Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
because the light is beautiful
Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
—I have more Hair later, than when I was younger.
—I am deeply complicit, in my own Erasure.
There are those who believe that the world shall not truly attain wonderment until consciousness may be extracted from icky yucky bodies and downloaded into some matrix, machine, tube.
Perhaps this is why most of the 1400 English words that Google has deemed inappropriate for its Android involve bodies. More specifically, bodies carnally at work and at play. Which, as is well-known, can result in the production of more bodies.
These words, they are eschewed, maybe, because Android, it is impatient, for that day. The day when bodies shall be obviated.
There’s no “sex” at the Googleplex.
Type or swipe the word on the latest version of Android’s Google Keyboard—or for that matter “intercourse,” “coitus,” “screwing” or even “lovemaking”—and the web giant’s predictive algorithm will offer no help.
These are just a few examples from an obsessive, and often baffling list of more than 1,400 English words that Google has quietly deemed inappropriate for Android users.
The banned directory includes “butt” and “geek,” all seven of George Carlin’s dirty words, a frat party’s worth of homophobia and misogyny, and is peppered with pornographic sub genres and fetishistically obscure medical terms, like “gonadatrophia” and “irrumination.” Genitalia is banned (with special attention paid to women’s bodies)[.]
Taken as a whole, Google’s list suggests not only a surprising discomfort with sexuality, but also reproductive health and undergarments. Words like “panty,” “braless,” “Tampax,” “lactation,” and “preggers” are censored along with sexual health vocabulary like “uterus” and “STI.”
“I try to Swype-type the word ‘condom’ and I get ‘condition’ or ‘confusion,’” said Jillian York, a spokesperson for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. “There is no context in which that makes any sense. Grow up, Android.”
Bodies, sure, they can be a drag. But there’s a reason why we’re in them. For we don’t have to be. Consciousness can remain bodyless and whole and undifferentiated. If it wants to. But it doesn’t seem to want to.
Unfortunately, once we get here, into these bodies, we seem to forget why that is. The answer, I think, can be pretty simply stated. “The universe,” as my colleague puts it, “wants to taste itself.”
Ye gods. Belatedly, I notice, wordpress, informing me, that I have inscribed 1019 posts, to this blog.
That’s since August 2008. A little over five years. Roughly, then, 200 posts a year.
Ye gods. What’s become of me? What might I otherwise have accomplished, if not pounding my pud here?
Probably, maybe, might: have built a pyramid.
Not that I didn’t: here: try.
But, no matter. What’s done/not-done is done/not-done. Blood flowed in great creeping weeping clots, under the bridge.
Probably—and particularly as humans are so enamored of round numbers—there should have been, here, here on red, a 1000th-post celebration. With party hats, and streamers, and maybe a drunk, pissing in the corner.
But it’s too late, for any of that now.
Instead, I shall inscribe, late, again, the very first post ever entered onto this blog. August 1, 2008. Standing, still, to me, as a perfect expression of the yearning futile yearning futile yearning experience of human beings, on this here planet.
When Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned in the Tower of London, he occupied himself with writing a history of the world. He had finished the first volume and was at work on the second when there was a scuffle between some workmen beneath the window of his cell, and one of the men was killed. In spite of diligent enquiries, and in spite of the fact that he had actually seen the thing happen, Sir Walter was never able to discover what the quarrel was about: whereupon, so it is said—and if the story is not true it certainly ought to be—he burned what he had written and abandoned his project.
And, in very belated response, to the sole comment posted, to that very first post of mine—”is the world so unrelievedly bleak from your tower?”—the answer is: no.
No. Not at all.
Because, sometimes, I am at that place. By the river. I can hear the boats go by. I can spend the night forever. And the sun pours down like honey. On our lady of the harbor. And she shows me where to look. Amid the garbage and the flowers.
And then: it matters not. That I was broken. Long before the sky would open. That I am forsaken. Almost human. That I sink beneath your wisdom. Like a stone.
For there are heroes in the seaweed. There are children in the mourning. And we’re leaning out for love. And we will lean that way. Forever.
While Suzanne: holds: the mirror.
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
We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s ”talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.
This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:
i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair
This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft, to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.
I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.
So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.
And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.
But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?
Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?
We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.
And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with aural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.
No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”
And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.
And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.
Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.
For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.
Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.
Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”
He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”
And so on.
Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over the radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.
And Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.
This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.
“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”
However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.
Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.
It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.
Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”
And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.
And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.
I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain
Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.
i am here with the range for everything
corpuscle muscle hair
hands that need the rub of metal
those senses that
that want to crash things with an axe
that listen to deep buried veins in our palms
those who move in dreams over your women night
near you, every paw, the invisible hooves
the mind’s invisible blackout the intricate never
the body’s waiting rut
—Michael Ondaatje, The Collected Works Of Billy The Kid
Mort Sahl is an American satirist who for many years made a career of walking on stage with a newspaper; he then proceeded to consult the headlines, in order to effectively mock the day’s political news.
It is said that Sahl retired sometime during the Nixon administration, having glumly concluded that the news was now satirizing itself: there was no longer any place for him. The political world had become so absurd and unsane, the news itself had usurped Sahl’s former role. A great Tear had occurred in the fabric of Reality, so that it was no longer possible to discern the Real, from the Joke.
The Sahl-retirement story probably isn’t true, but it should be. Richard Nixon, for instance, couldn’t possibly have been Real. And Sahl no doubt sensed this. Nixon was instead a character from a Robert Coover novel. Nixon was followed into the presidency by a former football player who never wore a helmet and who fell down the ramp whenever Air Force One landed. Next came a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer. Anyone who previously had pitched a work of fiction featuring as president a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer would have been shown the door. On the grounds that such a thing strayed just too far from the Real. Then, Ronald Reagan, who was clearly impossible, an Alzheimers-afflicted animatronic-being escaped from a Disney lab.
With Reagan’s successor, that’s when they really started getting obvious about it. Whoever “they” might be. With George I, who, in his convention acceptance speech, said “read my lips: no new taxes.” Even though he had no lips. Once in office, this comedic character indulged in absurdities like hauling a big bag of crack cocaine into the Oval Office, there to display it to the American people. Not even all the many pounds of Peruvian Marching Powder in the offices of Saturday Night Live would have inspired that show’s writers to concoct a president who played with a bag of crack during a nationally televised presidential address. George I they followed into office with an insatiable six-foot-tall penis. And, in the course of things, we were expected to believe that, in the late 20th Century, the political class of an entire nation would devote 18 straight months to minutely tracing every peregrination of this penis. Just as we were next expected to believe George II was the son of George I, when it was clear the man was actually Andy Kaufman.
And the nonsense continues to this day. Where, during the arc of Kaufman’s presidency, the two men on all the planet identified as America’s premier boogeymen were Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. So they next roll into the presidency some guy named Barack Hussein Obama. No one could make up such a thing. And no one has to. Because it is Reality.
Of course, it is not only in politics where the Joke is inseparable from the Real. Which brings us to the hideous photo from which you are averting your eyes, above. Here, we are expected to believe that humans shall soon stroll the streets wearing “food helmets,” a.k.a. the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Instead of whistling while they work, humans shall grow algae, with their breath, piped into a series of wormy tubes draped all over their heads. Then, at the end of the day, the algae, they shall eat it.
[The suit] grows food while wearers go about their daily business. A series of tubes, placed in front of the mouth, capture carbon dioxide and feed it to a constantly growing population of suit-embedded algae. But algae needs sunlight to grow, right? Easy, the wearer just needs to sit by a window or go outside.
You probably consume more algae than you think. That sushi you had last night and the ice cream you had for dessert, even the mayonnaise you spread on your lunchtime turkey sandwich—all have derivatives of algae.
“Algaculture designs a new symbiotic relationship between humans and algae. It proposes a future where humans will be enhanced with algae living inside new bodily organs, allowing us to be semi-photosynthetic[.]“
Yesterday came news that Science Men are now guesstimating that some 8.8 billion Earth-like planets exist in this galaxy. Out there in the dimmer precincts of the intertubes, humans immediately began wailing: “if there are so many Earth-like places out there, which must have lifes on them, how for come none of these lifes have contacted us Americans?”
The answer to this is both simple, and obvious. Intelligent life in this universe is deliberately eschewing direct contact with the human species. Until such time as said species get its Reality straight. And so no longer indulges in such weirdsmobiles as the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Or Richard Nixon.
The first thing that must be understood about Science Men is this: they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.
To wit: the latest wonderment to bleed from these people: that there was oxygen on this planet hundreds of million of years before they previously thought there was.
Kind of a boner, there.
Squeal like a pig.
In truth, they’re just groping.
Like everybody else.
And the only truly really way to get there, near as I can tell, at least on this planet, is through, first, knowledge and appreciation and attention and empathy, which results in pain, and pain, and pain, and pain, and great loneliness; and then, through magic, and through childhood, and through grace, there may be achieved a conscious uncoupling of oneself, from all and all of all their all and every, and a return of thyself, to from where we all did came: the great wide open.
when i was a child
i spake as a child
i understood as a child
i thought as a child
but when i became a man
i put away childish things
and now, we see through a glass, darkly:
but then: face to face
now i know, in part
but then, shall i know
even as also i am known
and now, stays: faith, hope, charity
but the greatest of these is charity
for though i speak with the tongues of men
and of angels
and have not charity
i am become as sounding brass
or a tinkling cymbal
and though i have the gift of prophecy
and understand all mysteries
and all knowledge
and though i have all faith
so that i could remove mountains
and have not charity
i am nothing
I don’t know. Maybe it’s just when I was born. Or maybe it’s brain damage.
Most likely it’s both. With something more, other, besides.
The reason why, I can’t climb aboard, whenever comes round, the latest death ship.
Debt ceiling. Climate change. Poisons. Population. Nukes. Nimrods. Drones. Wild-eyed crazy people, wielding knives.
So. Let us all. Rend furiously our garments. Weep. Cry in our beer. And at the sky. For all. Is all over. Humans—wring us thy hands—they do be succeeding, in killing all the planet.
What baby-blind arrogance.
To believe a little bone-throwing nascent mammalian species, can croak an entire planet.
What I meant, above, about “just when I was born,” is that, right when I emerged in this life from my chrysalis, was when Lovelock and Margulis first announced what was then known as “the Gaia hypothesis.”
Which, to put it simply, postulated that the planet is one giant organism.
I, instantly, saw it a little—ahem—furthur.
That not only is the planet one giant organism, but it is also conscious.
And, basically, I haven’t worried, a day, since.
“Profit motive” means very simply: you give less than you take. If you give less than you take, you grow mean and stingy. Everybody suffers. Morality is totally impossible.
Money is death. Ask yourself why banks and currency use the same images as tombstones.
The money. It is almost over. Blessed be.
We can see this, rightly, if we just look, right, at the current roil of news.
—First, in re the latest eternal recurrence of the American debt limit/grand bargain/ACA/government shutdown/blah-de-blah kabuki.
Cruz, and his fellow senators Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, and Ayn Rand Paul: all of them are non-sane; de-evolved; deeply, deeply, stupid. They are the Four Stooges of the 21st Century. With Cruz as the really fat and oafish Stooge, the one with the flat-top, who finds it difficult to even drool properly.
When people in other nations regard a person like Cruz, they clamor to know why their borders cannot be immediately and permanently sealed, against the advent of any and all Americans.
Extraterrestrials, meanwhile, have hastily constructed a hyperspace bypass, so that none of them need come anywhere near this planet.
The photo reproduced above, it proves absolutely that Cruz is a mentally divergent knuckledragger. An atavist who grunts and grinds in a world 2000 years long gone. For he is calling, there, down upon his knees, for divine assistance from one Jesus of Nazareth—a millennially long-gone, thoroughly mortal, Jewish prophet; pressganged, upon his death, by an ambitious toadstool of a Saul of Tarsus, into serving as cat’s-paw for some new and improved Sun King faith.
But of course, in truth, what Stooge Cruz is here really doing, upon his knees, before the White House, is calling upon all and every deity—Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Beelzebub, anyfuckingbody, even frigging Cthulhu—to get the goddam black man out of the White House.
For Ted Cruz, like anybody and everybody associated with, or even once fleetingly sympathetic with, the fabled “Tea Party,” is a five-star, glow-in-the-dark, racist.
If you could manage, some deep dark night, to burst into his bedroom, and shine a black light onto his forehead, before he might Take Precautions, you would find, stenciled there, on his forehead, as is stenciled upon the forehead of anybody and everybody ever associated with the Tea Party, these words: “I Hate Ni**ers.”
Cruz hates anything black. And, most especially, the black man in the White House. So much so that he, like his fellow five-star glow-in-the-dark racists Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, Ayn Rand Paul, and any and all persons ever even remotely associated or even fleetingly sympathetic with the Tea Party, is intent on making sure that the United States is transformed, economically, into Zimbabwe. Rather than let any dollars, touch the black man’s hands. They would first deny the black man the money to run the federal government . . . and they would deny it solely because he is black. That was the message and import of the fabled Cruz Green Eggs And Ham flaccidbuster. They are next intent on insuring that the black man cannot pay the nation’s debts. By refusing to raise the debt-ceiling limit. Thereby crashing and burning not only the federal government, but also the American economy . . . and, as my colleague has been cassandraing for the past umpteen-years, the status of the dollar as the world’s reserve currency.
But Cruz and Co., they don’t care. They are perfectly willing to stand in the fire. Even as it consumes them. So long as it first burns the black man.
—Next, there’s the pope. Something has gone seriously wrong with the fellow. So much so, that they’re probably going to have to poison him.
We first understood he’d gone stone-mad when one of his sub-primates emerged from some catacomb to pronounce priestly celibacy and marriage-eschewing “tradition,” rather than dogma. That means, the catacomber explained, that these things are not essential god-ordained ways to be a Catholic. But instead just something they do. And therefore they can change their minds about it, whenever they feel like it.
Then the pope himself, suddenly roared out of the pope-hole, to give an interview in which he told Catholic primates, prelates, and random assorted lay-nimrods, that people, like them, “obsessed” with abortion, birth control, gay people, and the like, should put a cork in it. He said that, in his popedom, he’s not going to talk about those things. Because they’re boring and trivial. And if people don’t like that, well, they can just bugger right off.
Finally, the new popeling, he seized the microphone, at some radio station, to rant, correctly, that money is “the dung of the devil”:
Money sickens our minds, poisons our thoughts, even poisons our faith, leading us down the path of jealousy, quarrels, suspicion and conflict. It drives to idle words and pointless discussions.
We can never serve God and money at the same time. It is not possible: either one or the other. This is not Communism. It is the true Gospel! They are the Lord’s words.
Money begins by offering a sense of well-being. Then you feel important and vanity comes. This vanity is useless, but still you think you are important. And after vanity comes pride. Those are the three steps: wealth, vanity, and pride.
“But, Father, I read the Ten Commandments and they say nothing about the evils of money. Against which Commandment do you sin when you do something for money?” Against the first one! You worship a false idol. And this is the reason: because money becomes an idol and you worship it. And that’s why Jesus tells us that you cannot serve money and the living God: either one or the other.
The early Fathers of the Church, in the 3rd Century, around the year 200 or 300, put it in a very blunt way, calling money ‘the dung of the devil’. And so it is. Because it turns us idolatrous, fills our thoughts with pride, and leads us away from our faith.
Holy fuck! It was bad enough that the guy opened his yap to say no war in Syria. Not even the Big Hat during WWII said stop the war: in fact, that cretin got down on his knees and thanked god when the Nazis invaded the USSR, imploring the Big Guy In The Sky to grant the Germans “total victory.”
Why can’t this pope behave like that?
Not only does he say stop the bomb-rain, but now he’s on about money.
Clearly, something’s going to have to go into his soup.
—Finally, it is a fact that there exists five times as much debt in this world, as there exists money. And anyone who has evolved beyond even Cruz-level can quickly apprehend—no matter how deficient their math skills—that this is a hole from which it is not possible to emerge.
Michelangelo was a sculptor. That’s all of who he was. The rich rat bastards, they kept paying him for paintings—he didn’t want to paint, but painting was where the money was. So, he painted.
A sculptor—what he really was—involved selecting and regarding a block of marble. Seeing what it was meant to be. Knowing the interior. The finished glowing being. Then, having to go, through time and effort and time, the tiresome endless work, of bringing out what was already there. The already happened.
Chip. Chip. Chip.
In the last decades of his life, Michelangelo approached marble, chipped away for a time, then stood back, saying he was finished.
No one, at the time, could see how he could possibly say that he was the least bit finished.
To this day, people do not understand what he meant. By “finished.”
His, here, is an avenue of art, that no one, over the past umpteen-hundred years, has pursued. Because it appears to be nothing but “unfinished.” Like, maybe, probably, he just gave up.
Bollocks. This is the man who had already used chisel and stone to depict the most precise and divine representations of human beings in the entire history of sculpture. Before, or since.
So, when he moved elsewhere, people should have paid attention.
But they didn’t. And they still don’t.
The “unfinished” Michelangelo pictured above is called “Awakening Slave.” From the title alone, it should be obvious, to anyone employing brain cells, that it is absolutely right, that the slave is unable to fully emerge from the marble. Michelangelo’s choice, here, was absolutely right.
He said that the marble spoke to him. And, when it said, stop carving, he stopped.
True artists don’t listen to the bullshit. They listen to the art.
Writing is like regarding a block of marble. The task is to chip away the bullshit, the effluvia, the waste, revealing, relating, only what is.
That is why, when I was 16, and first regarded the “unfinished” sculptures of Michelangelo, I knew exactly what they were about. He had gone beyond the mere perfection of form. To regarding, and representing, perfection attempting to emerge, yet held back, by the muck.
Now that I am older, I see a second reason why he went with the “unfinished.” Because, for decades, he’d put it all out there, in the way that they wanted to see it. Yet, they still didn’t get it. So: fuck ‘em. Go with the quantum. The finished/unfinished. The way it really is.
So, uh, this piece, that follows, I had grand finished plans for the thing, some weeks ago, when I wanted to both Snowden, and Zimmerman. I was first concerned about those in my karass so hurt by the Zimmerman verdict. And, next, those, also in my karass, so wounded by the Snowden revelations. Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever got around to serving, in what I have here written, completely, either. Much less both. The piece is unfinished. But I’ve decided to put it out there anyway. In hopes people can regard what is there, and see also into the marble. To what was meant to be. To what is.
(for robin and denise and amazing and adept and time and sephius and conk and tree and trayvon and sooth and seeta and ms. turn-up-your-radio and my pooldar anacaona and she-be-hawaiian-feet and the far rambling planet and all whose skins and souls burn 24/7 with the lies of this nation . . . . )
The Snowden uproar has been driven mostly by white people.
In garment-rending frenzy, that maybe government folks, are ear-trumpeting their phone conversations, goggle-eyeing their email.
Like, checking them.
People of color have, generally, been less exercised. Because, from when they first become conscious in this country, in this culture, people of color naturally assume they are being checked. Watched. Listened to. Tracked. As a condition of their very lives. Because, everything about their lives, about their history, teaches them that they are.
(The exception was when the Bolivian president’s homeward-bound plane was forced to the ground: people of color, then, particularly south of the border, they for sure, then uproared, over that. Because it was, so humiliatingly, typical of their lives, their history. To wit: white people won’t believe them. Will naturally assume them of involvement in nefariousness. Will physically roust them. Whenever they feel like it. Even if the rousted is the president of a sovereign nation.
(So let it be written. So let it be done.
(Same as it ever was.)
What people of color in this country would like, it is something more basic than freedom from a government-snout snorting about in their email.
What they would like, is a guarantee of physical safety.
That, maybe, they can feel free, to, oh, say, walk to the store, and back again, without getting shot.
And what the Zimmerman verdict tells them is that, once again, this—this is a forlorn hope.
Because what the Zimmerman verdict tells people of color is: no, really, they can’t—still “not yet”—walk to the store and back, without fear of being shot.
And white people, they have no idea, what that means.
To live, day in, day out, every day, like that.
Knowing they might be killed. For just walking the streets.
As they continue to squeal. The white people. About a snout. Maybe in their email.
I received, in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, an email from a person of color, who has succumbed to despair.
A lot of what I came up believing, spouted ad nauseam by Jose Marti and Rev Dr. King? I am doubting any of it now. I don’t believe for a New York minute we shall overcome, or “not too long.” This seems like the weakest pabulum and fairy tale imaginable. It’s open season on people of color.
What can I say to her?
And so now the Science Men have determined that in the Milky Way galaxy alone there are some 60 billion worlds pregnant with water.
And since the Science Men have previously determined that, where there is water, there is life . . . that’s a big heap pile lot of life.
Out of all them 60 billion or so neighbors, who be roiling and boiling with life, wonder some, how come none have ever come on by, this here Terran place, to at least say “hi”?
This: easily answered.
First: why, hoot the testosterone-pumped Star Wars/Alien boogaloos, have none of these neighbors “invaded”?
Because you don’t get to go into space, if you think in terms of “invade.”
Space won’t let you.
That’s just the way it is.
Space, it’s firm, in that way.
“Invasion” an atavist thing, a relict of the cradle. No one who is serious, no one who actually ventures into space, is in any way concerned with such anathema. No more so than with “harvesting” or “exploiting” resources.
That stuff stops, in space. Or, space stops you.
This can be understood very simply. Check the trailer below, from the 1970 documentary film Beneath The Planet Of The Apes. Where, from 0:11 to 0:16, the gorilla commander of the local serial-killers chants: “Invade! Invade! Invade!”
This is what this planet looks like to the 60 billion. And so none of them are even going to even briefly entertain the idea, to visibly come here. As space will never allow, such a de-evolvo, unfortunately alpha and omega, of this present-time planet, to ever get much off the ground.
It’s so small, thinking in this “invade” way. Just because humans have, so often, so far, been about “invade,” why should humans then think that, in all of the vastness of space, it will always inevitably also be about that?
Eyes be closed.
Not a chance.
How come, question next, none among these 60 billion neighbors, have ”communicated”?
Well, no doubt they have.
But how would humans ever know?
Humans are considered vastly more intelligent than ants. But how the hey would a human “communicate” with an ant? Even if something was achieved that looked like “communication,” from the human end, it would, from the ant end, be so bizarrely out of the realm of Ant Normality, chances are it would not be perceived as “communication.”
So, the same, the neighbors, communicating, with the human inhabitants of this here orb.
Communicating, are they, maybe, with you, right now.
Maybe, just, listen.
And then, question last: how come, these 60 billion neighbors, they haven’t “visited”?
Because, if you do not—as the space-traveling 60 billion do not—think in terms of “invade,” you simply don’t make yourself known to those who do.
No good can come of it.
Like, say, a monolith.
But nothing traceable. No appearing, say, live, on TV.
I like how, in this Science Man piece, it says that if humans were somewhere else, looking at this here earth, they would probably conclude it was real cold and inhospitable, in places like Brazil and Indonesia. Because those places “read cold” in infrared, due to the cloud cover. But underneath, it’s all about sweltering.
“If you look at Brazil or Indonesia with an infrared telescope from space, it can look cold, and that’s because you’re seeing the cloud deck,” Cowan said. “The cloud deck is at high altitude, and it’s extremely cold up there.”
Proving, yet again, that you never really know. Because machines don’t know shit. You have to actually get there. In your body. Transcend the readings of machines. Touch, taste, smell, hear, see it, for yourself.
“Man,” said Mordel, “possessed a basically incomprehensible nature. I can illustrate it, though: he did not know measurement.”
“Of course he knew measurement,” said Frost, “or he could never have built machines.”
“I did not say that he could not measure,” said Mordel, “but that he did not know measurement, which is a different thing altogether.”
He retracted it, raised it, held up a piece of ice.
“Regard this piece of ice, mighty Frost. You can tell me its composition, dimensions, weight, temperature. A man could not look at it and do that. A man could make tools which would tell him these things, but he still would not know measurement as you know it. What he would know of it, though, is a thing that you cannot know.”
“What is that?”
“That it is cold,” said Mordel, and tossed it away.
It’s kind of funny that it took the Science Men this long to look for clouds. Which, once they looked for them, caused them to immediately double their estimate of our life-pregnant neighbors.
I mean, clouds are kind of important. Humans figure that out when they’re just kids.
But maybe that’s the problem. It’s one of those things that, when you “grow up,” you forget.
When those of us who are, now, creeping into age, were kids, everywhere, all and every over, all over the globe, both the Science and Religious, then-wisdom, taught, taught that humans, were all alone, in the universe of the world.
There were no other planets.
Anywhere in the universe.
Much less anything that was “life.”
It was just humans.
We are all going into space. Anywhere we want: we will be.
We are not going in anything even remotely resembling any machine.
Bodies, these, they will come, and they will go. As we please. And we will be very pleased indeed.
Some people persist in denying the Reality of alternative universes. This is silly. But then, there you go. Humans: silly.
Fact is, as Dr. Che Guevera of the Havana Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics once observed, there are “one, two, many universes.” Some of these universes are very far from the one occupied in this moment by those here reading red. In such a faraway universe, one might encounter strange and startling phenomena like Dick Cheney moon-walking, or Michael Jackson, heartless, calling down bomb-rain. In such a place, a tank might ride around inside Michael Dukakis, rather than vice versa.
Other universes are much closer. There, most stuff may seem just like it is “here.” But there are subtle differences.
For instance, in a nearby universe, Ron “Rugs” Paul may possess three brain cells. Rather than two.
Occasionally, little windows wink in, through which one may briefly perceive an alternative universe. Actually, sometimes the windows aren’t all that little. Sometimes you can drive a freaking semi through the things. Like, when you eat a damn great dose of LSD.
But never mind that now.
It can sometimes be nonplussing, when an alternative universe winks in. One may, say, while driving, miss a turn. Because the turn is no longer there. Or take those teabaggers who wailed that when they attempted to vote for Captain Underpants, the machine recorded instead a vote for Barack Obama. All that happened there, was that they shifted a couple universes over, into one where they were Sane.
Recently photographic evidence emerged of the sudden wink-in of an alternative universe. It was even broadcast live, on the teevee. It involved a baseball pitcher for the team known as the Boston Red Sox.
For the uninitiated, rudimentaries of the game of baseball (as well as Proof that thought is alien to the male brain) may be found here.
Briefly, a baseball pitcher is expected to hurl a ball over the “plate.” Where a hitter then endeavors to hit it. The ball. Not the plate. Or the pitcher.
As seen in the gif below, Boston pitcher Felix Doubront threw a ball some distance from the plate. A fairly significant distance.
Sports people have been guffawing and heehawing about this for more than a week now. But that is because they are rude, and because they don’t Understand.
You see, Doubront did not suffer a little mini-stroke. And he was not under the influence of psychedelics, as was Dock Ellis, during his fabled no-hitter of 1970.
No, what happened is that, as Doubront prepared to deliver the pitch, a little window into an alternative universe winked in. Doubrant perceived the plate in that alternative universe, which was located some distance from the plate in this one. And thus he, correctly, heaved the ball towards that plate. Because that was the one he saw. In fact, in that alternative universe, the pitch was a strike.
We don’t see it, the alternative universe—complete with plate and batter and umpire and hot dogs and popcorn and everything—there in the gif, because it all winked in and out so quickly.
And because winking alternative universes are not always apparent to everybody. Some see ‘em; some don’t.
But they’re Real.
This is one of those stories that is hilarious, in a projectile-vomit sort of way.
Apparently the nation’s banks have decided they are “too moral” to handle money earned by people involved in the adult entertainment business.
Chanel Preston knows not everyone approves of her chosen profession. That’s one of the risks that go with being one of the biggest stars in porn. But she never thought it would affect her ability to open a bank account.
Preston recently opened a business account with City National Bank in Los Angeles. When she went to deposit checks into the account days later, however, she was told it had been shut down, due to “compliance issues.”
She found the manager she had originally worked with and asked what had happened. The bank, she was told, was worried about the Webcam shows she had on her site and had revoked the account . . . .
Preston noted she [also] has been denied a loan because of her profession[.]
“[The loan officer] asked me ‘are you affiliated with the adult entertainment industry?’ When I said yes, she said ‘We will not give you a loan,’” she said.
At least one adult-entertainment figure has had enough of this bollocks, and is taking to the courts.
Earlier this week, Marc Greenberg, founder of the soft porn studio MRG Entertainment, filed suit against JPMorgan Chase in Los Angeles Superior Court, alleging the bank violated fair lending laws and its own policy for refusing to underwrite a loan for “moral reasons”.
Greenberg says he was approached by a representative of the bank about refinancing an existing loan. But once he started the process, he says he saw repeated delays for four months. That’s when he said he reached out to a JPMorgan vice president for an explanation.
The vice president “was evasive in his response to plaintiff’s application status requests and finally informed plaintiff during a telephone conversation that plaintiff’s loan application was refused due to ‘moral reasons,’ because of JPMorgan’s disapproval of plaintiff’s former source of income and occupation as an owner of a television production company that produced television programs that dealt with the subject of human sexuality,” the complaint reads.
Greenberg’s attorneys claim they were told by the vice president that the application was denied because of the potential “reputational risk” to the firm.
Curiously, JPMorgan Chase, back when it was known simply as Chase, perceived no “moral reasons” or “reputational risk” that might prevent it from fondling money employed in Nazi Germany to kill and rob Jews.
Between 1936 and 1941, Chase and other US banks helped the Germans raise over $20 million in dollar exchange, netting over $1.2 million in commission—of which Chase pocketed a cool $500,000. That was a lot of money at the time. The fact that the German marks used to fund the operation came from Jews who had fled Nazi Germany didn’t seem to bother Chase—in fact they upped their business after Kristallnacht (the night Jews throughout Nazi Germany and Austria were systematically attacked by mobs in 1938). Chase also froze the accounts of French Jews in occupied France before the Nazis had even gotten around to asking them to.