tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68728455112877988562024-02-20T11:16:46.566-05:00The Great TriadWith any luck at all, this blog will spawn a new worldwide religion, founded on the principle of farcical randomness, with reverence only to the irreverant. I will earnestly try to provide as much misinformation as I can imagine, pay little or no attention to detail, and provide the reader with the principles of the Great Triad (The Big Mamou, The Whole Shebang, and Komonawanaleia) as laid out in the ancient texts.Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-82369311508593869192022-01-31T17:15:00.000-05:002022-01-31T17:15:28.242-05:00X rated<p> There was a lot of conversation this past week regarding xenotransplantation on NPR. Now the science is very interesting, but I’m more interested in the the ethical side of things. While I believe the transplant of a brain from animal to human would certainly be beneficial to most humans, it doesn’t appear to be a procedure that will happen anytime soon. First, a little background is in order. Recently, a genetically modified pig kidney was transplanted into a brain dead human. I’m not certain that this does not describe most humans, but I think it referred to medical brain death. This was apparently a major step forward, in that the organ itself was not rejected by the recipients body. This finding paves the way for future clinical trials. At another hospital recently, a genetically modified pig heart was transplanted into a human recipient. The surgeon involved was very excited to see the new pig heart beating in the open chest of the recipient. When asked about the ethics, his response struck me as somewhat noble, but haughty. He seemed to say that he would gladly.sacrifice the life of the pig in order to save the life of the human. His response caused in me a great deal of genuine concern. While I have had only a modicum of quality time with pigs (the porcine variety), I remain firmly convinced that pigs are much more intelligent than most humans, and I think any human who has read Charlotte’s Web would agree with me. In fact, I think most people who have only seen the animated adaptation of the book would agree with me as well. The point is that I’m not certain that the medical needs of humans exceed the living needs of pigs, even cloned pigs.</p><p>This leads me to a brief discussion of xenotes, sometimes spelled ‘cenotes’. Xenotes are actually very deep sinkholes filled with water, created by the collapse of limestone bedrock. Despite my recent introduction to rappelling, I doubt that i would attempt the descent into a xenote, though many have. Most are very deep, and I’m pretty sure the fall would kill me. Many of the brave who have descended into these sinkholes, have discovered myriads of skeletal remains, apparently the sacrificial remnants of the Aztecs, or the Toltec, or some other long gone civilization. The point is…I don't want any xenotes filled with the sacrificial remains of pigs. You may ask yourself…How can fallen angel justify this viewpoint? So, I’ll just tell you! Kidney disease is not necessarily created by the drinking habits of cretinous humans. It is more often the result of diabetes, which occurs in many species. Still, I’m certain that this might be lessened if insulin didn’t bear an almost mind numbing cost per dose. Heart disease is most often created by excessive and damaging behaviors of humans. The prevalence of both diseases is amplified by the stupid, excessive behaviors of humans. So, I just don’t believe that the need for transplants, worsened by ignoring the warning signs, justify taking the life of pigs to save the lives of people who exacerbated their own disease. It is only human haughtiness that believes human life is more dear than pig life. That being said, if someone I care deeply about was faced with a pig organ being his/her only option, I would gladly stick the pig myself!</p><p>Many other X words spring to mind in order to lengthen this post…xenophobia, for instance…maybe even xylophone…but these would only stir my need to rant even longer. So, I will leave you with one final thought. Hats off to the doctors who removed that unvaccinated guy from the heart transplant list! His choice left death as his only option, and while I feel great sadness for those he will leave behind, I think he would have been better off with a xenograft of a brain!</p><p><br /></p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-14884960014335183202022-01-11T18:33:00.004-05:002022-01-11T18:33:41.098-05:00The Path in the Light<p> There has been a lone, solitary fruit fly living in the mens room at work for what seems like months. I have no knowledge of whether fruit flies reproduce asexually, or if they live more than a day, so I am uncertain if it was indeed the same creature. Nonetheless, I am certain the fruit fly itself would be happier in an alternate location (go ahead, accuse me of anthropomorphism).</p><p>I have, this very morning, been pondering the lives of pigeons. I am fairly confident that the term “birdbrain” emanated from the observation of pigeons, but I am considering, this very morning, that perhaps I am being unfair to pigeons. Still, it would appear, that pigeons simply go where the wind takes them; that one roost is as good as any other; that any bed for the night is as good as any other. I am suggesting that pigeons have no need for ‘place’. I mean, it is not apparent that pigeons give a damn where they shit! ( I have never seen a baby pigeon, to the best of my knowledge, but is well within the realm of possibility, that due to the fact that infancy in pigeondom is so brief, that they live their lives in a constant state of toddlerhood!)</p><p>For those of you that have known me awhile, you are certainly aware that I once considered ‘place’, or the feeling of permanence attached to place, as the most essential component of human happiness. I must now confess, that due to my most recent observations of fruit flies and pigeons, that I must, once again reconsider that long held belief.</p><p>‘Place’ can certainly provide refuge from the deluge of stress provided by daily life, and it also provides a serenity afforded by nature in general. Still, unless you are my exact opposite, and choose a solitary life, ‘place’ cannot be enough. Those of you still alive that have read my blog already know my feelings about the evils of city life; a stockpot of roiling strangerhood, brewing an atmosphere of fear and loathing. Still, as I sit here searching for a word to describe what I am about to describe, I am left with knowing that there is only one choice…entangled enlightenment! We are all surrounded by light, though for many, it is simply too dim to make a difference. I suspect that those humans whose light shines dimly, do so by choice…the choice of being miserable, fearful, or simply stunted. I admit it is the easiest choice to accept miserable, fearful or stunted, given the current state of the world…of humanity. It strikes me that throughout the planet, there are throngs of people, perhaps a majority, who would gladly give up freedom to an autocrat, a tsar or a Trump to absolve them of the burden of choice, but I am happy to say that I am not one of them!</p><p>So, what do I mean by entangled enlightenment you ask. I can only answer by describing how I wish to live my life. I choose to entangle with people who increase the magnitude of my light when I bathe in theirs. I have been very lucky in that those sorts of humans are drawn to me, perhaps, because I brighten their sphere…I engage with strangers, I smile, I laugh…I AM happy. While I cannot say that I am always open to the possibilities, I can say that I am more often than not.</p><p>The truth is that the possibility of EE surrounds us all. I know this because I find myself entangled frequently. I found the young girl from Lebanon, the cashier at a local gas station, who drew me in with her effervescent friendliness; the young Latina woman at the coffee shop that actually wants to know how I am; my roommate, who is a bit cantankerous, but is always seeking brighter light; a woman in France who I have never met, whose light reaches me from across an ocean; my friend in the North End who simply sparkles me. There are a myriad of others…some come, some gone…but they still have a place in my heart, where the brightest light resides.</p><p>We all have a light that we can allow to shine, if we so choose. Choosing darkness, with its resplendent fearfulness, is the easier choice, apparently. I choose to be happy, to smile and laugh, and to entangle with those who welcome it. There will always be places that feel mostly right, but the brightest ones work best. Fare the well!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-89766149092140838902021-11-17T12:17:00.000-05:002021-11-17T12:17:25.204-05:00Fare thee well<p> I am deeply sad to report that last night the Great Triad lost one of its true devotees. On this day, I find within a deep desire that I could believe in God, because if there was ever a woman who held onto God more deeply, it would be my favorite (and only) sister-in-law, Gail. There have been several people in my life that have accused me of not knowing what love is, but, if I ever doubted my understanding of love, it could always be renewed in a phone call, or visit with her. I have known very few people in my life who embodied love…who embodied the pure love suggested in the Bible…but Gail was certainly the most profound. I would go so far as to trumpet to the entire world that she lived in light, that she lived in grace…that the grace of God dwelled easily and comfortably within her.</p><p>I know that she knew that I loved her. I know that she loved me. I am thankful that she was surrounded by all those she loved the most. I wish i could have made her laugh one last time. I wish I could have been there. And today, and only today, do I wish that there really was such a place as Heaven, because surely God would have pushed Jesus out of the way that she might sit next to him/her/whatever. She truly was the embodiment of the kind of love a Christian God would want all believers to embrace…to live by.</p><p>We had a deep kinship, despite the fact that I would argue with her regarding nearly everything she believed. To be fair, my contrariness with her only served to make her laugh. She had a wonderful laugh. It burst out of her like a giant surprise, and, my oh my, did I love those surprises. I may have done many good things in my life, but making her laugh was right at the top of my favorites list. She told me once that slapping, for her, was an act of affection…an act of love. It was the most wonderfully happy exchange we ever shared.</p><p>Her faith, religious and spiritual, made her the most courageous, hopeful woman I have known in my life. That she suffered with MS for so long was, in my mind, the most unfair thing ever. Yet despite all that she went through, she brought me back to loving my brother. I am worried about my brother, because I don’t know how he will survive without her. His love for her was as deep and devoted as any I have ever witnessed, and for that alone, I will love him as deeply and purely as I am capable of.</p><p>Today, I am filled with sadness but, I am grateful for every moment I spent with her. She shared with me things that I’m certain she shared with very few people, if anyone. And I cradled those shared things like great gifts. I have no idea why she trusted me as much as she did, but she did.</p><p>I will carry with me, for the rest of my life, the hope that she will say goodbye to me the way she always said goodbye…”see you tomorrow”.</p><p>And Gail, if you meet God…say hello for me.</p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-85700917732978881222021-10-29T20:42:00.000-04:002021-10-29T20:42:59.475-04:00Things I know<p> Many of you will recall that I aspire to knowing nothing at all, and you may call me out for what I am about to write, but frankly, I don’t give even a little shit! That being said, here I go!</p><p>Business, especially big business, never looks beyond its own bottom line. Business, especially big business, pays off politicians to achieve one solitary goal…to increase their profits. Yet we continue to believe that the government, our elected politicians, are acting to make our country better for everyone. I mean the sheer size of the bankrolls controlled by corporate PACs should indicate to everyone that the very rich are way richer than they admit</p><p>The essential truth about our own democracy is that its inherent foresight is equal to that of a slug, and that may be unfair to slugs. Our government does not know how to look forward because it is supported wholeheartedly by corporate entities trying to keep things the way that they have always been. Even the progressives are shortsighted. They strive to remedy the problems of the past, instead of seeking solutions for the future.</p><p>The United States has done many great things, but the great things are far outnumbered by the grievous acts our country has committed. For instance, they broken nearly every treaty written with those peoples who lived here long before the white man. We have betrayed nearly every population that has helped us in our numerous wars for profit. They abandoned the Hmong people of Cambodia, the Arabic people who served as translators in the most recent wars who were promised protection and emigration to the great ol’ USA. We have stolen the land and farms given to the freed slaves after the Civil War, despite their service to this country. And most grievous of all, we have failed to educate our children with an accurate historic portrayal of our nation. I never should have hit my sixth decade without knowledge of the Tulsa massacre, or the massacres that occurred in the North in cities like Chicago.</p><p>So, let me stop here by stating a few indisputable facts. Corporations are not people. They are economic entities, rife with legal loopholes designed to maintain profit and wealth, not mine or yours, but theirs.</p><p>The term ‘public service’ should be banned from the American lexicon. With due deference to lifelong, underfunded diplomats, and to dedicated government employees, there no longer exists anything resembling public service, nor anything akin to government ‘for the people’. We have become a country where political parties serve no other purpose than to obstruct each others’ agendas.</p><p>And while we are at it, we may as well stop considering ourselves civilized. Civilized people listen to each other, and hold space for reasonable discourse.</p><p>There is only one path forward in my opinion. Our government needs to change course, and strive to make things more equitable for the next generation. And we should start by creating policy designed to improve the lives of those peoples we have fucked the hardest. So invest in Native American education, in education in general, to ensure that the next generation of black and native peoples have the same possibilities as white people. Fuck reparations! Just put their schools on the same playing field as white suburbia.</p><p>And while we’re at it, let’s tear down the projects, and replace them with homes not designed to keep people impoverished and clustered in shitholes.</p><p>Well, that’s enough about government and history. Let’s move on to the other things I know.</p><p>Women like sex just as much as men, providing its good sex. As an aside, they also suck just as much as men. While men do suck, most men are not inherently evil. They do not deserve to be treated with public disdain, should not be denied due process, should not be treated en masse as serial rapists. Those that are abusers, and rapists should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But if a woman hurts her hand swinging a baseball bat at a man’s head, it is currently the man who gets hauled away to jail…gets issued a restraining order…which all leads to a ruined life. People argue, couples argue, always have. Loud is not synonymous with assault or abuse. Women are not always victims, although they are far too often. But even so, women can’t always have it both ways. They can’t want the same power as men, and play the weak sister on the other hand. Equality does not allow for imbalance.</p><p>The religious right, those self professed people of faith, are a pack of liars, who will all tell you that Jesus was a white man. Pretending that Jesus is white is the foundation of almost all racism. If God was gonna have a son, I’m thinking he would have considered rainbow colors. Jesus may have suffered for your sins, but I am suffering for your sins, the sins of hatred, the sin of not following the tenets of your purported faith. I’ve known more people of color who possess real faith, replete with love and kindness, than white people.</p><p>There may be other things I now, but they’re not on the tip of my tongue, so I’m gonna wind it down. So, I’m gonna leave you with a few adages.</p><p>There are only two kinds of people…the ones that like you, and the ones that don’t. Who gives a fuck about the ones that don’t?</p><p>I may be bitchy, but that doesn’t mean you’re not an asshole!</p><p>It’s high time we all found a lot more respect for each other. I promise, I will always listen, and consider your viewpoint.</p><p><br /></p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-24936204977699470062021-09-17T19:21:00.004-04:002021-09-17T19:21:39.331-04:00Happiness<p> My friend Paul believes that most people are happy. I contend that most people are miserable. This post will be an attempt to reconcile our conflicting viewpoints.</p><p>I used to believe that only old people were sad. I mean their friends are all dead, and they have no one to talk to. But this is not sadness, this is more like loneliness. But I digress.</p><p>If the eyes are the window to the soul, then the face is the front of the house blown away by a tornado. Faces just show it all, strip it to the bone, and shine the go fuck yourself at everyone they encounter. Most people, at least here in the eastern US, bear the demeanor of the golem…that wrinkled and furrowed look of dripping clay, frazzled by the dearth of affection in their lives, and by unfulfilled dreams. They won’t look you in the eye, or engage in any manner, unless you surprise and stupefy them them with some unexpected kindness, like “Hi…how are you today”, or perhaps, a smile, if they look up long enough.</p><p>Now, I’m not saying that there are no happy people. I mean, stupid people can be happy, because they’re too stupid to know they’re stupid, but lately, the truly stupid have started to rejoice, believing that the Republicans have brought them out of the shadows by revealing to them the most ridiculous conspiracy theories purportedly designed to silence them. This is why they believe that their children have been abducted by aliens, or whored out in pizza shops in DC. The truth, unfortunately, is that their children want nothing to do with them.</p><p>But there are intelligent happy people, my friend Paul among them, but for many intelligent people, the happy has been driven out of them by their obsession with the nuances of bond yields, or the narrowness of studying vole populations in Wyoming. There is no human contact in Wyoming, and the most striking detail regarding the truly rich people I’ve met, is that they don’t have friends…they have partners and clients that they don’t really like at all.</p><p>But I am one of the lucky ones. I have been loved, and have loved, and I’ve spent most of my life trying to find within myself the unconditional love of a child. I’ve come very close, but I’m not there yet. They say its the journey not the destination. But I have discovered that love doesn’t stop…doesn’t die. I have loved many people in my life, and I still love them, and I carry that love within me. My father (and by that, I mean the man that raised me) gave me many gifts that have helped me throughout my life. His ridiculous high-pitched cackle of a giggle thought me that laughter really is a wonderful elixir. By fetching me, wherever I may have wandered off to, clad only in his underwear taught me that I needn’t give a fuck what other people think of me. Both my parents gave me a love of music, but my mom taught me to sing, and singing has brought me out of many a dark place. Somewhere along the way, blessed with laughter, song, and not giving a fuck, I came to embody that happy should be the norm, but that unabashed joy was the goal. </p><p>Many people have shown me that goal, and let me share in it. Recently, several people have reminded me that learning new things, and writing, bring me a great deal of joy. Thank you. Maybe I can make this a constant in my life again. There is a song in my heart.</p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-49709446514494547652021-01-11T17:57:00.000-05:002021-01-11T17:57:14.197-05:00Whitewashed<p> Those of you who may read my blog are likely to assume that this is some sort of nonsensical rant, but you may be wrong...not that it may be a rant, but rather that it will be nonsensical. Therefore, I would like to get the nonsense out of the way in this first paragraph. While on many occasions I have stated that white women are at the root of all human problems, this post will not be about that, nor will it be about the uselessness of millennials, nor will it be about the economic waste incurred by painting yellow stripes on any road in America.</p><p>No, this post will be an outline of what has brought western civilization to the brink of its demise. While it may not be specifically about racism, it will discuss its roots...and how those roots have shaped the moronic behavior of half of the American populace.</p><p>God is many different things to may different people, and I’m ok with that, but of all the things God may or not be, the one thing I am certain of, is that God is not white. No matter which piece of fiction is associated with your particular brand of religion, there is one thing you can be sure of. God was ‘born’ in the Middle East, and later, ‘reborn’ by the Romans. Abraham was born in the Middle East, as was Jesus, and Mohammed, and Moses, and King David, etc., ad infinitum. Now, just a brief description of Palestine in those days. It was a very diverse place, rife with all colors of people...Indians (no, moron, not the Apaches), Egyptians, Ethiopians, Phoenicians, Persians, all of whom were not white, and only god knows who was fucking who. So, Jesus could have been genetically diverse to say the least. So, then came along the council of Nicene, where the fucking Romans decide to pick and choose the right words and gospels that would best serve to homogenize and subjugate a diverse, and often rebellious populace. It is from this point forward that Jesus was portrayed as a white guy, and therefore, his father must be too. Now, to be sure, if I was any of the myriad of all powerful deities, I would most certainly be gender neutral, but that is a subject for another day.</p><p>A short time later, along came the Crusades, where white soldiers walked thousands of miles to slaughter the very people from which all western gods were born, all in the name of a very white God. This, of course, was the first western example of blatant and overt racism.</p><p>So, as you can see from this brief lecture on actual history, God (whichever one) is not white, and certainly not male.</p><p>So, let’s move ahead a few millennia, to the present day. After centuries of bad things being done in the name of a white god (including the birthing of these United States, the slaughter of native Americans, the enslavement of Africans, manifest destiny be damned), is it any small wonder that many white Americans believe that they belong to a superior race? Yes, dear readers, racism is the child of a ‘white God’.</p><p>So, over the past week or so, I have been pondering a question...What gripe do the white supremacists, the boogaloo boys, the proud boys, the conspiracy theorists have? I am certain they all believe something has been taken away from them, and I am certain that the Trump has offered them some unimaginable solace, or voice, but I can only deduce one logical conclusion...that the white way of life has been taken away, and that is unforgivable in the minds of the 80-90s (these numbers are IQ levels).</p><p>If I were not an atheist, I would pray for America, because making America great again is going to require taking the white out of religion...and perhaps embracing the good things written in every scripture.</p><p>Thanks for your time.</p><p><br /></p>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-30969035276512035162017-01-31T20:28:00.001-05:002017-01-31T20:28:49.766-05:00Just looking for an honest answer!I am an American...raised a Jew, born God knows what...my father served in WWII, my mother was a wife and mother...I love my brother, although he is slightly goofy...in other words, for many people, I am the devil incarnate...the money grabbing shyster...the media mogul controlling everything...wealthy beyond your dreams...and I own all the newspapers...but actually, I am poor-ish, employed at minimum wage...previously homeless...atheist...irreverent fuck and free thinker (ok...maybe still the devil incarnate). But what I am...what I have become...is the product of being American. My life spans Eisenhower to Trump...my father was my hero...I am firmly entrenched in the middle class...and I cherish my constitutional right to speak my mind. So, while I may not be normal, I am the standard model American. I am grateful for the life I have lived, the opportunities available to me and the freedom to become.<br />
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All that being said, WTF, America?<br />
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No need to answer! For those of you who have ever read anything I've written, you may have noticed that I am prone to hyperbole. But not this day! Today, I am going to keep it simple, and try to be inclusive of all opinion. In fact, if I ask any questions in this post, I beg you to respond...to offer your objections to my beliefs, so that I may understand them, because I don't. I am afraid of what America has become, and I pray that someone can offer me any response that I might deem reasonable. Anyway, let me begin.<br />
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White men must be stupid, and by that, I mean dumber than I thought possible. White male Americans elected Donald Trump. While that, in itself, is abhorrent, it is only the tip of the iceberg. They also elected Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan, seem to be perfectly ok with Steve Bannon, a white nationalist with power input on national security and foreign policy, will embrace Betsy DeVos and her education for profit schemes...and these are the educated white males. The really stupid ones, the ones who respond to actual facts with statements like, "Quit whining, you liberal fag pansy! Your bitch lost"...the ones who believe that America is broken because of political correctness and the technological leaps we have made that cost them their jobs...the ones who cant see that the world is changing, and that no matter what he promises, Trump cant bring back Ozzie and Harriet. And I don't want to ignore all the other stupid people, the ones that believe America is still a democracy, that we fight wars to protect our freedoms, and believe that there is some sort of difference between modern democrats and republicans.<br />
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So, this post has been building for quite some time now, and I'm starting to realize that I might need 1000 pages to say what I want. So, I think what I am going to do is recount some of the facts I have offered in the past, along with a few new ones. Just seems simpler.<br />
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Donald Trump lies. Even if you only made it through kindergarten, you know that alternative facts are lies. Everything else he has said or done is based on these lies, so they are of secondary importance. And by the way, if you respond, please do not insult your own intelligence by claiming the mainstream media is to blame. I will attempt to help you here. The mainstream media reports what it is told. While it is true that they often do not attempt to fill in the missing pieces of information, that they resultantly offer an incomplete picture, what they report, if not true, is the result of incorrect information that they are supplied. There is almost no way to know anything anymore, because we are seldom given all the facts...and by that I mean facts. Facts are withheld from the public for two reasons only...1. because they damage the claim of the supplier, or 2. because we are too stupid to understand them. An example of this might be the mainstream press claiming that Ben Carson is brain dead, and Trump responding that there is no one more qualified to be the Secretary of HUD. I mean, how can you know whats true. To summarize, Donald Trump may be a misogynist, a bigot, a nazi, a profiteering warmonger, but none of that matters because he is completely untrustworthy. Therefore, he should not be president.<br />
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OK! First Question: In the above paragraph, what is not true?<br />
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There are more people in a single US carrier group than there are in the US diplomatic corps. Also, the US maintains over 800 military installations throughout the world. I am sure that you are also aware that everyone from Eisenhower to me, and all Halliburton employees in between, has acknowledged that wars are fought for profit, without regard for loss of life. This can be summed up by saying that wars are not fought to protect your freedom, but rather to diminish it, by placing all economic power in the hands of the insiders in the corporatocracy. Or, to put it another way, the United States is a militaristic colonial empire seeing to control all economic activity in the world, hence making 1% of us the wealthiest bunch of assholes on earth. and that is what your kids die for...boo rah! (Aside: the next 4 countries, including Russia, have 30 military installations beyond their borders combined) Now, Trump may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but do you think he's figured this out?<br />
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The powers that be have already decided that globalism is the key to the world's economic future. I have stated in the past that the key to our survival is the shrinking of our communities; that we cannot thrive in the population density of our current communities. The truth, as I see it, is that cities diminish the value of the individual; diminish the volume of each voice. It behooves the globalist to silence the individual, lest others listen. Cities are the quarantine wards for those diseased with thoughts of protest. Cities are where the most police are concentrated. As to the truth. Make America Great Again is a slogan designed to assuage the unheard masses; designed to empower the forsaken of society; designed to create a satisfying illusion of better. The uninformed will believe and be silent. Their anger will simply be quieter when they still have no one listening. (And just to be clear, some of those people deserve to be ignored, unheeded, because they are just plain evil, despite being courted in our most recent election)<br />
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I remember how I felt, sitting in Mr. Tardiff's math class, when JFK died. I really did wonder why bad things happened to good people, but I didn't start hating everyone named Oswald. I still cling to the things I learned, true or not, of Lincoln, Gandhi, Martin Luther King...of the constitution...of equality for all...of the rights given to all free men...of the righteousness of doing your best...of working hard. Those rights, those paragons of a better world are currently threatened from within our country, not from without. I continue to believe in the possibility of a better world. I am fine with leaders, but I am not fine with being led. I believe that the greatest attribute of a free man is his ability to discern the truth; his refusal to ever swallow the truth being thrust upon him. We Americans, are currently in the midst of our first vehement, propagandist shitstorm. We are being overloaded, day after day, with things we know to be wrong, yet we are told they are true, and far too many of us are actually believing it. America being great has always been because of the basic truths we always believed in; sticking up for the little guy, doing the right thing, fighting injustice. We may not have always jumped on the bandwagon right away, but we have always arrived.<br />
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It is time for all Americans to sit quietly, and ask themselves, what kind of American they want to be. I know there are many who will choose the KKK, or the neo-Nazi, or the victim thing. It is my opinion, that if you voted for Trump, you are aligning yourself with bigots, wackos, and Nazis. The man wants to be an autocrat, a dictator, and will never understand why most people dislike him so much. This is not sore loser stuff. I am proud to be a liberal, which is why I will never label myself a democrat or a republican. I am proud to believe in democratic socialism, because I, unlike many of you, am not afraid of the word 'socialism'. I am proud to advocate for the elimination of national borders and national identities. I am happy and proud to share what I have with those that don't have. I am proud that there are churches, and temples, and mosques in this country. I am proud of the tolerance and acceptance this country has held up to the world as a beacon of righteousness. I am proud every time my country does the right thing. And I am proud to speak up, and ask, "What were you thinking, America?<br />
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<br />Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-22325976664804518552016-07-20T11:36:00.000-04:002016-07-20T11:36:32.115-04:00BDSM (Belief, Drivel, and Social Media)My synapses have been operating in overdrive lately, certainly somewhat driven by my recent forays into the current political climate, and they have inspired my imaginative impulses to share with you certain things that I believe to be true. Of course, what I believe to be true is at least as irrelevant as what you believe to be true, so you are welcome to jump to the conclusion that even reading this post is an act of futility. But let me begin..<br />
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While I firmly believe that there is scarcely anything more interesting than watching footlong gobs of earwax removed from someone's ear...or watching a hermit crab birth from someone's patellar regions...or, dare I say it, watching throngs of lemmings type "amen"...and I do believe that these examples, and everything similar, are vital to our survival as a race...well, these things are not the primary focus of this post. It will be more about the revelatory nature of other things on facebook and the news. For instance, I never knew how playful cows are, even those revered on the Indian subcontinent, or that dogs and cats can sometimes be besties.<br />
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I do believe, however, that we are the most fucked up, ignorant species on the planet, and that Barack Obama is the single greatest threat to humanity since Legionnaires disease, or the arrival of the newest millennium.<br />
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So, it is no small wonder that we have turned into a simpering, quivering, afraid-of-our-own-shadow caricature of what creation intended us to be. Nor is it any less amazing that we have become too stupid to see it.<br />
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Now, I am not much of a conspiracy theorist, but I firmly believe that the world, in which we are supposed to live our lives, is created, augmented and guided by a small cadre of powerful deviants comprised of people I have never heard of; people possessed of unimaginable wealth and power, and, due to the benefits of selective inbreeding, continue to insist that history does repeat itself.<br />
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As I'm sure you are aware, that when the zombie apocalypse arrives, all vegans and vegetarians will be required to wear "grain fed' labels, I am not sure that you are aware that you are simply a sponge, designed to absorb the drivel and insanity constantly thrust upon you by "someone". This is the intentional legerdemain designed to distract you from what is truly vital to our evolution.<br />
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So, if I may continue, I would like to dispel many of the current myths that segments of our society have chosen to embrace.<br />
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1. ISIL is not the root of all evil. It is a small group of misguided lunatics that believe that beheadings will bring them the wealth and equality they yearn for, kind of like that other group of misguided lunatics that believe that war solves problems, that fallen children are heroes, and that "freedom" is a stand-alone virtue, rather than a synonym for greedily acquiring wealth. To make my point a little more clearly...wars are fought for economic advantage (not freedom) that benefits the few, not the many. That is what your children die for.<br />
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2. America is a divided nation. We are not a divided nation, we are are a microcosmically fragmented nation, separated from each other religiously, morally (although this is often the same as religiously), politically (although this is often the same as religiously), intellectually (although this is often the same as religiously), sexually (although this is often the same a religiously), racially and economically (although most of us are in the same boat). Intolerance is the mantra of each of these divisions. We are no longer a willing melting pot...we are a roiling plasma of a growing number of identities, held by smaller and smaller groups, born of a unnatural desire to believe we are different than everyone else; simply the consequence of insisting that we are not all the universal result of the same double helix. We have forgotten how to converse, and actually listen, due to our insistence that our increasingly insular beliefs are actually true.<br />
Aside: Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Shakti and Shiva, Jehovah...they are all long gone, and they existed, if they existed, in a world completely different than now.<br />
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3. Life sucks, then you die. Life is the only paradise you get. It is the single most precious gift you will ever get. Life is not dangerous. It is fragile, and the only way to protect is is with love and kindness. You cannot protect it with fear. Being afraid is the single greatest detriment to a great life. I walk around, smile, talk to anybody and everybody, sing all the time. I listen, I hug, I love with abandon. No one has tried to kill me. Am I perfect? Absolutely not! I judge, I criticize, and yes, I believe. But throughout my life, the things that make me happy have found me easily. I don't need a Lexus or Cuban cigars to sustain it. I will never hide from life. I refuse to be afraid. I will welcome anyone who is willing to laugh, converse, love, or just sit with me, into my life. I prefer to connect.<br />
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4. Democracy is the best form of government. There is no good form of government. They are all flawed. They all divide. In fact, countries are stupid. Why do we even need borders? Why do we need to be governed at all? Because we are too afraid to accept that we are all the same. We are too insistent that we are different. We are too afraid to care for each other.<br />
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5. Idealism is for fools. Then call me a fool. We can be better. We can be great. We can embrace, rather that repel. We can care about each other. The bible, or any other religious text, told me so.<br />
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I've written enough today. I encourage you to stop being afraid...to stop being divisive...and to stop believing anything that makes you different or special. I encourage you to see the joy in life. go play with cows, or baby goats. Stop worrying about who the next president will be. It is preordained. It has already been decided. And it will make no difference, if you choose to LIVE YOUR LIFE with love and kindness as your guiding beliefs.Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-53885406302942085642016-05-20T12:54:00.000-04:002016-05-20T12:54:08.175-04:00It's Been A WhileIt is indeed a very rare occurrence when I can say that I have a lot on my mind, but it is clearly time for me to purge. I have definitely lost touch with reality; at least, the reality that most people accept. I am clearly tired of the brainwashed masses; the acceptance of what we believe to be true, and our insistence that we maintain that which we believe 'is'. I could go on and on about politics, religion, and the 'greatness' of America, but those things clearly do not possess the permanent resident cards needed to exist in my psyche. I am going to thrust upon you, dear reader, my own clarity regarding my disgust with humanity, but I believe it will be brief.<br />
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Thinking has clearly become a burdensome exercise for a large percentage of the human population, which is evidenced by a worldwide embrace of fascist dogma. While Trump's fascism is clearly of a different ilk, the sort created by a hugely inflated ego, and sense of self importance, it is clearly embraced by multitudes of those Americans that believe American Idol, and Budweiser, are the penultimate icons of the greatest country in the world. In the same way that Hitler's persona captivated the emasculated masses of interwar Germany, Trump has garnered huge support from the burping, beer-bellied cretins who still believe that their secondary brain in their penis is the one that should ultimately win out. "Look at me...I think with with my cock...and let's make America great again...make it white again (as if it ever was)...and bomb the shit out of ISIS...and lock em up behind an unbuildable wall in Mexico". But lest you think that Trump's supporters are all defined as the 'unwashed penises', let me assure you that there are as many that belong to the 'right thinking' intelligentsia. And though Europe is currently embracing a different kind of fascist, from the United Kingdom to Austria, France and others, it is clearly the same sort of path as Trump eschews; let's homogenize the human thought process fully, so we can unquestionably believe that the 'what has always been' is the 'what should be'. And then, of course, I don't want to omit my disdain for all the females out there that support Hillary Clinton...that believe she is a woman...and will finally set the feminine free...dancing in stretch pants to perceived equality. There could not be any perception farther removed from the truth. She is, in reality, the Slim Pickens of the modern era, albeit with tits, cowgirling the bomb on its descent to the apocalypse (as if the 'cowgirl' is a position that any actual woman would be comfortable with). Alas, ladies, the feminist movement is as rigid and misguided a dogma as has ever existed. She is playing your cunts like aces and eights.<br />
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And now, let me get to the point of this post...why we care about the future...<br />
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It is because we embrace, perhaps, the dumbest dogma of all...that the future is somehow create-able...that we can can make it better. I am not going to espouse, or rehash, all those little hallmark isms that all we get is now...that we could die tomorrow...get hit by a bus. I am not going to tell you that you should not be concerned with where you should bubblewrap your yacht next winter. And I am certainly not going to tell you that love grows. I am going to tell you that love just is...and that it will wrap you endlessly if you just allow it. Love is simply infinite, and can enfold you like protein...it can entangle you like light...it does not grow. And the only thing you can do is allow it, accept it, and completely, mindlessly, ecstatically enjoy it, revel in it, bask in its glory. Love does not die, though it can disappear if you extinguish it. And the problem is that we do extinguish it, because we believe there is something else. What do we get when we try to make it something it isn't? Disappointment and bitterness.<br />
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I am in love, and she has wrapped me in a towel fresh out of the dryer...fluffy and wispy...hot and embracing...a constant presence, reminding me that there is nothing else. It has absorbed all my waters, and let me know that the river I now see is not the river I will see. There is nothing else here, yet there is everything here. I float here, because there is nowhere else. I am alive...alive to dream and create...freed from seeing beyond what is perfect right now...yet knowing that adventures may surely come in the steps I take in each moment. I will stay here. This is where we all belong. Bad things, sad things may come, but I cannot know them now. I can know that whatever comes will come, yet if I stay here all will be grand.<br />
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I can hope that the world changes for the better...sees what I see...feels what I feel. I will not despair, because it does not matter. So, dear reader, pray to your gods, follow your dogma, but they will not lead to paradise. I know.Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-57848730136506016722015-10-10T11:37:00.000-04:002015-10-10T11:37:22.225-04:00JourneyI recently backtracked across the country, laden with the sum of my worldly possessions, and learned several things, some important and some as irrelevant as the direction of the toilet paper on the holder. When you drive long distances by yourself, you tend to vocalize your thoughts to yourself. There is something about listening to yourself talk that crystallizes the important stuff in your awareness; and the unimportant things get stored away for future conversations, or future blogs. So, I will chronicle all of my self-spoken, self-heard epiphanies that transpired during my journey.<br />
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First off, I would like to start with the important things. About midway in my journey, I realized that no one lives in Wyoming. It was simply placed where it is to provide dangerous routes for people driving alone. I guess it could be described as a purging pit for those with no attention span; although that is actually not true. Whether your brain is empty of any cogent thought, or, it is filled with imaginative thoughts, created to deal with the emptiness of the place, it is an equally dangerous place when trying to pay attention at 90mph. Given my current opinion, that the only difference between one state and another is the colors of the bovines they raise, Wyoming does serve as an important marker in the cross-country drive.<br />
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Moving on to Lame Deer, Montana, where I realized that not all men are treated as equals, two more life-altering realities were revealed. It was here that I realized that wi-fi is not a Native American right. It was only after arriving at the right coast, that I realized that the only place I passed through, that might be correctly described as an internet dead-zone, was the North Cheyenne reservation at Lame Deer and its environs. This fully explained to me why the only Native Americans on Facebook are those with internet access at beauty pageants. Secondly, you cannot buy American Spirits on the reservation. This may be due to one of several factors. As the cigarette rack was the emptiest shelf in the General Store, it is entirely possible that I was deprived of my preference due to the universe's reticence to provide me color (years ago, I arrived at the Painted Desert on the only day it had rained in twenty years. It was less than inspiring). Or perhaps, with no internet on the reservation, copious consumption of tobacco products helps fill the day. Or maybe, it is simply some inter-tribal conspiracy against the interloper Cheyenne, who, as far as I know, never had any territorial connection to Montana. In any event, I had to buy Marlboros.<br />
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Continuing, there are more horse-drawn Amish wagons than there are cars on Route 20 in Indiana. And unlike their Pennsylvania brethren, they may even wave to you, if you wave to them as you pass. I think they may be nicer.<br />
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Moving on to the less important things. I used to believe that the permanence of a connection to place, was one of the most important factors in a human being's happiness. It may be up there, but it is our connection to people, in whatever region, that makes life worth living. Often times, people will tell you that family is most important, but that cannot be true; there are too many families that suck. It is simply the connections we make in life, the family we create, and sometimes, the family we hoped to create. When I became bored of talking to myself, I found myself talking to her. She was my constant companion. There was no point in my journey when I wasn't struck by a desire to share it with her. It began the moment I left her house, and continues, even after I arrived; the little wayside with the wooden bridge over the river in the Cascades (I had to stop), the bathrooms in Bend, the awesomeness of the high desert (a place of deep connection), the strangeness of Idaho, the splendor of Yellowstone, the changing colors of cows and avians, the black of the Black Hills and the Amish and the smiling waitress in Indiana, the state trooper who pulled me over for being too close to a truck that wasn't there, the congestion of Chicago and Cleveland, the green of the Mohawk and Hudson valleys, and everything else I am forgetting to mention. I wish we could go collecting rocks and driftwood, build more sculpture in the Pacific sand, find the marbled murrelet, taste her, smell her, listen to her, learn about her day. I want everything about her, the clean and the messy. I wish I could have the time to convince her I can dream AND plan. I feel connected to Oregon like no place I have ever lived, but it is her that cemented that connection. It is her, waiting for her sadness to lessen, that will draw me back. I want to take her to the fair.<br />
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He needs me, and I need him. It is that little man that will hold me here in this place that once felt like home, but feels slightly alien now. I am happy to be here, to share the time he has left here, before he moves on. It is where I want to be, for now.<br />
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Sometimes, life is euphoric, and sometimes it is sad. Sometimes, it can be both. I wake up every day choosing to be happy. Talking to her everyday helps make it all right. LY^2!!!!!!<br />
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Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-52169554634904495692015-06-24T17:28:00.000-04:002015-06-24T17:28:18.104-04:00PlanetsThey approach each other, bathed in still distant crescent moon light, beacons for the good red road. Neither light nor night have any agenda...no pull of gravity aiding their attraction, their anticipation. They will loop like bows, away and towards each other, yet still, within my peripheral gaze, they are certainly aligned, brought to proximity by forces unfathomable. I know nothing of the forces drawing them together, yet I know of the forces drawing me to engage, for I, like them, am a creator. I cannot observe the path of a photon, or observe entanglement across light-years, yet my very engagement creates them. I cannot explain the magnetic, but I create it when I see and feel it. Still, all of that does not matter...I don't care...because it simply is...through me.<br />
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The green of her, though alien, provides the brightness of her reflection; a brilliance almost palpable through hazel eyes, and the red, swirling hurricane. Her boiling clouds, though foreign, offer the taste of powerful sweetness, the feel of wet warmth, and the tender brush of a droplet. He has been warned of toxic gasses and searing heat, but in this creation they are nourishing and welcome. Their paths are not fated, but destined to occur across the vast expanse. They own their power, and hence, do not alter their course.<br />
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He is the larger, though not greater. His draw is formidable, despite the lack of solidity. I do not know if he is hot or cold, but I do know that his winds will strip a person bare to the bone. Still, he is a force with a colorful softness that is bound to enchant. Others may fear the weight of him, but that is senseless, for he ambles on his path toward her with his power starkly present, and his approach relentless. He is what he is, simply seeking to arrive.<br />
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Since you cannot square the circle, I assume you cannot circle the square. Still, she and I are simply two Ls, joined together at all the right angles. What is true for the celestials is also true for us. Our path is immutable. There is however, a vast difference. Venus and Jupiter will never touch, nor will ever connect. There are forces stronger than the laws in the ether; stronger because we create them. That is what makes them real. That is what makes everything real. She and I are constantly approaching, constantly connecting, constantly entangled. We are creating, and adventuring. This is the path that is. We are our greatest force. LY2Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-90814987856480081162015-06-03T14:06:00.002-04:002015-06-03T14:06:37.538-04:00Sun, rain, wind and cloudsShe has rain in her, at least she did, but her forecast seems tenuous. It is impossible to discern her black from her blue, for they are both always present; fleeting and flickering too quickly in some moments. Yet, warm and bright blue are always possible, for long, extended periods, like hope without certainty. The weather of a woman should not be so unpredictable, yet I forecast her unfairly. Her sun smiles, with a hand taken, or a kiss given, or a shoulder offered. though it his her offerings that most accurately predict. Her fingers pulling at my beard, or her cheek rested at the back of my shoulder portend high pressure systems, blue skies, and soft, warm winds. I suppose it is synchronistic...entangled light with proximity, yet weakened with distance, like gravity. All is right together, yet low pressure looms with every drive away.<br />
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I suppose that I am a man who likes unpredictable, the grey that comes at the onset of curiosity. I like the uncertainty of the process; the path of drawing back the curtains of discovery; the intensity of revelation; the boundless surprise of loving what you find.<br />
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And that is what she offers me; that is what makes me happy. I believe that I offer the same things, although I am not unaware of my shortcomings. There is an ease in the love we share; comfort and contentment certainly, but it is more. Whether it's birds and dragons in the sand, or the hunt for the marbled murrelet, or the promise of other, infinite adventures, there is easy excitement in loving her, and yes, being loved by her. It is as easy and momentous as blinking, and it is adorned with intense and urgent desire. It is easy because it is simply there, magically created in the brush of an eyelash, or in every new greeting.<br />
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On the outside, I may not seem to offer a future, but I know...I just know...that we offer each other an endless string of moments filled with joyous revelation. It's not the hokey pokey, but it is what it's all about. That's what love is...that's what life is.Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-63081302677272259682015-04-30T17:37:00.000-04:002015-04-30T17:37:21.160-04:00The Problem with being a Rock, Part IIThe problem with being a rock is that you are a rock. Rocks can be beautiful, grainy and marbled, brightly colored when wet, but that beauty is too external. Even if you crack a rock in half, or polish it flat, you're not really seeing the inside. Many of us live under the assumption that rocks are inanimate; that they don't grow and live. But I have become a large rock, a boulder perhaps, and the weight of it is killing me. In an effort to educate my three readers, I would like to elucidate my life as a rock for you.<br />
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First off, as a rock, especially a boulderish one, it is difficult for anyone to get their arms around you, let alone wrap their heads around you. After all, rocks are rock solid. Nothing goes in, and nothing comes out, at least not that others can see. During my recent life as a rock, there have been many things that I have held internally that cannot find voice; cannot be released or revealed. This, of course, is why rocks grow; they feed on their own insides; eat their own sins. And as I mentioned in Part I, since nothing but your rock-ness ever shows, you simply become part of the landscape; an innocuous part of people's purview. It is hard being a rock, a very difficult existence. Rocks, after all, are associated with pain. A rock hits you in the head, it hurts; smash your shin on a rock, it hurts. And no one ever gives the rock credit for feeling the pain, even as it festers inside. Rocks don't get black-and-blue. They just are.<br />
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Secondly, people don't give rocks credit for having brains. While it is true that the brain to body ratio of a rock lessens as it boulderizes, it actually spends most of its time thinking, sometimes brooding, sometimes dreaming, but its brain is never inactive, and oftentimes, it feels and emotes intensely. Yes, it is hard to observe, but there is a natural resonance to all things, and for those willing to sit on a rock, or lean on it, or even hit it with a hammer, there is a vibratory revelation...a palpable response to other living things. Sensitive people can feel it, even through the hard exterior.<br />
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The hardest part of being a rock, after it has become a boulder, is that it barely can move. The bigger the boulder, the more likely it is to stay in place. The only movement it feels is the movement of depressing further into place. The bigger the boulder, the bigger the depression. Pebbles, on the other hand, move with the moles and the earthworms, and get to feel the warmth of the sun, or the joy of skipping in still water. River rocks roll in the currents, free like teenagers. Larger rocks get woven into communities, footpaths and garden walls, and the more petulant, dislodge unrestrained, and call to be held again. Yes, dear readers, rocks evolve.<br />
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This boulder longs to be molten again, return to the beginnings, to surge fiery and hot, part of the floe that seeps into the creative crevices of the living. I have been warmed, even heated hot recently, but the boulder's reluctance to change has cooled the flame. I need the heat to return, to set me free, but I fear the heat is rising away from me toward a brighter day.<br />
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<br />Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-738971615096321262015-04-05T20:30:00.000-04:002015-04-05T20:30:28.258-04:00but I've been to ArizonaWell, I've never been to Spain, though I now wear a leather thing on my wrist engraved 'Barcelona', and I have been to several Albanys, and more Main Streets than I can count. I've never been anchored down in Anchorage, nor have I ever said arrivederci to Roma. Yet, I have traveled when I could, wandered when I shouldn't have, and explored any and everything that struck my fancy. I do know that is nothing more exciting than going somewhere you've never been.<br />
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It is a difficult thing to see yourself through someone else's eyes. If it is true that each of us creates his/her own story, then, in most instances, what we see through someone else's eyes is our own creation. I do not consider myself to be extraordinarily empathic, but I do seem to have some sense of how other people see me. I have always said that of the two types of people in the world (those who like me, and those who don't), there is only one that matters. I have to wonder why, when looking through the important one's eyes, I always question something about myself. It is not self doubt. It is more of an examination of how I could be better, which is funny, because what could be better than me. Yes, I realize that there are mundane, everyday things I could do better. I could certainly bitch less, as well. And yes, from an under-the-bell-curve perspective of what is considered 'normal' life, there are several things that are missing...like work, for instance. But the positive outweighs the negative. I am loyal to a fault, devoted to following the right path (albeit my right path, but that makes it no less right), and am as transparent as anyone I know. As I told her the other day, I am not the box next to you, I am the one who gooshes into you.<br />
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What I feel IS what I feel, and it often comes as quick and unexpected as thunder in Eugene. I make no apologies for who I am, or what I feel, or what I see through my own eyes (or mind, or gut, or intuition, or heart). I do wish that people I love could see themselves through my eyes, for there is no language good enough to explain that kind of wonder.<br />
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There are those who might think that Italian is that language, but I am certain that it is Spanish, as Spanish (or Catalan) is in her heart now, and through her eyes, in dolcos somnis, I see myself babbling incomprehensibly.Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-65346033024156049102015-04-01T16:13:00.000-04:002015-04-01T16:13:53.271-04:00ReconcilingIn the very recent past, I attended a lecture by Franz de Waal, a renowned expert on the great Apes, of which we humans are a member. There are, as you know, remarkable similarities in behaviors amongst the apes, until we get to the branch on the evolutionary tree where arrogant, self righteous humans split off, replete with their opposable thumbs stuck up their pompous asses. There were several interesting observations he shared. The first thing that piqued my interest was that virtually all apes, and several monkeys, and elephants recognize themselves in the mirror, and they all, when looking in a mirror, examine the insides of their mouths. Humans, on the other hand, might check the whiteness if their teeth, or pick out random food particles stuck therein, but they seldom open their mouths wide enough to discover the gobs of shit about to spew forth. Apparently, some time after the split, when the bipedal human found a wider wonderland to explore, his brain simultaneously devolved to the point that he thought his beliefs and opinions had some merit to others of the species. This is known, to all animal behaviorists, as 'the first mistake'. Unfortunately for us humans, the bonobo ran off into the forest at this point, and kept their fabulous, peacekeeping sexual tactics hidden from man, likely thinking that they would pass the taller, more stupid human in the evolutionary 100-yard dash.<br />
<br />
But Professor de Waal really knocked my socks off with a later observation. All primates, in fact all creatures, fight. Over food, over mating, over territory they scratch and claw and bite but at least among the primates, they reconcile within about ten minutes. Whats more, even among the rhesus monkey, a particularly aggressive little fuck that takes longer to reconcile, it was shown experimentally that they could learn to reconcile more quickly from the examples of more peaceable monkeys, and retain that quicker reconciliation when denied those exemplar, peaceful stump-tailed monks as company. I would like to believe that it is obvious where I am heading with this, but alas, I am too jaded and too smart to bipedal down that road. Lest you think that I believe that every human should be handcuffed to a stump-tailed macaque, let me set the record straight. Since humans are capable of holding a grudge for millenia, they earn the gold medal for most aggressive and stupid creature on the fucking planet. It would be pointless to delineate the words and attitudes we use to perpetualize our grudges. I would only cite one example of how our beliefs extend our grudges. Arab or semite leads to camel jockey and diaper head, until muslim alone becomes slanderous, and grudge becomes septic and deadly. Conversely, American becomes heathen becomes invader and devil (ok, all that is true) becomes infidel and grudge becomes jihad. As a species, we have chosen fight over reconciliation, and adorned it with the poison of make-believe moral and religious indignation. When did we decide to abandon the evolutionary motorcade? Flat tire?<br />
<br />
On a more positive note, spring has definitely sprung here in Oregon. Torrential downpours foreshadow blue skies, and the resplendent sun nourishes all the possibilities, even love. Love blooms in spring like onion shoots and daffodils when the soil moistens and loosens. And as the dark sleep of winter melts away in solar heat, moles tunnel to the warmth, and leave piles of living dirt on the lawn. Love, while it does not hibernate, becomes shrouded in winter, in a cloak of stubborn reticence that we all weave. When spring arrives, however, even the psychotics shed their protective layers, and waltz into simple silly, naked. I like to think that I am always naked, but the intangible fibers that weave our cloaks often sew and knot despite our best intentions. "Strip", the pirate used to say, and she was right, as exfoliate, denude, peel are all words that apply to spring's awakening, hidden from us is the new growth. Smiles reveal from the winter scowl, and green, the color of go, emerges<br />
from the white of winter. Love is rediscovered in spring, floating towards us, like the giggle-bubbles blown by children from looking glass soap. It cleanses us to renewal, and floats on the popping warm breezes. We only need to let it wash us. And yes, dear readers, I am naked and clean, chasing her bubbles with every newly discovered kiss, enlivened with her scent and touch, opened by the sound of her voice, and giggling in every smile she offers.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know that many of you believe that spring is a time of resurrection, but it is not. It is a time for reconciliation. It is time to examine that ugly tapestry you've woven. There may be such a thing as rebirth, and while I don't believe it, I do know that it will only come after you're dead. Try to remember that you are alive, and only while you're alive is it possible to reconcile your ugliness with your beauty; only now is it possible to weave a better cloth.<br />
<br />
I am in love...passionately, drunkenly, rabidly. My spring is ready for changes for the better. I love every Muslim, every Jew, every Catholic, every Protestant, every Hindu, every Zoroastrian, every gay man, every lesbian, every everyone. But right now, what I love most is her, with all that she is, all that she may become, all that we may become. It is not about being reborn. It is about becoming.<br />
Happy Easter, Happy Passover, Happy anything you believe in...but happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-29119186141875919292014-06-04T16:12:00.000-04:002014-06-04T16:12:48.032-04:00The Gift, or Weeding the Garden<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem with being a rock, and, by that I mean, offering
strength to someone you love, in the absence of their own, is that you are a
rock, and, given that outward appearance can seem eternally unchanged, you
simply blend in unnoticed, that is, until gratitude rears its ugly head. There
is no greater enemy of friendship, or relationship, or love, than gratitude. It
simply creates an unpayable debt, and a debt, to the diminished or weak hangs on
them like a stone collar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She is afraid of me now, not that I can blame her given who
and what I am, because her gratitude is held in conjunction with all that is
wrong in her life; in all the sadness and suffering that I have stood her
through; that sadness and suffering that she now wishes to expunge like hair clogging
a drain. I can no longer be seen as hope, as I represent nothing but her
despair, and she begrudges me that, though it is not of my creation. “I don’t
go backwards,” she is fond of saying, and for a woman who has thrived living in
the miracle of the moment, she is now sliding backwards into a future she is
imagining; a future contrary to her past, a future painted with previously
unwanted colors. She can no longer stand next to me, in this forlorn world of
her past, and runs forwardly backward, believing she is well again, her
footsteps carrying her towards death’s door. She does not see this. She has
donned, once again, the blinders of hiding, recreating who she always been
(even when denying it) into a persona just a bit different, just a bit more
distant from her core; a planet orbiting itself. The truly terrifying aspect of
this is that she cannot see it; she, who is so self-aware, cannot perceive the
not-so-subtle changes. And I am left to remain what I am, allowing her to
stumble, but not to fall; letting her almost break, while bearing the weight of
my own terror, not silently, but rather, withdrawn into what kindness I can
muster, which oftentimes, unfortunately, carries the flavor of frustration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for me, I do not believe that I can adequately describe
the weight I bear. It most certainly carries some of my specious certainty that
I know, or at least have learned, what she needs, and how best to supply it; I
do, however, allow that she has more than a little grasp of it herself. She is,
however, strong-willed enough to press ahead with full, formidable
force…denying, it seems to me, that her illness is equally as powerful…to the
level of her former energy; this, I fear, is hurting her, both with her
perceived happiness, and her new found lack of awareness. She looks,
oftentimes, haggard to the nth, and fortifies it with uncharacteristic temper,
sometimes to the point of outright mean. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this, of course, has been augmented by her allowing me
to taste of what was and could be. That I embraced it with my whole, open heart
was perhaps, unknowingly selfish, yet it was also given purely. It was, for me,
a bitter pill to swallow; to have tenderness withdrawn. Perhaps, that is not
accurate, for she does not live without tenderness pouring outward from within,
yet it often seems now that her tenderness is somehow mildly forced…more of a
longing than a desire. Still, I would eagerly offer her kisses, or foot rubs,
it matters not which, with the full brilliance of my love, yet I cannot find a
genuine smile any longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet I grow, albeit begrudgingly. I can allow consciously for
the possibilities beyond my purview, but my intuitive sense is the stronger. I
have not often been wrong, whether in foresight or hindsight. Yes, I know that
sounds a lot egocentric, but I have learned that my intuition, my gut, and yes,
my empathy have rarely betrayed me. I do not carry my gifts with the same
kindness that she does, but I trust them completely, and I cannot relinquish
what I see. Still, I know that I will be there, whatever is to come, whether it
actualizes as happiness, or collapse, for she still talks of the wonders we
could do, while leaving me to do them alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to allow her own process of healing, and, to an
extent I am, but my despair often brings me to the point of tearful withdrawal,
an endless repetition of retreat and approach, which as methods go is an abject
failure. I have always found my way, and I believe I will again, yet I find
myself begging any who or what to renew my strength, so that I can choose to
smile again. Her despair is equally painful, and I never forget that; sometimes
however, I cannot paint that for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She has always offered her gift without condition or clause,
and has always believed that the gift will be received as it is given. This
cannot be true, as, more often than not, it is received as the deer sees the
headlight, and once seen, there is no escape. I don’t mean to imply that none
have received it, and broken free, but even for those capable, there is no
possibility of resisting the light of the beam. It freezes you warmly into
better; opens you to standing still in the moment of glow, without the benefit,
to all but a few, of seeing the pace or power of the vehicle. She has no sense
of the consequence, if there is one. She only sees the better, and that is good
enough for her. For most, it cannot be sustained in her absence, yet she cannot
see that the result is never the full extent of her gift; she is happy with
knowing that, at the very least, they are the better for it, though never the
best. She offers possibilities. Realizing them is entirely up to the recipient;
holding on to them is elusive for the majority. It is like talking to God for
three minutes, never to remember the conversation, but perhaps leaving with
afterglow. Yet when they fail, or alter the truth of it, it cuts her to the
quick; hurts her so deep and long. When they deny the truth of it, she fires
back with undeniable truth, whether they acquiesce or not. The truth of what
can be is sacred to her. There is no compromise. Truth, like love, just is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it is these walls, plastered with memory, painted
with soiled sadness; she cannot be happy here; she cannot be happy in what she
has always done here. Yes, there are moments, but they exhaust and deplete her.
Perhaps it is nothing more than the memories carried in these breezes. She
cannot escape the cooling melancholy, the goosepimply sensations of involuntary
dread. But these breezes have stolen from her, carried away what she gives
elsewhere, carried away to give it elsewhere. She embodies joy everywhere but
here. The world becomes lighter, everywhere but here. Being her is negated
within these walls. She needs certainty. These walls imprison her in fractal,
particulate vagaries. They need fresh paint, the colors of new moments. Perhaps
when all is settled she will not have lost the permanence of these walls, and
they will bring her new vision. She talks of it, but only in conscious,
pragmatic tones. These walls have excised her will; she cannot do here, or will
herself to do, and when she tries, it only lasts until she depletes, and she is
only left the energy to voice all that is wrong and untrue. There is a sense of
failure in her when she is here. She runs away, I think, to prove to herself
that it is not her fault; that she can offer better choices, and that they will
hold if she offers them to fresh hearts and minds. She is mildly wrong about
one thing. She is not an experiential learner; she is the teacher, and benefits
from instantaneous result. There is nothing instant in this home. She needs the
here and now to restore; what approaches, certain or uncertain, offers her no
respite and no renewal. I am the rock, but I have also become these walls. I am
sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old woman has died; died yesterday morning, at the
proper time, with the knowledge of comforting, worn out uselessness. I only met
her once, and our entire dialogue, beyond greeting, consisted our individual
perceptions. “I am confused,” she said. “Me too,” I replied. She slipped in and
out of clarity as easily as she slipped in and out of sleep. She was 97 years
old, and dementia was a natural, constant companion. She was, by all accounts,
a remarkable woman; artist, author, pioneer. Yet it was her, and by that I mean
her, the younger, not her the deceased, that gave her a final, peaceful clarity.
I did not witness their interactions, yet what I know is undoubtedly true. The
dying woman saw before her a younger woman who bore the natural gift of joy
that her loved ones needed. She saw the younger woman as nobly wise as herself;
as strong as she was. She could leave her family in equally good hands. And she
knew all this clearly, despite her dementia, in the grand moments of lucidity
that she was gifted. I don’t know if she, the younger, taught her to dance in
open joy, but she most certainly gave her the reality of dying with a smile,
perhaps unseen, but a smile, from knowing that all would be well after her
final breath. She died happily knowing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her body has betrayed her; stolen from her the peace of
knowing that success and happiness would come. She is drained, depleted, and
she is fighting with an unbreakable will. She needs the quiet to find that
will, and she has found it. Unfortunately, it exists in an alternate universe,
unconfined by these walls. Her drives have become more primal, and in the
reptilian realm of fight-or-flight, flight has won the battle. In order to
restore, she needs to give every aspect of herself…heart, body, mind…to those
who are lost, or sad, or hopelessly confused. And I’m certain that the old
woman’s son, his sons and daughters, and all the strays are the beneficiaries
of her untethered will. Their worlds are brighter, more joyous, more open to
wonder, than they have ever been. This is a very good thing, but it has a
precious cost. She gives to restore. She helps and heals and brightens. I
cannot fully describe her offerings, because they are boundless. Her flight has
led her to this offering to novices. Her other life no longer exists, but in
vague recollection. Admittedly, she does not have the strength to do both, or
to be here, or to be there. She gives, but never takes. OK, she does receive,
but that is different than taking. Taking is the other half of giving, and
neither can exist fully without the other. It took me most of my life to learn
this. Lennon was right. ‘The love you make is equal to the love you take’…or
the other way around…same result. She cannot restore, fulfill, until she learns
this. So she marches forward, eschewing the sleep she desperately needs,
denying herself the care she needs. The joy of giving supplies her the illusion
that she is better. She is draining faster than before, and I am powerless to
do anything but let her march.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anyway, I have my own internal battles to wage.
I will find the truthful answers. I will love her always, as purely as I always
have. And most of the time that is good enough to work. It will again.</span>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-5202041131677405442014-05-09T15:59:00.000-04:002014-05-09T15:59:29.071-04:00Cocks and Cunts Redux<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems to me that the bandwidth of most Americans vision
approaches the Planck constant. The daily focus of the majority of Americans is
limited to paychecks and blowjobs, and while I freely admit that sex is a
powerful dynamic, money needn’t be. As money is no less an act of faith than
Jesus pandering, it is hard for me to believe how much confidence we place on
essentially worthless pieces of paper. It is interesting to note that the
founding fathers seriously considered putting a cap on income, as they believed
that the concentration of wealth in the hands of the few constituted a major
threat to democracy as a foundation of government. That their fears have been
validated, evidenced by the lack of vision of most Americans, is simply fact.
It would have been far more prudent to institute and legislate the blowjob as
legal tender in the good ol’ USA. It would have been very difficult to horde
blowjobs. I mean, how many blowjobs can any man or woman enjoy on any given
day? Although, in retrospect, it may have allowed far more women to share in
the general wealth of nations (although sucking 30 or 40 cocks in a day might
not appear to most women as evidence of wealth, the power to limit supply would
indeed have been formidable and enabling). Perhaps the inequity of supply and
demand might have proven far too imbalanced. Perhaps we could have made
cunnilingus the more valuable commodity, and the blowjob, in essence, the
change for the dollar. Works for me!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This economic solution to the problems of the world, of
course, leads me in an entirely different direction. While I can easily imagine
the BJE (blowjob economy) eliminating armies, navies, and war (I mean, let’s
face it…one mouth, or one cock, is as good as any other), I think it is a far
more important potentiality, that we could also eliminate the GLTBCUQBDSM….AD
INFINITUM…movement from the consciousness of the average human. I do believe
that we can simplify the categorization of sexual preference into two groups,
the TWCO, and TWCU (those with cocks, and those with cunts). As we would now
have the oral exchange of bodily fluids as the penultimate bartering tool,
humans would be free to exchange in any manner they chose. This would certainly
eliminate the masculinization of the corporate business community, and it
would, in effect, correct the oversight of the founding fathers on elimination
excessive income; and more importantly, it would put sexual buying power back
where it belongs...IN PRIVATE. With oral sex as legal tender, the TCWOs and the
TCWUs would be free to choose how they acquire or spend their legal tender. We
could also eliminate the current, debilitated political system by redefining
political coalitions. We could maintain a three party system, but simply rename
them: the those with cocks coalition (TWCOC) and the those with cunts coalition
(TWCUC)…the gender neutrals (whatever the fuck that is) would simply become the
independents.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I am not one to compose pro and con lists, as I find
them annoying, but I am a person who, when he knows he wants to end something,
will gladly give up everything that was shared, and simply leave. It is not
that I don’t value what was shared; it is simply that the sharing no longer
serves either party. It can be a difficult decision to walk away, but it easier
if you remember that what was, will always be. You can’t change the reasons it
was good, or the reasons it was bad; leaving, however, will eventually cure
that knot in your gut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In any event, whether it’s campaigning for your
rights as whatever slot you choose to identify with sexually, or leaving…it is
always your choice to simply remember that you’re human, and merely insist that
as a human, you are entitled by right to make the same choices as every other
human…and are entitled to all the same benefits as others choose to endow you
with. The key to that last sentence is that we have chosen, as a species, to be
governed, whether by governments, or by our own, internal blocks, which is why
we really are terrified of real freedom. E. Pluribus Unum. God Bless you, John
Maynard Keynes…and Kris Kristofferson. Nothing left to lose.</span>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-2625570282835277542013-11-09T14:09:00.000-05:002013-11-09T14:09:12.999-05:00The Greatest American Advertising SloganFor whatever reason, this morning I am filled with a fair amount of vitriol towards my usual targets, and I find that in order to relieve myself of this sepsis, I must coin a new post. My angst stems from that place within me where I obsess over the pathological blindness that permeates American social attitudes. And from the most unlikely of places: 1. Sports, to which i have a lifelong addiction, and 2. Advertising, to which I have a lifelong aversion.<br />
<br />
I confess that I read a post somewhere, which began to fill the gas tank with the necessary fuel, and, I must also confess that the focus was on a subject that I had never really examined, which is unusual, as I have considered nearly everything. I must also confess that it was also fueled by a high school paper that LM wrote on <i>All Quiet on the Western Front.</i><br />
<br />
So, let's begin. What is this slogan, you ask? Something like 'God bless those brave, young men and women who serve and sacrifice to protect our freedom'. Let me further ascribe to this slogan a judgement; my own judgement. The most stupid humans on earth are those parents that allow their children to embrace military service in my name, or any other name.<br />
<br />
Soldiers are assets; assets for old men with old agendas, assets for sports anchors, and assets for the most greedy among us (please understand that I use the term <i>asset</i> in the sense of a spendable, or expendable, item, not something on the positive side of the ledger). They are assets spent freely and carelessly in order to obtain more valuable, unrelated assets, i.e. dollars. Soldiers die to pad the pockets of those whose pockets need the least additional padding, and it is those dollar grabbers that fully embrace the greatest American advertising slogan; use it shamelessly to amass greater wealth. This is done on the shoulders, for the most part, of the great, unwashed masses; the poor, the ignorant, those with very little chance of rising in the American economic hierarchy. This is not to say that there are not intelligent, wealthy people in the military, but again, for the most part, they serve in Cleveland, behind a desk. Ask the venerable veteran, little Georgie, how much harm's way he was put in front of (one should never end a sentence with a preposition).<br />
<br />
Target #1: Sam Walton: Sam Walton (maybe that's not his name, but I mean the guy who owns Walmart) is currently offering guaranteed hiring to any veteran with an honorable discharge, that is to say, any veteran who served blindly and obediently; not a veteran with the good sense to object to the senseless, violent tasks he is ordered to perform). There is no greater source of cheap labor than the pool of returning veterans. Mr. Walton is clearly a very smart businessman, who completely understands that lower expenses mean higher profits, and knows that you can get anyone to work for minimum wage, providing they keep costs down in the name of God and country, and providing they hire a few men and women fated to work in wheelchairs.<br />
<br />
Target #2: ESPN and whoever paid to hold a college basketball tournament in Korea (suspicion leads me to Phil Knight, since his bought and paid for Oregon basketball team is gaining a 'valuable, life experience' by playing in the tournament). You will kindly notice that the chosen venue was not Fallujah, or Kandahar, cities in or near the 'cradle of civilization', and yes, in a war zone where the ultimate service is a distinct possibility. Good advertising, and better revenues, are not suited to the reality of killing fields. Beside, Pyongtaek, already had a basketball court (By the way, I have no objection to entertaining men and women forced to be thousands of miles from home. Just don't pretend that is the reason you're doing it). This is simply an event, designed in the safest, yet illusory, setting, to garner revenues for the promoters, and for perpetuating myths.<br />
<br />
It is my sincere hope that we continue to have fly-bys at football games, march out wounded and crippled veterans to sing God Bless America, and saturate our awareness with emotional little vignettes of tearful, family reunions. How else might we raise a new generation of Walmart employees, if we do not teach them the value of god and country, and honor those soldiers, THE DEAD ONES, who will never aspire to seek gainful employment for the greater good, or play basketball for their 'comrades in arms'. THAT is what your freedom is all about. Suck on it.<br />
<br />Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-8819986280047564182013-08-28T14:18:00.000-04:002013-08-28T14:23:06.669-04:00Baby Spiders, or, the universe was created in that first moment that I opened my eyes...<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not a big fan of spider webs (actually, I like the web
itself when it isn't stuck to my face), yet I seem to feel badly every time I disrupt
one. It seems to me that, while I am certain that the spider does not rue the
work required, it is still remarkably time consuming. I feel badly when I set
them back. Still, a spider has to eat, and by necessity, she has to spin her
web to do so. I am also fairly certain that a spider does not feel joy, even
when the web is filled with scurrying, little spiderlings (yes, that is what
they are called).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People, despite their penchant for spinning intricate webs,
do feel joy, and do rue the work they are required to do in order to survive
(my apologies to Marjorie, who does seem to enjoy her organic vegetable and
goat farm). While people are required to do a certain amount of work to ensure
their survival, they spend far more time spinning webs, and while they don’t
shit silk out of their asses, their webs are remarkably intricate. And I do
think that the webs we spin are created for the sole purpose of snaring as much
joy as can be mustered, while releasing all the ruing we persist in
simultaneously. Our webs take many forms. Mine, for instance, is spun from pure
sarcasm. It most certainly deflects most of my sadness (after all, who amuses
me more than me), but, as it is not as sticky, or as tensile, as silk, it also
tends to send a fair amount of joy caroming off into the ozone, or simply
passing right through me. But this post is not about me. It is intended to be
much more general.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The difference between spiders and people (no, it’s not the
venom thing…we share that in common), is that spiders constantly work at
creating, or rebuilding their webs, while people seem to simply allow them to
exist. Spiders renew, humans retrieve! Let me see if can expound on this a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Humans have been spinning collective webs for millennia.
This has allowed us to trap the things that bind us to the past. We do seem to
have an inordinate need to feel that connection to what was, as if it creates
commonality. In this regard, it achieves the opposite effect, as it
memorializes sadness and suffering, the great human exaggerations. It is our obsession with what was, and our
failure to embrace what is, that has created the divisiveness we choose to live
with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what are these trappings, you ask? Pick almost any social
behavior and you will find one. Barbecues and religion are two that spring to
mind, although barbecues most definitely serve a higher purpose (and also keep
us in closer contact with spiders). But back to religion. It is our adherence
to ideas that are older than dirt that continuously deny us original thought,
and that has led to the demise, and disrespect, of human creativity. Even those
we consider the edgiest, the whooiest, are wrapped up in ancient, outdated
philosophies. Vedic scripture, Buddhism, capitalism, the American political
system, not to mention the big three, are some of the trappings of our webs…a
search backwards for answers that will only come from moving forward. Simply
put, we have lost the ability to think ahead by embracing the backwards view.
There may be something called the ‘wisdom of the ages’, but it does not exist
in those things caught in our webs. Throwing off the veil, while continuing to
embrace the myth, is not a formula for progress (no offense to Muslims…just
seemed like a good metaphor). Electing geriatric criminals does not bring us to
a new political horizon. The trappings of our webs denied us the ability to
understand that Obama was simply a younger cog in the old political machine. I
will stop railing in a moment, but not yet. The Occupy movement may indeed
offer some good ideas, but by wrapping them in old political blankets, they do
not offer the warmth of hope. We will be forever unable to create hope, until
we create new ideas that offer it. Instead, we deny our own hope in believing
that Jesus, or Buddha, or the Dalai Lama are coming back to restore us. In
truth, the only things they might offer are body lice epidemics, bathing in
rivers saturated with cow dung and human waste, or the wisdoms of a man-deity
who has lived a privileged and sheltered life while never cultivating even a
single grain of rice. I mean, where are the Mayans now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our spun webs are the Higgs mechanisms that lend weight to
the particles of the past. Science has shown us that new particles can spontaneously appear. I am not smart enough to fully grasp this concept, but I
am smart enough to realize that this concept is the only thing that will offer
us hope in this very moment. The spontaneous appearance of new ideas, not the
embrace of old ones.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Well, it’s my birthday, and I will celebrate it as
soon as I finish scratching this spider bite.</span>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-91123839009040735962013-07-25T15:10:00.000-04:002013-07-25T15:15:49.417-04:00Epieikeia...Right and Wrong...or The Problem with Community. And remember: Always be yourself, unless you suck<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">That is correct, dear readers. I am not going to explain the title. I am simply going to babble along like I always do.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">It is remarkable how we really ignore the important things we could learn from history. Things like how to live a good life, or that men don't actually think with their cocks (most of them never think at all). The latter statement also explains why a short, scrawny, bald, middle-aged hippie would wear a sleeveless Iron Maiden t-shirt out in public.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">Most of us already know what we need to the minute we are born...except for the little things...like you shouldn't hit you baby sister in the head with your xylophone. But we certainly know that hugs feel better than mommy yelling (most moms seem to forget this post partum...hormones perhaps?...or just stupid).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">Aristotle seemed to understand that there exists within us a natural, higher-order sense of justice, which should supersede the legal mumbo-jumbo we have created. I think there exists a higher-order kindness, as well, which, as a species, we seem to have buried deep within our non-functioning brains. This, of course, is why old hippies suck (this is not to imply that young hippies don't also suck). Whether this kindness is buried in the miasma of stock portfolios, early-onset dementia, good, old-fashioned regret, or some ludicrous political delusion matters not. It is simply no longer present. Which brings me to the point.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i>"when one person suffers from a delusion it is called insanity. When many people suffer from a delusion it is called religion".</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">The problem with community? As I have stated many times previously, bigger is not better, and we, as a species, clearly cannot function rationally within the too-large community. At some point of inevitability, all but the most stupid amongst us, begin to ponder the why of our miserable little lives. Francis Macomber be damned, most of us turn to that most unimaginable cartoon character of all...GOD (ok...some of us may actually go out and shoot elephants...most often the one in the room). We have created a most divisive world, likely founded on economic realities, but undoubtedly perpetuated by blind (as in the absence of thought) acceptance off the myths we have created.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #37404e;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Given that most of us believe that we have evolved somewhat, since the times of thousand year old men, and 40 year jaunts in the desert, it is incredulous to me that we continue to seek solace and fulfillment in archaic scriptures of any ilk. Yes, o wooey ones, I include the vedic, the buddhist, the zoroastrian, AND the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The wisdom of the Ancients? What the fuck is that? If they were so fucking smart, why do most of them live in landfills, worship bovines, and bathe in outhouses (my sincere apologies to the LandfillHarmonic). The Mahabarata is proof enough positive that they were as confused then as we are now. Aside: if the Buddha was a scrawny, wandering prophet, why is he always depicted as a fat and happy Jabba the Hutt.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #37404e;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #37404e;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">So with reverent awe of Curly (not the Stooge, although I revere him as well), I will now provide you with the only guidance you should ever need..."It is just one thing". It is not practice (see: Joyenki), it is not liturgy, it is not even wisdom...it it not found in Greek, Arabic, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Mandarin or Urdu...it is not found in English either (the King's or American slang)...and, with all due respect to Aristotle, it is not found in the cave. It is neither found in a pop tart or a soybean. It is found only within yourself. It is simply a choice...an act of faith... to be what you were born as...a loving, kind, shitting, farting, burping, vomiting, unconditional bundle of joy. Everything else is external. The answer is not 'out there'. 'Out there' is pretend, make-believe. There is no guru or guide, there is no drug or empathogen, there is no devout or mystic. In the end, I'm afraid, there is only you. Believe me, my delusions are my own.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-64105429818718305102013-05-25T16:40:00.000-04:002013-05-25T16:40:55.236-04:00The Continued To-be-continued...coming soon...The other side...thanks, Jane<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He sat in the family room, computer
in his lap, in the aftermath of another conversation he had chosen to detach
from. She had accused him of being depressed, although he knew he wasn’t, yet
he did understand that there was something different, incongruous to his
essence. He was not unhappy, or rather, he was choosing to cling to those
things that made him happy, peripheral things, not her, though he was not
ignoring those things that made him sad. It was if his brain had split, not
into the natural left right, almost like the way a dried log splits when struck
by a maul; it was split along some desiccated grain, ancient throughout rings,
but shrouded in bark about to separate from the still moist cambium; it was
here that healing occurs, the healing of the first axe blow, the first to or
fro of the saw, healing internal and external both to the living wood. There
was some element he could not grab a hold of, unctuous and slippery, like sap
rising from the root, yet that, of course, was impossible. The wood of his life
was already dried and stacked; whether in cords or in bales of two-by-fours;
burn or build were still untenable, unknowable, unfelt, unthought-of. It was as
if the next moment could not potentialize, probabilize, in the dry
tinder/timber matter. Yes, that was it, he thought, the purgatory of burn or
build, held fast, locked in the compressed rings of the tree of life; if he
could only push through the phloem, the periderm, and emerge through an unseen
lenticel, he would be all right. He was held fast, locked on an uncleared path,
silent, unable to hear the crows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He understood that he needed the
key, the ax, the saw, to unlock, and he knew that the key lay within the
language of the trees; language inaudible to him, spoken in the inert inner
rings, at a frequency too low in the spectrum to be perceived; a language
likely inaudible even in the quietest of quiet rooms. He understood that he
needed to find the slower, natural pace of things, of thought; the tree-like
simplicity of existence; to detach from the rapid fire thought process of self
debate; to root, and stand alone; to listen to breeze, to drizzle, to flurries;
to shut out the louder voices of crows and jays, and listen, as his synapses
fired gobs of dopamine and serotonin, opioids and cannabinoids, for the clarity
of quiet; to simply feel what he felt silently, until all desire liquefied into
a singular, fluid understanding. He needed to escape the didactic, the
diametrically opposed arguments of ‘I want her to be happy’ and ‘I want to be
happy’ that quarreled when triggered by dangled expectations, or overly long
phone calls filled with laughter, or the slap-in-the-face time she spent
cloistered in the room they used to share. He wanted to give her that room, but
it was if that gift was ideated suicidally, or, at least, self destructively.
He was, in an act of generosity, injecting his own venom, his own toxin, into a
thinking mind already too saturated with retrograde agonists; a mind that raced
with conflict when confronted with his new reality. He needed to brush the
intrusion and fuzziness of pedal-to-the-metal, internal dialogue aside, and
parallel the natural course of to and fro, the way crows alight on trees, and
trees dismiss them with subtle quivers. He needed to take what she offered,
acceptance, but it was that very thing that eluded him. To simply accept that
he was now her best friend and that alone, seemed like a step backwards. Yet it
was backwards he needed to go, he thought; backwards to the man he was before
he embraced the dream of a life together, or, at least, an entirely different
life together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He’d had not time to adjust, to get
used to the thing he did not want. It all happened suddenly, and it seemed that
she expected him to drop it, as simply as a flying crow drops shit on your
head. He felt like she saw him as a big enough man; a big enough man to accept
what no human male had ever accepted before him; that he was some sort of
evolved man, who would simply be glad for her happiness, and not write a book
about it, or seek psychiatric counseling. She seemed to discount the irrational
side of him; assumed that he could make it balance, like a linear equation. She
knew he didn’t work like that. He wore things on his sleeve, and she’d left him
with wife-beaters, with no wife, or capacity, to beat. No wife…no drum…just his
head, and the strain of the irresolvable. And the truth was he didn’t want the
struggle to resolve. He simply wanted to reach inside himself, and pull out the
handkerchief with the answer; not sleight of hand, more like an act of faith,
but he did not find the cloth or the faith…just the struggle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He had moments when the answer seemed near at hand,
but it seemed to taunt him by dangling just out of reach. The dog waiting for
the fat from the steak. The crow waiting for the hawk to ignore him, so he
could steal the offal. The lack of reward, the joy of solution, cast him into a
pall of self doubt. He did not know what to do. In fact, he no longer knew how
to talk, to touch, or to do. The stream of instructions, the data stream, was
interrupted, had stopped flowing, bits and bytes of lost directions, or lost on
him, at least. He felt like a sailor, standing in the crow’s-nest, staring down
at crest and valley, salty answers in the vastness of water, perched high
aloft, without wings to carry him.</span>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-63520311713384704872013-05-19T15:51:00.000-04:002013-05-19T15:51:59.703-04:00A to-be-continued Fictional Story of an Actual Reality<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He liked the early morning, the
time when lives only transpired within the sleepy houses of the cul-de-sac. He
liked the quiet of it, the wetness of it, although he sensed the quiet was only
an illusion and the wetness barely more damp. He’d wake, and emerge from his
hut to the veiled sounds of squirrels and birds, and wonder if it was him that
they were upset by, if they were upset at all, or merely letting the other
soundless creatures become aware of his existence in their sphere. He would
scour the landscape, seeking the perches of the unseen, hearing the low,
guttural squawk of the western jay, bluer and without the crown of the eastern
jay, whose screech was shriller, raspier, and possessed the invasiveness of a
fire truck siren, or an alarm clock. The call of the west was calmer, almost
friendlier, and bore few bad memories. But mostly he watched crows. He liked
the crows, clean in their blackness, less fearful than all other birds. He
liked the inquisitive tilt of the head, of the few walking the meadow,
intuiting the reason for his stare; sizing him up, gauging the extent of his
threat, or perhaps pondering potential fascination. There was no possibility in
his mind of anthropomorphizing the mind of the crow; their consciousness
blocked the empathic urge of the human; blocked by the inconsequential
unimportance of the other species. This was the essence of his confusion, the
reconciliation of the easily accepted with the contradictory. They, those
crows, would fly, some soaring and perusing, others ultra-focused, bee-lining
toward some detected detritus or offal, alighting mid-street, impervious to the
later day danger of cars and drivers. Others would circle, or hover, floating
in awareness far removed from human perception. The crows comforted him,
provided a solace derived from the singularity of their very identity, so
distinctly crow-like, and unlike any other breathing thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He was careful in his steps,
consciously aware of the slugs and spiders, ponderously traversing the
pavement, or suspended on a single strand newly spun; careful to protect the
focus of their moments, drinking, or coping with, the residual dampness of rain
or dew, or perhaps, merely anticipating their next morsel. Disrupting their
intention would be akin to facing his situation. Their lives, unlike those of
the crows, were not much different than his own, plodding mindlessly toward
something, or dangling at the whim of gusts, on a path tainted with the natural
obstacles of living, and impeded by the roadblock of misunderstood time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But he would always return to the
crows, the legendary harbingers of bylines. He noted, in some mindless way, how
they seemed always to fly away from an unperceived center, or simply away from
each other, like building block matter spewed from the big bang, yet how they
always seemed to regroup into an ominous murder, caw-cawing some corvine
orchestral strain, harmonious and dissonant simultaneously.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He walked slowly, when he walked at
all, coffee in his left hand, cigarette in his right. How funny, he thought,
that the cigarette was named as such to attract the female addict, given a more
attractive gendered nickname, yet was so Marlboro man manly, and it was then
that he perceived the danger of talking to crows. It was like a dropped phone
call, in those days when telephone operators were human and analog, and you
were left with the hapless pleading for response, and you were left to find
answers within your own plea, and from the buzzing static of disconnected
emptiness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And his thought turned to her, and
to her, as the tall pines closed in on him, sentinels of the vast, western
valley he now dwelt within, and he thought that happiness and sadness, his own
as well, too often reside in ancient clouded memory; or, in her case, more
recent clouded memory. He thought about parades, and how happiness or sadness
are dispelled in the moment, in the same way that confetti disperses the
excitement of parades, little morsels or shreds, unattached to the grander
scheme. Here or there no longer mattered. The disconnect transpires in the
tearing, the grieving renting, drifting earthward, alighting on disconnected
heads, and empty pavement. The chaotic fluttering, the random drift provided
him no answers, so he returned to watching the crows chase the jays, the jays
chase the crows, the disengaged battle of wills, more for the flavor than the
meat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
His direction was undecided. He was
unaware whether he was moving away from the center, or toward it, but he
realized that his mind had gone silent, and that his feet were wet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It was not her dalliances with other men that
bothered him, for she was truthful enough about her desire for polyamory. It
was not even that she had fallen deeply in love with one of them at his exclusion,
but rather her habit of cloaking the reality, the truth of it; not in the sense
that she denied any of it, but she did, however, consistently dress her
quasi-confessions in plausible deniability. He sensed that she was simply
trying to protect him from hurt, but it was also a leftover habit from her
previous marriage, perhaps her entire life. She always told the truth, but
always just some of it; the part that one could accept without question. It was
that form of truth that wrenched him, resisting like a stubborn bolt. He could
not, in good conscience, accept that. Perhaps, it was a central part of her
character, but for him, it also represented his own emasculation, and he gagged
at the thought of resembling, in any way, the ineffectual milquetoast of her
former husband; for that was how she had always offered <i>him</i> the truth. She had told him often enough that she learned
through her body, and he knew that well enough. He knew that by pushing her
sexual edges, into darker areas of restraint and submission, she could find the
simpler answers to her sadness; even as she turned their external kinks into
internal, freely offered affection. Yet it felt as if she had stopped trying to
learn <i>with</i> him. He refused to believe
that he couldn’t help her to find a happier place, despite all evidence that
his former success in that realm was now all but a rotting corpse. And he was
now wearing the clothes, the demeanor, of a weaker man, giving him the outward
appearance of a man he dreaded, created while shopping in the wrong stores. He
felt himself unable to stem the metamorphosis, and it tortured him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He did, on the other hand,
understand what she needed from him. She was broken, depleted, but he was
unable to fill her, restore her, so what she required of him was to accept
without reservation; to calmly listen to her semi-disclosure, to not question
or react, and hold her, but holding her felt like a reaction, not to jealousy,
but to an impassable crevasse, without the iciness, that had appeared in the
white sheet, created by his melting doubt, and her melting curiosity. While he felt
the softness of her skin deeply, he also felt the unexplainable bruising. She
needed him to be happy about it, and he might have been able to, if he could
find a way to believe that she was happy with any of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It was not as though she was
unwilling to share her sadness, and, to a lesser extent, the lessons she had
learned. And she thoroughly explained her processes, while omitting the
details. She felt that the details belonged to the other men; their particular
kinks were sort of sacred and belonged only to them. But, to him, there was no
abatement in her sadness, and rarely an increase in her happiness. Perhaps the
happy part was reserved for the coast house, or the occasional hotel room; the
spaces shared with the others; the places he needed to dispossess. Yet, he also
understood that she didn’t have it to give, and almost believed that there was
a certain detachment from the others that required no expansion of the love, or
lack of love, involved. He also understood that it was perhaps he that had
created her need to look externally to their ‘relationship’. He certainly knew
that while he may not have created it, he most certainly pushed her to it, for
he had become almost surly. He would offer random blasts of venom, wrapped in a
sarcasm that seemed extreme even to him, who had always expressed
sarcastically. It was a humor he enjoyed; his own method of half-truths; a way
to avoid saying what he needed to, and most certainly passive aggressive. It
was a reflex that he could not control. It was not as if it was ever offered in
response to the subject at hand, but rather, it would occur at the most natural
times, like a pun in response to a double entendre. It was the non sequitur
aspect of his commentary that made it more hurtful, although that was never his
intent. It was more a result of pressure, like water seeking to escape a pipe,
or air from a balloon. The valve would just leak, and the outflow was
unstoppable. Perhaps his reactions were fueled by jealousy…how much or how
little is unclear…but most certainly his reactions were visceral, fueled by
something deep within his core, not necessarily limbic or primal, but very
basic nonetheless. In any guise, those outbursts were bathed in his inability
to reconcile her need with his wants and needs. He was not a man who welcomed
only need. He was far more driven by want, and in an odd way, it was the
wanting that was taken away, both to and from.
When his desire was removed, whether by his own force, or something
external, he could not be the man that he was. The missing chunk of his
personality was too large. Certainly, if you are seeking a recipe for disaster
in any man’s life, take away his wanting; he needs to want, to desire, in order
to create his place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He returned to his internal
dialogue, his struggle, as a large crow stare him down from a nearby tree,
seeking his acknowledgement, or his departure, with repetitious cacophony. Yet
he could not depart, at least not until he answered his own secret voice, and
he resisted the crow’s entreaties with a smiling malice; territorial imperative,
to be sure, but also, a stubborn denial of the possibility that no acceptable
response existed; a denial that the crow did not possess his answer, if the
bird could reflect it. He felt the quality of his response, a resolution that
would result in his own happiness; not the happiness of acceptance, of acceding,
but rather the joy of embracing the transcendence of hurt. He was perfectly
capable of recognizing both horns of the dilemma, but could not find the
softness to reconcile it. His insistence on departure laid tossing and turning,
unable to find the peace of it, while covered with the warm, familiar blanket
of continued desire. He sensed that it could all emerge if he could simply
redefine, or redirect, the desire, yet it lay strong and unaltered in its cozy
bed. Yet the picture he envisioned appeared to him like rabid, sexual energy
without an erection. He felt as if his tactile essence could only deflate in
the lack of touch, that his olfactory cues could only dull the powerful scent,
that his mind could only unimagine the imaginative words of playful excitement.
The flow of his senses was stemmed, spigotted from needed outflow. He was, in
essence, shut off at the main, not at the faucet. There no longer existed any
ability to adjust temperature, only the potential of restoring the cold inflow
to his house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Yet somewhere in his confusion existed
the clarity of restoration alongside the semi-transparent vision of his ability
to re-create; to pen a new story, to paint a new canvas. The descriptors and
colors remained un-actualized, but their existence was palpable, like the
anticipation of a caress. What he felt he had always felt, and he had no desire
to let it go. It was completely his possession; his desire, his concern, his
affection, his love; and to let any of it go was impossible, and as undesired
as suicidal delusion. His desired reality had no history; no prior piece of it
had yet to exist. It would be created in the void of personal memory, despite
memory. He had no basis, no existing foundation…perhaps no human had any basis…for
its creation, though he was certain that to actualize his potential, his vision
of himself as a man…as a hu-man…he needed to find its beginning, and to grow it
moment by moment, nurture it with the waters of his heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">As the crow departed, having lost patience with his
own, ineffective squawking, and having provided no effective response, he left
him with an inability to dwell any longer in his head. He had no answer, only
the quality of the answer he desired. The distraction left him with only the
dread of an early morning Monday rise, and the hope, strengthened with sensed
correctness, of a grand day ahead.</span>Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-85298295150556769662013-05-07T19:56:00.000-04:002013-05-07T19:56:05.565-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect</i></div>
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This, of course, is why Jesus doesn't actually love you (that, and the fact that he is stone cold dead). But I digress.</div>
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The above quote, attributable to Margaret Mitchell, is soooo true, until you read the next line, for it is undeniable that life owes us nothing. What we expect of it often disappoints, but we do have the choice whether to suffer those unexpected outcomes, or to understand that what preceded that disappointment was indeed glorious. We tend to view our disappointments in terms of not deserving either possibility, but the end result is always determined by the ridiculous notion of expecting it to begin with.</div>
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I have never read Gone with the Wind, but I did recently read Atlas Shrugged...and I did expect to be disappointed. It proselytizes of the proper virtue of our industrial society (an industrial society long dead), but it is also an outdated reaction to the evils of any social structure that elevates from the bottom of the heap. But, unexpectedly, while the preaching quality of the book was enormously tedious, I was not disappointed in what Rand views as man's ultimate responsibility...to create, and to believe in your creation (she did mean this in an industrial way, but so what). All this tends to elevate, not what is wrong with society, but, rather, what is wrong with people. We have become, top down, a sickeningly entitled society, yet the evils of that entitlement vary greatly depending on where you fall in the hierarchy. We need to get back to understanding that we all make our own beds, and it is by choice that we sleep in them. And maybe then, we could all dispense with the self pity.</div>
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However, the real problem is that we have lost our imaginations, and have stopped creating. We tend to think of creation in utilitarian terms, yet we produce almost nothing of use beyond the products of Billy Mays shysterism. Beyond the efforts of NASA, mothers, and artists of every ilk, we create almost nothing that is not a cheap imitation of the same thing before it, like the dollar, for instance. Rather than allow our edges to expand...to push them outward...we only allow them to close in ever tighter. We claim to embrace the Big Bang, while we welcome the big shrink. While Jesus doesn't love anybody, I do. So kudos to the nun, to Wilderessence, to 3D printer gun makers, to anyone who sees beyond the edges. And, shame on me!</div>
Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-80382187375417720872012-09-24T11:34:00.000-04:002012-09-24T11:34:46.313-04:00ScowlsSo, Jesus was married, and I have to assume that the marriage was consummated. So Jesus, unlike his mother, was no virgin. How, in Christ's name, is el Popo gonna spin this one. Sure, it's a 4th century papyrus, so it was probably written concurrently to the Council of Nicea, and might very well be a bit of heretic propaganda. Still, I can't fathom any reason for the author to lie...I mean any more than the Bible does. If only we could figure out who the lucky lady was; that lucky woman who screamed 'Oh God' for the first time, and really meant it. It seems to me that the catholic priesthood can finally unleash its hankering for a piece of ass that isn't at the north end of an altar boy's legs.<br />
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But the real point of this piece is scowling. I've heard it said many times that men age better than women, but that is simply not true. 99.9% of the human population age poorly, and it is easily read on their faces. People scowl, and you may claim that it's the result of that 'quiet desperation' thing, but I would argue that it's because they are flat out miserable; a misery created by the LIFE we choose to accept as normal; a LIFE shaped by outdated beliefs and paradigms (allow me to make it clear...that I am referring to god, work, sex, and marriage).<br />
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Little kids smile all the time, which leads me to believe that smiling is the most natural facial expression in our repertoire. My father always said that a smile requires fewer facial muscles than not smiling; that a smile is the more relaxed state; that stern, sullen, angry require our faces to work much harder. Kids smile in response to both internal and external stimuli. Adults, most often, smile only in response to the external; that phony, concocted 'it's so good to see you' thing. Adults look to others for a reason to smile. Kids do not. Kids wear their smiles, and share them willingly. So, it logically follows that, as parents, trying to prepare our children for LIFE, we teach the smiles right out of them. This, if you accept my argument, makes most of us very bad parents.<br />
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That kid who shot up the movie theater in Colorado lost his smile. Yeah, I know, you think that is not a good enough reason, but, if I may gently point out, it is our fault. It isn't LIFE that stole his smile...it is us, and because of that, he deserves our forgiveness, our compassion, our apologies. We surrounded him with our collective misery, and our insistence on living lives that lead to misery. Collectively, we expect our children to live under the bell curve umbrella of strength. We expect our kids to be able to withstand the misery, to be strong enough, and we paint those who can't as either mentally ill, or the devil incarnate. We should forgive him. He deserves forgiveness. We do not. We perpetuate a LIFE in which we breed misery, and we all deal with it in our own way. Most scowl. Some shoot up movie theaters. All part of being human; human beyond the constraints we impose, human beyond the scope of our very, limited normal.<br />
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I imagine Jesus was smiling when he shot his first load into his wife, because sexing is an inherently joyous act. It takes a lot of work to kill the joy in sexing. Sex is certainly more joyous than buying a new Lexus, going to work, believing in god, or getting married. In each of these instances, there is a search for joy from the external. Joy resides within. It resided within you before you gave up on it.<br />
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I am also certain, that given the hard work of being a messiah, and the enormous pressure from his father to succeed, Jesus quickly lost the joy, and settled into the ennui of a good brisket at Rosh Hashanah. Likely the first son of god to utter the words...'not tonight, milk and honey...I have a headache'.<br />
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We build our lives on a foundation of straw, and upon that straw, we stack our acquisitions, and as we amass all those things we believe will make us happy, the weight of the whole pile of shit crushes our foundation, until all that is left is debilitating misery. This is what we commonly refer to as life, and that is the legacy we offer our children. Long ago, humanity accepted that puritanical, work ethic definition of life; that happiness comes from working hard, and having what the other guy has. It should be clear to you by now...before you grow old...that there can be no happiness without joy; there is no benefit to work, marriage, or praying without joy; a life without joy does not lead to happiness, it leads to inevitable disappointment, inevitable misery.<br />
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That chimp gene has probably screwed us forever. If only the bonobo had reigned supreme in the human gene pool. And now, we are only left with one real choice. Go fuck, or go fuck yourself. Oh god, YESSSSSSSSS.<br />
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<br />Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6872845511287798856.post-68001650688960315242012-09-04T23:29:00.000-04:002012-09-04T23:31:40.357-04:00Non SequitursA few weeks ago, the LM and I went to a Patriots' exhibition game, where I was promptly introduced to two men who have profoundly changed my outlook on everything...the man with the orange sleeves, and the man in the green hat. Prior to my introduction, I had previously believed that the economic structure of Planet Earth was merely misguided. Now, however, I have come to believe that not only is it flawed by its adherence to outdated paradigms, it is completely fucked. You see, while the two men are irrevocably linked in their vocations by economic necessity, that there vocations exist at all is spectacularly mind-blowing. The man in the green hat is not the man in the orange sleeve's boss, but he does let him know when he must perform his job. Who it is that tells the man in the green hat when to do his remains a mystery, anonymously connected through headphones. So, what do they do you ask? Within the current-flow of ethereal information, some unknown entity tells the man in the green hat that a TV timeout is pending, and presumably gives him a countdown. When blastoff occurs, he informs the man in the orange sleeves that it is his time to shine, at which point, the man in the orange sleeves crosses his orange clad sleeves across his chest (I did note that,on occasion, in a pique of apparent laziness, or perhaps the ennui of an incredibly exciting career, he would allow one arm to rest peacefully at his side), signifying to all on-field personnel that their professions were temporarily suspended in the interests of public educational advertisements.Following my introduction to these two titans of free enterprise, I did watch a football game (American football, Andy), yet I found myself involuntarily drawn into overly frequent 'Where's Waldo?' moments, perusing the sidelines to locate my new-found heroes. I will be forever grateful to the moguls of the NFL, for considering my amusement in their hiring of these two fine gentlemen.<br />
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It strikes me that <i>Radiance </i>is an incredibly odd name for a tampon.<br />
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And speaking of paradigms, perception, and political correctness, I have decided (with thanks to the nun) that it is perfectly acceptable to stare at a woman's breasts. Women have them, men like them, and the behavior is no less natural than a gorilla thumping his chest in recognition of a female in estrus, or puking in the commode after excessive consumption of gin (there's a dangling something in this sentence, but I don't care because it makes me laugh). Besides, the womens' movement has gone nowhere, if not backwards in the last 30 years. Just stand in a supermarket and watch the moms teaching their daughters to be 'good little shoppers'. Which leads me to my real point. We, as in collective humanity, have accepted nearly all the external paradigms in our lives. For instance, we accept that there is no stability without a national leader. I have long held the belief that the president of any nation does absolutely nothing, as I watch all those surrounding me, believing that the outcome of an election holds sway over the future. This, in the words of an old friend, is pure piffle. The president's sole function is to make us feel better, or worse. You cannot seriously believe that Barack Obama views the world outside the purview of what has always been. There are countries, and economic interests, national defense concerns, and blatant national aggression, and, of course, the religious right. This is the way it has always been. We teach it to our children. Imagine for a moment, a world with no nationalism or religion. Go ahead, tell me...what would we fight about? The wisest words I have heard in a long time are these (and I paraphrase)...The greatest enemy of religion is belief. Truth be told, the entire history of mankind emanates entirely from the purposeful perpetuation of past belief. We have always chosen to believe what was; never what could be. And that is why we are always fucked. That is why we tell our children that they could grow up to be President of the United States. Why not offer the alternatives. Why not offer them the possibility that the world would still exist without a United States; that they might offer a better alternative to blind jingoism and national interests.We look to the past and it's accomplishments for greatness because it has happened, and carries no part of what we fear most---UNCERTAINTY---which of course is the most prevalent constant of life.<br />
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It strikes me that <i>what doesn't kill you, </i>does not necessarily make you stronger.<br />
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And <i>Curiosity </i>has landed on Mars, and is doing some amazing things, yet most people want to talk about Mitt Romney, who has not done anything, so is thereby fully prepared to be president. I am certain that there are more useless human beings, but he is the most public of the lot. And why does he always walk around like he has a rabbit (and I don't mean the mammal) stuck up his ass? He has no right to wear jeans. Which brings me to Barack Obama. He is a well-intentioned, good and intelligent man. I like him even though he is fully wrong. There is no middle class to resurrect, and no industry in the USA which is capable of sustaining one. I mean...you can only have so many mini-marts.As computers emerge as the smartest entities on this planet, the world is in full reconstruction mode, and the old school just cannot see it. I know where I would like it to go, but that will not happen, as the Occupy movement has demonstrated; as it is firmly planted and growing on the sod of an outdated paradigm...capitalism.<br />
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<i>Have I told you lately that I love you?</i><br />
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Perhaps, if we could simply accept and embrace the uncertainty, we could stop walking around with those bitter, sullen faces? Quiet desperation? There is nothing quiet about it. We have simply lost the imagination to hear it.<br />
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<i>Cunt </i>is a perfectly good word. So is <i>Love. </i>Although it might be time for us to learn the difference.<br />
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<i>Bon Nuit</i><br />
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<br />Fallen angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16367668643577146331noreply@blogger.com3