Archive for the 'Wyrds' Category

Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I have a recurring fantasy that if one were to dial the telephone number of someone in the past, one would hear again a familiar voice, and time would instantly rewind from now to then. I still have Orson Welles’ telephone number in my book (213-851-8458). Do I dare ring him and talkstill here to him back in 1982, where he is busy trying to convince Jack Nicholson to play Pellarin for two not four million dollars? Should I tell him that he’ll not get the picture made? No. That would be too harsh. I’ll pretend that I have somehow got a copy of it, and that I think it marvellous though perhaps the handkerchief was, from so prudish a master, a bit much? Even incredible.

“Incredible?” The voice booms in my ear.”How could it be incredible when I stole it from Othello? But now I have a real treat for you. Standing here is your neighbour . . . Rudy Vallee! Overcome that ‘quiet reserve of shyness.’ Sing!

From out of the past, I hear, “My time is your time,” in that reedy highly imitable voice. The after-life’s only a dial tone away. “What makes you think that this is the after-life?” Orson chuckles. “This is a recording.” Stop story here.

—Gore Vidal, “Remembering Orson Welles”

Tubes: Done

I’ll tell you what I’d like to see happen.

The kinds of super-bright, hardworking geeky people who, 50 years ago, would have been building moon rockets or hydrogen bombs or donewhat have you have ended up working in the computer industry, doing jobs that in many cases seem kind of ignominious by comparison.

What I’m kind of hoping is that this is just kind of a pause, while we assimilate this gigantic new thing, ubiquitous computing and the Internet. And that at some point we’ll turn around and say, “Well, that was interesting—we have a whole set of new tools and capabilities that we didn’t have before the whole computer/Internet thing came along.

“Now, let’s get back to work doing interesting and useful things.”

Neal Stephenson

Sleepers Awake

As someone said to me—I can’t remember now who it was—it is really remarkable that when you wake up in the morning you nearly always find awakeeverything in exactly the same place as the evening before. For when asleep and dreaming you are, apparently at least, in an essentially different state from that of wakefulness; and therefore, as that man truly said, it requires enormous presence of mind or rather quickness of wit, when opening your eyes to seize hold as it were of everything in the room at exactly the same place where you had let it go on the previous evening. That was why, he said, the moment of waking up was the riskiest moment of the day. Once that was well over without deflecting you from your orbit, you could take heart of grace for the rest of the day.

—Franz Kafka

America The Beautiful

A peculiarity of American sexual mores is that those men who like to think of themselves as exclusively and triumphantly get it onheterosexual are convinced that the most masculine of all activities is not tending to the sexual needs of women but watching other men play games. I have never understood this aspect of my countrymen but I suppose there is a need for it, just as the Romans had a need to see people being murdered. Perhaps there is a connection between the American male’s need to watch athletes and his fatness: according to a WHO report the American male is the world’s fattest and softest; this might explain why he also loves guns—you can always get your revolver up.

—Gore Vidal

No Ways Tired

from & for sugar

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

Yada Yada Yada, Blah Blah Blah

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=>

Of The Essential Nature Of The Present Situation In Ukraine

“I have this beetle here in one hand,” Aristotle proclaimed one day, “with a single oval shell and eight jointed legs, and I have here in my other hand this second beetle of lighter hue which has twelve legs and a shell that is reallonger and segmented. Can you explain the differences?”

“Yes,” said Plato. “There is no such thing as a beetle, in either of your hands. There is no such thing as your hand. What you think of as a beetle and a hand are merely reflections of your recognition of the idea of a beetle and a hand. There is only the idea, which existed before these specimens came into being. Otherwise, how could they come into being? And the form of the idea, of course, is always eternal and real, and never changes. What you are holding in what you think are your hands are shadows of that idea. Have you forgotten my illustration of the cave in my Republic? Read it once more. That the two beetles you have are different is clear enough proof that neither is real. It therefore follows that only the form or the idea of the form is susceptible to study, and it is something about which we will never be able to learn more than we already know. Ideas alone are worth contemplating. You are not real, my vain young Aristotle. I’m not real. Socrates himself was but an imitation of himself. All of us are merely inferior copies of the form that is us. I know you understand me.”

—Joseph Heller, Picture This

The Scream

dudeTesting and training are all to the good, but they take time. And time is short. All the powers are making last-minute overtures to one another. According to intercepted cables, the French ambassador to Germany, Coulondre, told Hitler than a long war could result in chaos and unexpected results: “You are thinking of yourselves as victors . . . but have you thought of another possibility, that the victor might be Trotsky?” Hitler jumped from his chair “as if he had been hit in the pit of his stomach, and screamed.”

I know how he feels.

—Richard Lourie, The Autobiography Of Joseph Stalin

Gleai Foar Feih

A Manhattan court stenographer was fired after reportedly typing: “I hate my job, I hate my job” instead of recording criminal trial dialogue. Daniel Kochanski’s actions apparently also included simply hitting random keys . . . .

Huffington Post

“I would prefer not to.”

—”Bartleby, The Scrivener,” Herman Melville

Horp jeem klob torm ahai vortyuoip. Klimoid shui shishl kleet.

Harko glorg plipplip ohuio flerd groidflee ambo iu tord plitklood. Af og kluet. Agonon, ablebi—fortyu ambo terb shuishy fun fun funadalt glog-glog—pluuub chim tord!

“Orglieop norg ardog bannub,” kleuio frad af og klerd. “Dor agk fordelyk agoyu tert-ter.”

“Heamblow ferkmard glorb ahio iou sipl-sipl,” kord og af gleeb tortmla. “Chingalo naturlick roaden marchen bonen.”

Agoober dern-a-ler-den-dern, squeelinlikeapiggin panathema grandeochunder!

Hork! Hork! Gort lork ahiou whoiu hcduwe[yfiq[YIYFIO plert.

Pleebyuoir. Ghjkuiop. Frigih!

We Are Accomplished

Maundy, Maundy

Maundy Thursday is the Christian feast, or holy day, falling on the Thursday before Easter. It commemorates the Maundy and Last Supper of Jesus . . . Most scholars agree that the English word Maundy in that name for the day is derived through Middle English and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word he beof the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos.” (“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”)

—wiki

I won’t leave the attic
and with apologies to Apollinaire I can smoke
while working. I’m doing it
I’m going to it. The jerks are working
empty handed and then they pick up
twigs. Now they want to smoke me
out, but I’m too bat-like!
too happy with my stash and rock and
roll. Unlike the souffle below
who intends to burst. Deep breath, funny air.

—Jeffrey Miller

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

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

Finished

“This wilderness has destroy me,” Clam de Paty mumbled. He felt too tired, too sad even to make his English precise. What he had mumbled was the truth: the American wilderness had destroyed him. He did not want to walk across it—not even one more mile. He did not want to write about its mountain men, its savages, its grizzly bears, its le endmountains. He had come to America a famous man, a veteran of the Grande Armee, a man who had won medals; was he not the most famous journalist in the most civilized country in the world? Yet now, thanks to his bosses—always greedy for new information—he was destroyed, broken, finished, ended, afflicted with a numb despair. True, they had found a good spring, had drunk their fill, had bathed many times, had rested. And yet, all around, the wilderness still yawned. Sante Fe was still hundreds of miles away. The nice young Monsieur Charbonneau could talk to him all he wanted about how easy the rest of the trip would be compared to what had already been endured, but young Monsieur Charbonneau was missing one big point: Clam de Paty no longer cared. The wilderness had finished him.

—Larry McMurtry, By Sorrow’s River


When I Worked

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