totalitarianism

Posted on June 10, 2006 by wendy fleet

nazi-lite: frog-in-cold-water totalitarianism

The yawning MSM silence about RFK Jr's comprehensive June 15 Stolen Votes article in RollingStone made me yet more head-banging-against-so-many-walls aware that we are in the frog-in-cold-water rise of totalitarianism in USofA.

This was a Paul Revere article — alarums should have been raised all over the country in editorials. Yet the gigantic HoHum prevailed in such a multitude that this anti-evidence of keeping us down on the farm cowed and sheeped makes me weep as I watch freedom slosh not even noisily down the drain. Oh woe is we.

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

There's openvotingconsortium, a high level computer gigageek and concerned citizens group which is fighting for open source code for computer voting that keeps me from thinking All Is Lost.

ps. For those unfamiliar with the Poor Frog in Cold Water: if you throw a frog into boiling water, it will leap out in the searing horror of the offense to its living system. However, if you put a frog into cold water and slowly and steadily raise the heat, the Poor Frog will end up cooked with out much wiggling.

So here we are in nazi-lite, a totalitarianism of executive aggrandizement and liberties being disappeared or diluted in the almighty (ahem) name of 'security.' Caveat citizen.

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MSM = main stream media

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10 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzolkin 112 06.10.06 sat

955 days/2y7m10d left

ffwofw174§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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We Coulda Had Gore

Posted on May 29, 2006 by wendy fleet

I wrote this note in Comment on a post by Nora Ephron on Huff Post.

We Coulda Had Gore .. Eighteen-letter words

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I used to use a variety of expletives along the way in my life, most of which, except for Balderdash! are recognizable to the profane-sailor crowd. But since 2000, I often wake up in the middle of the Bush-et-Ilk nightmare-ridden night hearing myself cursing at full the-horror the-horror yell, scaring the cats and waking the neighbors, that eighteen letter word, “FloridaNaderVoters!!” as if the sky were falling.

Well, the sky is fallen, & I can't forgive the self-indulgent ignorance of the FNVs, the Florida Nader Voters — HOW could you be SO STUPID, all 90,000 of you?? If only a thousand of you had woken up that day with a supple brain. “'All the same' are they? Really? Do you still think that?”

And after the 'election' in 2004? I now rent a rubber room for weekends so when I'm not blindly feeding the best years of my life into the slavering corporate maw during the long crepuscular cheneylurks week, I can bang my head against the wall with less injury because I ain't got healthcare to cover major concussion.

9/11 sucked. It killed 3000 people. It was not a national threat requiring the [re-]election of George Bush. 465,000 people a year die in our USofA of tobacco causes — let's bust the Philip Morris bunker, get Morris' 18.13 million-dollar-annual-compensation CEO Lou bin Camilleri dead or alive, put a Green Zone in Winston-Salem, and occupy North Carolina if we really want to “protect the American people.”

We are not serious or smart people, we USofAians. We flaunt ignorance as if it were evidence of more-balls, the sine qua none. We vote with our adolescent hearts rather than our adult heads. We want the kind of romance that Hallmark sells.

If our own state is a lock this Fall, we can write letters to out-of-state on-the-cusp voters in crucial districts through mmob (Mainstreet Moms) and phone out of state with mmob or moveon. (I just say that 'My vote in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />California doesn't mean anything — you're voting for me too.')

The eloquent elegant wistful wail is not enough. I beg us to DO something besides bitterly bemoan — though bitterly bemoaning cannot be overdone, lest we forget 'the inconvenient consequences.'

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11 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 100 05.29.06 mon

967 days/2y7m22d left

ffwofw174§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Karl Rove: a cur sans coeur

Posted on May 13, 2006 by wendy fleet

Karl Rove: a cur sans coeur

If bless-ed Jason is right, we'll get a mental reprieve — if Senor Sadist(“I don't just want to defeat you, I want to ruin you, pluck all the feathers from your better angels' wings, one by naked & raw one”) gets the frog march.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the frogmarching of Karl Rove ..

Oh Pleas upon pleas, Fat E, let us have this one. Karlie's pudgie rump in jail is a Fine Idea. Death no, humiliation yes.

It took brain tumors to bring Lee Atwater, Karlie's guru of grueling, to beg for mercy at the end, & LeeBoy was a midget to Karlie's monster. Atwater was a rotter, but not a oialt (once in a lifetime) sadist. May be in the jail, Karlie could wish for fairer play. Atwater blubberingly begged for forgiveness from his victims at the end (Don't we all?), but it didn't save him (Does it ever?).

Still, listening to some blubber from Karlie would salve if not solve the reign of pain. A cur sans coeur.

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Jason Leopold Friday May 12

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/051206Y.shtml

Jason on Saturday May 13

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/051306W.shtml

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frog march image, google images, apfn.org

oily rove image, google images, nrk.no,img,500183.jpeg

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'sans' means 'without' in French;

'coeur' means 'heart' in French & is pronounced 'cur' —

cur sans coeur was a phrase meant to be for Mr. Rove — i am proud to have coined it.

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8 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 84 05.13.05 sat

983 days/2y8m07d left .. full moon

ffwofw174§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

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

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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The Disease of Don Rumsfeld's Hubris

Posted on April 21, 2006 by wendy fleet

The Disease of Don Rumsfeld's Hubris

Sadlyissimo, the disease of Don Rumsfeld's hubris, exacerbated by complications of Cheneyprosy Condition, has been a bleak and black plague upon the hopes of now quarantined America that will take a generation to de-scar.

There is no way in which our nation is not enervated by the catastrophic concatenation of overweening & putrid thinking housed in the Unfun House of the Pentagon, eerie mirrored walls and all.

Among the atrophys, we have spent billions which could have been spent on the constructions which would serve our children (health care; education; tiddlywinks; carbon footprints; a laptop for every child; watching grass grow — all, I wildly speculate, would serve our future measurably MORE than this grotesque debacle in the Cradle).

Ozymandian is all of this drearily and desperately sad monumental waste:

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822

Prophetic. Ozydondias. .. that colossal wreck he, with this sneer of cold command, has left us on the lone and level sands.

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

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12 Lizard . <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Kan . South . tzol62 04.21.06 fri

ffwofw2173§26d2h33m11s33.84g3.25g;

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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Ask Dr. Druid

Druid thought; obsidian humor; radically sane politics;

Category Archives: Politics

id-ridden

The Doom of Dick .. Cheney Sickens

Madame Speaker. Sweet.

Vote or Get Leprosy

pogblog Glossary .. [on-going .. update 09-19-06]

Cheney's Mistress' Diary pt 2 .. Pamela’s Pomeranian

nazi-lite: frog-in-cold-water totalitarianism

We Coulda Had Gore

Karl Rove: a cur sans coeur

The Disease of Don Rumsfeld's Hubris