Archive for the 'Into The Light' Category

To Love Somebody

The Science Men, they are getting all in our brains. Now they say they can tell when we are in love.

By scanning the brains of men and women who said they were in love, and comparing them with yep wellpeople who had fallen out of love or never been in love, researchers say they have been able to piece together the first map of the changes that occur in the brain.

The use of a functional magnetic resonance imaging scan (fMRI), which measures brain activity by detecting changes in blood flow, showed that love involves a dozen areas of the brain, with one area—the caudate nucleus—dealing with the ending of a love affair. A cocktail of chemicals also carries messages from one region to another.

“Our study provides the first evidence of love-related alterations in the underlying architecture of the brain and the results shed new light on the mechanisms of romantic love,” said Professor Xiaochu Zhang of the yep wellUniversity of Science and Technology of China in Hefei, who led the study, which is published in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience.

The researchers, who showed romantic lovers photographs of their partners while scanning their brains, say that the study has demonstrated the “possibility of applying a resting-state fMRI approach” for testing for romantic love, opening the way for fMRI tests to diagnose love.

Horseshit. They don’t know what love is.

Never Seen

My daughter’s award-winning poem, which can be read here, and which I mentioned here, reminds me, to this day, some nearly five years later, still, of Eugene Field’s wistful little fable, “The Robin And The Violet.”

I published Field’s fable once before. In 2010. So what. Five years ago. And no one read it then.

I dedicated the fable then to my daughter. And I do so here again.

Appended, here, to “The Robin And The Violet” is, again, a Chris Isaak song, “Fade Away,” what it isrelating to both the poem of my daughter, and Field’s fable, and to other things as well. Like all the best songs, it is more Real than any words.

Once upon a time a robin lived in the greenwood. Of all the birds his breast was the brightest, his music was the sweetest, and his life was the merriest. Every morning and evening he perched himself among the berries of the linden-tree, and carolled a song that made the whole forest joyous; and all day long he fluttered among the flowers and shrubbery of the wild-wood, and twittered gayly to the brooks, the ferns, and the lichens.

A violet grew among the mosses at the foot of the linden-tree where lived the robin. She was so very tiny and so very modest that few knew there was such a pretty little creature in the world. Withal she was so beautiful and so gentle that those who knew the violet loved her very dearly.

The south wind came wooing the violet. He danced through the shrubbery and ferns, and lingered on the velvet moss where the little flower grew. But when he kissed her pretty face and whispered to her, she hung her head and said, “No, no; it cannot be.”

“Nay, little violet, do not be so cruel,” pleaded the south wind; “let me bear you as my bride away to my splendid home in the south, where all is warmth and sunshine always.”

But the violet kept repeating, “No, it cannot outtabe; no, it cannot be,” till at last the south wind stole away with a very heavy heart.

And the rose exclaimed, in an outburst of disgustful indignation: “What a foolish violet! How silly of her to refuse such a wooer as the south wind, who has a beautiful home and a patrimony of eternal warmth and sunshine!”

But the violet, as soon as the south wind had gone, looked up at the robin perched in the linden-tree and singing his clear song; and it seemed as if she blushed and as if she were thrilled with a great emotion as she beheld him. But the robin did not see the violet. His eyes were turned the other way, and he sang to the clouds in the sky.

The brook o’erleaped its banks one day, and straying toward the linden-tree, it was amazed at the loveliness of the violet. Never had it seen any flower half so beautiful.

“Oh, come and be my bride,” cried the brook. “I am young and small now, but presently you shall see me grow to a mighty river whose course no human power can direct, and whose force nothing can resist. Cast thyself upon my bosom, sweet violet, and let us float together to that great destiny which awaits me.”

But the violet shuddered and recoiled and said: “Nay, nay, impetuous brook, I will not be your bride.” So, with many murmurs and complaints, the brook crept back to its jealous banks and resumed its devious and prattling way to the sea.

“Bless me!” cried the daisy, “only to think of that silly violet’s refusing the brook! Was there ever another such piece of folly! Where else is there a flower that would not have been glad to go upon such a wonderful career? Oh, how short-sighted some folks are!”

But the violet paid no heed to these words; she looked steadfastly up into the foliage of the linden-tree where the robin was carolling. The robin did not see the violet; he was singing to the tops of the fir-trees over yonder.

The days came and went. The robin sang and fluttered in the greenwood, and the violet bided among the mosses at the foot of the linden; and although the violet’s face was turned always upward to where the robin perched and sang, the robin never saw the tender little flower.

One day a huntsman came through the greenwood, and an arrow from his cruel bow struck the robin and pierced sadhis heart. The robin was carolling in the linden, but his song was ended suddenly, and the innocent bird fell dying from the tree. “Oh, it is only a robin,” said the huntsman, and with a careless laugh he went on his way.

The robin lay upon the mosses at the foot of the linden, close beside the violet. But he neither saw nor heard anything, for his life was nearly gone. The violet tried to bind his wound and stay the flow of his heart’s blood, but her tender services were vain. The robin died without having seen her sweet face or heard her gentle voice.

Then the other birds of the greenwood came to mourn over their dead friend. The moles and the mice dug a little grave and laid the robin in it, after which the birds brought lichens and leaves, and covered the dead body, and heaped earth over all, and made a great lamentation. But when they went away, the violet remained; and after the sun had set, and the greenwood all was dark, the violet bent over the robin’s grave and kissed it, and sang to the dead robin. And the violet watched by the robin’s grave for weeks and months, her face pressed forward toward that tiny mound, and her gentle voice always singing softly and sweetly about the love she never had dared to tell.

Often after that the south wind and the brook came wooing her, but she never heard them, or, if she heard them, she did not answer. The vine that lived near the chestnut yonder said the violet was greatly changed; that from being a merry, happy thing, she had grown sad and reticent; she used to hold up her head as proudly as the others, but now she seemed broken and weary. The shrubs and flowers talked it all over many and many a time, but none of them could explain the violet’s strange conduct.

It was autumn now, and the greenwood was not what it had been. The birds had flown elsewhere to be the guests of the storks during the winter months, the rose had run away to be the bride of the south wind, and the daisy had wedded the brook and was taking a bridal tour to the seaside watering-places. But the violet still lingered in the greenwood, and kept her vigil at the grave of the robin. She was pale and drooping, but still she watched and sang over the spot where her love lay buried. Each day she grew weaker and paler. The oak begged her to come and live among the warm lichens that protected him from the icy breath of the storm-king, but the violet chose to watch and sing over the robin’s grave.

One morning, after a night of exceeding darkness and frost, the boisterous north wind came trampling through the greenwood. “I have come for the violet,” he cried; “she would not have my fair brother, but she must go with me, whether it pleases her or not!”

But when he came to the foot of the linden-tree his anger was changed to compassion. The violet was dead, and she lay upon the robin’s grave. Her gentle face rested close to the little mound, as if, in her last moment, the faithful flower had stretched forth her lips to kiss the dust that covered her beloved.

a lot of flowers in this world are never seen
i want to hold your love
i want to win your love for me

for me there was no sunshine
for me there was no rain
for me until i met you
every day was the same

Jubilee

The above what I was hearing, live, meandering, high, many years ago, in that moment when I understood, beyond anything so very limited as understanding, in every cell that I am, that is also every cell that you are, exactly what it is that these Dead people were working so hard to be playing, which is that all that is all is all, is one unhoused fused wide-open diffused unlimited cable skien twine vein, unfettered unwashed boundless, consciousness without physical boundaries and without limit, into every and all and forever and every all forever, forever, and forever into the great wide open, and i am you and you are me and see how together we fly and how we fly all together and fly how we all fly forever . . . .

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I Read The News Today Oh Boy

what it is

Wanted: A Salamander The Size Of A Car, With A Head Shaped Like A Toilet Seat, And A Mouth Bristling With Hundreds of Sharp Little Teeth

Many are the animals who once walked this earth, but walk it no longer, which is Wrong.

Take these salamander people that Science Men recently unearthed from a dry lakebed in Portugal. Their bones are all over the place there.

Bones of the bring mesalamanders. Not of the Science Men.

From these Bones, the Science Men are learning many things. Such as:

“It’s basically a salamander that’s the size of a car,” said Dr. Steve Brusatte, a palaeontologist at the University of Edinburgh, who led the research.

“It’s one of those creatures from the distant past that looks like an alien.”

“[It] had hundreds of sharp teeth in its big flat head, which kind of looks like a toilet seat when the jaws snap shut,” Dr. Brusatte said.

In the late Triassic period, when dinosaurs and mammals were still small and marginal, it was monsters like this which were “the big dogs,” he told BBC News.

Other, related species were even bigger, stretching up to 10m in length—more like a bus than car.

Together these species dominated the supercontinent Pangaea, which was only beginning to split into today’s land masses.

Why are these people not around today? For I need a couple to roam around here on the grounds of the Manor.

Because the Manor is besieged, seasonally, by raccoons. Who rip up the earth and toss plants hither and yon, for No Reason. Other than that are they are Imps of Satan.

A couple of these toilet-seat-headed, car-sized salamanders, I figure, would encourage all raccoons to stay well away.

There is also the matter of dogs. The Manor, blessedly, has never come under assault from dogs. But dogs, it must be recognized, are—everywhere—a constant threat.

The feed store across the street offers many and manifold animals, and in adverting each, offers little signs that provide such information as to where-from each beast do hail.

Today, for instance, I noted that the sign denoting the origin of their rats for sale, read: “everywhere.”

This too is true of dogs. They come from everywhere, and they seek to go to everywhere.

But if there were salamanders the size of a Buick in my yard, with heads like toilet seats, and many hundreds of sharp little teeth, dogs would not come here. And this would be Good.

For “dog,” spelled backwards, is “god.” And you know what that means.

Satan.

Raccoons, like so many of the things that in this world are Wrong, are the fault of white people.

Here the voice of the tubes:

There is evidence that in pre-Columbian times raccoons were numerous only along rivers and in the woodlands of the Southeastern United States. As raccoons were not mentioned in earlier reports of pioneers exploring the central and north-central parts of the United States, their initial spread may have begun a few decades before the 20th century. Since the 1950s, raccoons have expanded their range from Vancouver Island—formerly the northernmost limit of their range—far into the northern portions of the four south-central Canadian provinces. New habitats which have recently been occupied by raccoons (aside from urban areas) include mountain ranges, such as the Western Rocky Mountains, prairies and coastal bad prayi8ngmarshes. After a population explosion starting in the 1940s, the estimated number of raccoons in North America in the late 1980s was 15 to 20 times higher than in the 1930s, when raccoons were comparatively rare. Urbanization, the expansion of agriculture, deliberate introductions, and the extermination of natural predators of the raccoon have probably caused this increase in abundance and distribution.

Because of white people, raccoons are today totally out of control. And soon they shall not only be breaking into our homes and opening our refrigerators—this I have personally witnessed—but also manning our missile launchers.

Raccoons, I mean. Not white people. They already do that.

Before the advent of white people, raccoons were delimited to a small part of the North American continent. But now they are Going Everywhere. And thus, nowhere is safe.

For instance, Dumb People imported raccoons into Japan in the late 1970s. Today, they have taken over the entire country. You can be praying in some shrine in some Japan-land way-back-of-beyond, and a raccoon, totally Satan-controlled, will suddenly roar through the paper wall, and start gnawing on your knees.

Not even the Germans can stop them. Some raccoons got loose from a demented private zoo in Germany during a WWII air-raid, and today they are running totally wild. The population grew from 185 in 1956, to more than 400,000 in 2008. Not even German-style mass extermination programs have proven successful. Soon they will be in the government.

So I need the salamanders big as a car with the toilet heads and all the teeth. Roaming upon the grounds of The Manor. So that My Land can remain raccoon-free. There is enough Satan whenever I go to Google News. I do not also need Him too, whenever, at night, I look out the window.

The Chipmunks Genuflect To Me

put up yer dukes

Dance

When we did the show up in Portland, some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead floatmake all their noise, and anything else that happened.

This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.

And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:

“The king walks.”

And:

“The king turns around.”

And:

“Now the king will dance.”

—Ken Kesey


When I Worked

March 2015
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