Archive for the 'Ms. Ah-Ha' 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
Until today, I believed absolutely that a nun invented barbed wire.
Then I was informed, by the intertubes, that this was just some shit made up by James Joyce, in Ulysses.
That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way of she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.
According to the intertubes, barbed wire was actually invented by some farmer in Illinois named Joe.
Sorry. I’m not buying it.
For the intertubes is an ever-roiling snakes’-nest of lies.
Anybody can post any nonsense, balderdash, barking-mad insanity to the thing.
I know. I’ve done it myself.
For just one instance, the intertubes would have me believe that when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to community service in a morgue, it was a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites by a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents who also controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” assassin Sirhan Sirhan.
Then there’s this sadsack over to the left. He is the guy who invented the typewriter. He later disowned the machine, refusing to use it, or even recommend it. He was a newspaper publisher who was an indefatigable advocate of the abolition of the death penalty. This was in the mid-1850s. Clearly, ahead of his time. His typewriter had ivory keys, and ebony keys, like a piano. He lived in Wisconsin, land of cheese. He, in the course of things, sucked in TB, and eventually died of it, some nine years later. He was 71 at the time, which was pretty old for somebody dying in 1890. He may have soured on the typewriter because to test it he kept shipping it to a crazed maniac who delighted in destroying it. The maniac would ship it back in pieces. The maniac kind of like that ape in the old TV commercials who used to jump up and down on the luggage. The eschewer-of-his-own-invention sadsack was the doyen of QWERTY. And though he turned his back on it, QWERTY controls Anglo scribblers to this day.
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.
And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.
He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.
So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.
But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?
They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.
And in this, they do answer their own question.
Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
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
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.
Over the past week the temperatures here have averaged eleventy-billion degrees. It is like living inside a solar flare. Many old people, if they happen to open the door to let the cat out, and inhale just once of the outside air, collapse in a heat coma. They are then rushed to hospitals overflowing with people seeking treatment for third-degree burns incurred when they laid hands on the molten metal handles of the doors to their cars. If you have not seen any of this on the news, it is because there is a Coverup.
During this period, I have not been around this here red, because I have been intensively involved in a Science Man study. You see, it is my hypothesis that, through some Unholy process, the interior and the surface of the earth, they have somehow been Exchanged. So that here, on what once was the surface, we are now living in magma.
However, as ever, all is relative. For yesterday, in the late afternoon, in utter grumperment about the warp-ten heat, and as I was trying not to pass out in the kitchen, I switched on the local community radio station . . . mostly to learn if there might be anyone else left alive.
I heard chirping a young pre-teen, hosting one of the station’s “kids’ shows.”
The heat certainly hadn’t beat this human. In fact, she was content, even joyful, in it. For this plucky little person played the song offered below, “Walking On Sunshine”; the sunshine, or something, making her feel all bouncy, and happy, and hopeful.
And, through her, at least as long as the song lasted, I felt that way, too.
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.
Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Picture: 1968.
Of course, the Academy bestowed but two of these awards.
But so what? They’re all Real.
On my way back up the hill, I stopped at the cheap gas station for some fumes for the truck. While there, I thought I’d also pick up a pack of smokes.
I asked the guy for some GPCs, and he crouched down to rummage around under the counter. He began emitting muffled language, but I couldn’t understand it: he hails from the Middle East, and I do not, so there was something of a communication problem.
When his head reappeared, I was able to understand that he was offering that if I bought two packs, I could get them for ten dollars. Which is something of a deal around here. So I said yes: he sold me.
I asked him if the place always offered GPCs that cheap, and he pointed to a hand-lettered sign inlaid on the counter, offering, for a time, Marlboros and Camels, at two packs for ten bucks. He let me understand that he thought he’d pass the same deal on to me with GPCs.
I thanked him, and turned to go.
“Come back,” he said. “I give you always.”
Now, I know that he meant that if I kept coming by the store, he would recurrently sell me the smokes two packs for ten dollars. This he expressed in “incorrect” English. But I was so charmed with what he said. So much finer than “real” English.
“I give you always.” What a wonderful thought.
(That was a good Diary. It reminded me somewhat of something I’d penned myself, back in the 1990s. Not nearly as polished and precise, mine, as Meteor’s work; but then, after all, he is he, and I am me.
(But then that seemed like so much work. To retype it for the tubes.
(So I abandoned that idea: because, basically, these days, I’m fat and happy and lazy, and pretty consistently vote “no” on anything that seems like work.
(But then, for reasons that best remain obscured, I was galvanized to enter the thing—changed some, naturally, because the intertubes allows one to do that—after all.
(A day or 18 late, of course. And several hundred thousand dollars short.
(What’s interesting to me now, about this piece, is how angry I was then. Because I’m just not that angry anymore.
(But that’s a different Diary.)
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.
“They’ve gone crazy.”
High above Second Street, in his nook in his cranny in the Chico News & Review editorial sukkah, journalissimo Jason Ross stood erect in full naked fulmination.
“They’re acting like it’s VJ Day, for chrissake,” he fumed. “And all they’re doing is putting up a flag. Ads all over the radio, live television coverage, Bruce Sessions beating the drum hourly—these people have lost all control.
“Look,” he demanded, freeing paper pinned to his wall. “Look at this.” Thrusts forth a Calvin Klein image, pleading to peddle Obsession for Men, flashing a giant b&w naked male torso: above, the head peers downward; below, a hand stretches open, and taut, the front of a pair of briefs.
“That’s what they’re doing, with all this flag bullshit,” Ross declaims. “Looking at their cocks. That’s all it is.”
Though Ross is a direct descendant of the dowdy dowager who sewed the first stars and stripes, in a fetching but ultimately futile attempt to seduce George Washington, he was not at all impressed with the day’s flag-waving affair.
For this day, out in the asphalt lot afront Ron and Nancy’s, the Park Avenue steak & scotch joint where cigarette smoke goes to die, a zealous swarm of north valley idolworshippers planned to raise a massive banner in honor of some nonsense known as “America.”
Karma—and, more urgently, the need for money—had called on Billy Buck Naked and I to cover the erection. We’d stopped by the office on the way to the event to grab a camera, and to receive last-minute instructions from the international communist cabal that controls the CN&R.
“If there are going to be dicks on display I guess we better forget the pictures,” Naked now mourned. “Speer’ll never print them. I used to work here; I know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “These are Republicans; it’s against their religion to get naked. A lot of these characters aren’t really attired like you and I anyway. Bernie Richter, Wally Herger, Ted Hubert—those people don’t change clothes; they shed.”
“Then let’s get going,” Naked urged. “I don’t want to miss the blessing of the tanks.”