Archive for the 'What’s Good' Category

I Am A Peanut Farmer

A fun thing, when you’re trying to grow things, is seeing what might decide to grow, that pretty much has nothing to do with you, and your sweet amusing gentle intentions.

Here, I have to, daily, feed the squirrels and the jays. The favorite let there befood of each, both, is peanuts. So, every day, I slather the brick rail, with said nuts.

Many things, here, I would like to grow, but they die on the vine; never come up; are chewed back to nothingness by invisible insects; are thrown out of their holes by raccoons; are slob-hooved trampled by deer; are just too frightened and depressed to even much try to grow.

But then, there are peanuts. I have not planted even one of these. They are not supposed to even grow here. But the jays and the squirrels—in their world, some of the peanuts you eat; some you bury.

The bury peanuts. Are now busting out all over. They are boldly, bravely, sprouting, in every nook and cranny, here on the grounds of the Manor. More, I find, every day. And I am bringing them along. I did not plant them. But I am, now, a peanut farmer.

No Ways Tired

from & for sugar

Nose For News

All day I have been seeing these headlines about some racehorse and “nasal strips.”

Do I even want to snortknow what this is about?

No. I do not.

All I know is that yesterday I bought a pink plastic watering can in the shape of a pig; when you water, the water flows out the pig’s twin noseholes.

This, clearly, is the zenith of both the industrial age, and the information age.

As they say in scripture: “It is accomplished.”

Both ages: they are over.

Now, we can move on to something else.

As we can move on to something else from “riding” a horse in a “race.”

When you are with an animal, when an animal is with you, you are only, who you are, when it’s an island.

Just you two.

And you are an animal. All of you.

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

Let There Be Lust

(Reprinting this here because I’m still grumpy from making the mistake May 1 of descending into the pre-monolith political blogs, wherein knuckle-dragging screechers and screamers were, foam-flecked, furiously flinging feces at one another, as to whether anarchists, dewcommunists, or slow-moving centrist sloths, did first come up with “May Day.”

(All of them: wrong. So wrong. So completely wrong.

(For the day, outside this so desensualized industrial age, has never had anything whatsoever to do with anything so foul and filthy and sterile and impotent and neuter and non-productive and fleeting and impermanent and totally over as “labor,” as “work.”

(May Day: it’s a fuck festival. Always has been; always will be. Alpha and omega. Unto the end. Amen.)

Millennia before the political people got hold of it, May Day was for lovers.

Equidistant between the Vernal Equinox and the Summer Solstice, arrived that day when human beings participated in the seasonal renewal of life by themselves bursting into bloom—making love.

Or, sometimes, simply, easily, naturally: in “but” fucking.

Details varied. In some places, particularly in the Celtic realm, this day was known as Beltane. Sometimes a woman and man, recognized as particularly sympathetic to or skilled in the magic arts, would, representing the Goddess and God themselves, couple in a ritualized ceremony, either observed or alone, and most often in a freshly seeded field.

Very often, as it says here, “[y]oung couples were encouraged to test their fertility with Beltane trysts, and any babies born from Beltane were believed to be blessed by the Goddess herself.” Pretty magical, such witch children.

Too, “[t]rial unions, called hand-fastings (as the lovers’ clasped hands were bound by ribbon), were also popular at Beltane, committing the couple to each other for one year and a day in preparation for a marital commitment.” Such a ceremony is today popular among some contemporary neo-pagans.

Other places, on this day, there was a sort of relationship “time-out,” when the people of the tribe, in the interest of renewing the earth, could couple indiscriminately, and without consequence.

furthur=>

We Are Accomplished

Let Us Pray

An Actual Really Truly Live “Good Friday” Would Mean A Naked Stoned Hippie Woman Sirened Jesus Onto A Plane, Bound For The Great Ride Open, Flying Him Forever And Away From The Cross

‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.

He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.

Gethsemane

And Our Seed Is G

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 caledonia soul music: what it isbelong 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.

That in the great wide open to come all the land will belong to everybody, is why, plkntthese days, I am planting these seeds.

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.

. . . . You Were Only Waiting, For This Moment, To Be Free

Love Is Lord Of All

Eve Crucified

I’m Telling You, So You Can Tell

Palm Sunday Again

Upon A Thousand Hills

Last year there were a lot of daffodils, but not a lot of iris.

This year there were almost no here today, gone tomorrowdaffodils, but now there is 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.

If you are trying to grow outside various different-one plants, and you go to the intertubes, to attempt to learn what deer will not eat, you cannot, in the more pleaseend, trust anything that you read.

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 help me, spockfat 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.

This is what amuses me about archeologists and such who dig up my friendsome shard from 7000 years back and then construct an entire Reality around it.

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.

All It Is

i see you

 

Satori

were you ever driving at 3 in the morning down some 2 lane road in upstate new york & it was raining & the only thing you can get on the radio is some station out of memphis or someplace which comes in perfectly clear & plays great music like life is but a dream du wop du wop & you just turn it up & say to yourself “what the fuck, what the fuck?” well that’s how i feel walking to the post office.

—Jeffrey Miller

Each Feather, It Falls From Skin

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.

You say:

Blueness, he was just up there camping in the hills, because scary campingit 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.

You say:

And they murdered him after they escalated the situation. After he agreed to surrender.

You say:

He was just camping.

You say:

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.

You say:

Fucking shot him down.

You say:

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
low

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?

And so, some bored whole beings, decided—yeah, hot damn, let’s maybe, like, funincarnate into individual corporeal containers.

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.

The purpose behind all this earthly suffering is that we want to be the one soul, like we yesused to be, but we also want to feel it individually.

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

Not Finished

yet will I sing
bonny boys
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 boys
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

Wherever He Goes The People All Complain

Inventions

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 truecrossed 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.

So this Illinois farmer Joe guy: he’s a figment. Joyce had it right. It is just too perfect: that a nun i'm sorryinvented barbed wire. So I am going with that. It is Reality.

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.

The internet, of course, was invented by insane people who sought a means by which serial killers in nuclear missile silos could continue to communicate with one another after they had let loose their missiles and incinerated the whole of the globe.
Tom Robbins intuited that “human beings were realinvented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another.”
In Sirens of Titan Kurt Vonnegut revealed that the whole of human history was invented and controlled by beings of the planet Tralfamadore, subtly but firmly arranging things so that eventually a small metallic object, something like a can opener, would unknowingly and naturally be brought, in the fullness of time, from Earth to Titan, moon of Saturn, and there would replace a disabled part in the grounded spaceship of a Titan-marooned Tralfamadorian ambassador, allowing this Tralfamadorian-being to then continue his mission into the great wide open, charged with transporting, from one end of the universe to the other, a message that read, simply:
Greetings.
If there is one thing that we know, in the all and every of this universe, it is this: this story, vouchsafed to us by Vonnegut, is Absolutely True.


When I Worked

August 2014
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