Archive for the 'Ala' Category
yet will I sing
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny
for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money
i went to pluto’s kitchen
to break my fast one morning
and there i got souls piping hot
that on the spit were turning
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny
for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money
Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, projectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.
Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”
Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”
And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.
Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.
Alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come.
On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow.
The chemical composition of seawater, the Science Men tell us, is identical to that of human tears.
And seawater, they tell us, is from where, on this planet, all life did grow.
I believe that, in a mobius strip of time, the tears shed by us, created the oceans, from which came us.
So. Don’t hold back. Let them flow. All your tears. Like water flow.
And upon them, someday, you may sail. Sail to Caledonia.
I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.
A boy, so broken; broken from birth. So broken that, as he entered adolescence, he came to physically less resemble a human being, than a pop-eyed sketch of an extraterrestrial gray.
So, through weeks, and months, and years, he closed himself off, from all the world. Eventually sealing all the windows, of his room, and of his soul. His room, he sealed with desperate scratchy black plastic, and duct-tape. So he could freely crouch. Ape-like. Masturbating. Before his video screen. His hands on the controls. Sealing the cessation of his soul. As he ceaselessly engaged, there on his screen, in killing. Killing. And killing. And killing. And killing. Killing. Killing. And killing.
Till, one fine morn, he awoke. Took a face from the ancient gallery. And walked on down the hall.
To blow, with her own gun, his sleeping mother, into bloody chunks.
Killing, this time—at long last—for real.
Then, the broken boy, he went to school.
And rained death down upon them with the second amendment freedom discharge of his god-given-right weapons unrecognizable some they had no longer any face what so proudly we hailed upon twenty little children in the twilight’s last gleaming they were five-year-olds they were of the age of fairies and fingerpaints and a broken boy because he could because any freedom git yer gun git yer gun git yer gun broken boy in America can freedom freedom freedom came to them with a gun and he concealed carry freedom second amendment blew all their faces and their brains away.
They were shot and they were killed and they were buried in closed coffins because they no longer had faces. Their faces splattered all about the schoolroom. Traces of blasted faces among the fairies and the fingerpaints. Five years old. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Outta yer cold dead hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Sometimes. I. Feel. Like. A. Motherless. Child. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Aim high. Anchors aweigh. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Clap your hands. Clap your hands now.
F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.
No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.
The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.
the little bird; all that there is
seems like i’ve known you
for a thousand years
seems like i’ve watched you
grow from a child
I don’t communicate, these days, with a lot of humans.
I just can’t.
I just want to say, to those humans with whom I do communicate, and who have recently, and sometimes repeatedly, expressed to me that they are in some form of tsuris, over this debt-ceiling/government-shutdown phantasm: honey: don’t.
Just go to your intertubes, and call up some newspaper front-page, from ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago.
See, then, that it is, as all ways, always the same.
“News,” then as now, but a means, to cloud the doors of perception.
if the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear to man as it is:
Have you ever met, encountered, spoken to, physically rubbed up against, a Boehner? A Reid? A Cruz? An Obama?
And so they are not.
They do not exist.
Not in your universe.
If you make it so.
In your universe, may I humbly suggest, you want to go back to where you started. To before the doors of perception became obscured. To something like what is in the video below. To where you were frisky and frolicking and for the great wide open.
That is Reality.
All the rest, is road-grime. Churned up to smear. The doors of perception.
On the day I was born, back there in 1956, Mao Tse-Tung said: “let a thousand flowers bloom.”
Many, many, Very Learned, white people, they have tried to divine, what, he, there, meant.
None of them have ever approached even a clue.
The interview, it was in something like People’s Daily, or the Guardian, or the Atlantic. I don’t any more remember.
The long and lively piece, the one I wrote, based on this late-70s-something Mao interview, it’s probably somewhere down there. Among all those many boxes. There in the basement. But, I know now, I am never going to go through those boxes. Too old; too enervated; I no longer care. Those boxes: they’ll either be tossed, or combed through by heirs.
Some young Chinese woman, there in the Cultural Revolution, there in the late 1970s, got through to Mao; and Mao, bless his heart, always with a weakness for young women, gave her a piece of his time.
What came through in that late-70s interview, with this young woman, is that, yeah, Mao, he had succeeded in forever banishing the white rat bastards from out of the Middle Kingdom, cut the ties of the foot-binding, scythed baldly boldly brutally through millennially class-crusted Chinese society, and, rightly, levelled it.
But, Mao: he weren’t happy.
For, like any good, real Communist, he yearned for the apotheosis: which, in Marxist theory—and Mao was definitely a Marxist—is anarchism.
Mao, in this interview, made it very clear, that he wanted the authoritarian state, that he had assembled, torn right down to the ground.
“Let a thousand flowers bloom,” he repeated, some twenty years on, to this young woman.
Which, in Americanese, might be translated as “go your own way.”
Mao, here, once he’d had it all: he didn’t want people to be like him. He wanted them to be like themselves.
when the day goes down on watertown
when the sun sinks low all around
that’s when i know i need you now
yes you’re what i miss
every little kiss
every little one
I come from a place that is all light.
I see it now.
But here, on this planet, it is most commonly believed that there cannot be light, without darkness.
There is this pretty sad persistent duality disability here. Gotta have everything in oppositional twos. Light/dark. Yin/yang. Good/evil. Etc./etc.
Where I come from, there is no duality. But instead infinite multiplicity. Which resolves always into light.
And nobody needs darkness to define that light.
Long ago, we, from where I come from, said just this:
There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light.
I have all my lights on.
And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.
But that was so long ago. Now there is no darkness, no sick little men. Only light. And all our own faces, blazing in light, from every illuminated window.
Light is just all there is. All gold, all streaming, all forever. All, all right.
This past week, if you were an American, and if you were connected to America, the term and the town of Watertown came crashing into your consciousness. And not in a good way. It came in via violence, and mayhem, and unknowing, and fear. And it squatted like a nasty poisonous toad, across your life.
I love Watertown. The name and the idea of it. I have since it first entered my consciousness.
That was in 1986. I was walking down a street in the Mission District of San Francisco. And from a tiny sliver of a pizza parlor sounded a song I had never heard before, from a band I had never heard before. The song, “Every Little Kiss,” I later learned, by something called Bruce Hornsby and the Range.
I was in that instant transported. Not easy in a city. Cities—like money, and guns, and jobs—among those things that are, soon, going to go. They have to. For they are artificial and dangerous and de-evolved anti-life entities.
Still, if one must be in a city, San Francisco was one, then, to be in.
And, in that city, upon hearing that song, I was transfixed. Drilled to the sidewalk. I had one of those onrushing clarifying totally experienced experiences: that all is all right, and always will be.
Everything in that moment seemed open and possible to me. Because in every moment it always is.
I can recall that moment now, twenty-seven years later, better than I can recall what happened to me an hour ago. Because that moment was real. And so much of the rest of it is just slogging through the sludgy eyes-wide-shut motions.
And what I experienced then, twenty-seven years ago, of Watertown, as transmitted to me through “Every Little Kiss,” is what Watertown is.
It is not that recent-week fraught place of violence and fear. It is not non-ordinary brothers said to have careened through vomiting out every car door bombs and bullets. It is not stolid phalanxes of armed-past-the-tits security goons, in reaction, marching marching marching to Pretoria. It is not a place of darkness.
It is a place of light.
It is, like anywhere else, about somebody wanting to curl up next to somebody.
A man has two legs.
He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands.
He’ll put seeds in the ground.
He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work.
He’ll take a woman to bed.
He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day.
You’d think that man deserved a little something.
You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration.
You’d think that maybe someone would say,
Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.
It is like every other town of human beings on earth.
Occasionally bad people will run through it. But it’s error to think the dark exceptions are the rule. Anywhere. Because the rule is the light. Everywhere.
Eros is always ascendant over Thanatos. Maybe only barely. But ascendant she always is. Else we wouldn’t be here. But we are. And always shall be. Unto The Great Wide Open.
You do realize that everything is connected. That there are no coincidences. And that all is leading into only light.
What more do you need. To know that there is a conscious universe. That it is willfully expanding all towards light.
Just kiss. With love. That’s all there is to it. Into The Great Wide Open. Into the light. Bring everybody along with you. With every little one.
Here’s how it works. In the video below, the sweet little white boy is missing his sweetheart. He’s out there in Watertown. But, in Reality, in all of his being, he’s anywhere she may be.
Nothing matters, not to him, but her.
He’s at this moment especially and intensely connected to her, through his presence in Watertown. Because of the four elements without which humans cannot live—air, fire, water, earth—water is the most sensual. And he is at present immersed in a whole town of it.
At 5:03 in this video, he enters the zone. Not Bach, not Beethoven, just earnest sloppy rocknroll, but he gets There. To where it could just keep going like that forever. All Eros, no Thanatos, anywhere around. And, in his smile, you know he knows it: is riding, so high, knows it could keep on going like that forever.
Because it does.
In the place of all light.
Where I come from.
As do you.
every little kiss
every little one
Okay: for those who this day may be finding themselves dizzily washed up upon these intertube shores, shaded shores that hug always the dark backwaters, beaten fast and furious here by the jihad of the outraged far-flung planet: here’s, how, things, we do here.
—We are sometimes alive; sometimes we are also dead.
—Always we are sad; sometimes we are happy.
—What is mostly important is to See.
—We try never to make anything but an alternative form of “sense.”
—Eros uber alles.
—Nature is Wisdom.
—We likes us some music.
—We bend the knee to but one utterance, and that of Kenneth Patchen: “I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.”
—We are bound for The Great Wide Open.
Science Men, they are always wanting to Know.
Which is a worthy pursuit.
Times are tough, these days, for Science Men. Because a lot of what a lot of Science Men want these days to Know, involves stuff the Science Men cannot see, or otherwise sense or easily detect. And/or that is, additionally, remote in space and/or time.
And so, they operate, most often, in the land of Guesstimate.
This can, and does, result in a lot of flipbook-rapid changing of opinions. As the Science Men seek to squint, ever finely, through a glass darkly. It also can, and does, result in bouts of belligerent bickering with one another.
This last is currently on display in the ongoing controversy over whether the Voyager 1 spacecraft has or has not left the local solar system. Some Science Men say it has; some Science Men say it hasn’t. But none of them really Know. Because Voyager 1 is out there some 123 AU from Earth. Where no Science Man has ever boldly gone before. Out there some 123 AU from Earth, Voyager either is or is not in the heliosphere. The heliosphere is a thing the Science Men think exists. Though they don’t really Know. Because they have never been there. And the boundaries of this heliosphere, these they don’t really Know, either.
But they sure have a lot of opinions.
To those of us who closely follow Science, the Science Men quarreling over the present position of Voyager 1 is amusing, in a “fighting in the captain’s tower” sort of way. To wit:
ezra pound and t. s. eliot
fighting in the captain’s tower
while calypso singers laugh at them
and fishermen hold flowers
This is because we, we wizened Science-followers, Know that the interstellar mission of the twin Voyager probes, has already been accomplished.
So it don’t really matter, now, wherever the things might be.
You see, each of these Voyager craft were touchingly dispatched with a “golden record” aboard, one that contained pictures and sounds of Earth and its beings, and also directions on how to Get Here. It was hoped, by the humans, that some spacefaring strangers would happen upon one or more of these craft, spin the disc, and then come to visit.
It was so embarrassing. What was, and was not, included, on the “golden record.”
Because hide-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts succeeded in erasing from the disc accurate illustrations of the male and female human being.
They objected, these swamp-coolers, to the depiction of the reproductive organs, of male and female.
And so, these were eliminated.
The “golden record” thus went into the great wide open, showing only human “silhouettes.”
All the “naughty parts,” airbrushed out.
Leading any passing extraterrestrials to wonder: how the fuck do these humanoids reproduce? Since they lack the parts to fuck?
Fortunately, past the hang-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts, passed a recording, successfully placed on the “golden record,” of the Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”
That that alone, was sent out there into space, means the species shall survive.
For: ah—upon hearing this, would understand any passing extraterrestrial—I get it. One of those planets.
This, in fact, occurred. The interception of a Voyager. By an extraterrestrial race.
As set forth in the 1984 documentary film Starman.
There we learn that extraterrestrials scooped up Voyager 2, grooved to the pictures, words, and tunes contained therein, and then sent an ambassador to Earth . . . a being who, as soon as s/he entered the planet’s atmosphere, was promptly shot out of the sky by the yeehaws of ekpyrosis.
But extraterrestrials are not so easily extinguished.
The ambassador, abandoning the crippled craft, found nearby some stray human DNA, and so fashioned a temporary corporeal container. Of the young Jeff Bridges.
Not a bad choice.
The news clip below depicts the encounter of the newly incarnated Space Bridges with his first human, a female monikered Jenny Hayden.
Who, upon hearing the naked, and decidedly strange, Space Bridges, recite lines from the Voyager 2 “golden record,” loses consciousness.
Things get better.
Jenny Hayden assists the Space Bridges in traveling cross-country to the Barringer Crater in Arizona. This, it develops, is the traditional landing pad for the Space Bridges form of extraterrestrial (said pad, spacecraft descending, may be viewed in the image that inaugurates this here True Science story). There, at the Crater, the Space Bridges can hitch a ride back home.
The beings of the Space Bridges, we learn, have, over the millennia, monitored humans, from time to time.
They are hardly the only race of extraterrestrials to so indulge. As the documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey amply demonstrates.
Of course, in order for Jenny Hayden and the Space Bridges to reach the Crater, they must many times evade the yeehaws of ekpyrosis. Who desperately want to lay hands on the Space Bridges. So they can avidly kill and joyfully dissect him.
Because the yeehaws of ekpyrosis can never be happy, so long as they are not avidly killing, and joyfully dissecting, any and all people, places, and things.
Which is why extraterrestrial beings like the Space Bridges do not straight-forward contact the whole of humanity.
Before the Space Bridges goes home, he and Jenny Hayden engage in tender and loving, Real, sexual congress. Which, in the course of things, results in a child, representative of both species.
Such a thing is not all that uncommon. In fact, as we speak, the Huffington Post, also known as the Weekly World News of the intertubes, is canvassing for people willing to tell all about engaging in sexual relations with extraterrestrials. So far, it is said, there have been 15 respondents.
But all these people lie. Because humans, and extraterrestrials, who join in Desire, do not kiss and tell.
Those who Know the true-life documentary film Starman are aware that the Space Bridges arrives on this planet equipped with a number of silver balls, what humans would consider more or less magical and/or transformational objects, which he may deploy, from the palm of his hand, if needful—and the need several times arises—to protect him, and his, or project him, and his, from the extreme and unnatural Danger and Weirdness that is this Earth.
I don’t suppose that it will come as a surprise, to anyone who has long been on this blog, and in anywise Aware, that I am not unfamiliar with these balls.
And that, as shown in the photo there above, I, from time to time, come to hold one, in the palm of my hand.
My brother, in the last years of his life, pretty much lived for cats.
He expressed this explicitly.
But instead he was Here. And, so far as he could figure, but for cats.
When he died, there were 19 of the beasts, that he’d brought in, to his karass and his care, and who were dependent upon him.
When I gazed upon the face of his refrigerator, cleaning up after the mess of his death, I saw this, in note handscrawled: “Am I here just for cats?”
Well. Sure, you were, Steve. And a bodhisattva, in all those years, for that.
I’m not, I don’t think, circling quite the drain, these days, as my brother, in those years, did do.
But I nonetheless need to write about him.
Because my brother, he’s dead.
They saw wild pigs running near the lake, and a soaring osprey. The mountains drew closer. Papyrus grew beside the water. Pelicans made their geometric, card-trick pterodactyl dives.
“Do we have a decent map?” Lucas asked.
“Just this,” said Sonia.
She handed him the rental car company’s map. It was not very detailed.
“This is the kind of map that killed Bishop Pike,” Lucas said.
“The one for us,” said Sonia.
—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate