Archive for the 'Sunday Services' Category
So apparently there is some rich-fuck rightwing racist shameless welfare-recipient Mormon-underpants-wearing rancher wantonly roaming his cows over public land for which he has not paid grazing fees for more than 30 years.
This nit-knock has deluded a Reality wherein the federal government don’t mean shit; only, so says he, shall he acknowledge the government of the State of Nevada. He’ll pay them, says he, the state people, to graze, his cattle, over land that don’t belong to him, but he won’t pay no feds.
Next, he’ll be raving on about how he gets to keep slaves.
‘Cause that is jist the sort of git, that this git is.
I am mostly— when not earning my crust in the folly of the law—painting oils, and planting seeds, these days.
Occasionally, I’ll peer into a tube.
That’s how I found out about this old nutbag Nevada sunburnt Mormon, who insists he can ejaculate his cows, for free, all over public land.
And my question, it is this: didn’t we already have the monolith?
Didn’t the true-life documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey document the true fact that ape-men, they stood before a powerful passing planted black slab, millions of years ago, and thereby grew a brain?
So that we are actually millions of years beyond this yeehaw screaming till his lips bleed that he has a “natural right” to freely and flagrantly cornhole his cows on public land?
I am simply not allowing this crazed cattle-cornholer into my universe.
For he is like a species-appendix. Some weirdsmobile, completely shrunken and malfunctional organ, that may, several million years ago, have actually had a purpose. But, these days, we have no idea what that purpose may have been.
He is an old and desiccated desert rat, and soon he shall die. And, though his of-family people—who are many and manifold, because he refused in his lifetime to control in any way his loins—shall upon his memory weep, soon no one will remember anything about him.
Because, in the great wide open to come, all the land, will belong to everybody.
It is the bare beginnings of this, that this cornholing Rancher Retrovert, he cannot abide.
Too bad for him.
He’s already over.
We, of the seed people, we have gone long beyond all the galloping cornholing Rancher Retrovert horseshit that appears each day in the “news.”
This blah NSA blah Ukraine blah Nevada horse-ass blah blah blah blah.
Who gives a shit. None of them have ever once touched the monolith. They are so hundreds of millions of years behind the times. Just let them go. They don’t even actually exist. Close our minds to them: and they are gone. Willed-away wisps.
I am growing feverfew. Also, sunflowers. Moonflowers. Hot peppers. Potatoes. Some several different-one blueberries. I am growing passionflower—where it is not supposed to grow. Because I can, and I will. Dill. I am growing. Meadowsweet. Fairies. Magic. I am growing. Sage. Unto immortal May. I am growing. Madder. To dye all us good Celts red. As it has always been written. As even unto today it is done. I am growing. I am surrounding myself with garlic and arnica. I am growing. Buckwheat. It will be all and everywhere. I am growing. All the opium and wormwood: I shall plant thee: and then thee, shall, in vision, plant thyself in me.
I am growing.
I am no longer a sterile shrunken intertubes pod. “Living,” on a screen.
I am growing.
I am coming round here. Just about midnight.
Last year there were a lot of daffodils, but not a lot of iris.
I have no idea why this is. Because no one is talking.
When you are a red and transparent bearded dragon, and you are really relaxed, sleeping at night, up there on your sticks, you just let your front legs totally hang down.
I now have three wicker rocking chairs, and two wicker non-rockers.
I am The Wicker Man.
When you are zebra finches, you are real easy about what is “daylight.”
If somebody turns a light on where you are, you come out of your nest and start klacking around, as if it is the dawn.
Humans should not take advantage of this. They can muck up their own sleep schedules, but they should not discombobulate these Klacks.
For there is only one thing, for sure, that no deer, anywhere, will not eat, and that is cement.
Squirrels get a bad reputation among humans because most humans only observe squirrels on the road. Where they zig and zag back and forth in front of incoming automobiles.
This leads humans to believe that squirrels are brainless. But they are not.
A lot of Bad Animals want to eat squirrels. Squirrels cannot outrun many of these Bad Animals. But they can confuse and frustrate the fuck out of them, by zigging and zagging, zigging and zagging. Through this, they can often get away.
When humans started inflicting automobiles upon the planet, about 100 years or so ago, squirrels, quite rightly, regarded these automobiles as a Danger. Evolution had taught them that the way to evade Danger—if there was no tree immediately at hand—is to zig and zag.
That doesn’t often work with automobiles.
But you can’t blame the squirrels.
Evolution sometimes takes a long time to catch up. For instance, the reason why many—and soon most—Americans, they are as fat as blimps, is because humans evolved to savor most the taste of fruit and meat. Which, these days, means candy bars and McDonalds hamburgers. Affordable to almost anybody.
For 100,000 years, fruit and meat were most often in short supply. No longer.
And so Americans, till evolution catches up, will weigh more than many planets.
Some creatures, in re automobiles, have it even worse than squirrels.
Take the wolverine. Evolution had taught the wolverine that, no matter what it was, even if it was a grizzly bear, the best thing to do was to stand and fight.
And so, when the automobile was unleashed upon the land, the wolverine would stand in the road, and say to the automobile: “C’mon.”
This is why, today, there are no wolverines, where there are automobiles.
Squirrels, when not afflicted by automobiles, are actually pretty disciplined and direct.
They have also, over the last two years, buried about 700,000 peanuts around this yard.
For, if someone were to dig up this place, a century or two along the line, they would no doubt conclude: “this property, without doubt, was a peanut plantation.”
When, in truth, there were just a fair number of squirrels, and jays, to whom I fed peanuts. Because they liked them so. And because I liked them, so.
and under the boughs unbowed
all clothed in snowy shroud
she had no heart so hardened
all under the boughs unbowed
Miep, you say:
Blueness, did you hear about that poor man who got shot down in the hills by the ABQ police? My other friends and I were all very upset. There are people trying to arrest the ABQ police department now. It’s horrible. Firing squads dressed up in police suits.
Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because it got to be too much for him. And our delightful asshole culture sent a bunch of dudes up there after him with a trained attack dog and assault rifles.
And they murdered him after they escalated the situation. After he agreed to surrender.
He was just camping.
Fucking shot him down. He turned away. I’ve had friends who were that upset. They fucking shot him down. He could have been a good friend of mine from earlier back in my life. They fucking shot him down. “Firing Squad Dressed Up In Police Costumes.”
Who knows who that man was? He could have been a lover, a painter, an artist. He could have been our best friend.
Fucking shot him down.
I love how you hew to non-violence, Blueness. That’s a tough road to travel.
And I say: how can I not hew to non-violence?
If I do not, then someday, in spirit, or in flesh, I will be up there, down there, just like them, them ABQ law-jockeys, knuckles drug all the way into the ground, fucking shooting someone down, because s/he did, basically, not sufficiently walk, like me, talk, like me.
and i will hang my head
hang my head
And I cannot do that, because, all those other all and everys, they’re me.
I know this. Whenever I ever encounter any other being on this, or any other, planet—animal, mineral, vegetable—I know that being is me.
How can people not see this?
How can people hurt and kill themselves?
Beats me. Beats us all. All us all.
I have arisen not from the dead. But from the living. And I am not a voice crying in the wilderness. For there is no winter here. No dark. No despair. The lights are going on in my house. For there is no darkness anywhere. I have all my lights on. And it is my own face, I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.
Once upon an all and every, we were all of one undifferentiated consciousness, spanning all of space and time. Anything we wanted to be, any place we could be, we would be. All and every one of us. And always together.
Somewhere along the line, it was determined—probably by somebody like Satan—that such shit was, well, boring.
It was all happy and wrapped and loving and snug and snuggly and all, but, like, where was the great wide open?
What might it be like if one could shed the other 400 trillion beings clinging to the brain-pan, and live a life just as a one?
It’ll be, like, fun.
And so, they—we—did that.
And, from that, is where we, here on earth, get terms like “shrieking,” “ululating,” “rending their garments,” “biting through their tongues,” “scraping the shit off their skin with pot-shards,” “screaming till their lips bleed,” “blowing their brains out,” and other pleasantries.
I mean: think: why is the first thing a baby born into this world, do do, is cry?
Because that baby being, having moved from the collective consciousness, to the trapped caged lonely consciousness of singular, feels that hollowness and estrangement and alienation and radio silence, and then realizes: oh shit. I wanna go back.
All life. Of every human being. On this planet. Is about wanting to go back. To the undifferentiated cloud. To the great wide open.
All of everything every human has ever been about, here, is about that.
“Love,” always and every acknowledged in every culture as some sort of misty grail, is so acknowledged because it is the closest the scraped-off individualized human loonily marooned on this planet can get, to what it was, all and always. where they came from, where all were suffused in one, all were in touch, all were one.
Miep: the download, to this planet, from the collective to the individual: in this there are variables.
There are, like, the fucking rawboned mutant ruined Bill Gates 666 Windows downloads, which result in monsters like those ABQ cops, who feel no kin to anyone, ‘cept maybe pit bulls, and so slaver to kill, conquer, subdue, smile, smirk.
Whereas people like you and I, we are more suffused with something like the Eden-promise of Apple, when it was still but the gentle dream in Steve Wozniak’s soul, there in the puttering Palo Alto garage, long before the grasping money-souled Steve Jobs seized hold of it, and transformed it into Product.
It’s all going to be okay, Miep. Because we really are all one soul, and one being. And this all is just a temporary experiment, one disastrously launched upon because, up there in “heaven,” we got bored.
That’s what all this all is all about.
In getting there, some of us incarnate as dumbshit pit bulls, like the ABQ cops. And some incarnate as people who, like you, pet tarantulas, and feel so much you can barely stand to wake each day.
We all, eventually, one by one, decided up there, that this was a good idea.
We have to trust that it really is.
I believe it is.
I believe we will all go again into the great wide open. And without bodies. Which is the way that we came here. But we will go back out with individual “minds.” Within the collective ones.
And I believe that, when we at last swirl really away, a la Childhood’s End, we will retroactively bring with us all incarnated corporeal beings ever sentenced to this planet.
Which is what, fumbling, people like Jesus and Buddha were trying to get to.
And now you know. Why, really, I no longer post on the cross of Daily Kos.
As neither do you.
you can take
all the tea in china
put it in a big brown bag for me
sail it right around
all the seven oceans
drop it straight into the deep blue sea
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
Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption.
He said redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that’s how important redemption is.
No one can take it away.
“Noah was an asshole.”
“He didn’t argue.”
“Noah should have argued?”
Yakov explained, “Abraham argues with God not to kill everyone in Sodom and Gomorrah. Moses pleads with God not to kill worshippers of the golden calf. But God tells Noah to build a boat because He’s going to flood the entire world, and what does Noah say? Not a word.”
“Not a word,” said Bobby, “and saves the minimum. What a bastard.”
—Martin Cruz Smith, Wolves Eat Dogs
from the book of Genesis
8:1 And the ark bobbed on the face of the waters, for a fuck of a long time. And Noah, he was sore A-Thirst. For though the N-man had dutifully brought aboard the boat, two by two, every ant and chigger and screwworm that did inhabit the earth, he had forgotten, in his haste, to secure any booze.
3: And the raven, he flew high, and he flew low, and finally he did Find a bottle, floating upon the waters. He drew forth the cork, and then he tasted of the liquor, to make sure it was Fit for the irascible jonesing Noah. But lo, yea verily, when the taste was completed, not a drop in the bottle remained.
4: And the raven flew, unsteadily, back to the ark, and there slurred and hiccupped to Noah, “Sorry, boss; no booze be about.”
5: And Noah, as one drunk knows another, knew that the raven had partaken of the Stinking Waters, and his Wrath, it knew no bounds, was without measure; yea, verily, not even in cubits.
6: And, in his Anger, the N-Man sent forth his Hand, and with it he grabbed a squid, and, mightily Squeezing it, spewed squid ink all over the raven. And that is why the raven, formerly white, is Black unto this day.
7: And Noah stalked wrathfully through the bilge-waters swamping the ark, until he came unto the Dove. And then, unto the dove, he screamed, till his lips bled: “Bring me some fuckin’ booze, goddamit!”
8: And the dove, she was sore Afraid. For Noah was holding a gun to the head of the dove’s mate. And Noah, God’s anointed, was Shrieking: “I am an American! And if I do not soon splash booze down my gullet, the dove gets it!”
9: And the dove, she flew high, and she flew low, until she Came upon, on the face of the waters, a little airline-size bottle of vodka. Trembling, she took the bottle into her beak, and flew back with it to the ark.
10: There, Noah, still holding the barrel of his .44 to the different-one dove’s Head, grabbed with his other hand the airline bottle, unscrewed the top, and then Poured the contents down his throat.
11: “Glory be!”, Noah then said unto the Lord. “Liquor!”
12: Just then, the ark bumped into land. And so the endless Voyage, yea verily, it was over.
13: And then the Lord said unto Noah, “All your trials, No-Man, be over. And now I shall place into the sky, a boozebow, as a sign that never again shall I deprive a man of liquor.”
15: And so, to this day, whenever a man has ballooned himself with liquor, yea verily, unto a BA of .23 of so, he beholds, passing across what remains of his Vision, one or more boozebows, these a sign that the Lord has promised that never again shall he drown the world’s booze supply beneath the Waters.
16: And that the trembling dove, she brought back to Noah the first airline bottle of Vodka, this is why she was Permitted to remain white, and stands to this day as a Symbol of Peace, and Goodness, and Loveliness; and why every year, commencing on September 1, Americans go out with their Firearms, and blast the doves out of the Sky. And then pluck them, and Eat them.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
9:1 And it came to pass that as soon as the ark struck Land, Noah, he did kick open the door, and then splash out into the still receding surf, his hands Flapping crazily at his sides, a-search for the nearest 7-11.
2: And Noah did enter a 7-11, and there came upon a case of Liquor, and this he took back with him. Where, in the shadow of the ark, he hastily pitched a tent. And then crawled inside it. And there, within its confines, he proceeded to Down the bottles of liquor, two by two.
3: And Noah became totally shit-faced. And he did pass out into drunken slumber, his robe in such disarray that his pee-pee hung out.
4: And Ham, Noah’s son, he was bitterly splashing through the receding waters, realizing, belatedly, that the Lord had drowned all the women in the world, and that therefore his own pee-pee was Useless as tits on a boar hog, and would forever be employed at naught but passing water.
6: And Ham went unto his brothers, and said, “Come look at this. The drunken old goat is in his booze-wallow snoring away with his pee-pee hanging out.”
7: But Ham’s brothers, they were Afraid of the pee-pee, and so they walked backward, like in a film spooled wrong, into the Tent, and there they Heaved a blanket over Noah’s drunken old shriveled pee-pee.
8: And one or more of the brothers, they did Rat Out brother Ham to Noah, saying, “Father, Ham saw your pee-pee. And he told us to look at it too.”
9: And Noah, he was Drunkenly filled with Wrath. And so, for the crime of Unauthorized Pee-Pee Viewing, Noah did pronounce a Curse.
10: But Noah, he was so fucking drunk, that he pronounced the Curse on Ham’s son, Canaan, rather than on Ham himself. Maybe because, when you’re really drunk, it’s harder to enunciate “Ham,” than simply slur “Canaan.”
11: And it came to pass that Nimrods invented first Christianity, and then Islam. And that psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers among them hallucinated that this “curse of Noah” had enveloped Ham in black skin, and Decreed that he and his—black people—serve as slaves, until the End of days.
12: And the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreathers saw that it was Good. ‘Cause from it they made a lot of money.
13: And, yea verily, in pursuit of money, it later came to pass that it was determined that a film of Noah would Be “boffo box office.”
14: And so the Lords of film finance, they did Say, “For Noah, we will get Russell Crowe: he is a rampaging Australian who is frequently as drunk as Noah. Also, half the women on the planet have crawled into Crowe’s tent and there viewed his pee-pee. It will be type-casting.”
15: And when the film was completed, the psychotic yeehaw mouthbreather Christians and Muslims, they wandered the Land, weeping and shrieking and rending their garments and even, yea verily, exploding their heads. Because not once in the film is the word “God” uttered. And to these Nimrods, this was anathema.
16: Because these Nimrods, psychotic and yeehaw and mouthbreather as they are, did not Understand that the film’s director, Darren Aronofksy, is Jewish, and thereby forbidden from inscribing the full name of God, much less in a film script, lest he risk fire, brimstone, plague, frogs, locusts, blood-rivers . . . or even waking up in a tent, from out of a booze coma, to find people staring at his pee-pee.
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.