Archive for October, 2013

Let There Be Light

Okay, this I think is pretty cool.

My new goal is to access and enter the universe where I can get lit up like that, and then move into and through the tubes, to appear—small, but noticeable—drifting across the monitor, dancing, distractedly, wherever anyone might be Worried and Concerned, about something on their screen that they see. Lighten up, some, things.

Real

Ofelia lived in two worlds. One was the ordinary level of ration lines and bus lines, of streets of rubble, of the blue trickle of electricity that allowed Fidel to flicker on the santrealiatelevision screen, of oppressive heat that made her two daughters spread like butterflies on the cool tiles of the floor. The other was a deeper universe as real as the veins beneath the skin, of the voluptuous Oshun, maternal Yemaya, thundering Chango, spirits good and bad that brought blood to the face, taste to the mouth, color to the eye and dwelled in everyone if they were evoked. Just as drums carried a kola seed that was the soul of the drum, that only spoke when the drum was played, every person carried a spirit that spoke through their own heartbeat if they would only listen. So Ofelia Osorio carried the fire of the sun hidden behind her dark mask and saw with a penetrating light the double worlds of Havana.

—Martin Cruz Smith, Havana Bay

A Series Of Tubes

Matt Drudge is an illiterate dumbfuck. He remains a vital cog in the rightwing noise machine because his site caters to the worst slowing-to-gawk-at-a-car-wreck instincts of human beings, and is so simple and stripped-down it can be navigated by brain-damaged monkeys. Which pretty much super mario netdescribes his core audience. Drudge is a closeted gay man who likes to fuck all drippy and gooey with raw eggs; he is of that subset of gay men that fears and loathes women. Thus, when, as yesterday, he posts some uber-screeching five-alarm headline that damns someone as “The Most Hated Woman In America,” you can rest assured that, in Reality, she is no such thing. Probably, there’s nothing wrong with her at all.

Kathleen Sebelius. That is the woman yesterday scarlet-lettered by The Eggman as “The Most Hated Woman In America.”

This designation demonstrates only that Drudge is a baboon. For not only is Kathleen Sebelius not the most hated woman in America, most Americans don’t even know who she is.

Who she is, is the Secretary of Health and Human Services. And why she is, to nimrods like Drudge, “the most hated woman in America,” is because, as soon as the last notes of the endless debt-ceiling/government-shutdown nonsense receded, the organ-grinders immediately began wheezing and blatting the monkeys to St. Vitus Dance over “the rollout of Obamacare.”

There always has to be something. Some terminal Crisis and Doom. And this, now, is that.

I am not exactly sure of the full and complete nature of the propellor-beanie complaint. Because I refuse any more to minutely follow the day-to-day fight-or-flight phantasm of “politics.” What I have managed to grasp is that it has apparently been determined, by Drudge and his ilk, that Sebelius should be tied to a stake and set on fire because she heads up the agency implementing the ACA website, and said website “doesn’t work.”

No. Really? A website that “doesn’t work”? This, to me, is “shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on here” territory. For I wonder if any of these screamers have cited to any website that does work. Surely I have yet to find one. They’ve all got some thing or another wrong with shocked shockedthem. How could they not? They are created and maintained by human beings. Who are imperfect. And thus, everything that passes through their hands, is likewise imperfect.

The Drudge site itself “doesn’t work.” The Eggman commonly posts headlines with howling misspellings that would embarrass a third-grader. It is also often true that clicking on a link there will take the reader nowhere but back to the Drudge front-page. It is like an endless loop of fail. Over on StormKos, where the usual suspects are screaming till their lips bleed that the “doesn’t work” website proves the black man should be heaved in a trash can . . . well, that site too “doesn’t work,” when one attempts to utilize the search function, which became of the bungled and the botched several years ago. When I go to the power-company website, I find it completely impossible to simply access an accounting of my most recent bill. It’s like there must be some secret invisible Super Mario place, where I have to leap up and grab something that I cannot see, in order to be vouchsafed such information. And this site right here, lemme tell you, also “doesn’t work.”

While other folks were debating what type of wood should be used, in burning Sebelius at the stake, a Sane Person somehow spoke up:

California Democrat and committee sub-chair Henry Waxman told his colleagues to “stop hyperventilating” and focus on what is working and not what is not.

Waxman said, “The early glitches in this rollout will soon be forgotten,” and asked the committee to “keep this in perspective: The Affordable Care Act is working.”

Waxman stated that more than 100 million Americans have access to free preventive coverage and no longer face lifetime limits on their coverage.

“The worst abuses of the insurance industry will be halted,” he said. “Never again will individuals see their premiums shoot up because they got sick or faced an unforeseen medical issue.”

He stated that 60 percent of Americans will be able to get coverage for less than $100 per month.

And that’s what it’s really all about. The Eggman and his ilk don’t like the ACA because it might help someone who is not them.

So it’s simply got to go.

But we’re not supposed to listen to Waxman. Because he is a man not conventionally attractive, he was damned decades ago by the rightwing noise machine as “Nostrildamus”; we are required simply to giggle, whenever we hear his name.

Same as it ever was.

Anyone Who’s Ever Had A Heart

for nancy

Because there are no coincidences, the night before Lou Reed swirled out the corporeal container, I was watching a documentary called After Porn Ends. A film that takes a Lou Reed approach. To Lou Reed people.

A film that trains its eye on transgressive people. Here, in this film, on people once and future active, in the had a heartadult-entertainment industry. Porn. A film that presents such people as they are. Without judgement.

Until we reach the coda. Wherein the filmmakers, in an extended, a long and lovely epilogue, bring us up to date, on all of the people we have just seen.

And we then understand, that they, the filmmakers, love them all.

From the people who have since gnarled into Christianity, and deny all of what they once had been. To those still proud, of all and every, of whom, they once, on camera, did join their loins.

And we understand that the filmmakers love them all, not only because of the coda’s photos and words, that are baldly spilled upon the screen. But because of the music.

Which begins as a long and lyrical instrumental piece. Until, eventually, after more than four minutes, in a really magical, yet so simple, chord change, the music reveals itself to be “Sweet Jane.”

And, like warm honey and wine, the words, they pour over, healing, all that we are:

anyone who’s ever had a heart
wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
wouldn’t turn around and hate it

And, experiencing this, that night, I became higher than the world. Simultaneously spouting deep tears, and whooping in high joy. Because, I understood, completely, in this film’s concluding “Sweet Jane,” two things. That the filmmakers had opened themselves, to sanctify, heart all open, everyone in their film. And that “Sweet Jane,” the song, had entered into the immortal. Become a song that will never die.

So, when, less than 24 hours later, I heard that Lou Reed had shuffled off this mortal coil, I again spouted tears. But also gave a smiling nod to the stars; to the great wide open. Because, I know, now, that they will be playing that song, his song, “Sweet Jane,” two thousand years from now.

And so, like Jesus of Nazareth, another nice Jewish boy, also ripped all to hell and to shit, who also knew more than a little something about sin, Lou Reed will never die.

Know why? When we really get down to the all and all of it?

Because Lou Reed perceived, and presented, people as they are.

Without judgement.

And then: he loved them all.

There is only one category/tag on this site that can be traced to a single human being. And that is “What’s Good.” Which comes from Lou Reed.

From a song he wrote. In all his anguished, tearful, loving-them-all fury. A song about death. Death bringing his lovers down. Taking them out.

There is a studio version. I eschew it every time. Because the live version, in all its many imperfections, it bleeds.

Acknowledging death. But not granting it supremacy. Because, in the final crash of Reed’s mournful, joyful, chords—death, it is over.

Step Right Up

When a man gives up drink, he wants big fires in his life.

Also, mammoth wheelbarrows of narcotics. Though never mind that now.

Because big fires, we have those here in abundance. Now. Here. At the Manor. Since the season—yea, verily—has definitively turned. And, to beat off the winter cold of space, we, the cats and I, have been ceaselessly this wheel's on firefeeding the Fisher. Schlepping up from the basement—me, not them; they, just experimenting, curious, Science Men Cats, to discover whether I can both schlep, and avoid some neck-snapping fall, as they swirl around my flailing feet—huge herniating logs. In an ongoing cardiovascular exercise. To determine whether the aorta is preparing to blow.

For reasons unknown to me, the power company, PG&E, otherwise notorious as the nation’s premier Energy Robber, suddenly and recently heaved several hundred dollars in “credit” into my account.

So, while I am using their juice, and they are billing me, I do not need to pay them. This is a fine feeling. And so I have decided that I shall endeavor to ride this welfare wave all the way through the winter.

When I first moved into the Manor, in February of 2012, it presented three sources of heat: an electric wall heater, a gas wall heater, and a wood-stove insert that some wino had installed in the fireplace.

I immediately placed a piano in front of the electric wall heater. For no one who does not work for BlackRock or Goldman Sachs can in this region of the land afford to even for one night power up such a thing.

For a couple months I fitfully grappled with the wino fireplace appliance. But the device made me want to stab and shoot. I had been spoiled, for fifteen years up in Cherokee, with a freestanding wood stove that was Right and Wondrous and Simple and Good. While this drunken boat of a Fisher, wheezing and belching here in the Manor, was more frustrating than a used and abused Jaguar automobile.

So last winter I basically gave up, got lazy, and ran the gas wall heater. And PG&E, surely, it did love me.

But not this year. This year, I have ripped the pilot to the gas heater out by the roots. And I have come to a wary accommodation with the Fisher. Using “rhythm logic,” to attempt to grasp what possessed the wino, to do what he did. And how I can make it work, for me.

I think I have it now.

And so, until furthur notice, here at the Manor, it shall be burn, baby, burn.

When one is arest on the fainting couch, reading something penned one or four or twenty hundred years ago, basking like a cat in the waves of warmth pulsating from the Fisher, it is easy to eschew drink. Even when the wheelbarrows are depleted.

However, when one, to earn one’s crust, goes to the tubes, or, far worse, actually leaves the Manor, one then inevitably encounters persons, places, and things, that congenitally spark an “irresistible impulse” to, as we say in the law, grab a big jug, with each hand, and stuff several more, down one’s pants.

Take tonight. I am there in the corner store, waiting for The Man to determine how much his duct-tape costs. He has no idea, because no one has ever bought it there, and his wife forgot to price it, when first she ordered, and then shelved, it.

Back before the Dawn of Man.

I only need the duct-tape because the cats have decided to blow holes in the walls of the Manor. These they have determined are necessary in order that they might frolic with the fairies in the moonlight. But this cannot be. For they, like me, cannot be trusted, to wander alone, out there in the world, blow the man downwithout, potentially, even by fairies, getting Hurt.

The duct-tape is required to either repair the holes, or secure the cats to the floor. Or, perhaps, both.

Anyway. Pyramids, they are rising and falling, as this Store Man, over aeons, attempts to come to grips with a price. I can feel myself aging, alarmingly, until first I move into a walker, and then, finally, a wheelchair. I am like Bowman, there in the alien room, at the close of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I am hoping that I will soon resolve into a star-child, as did Bowman, when, suddenly, on the shelves of this store, I encounter what can only be described as the anti-monolith.

Lay’s “Cheesy Garlic Bread” potato chips.

furthur=>

Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined senior senator, south carolinathat said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”

furthur=>

All Are Reported Unharmed

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 yeah, well, fuck itbefore they previously thought there was.

Well, shit.

Kind of a boner, there.

Hot damn.

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
these three
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

 

 

The Light Is On The Left Side Of Your Head

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

So far as I can determine, Darth Cheney has always been controlled by Fear.

He grew up—a child—in Caspar, Wyoming. Staring across the endless wastes. Where there was nothing. Nothing at all. Least the light is onof all: him. Amidst all this nothingness. Young Darth. He became Afraid. So lonely. So cold. Just . . . so lonely.

And then, his corporeal container, it failed him. Utterly. And early.

In 1978, when Darth was but 37, a massive real-bad heart attack, attempted to carry him away. This he, somehow, survived. Six years later, he had a second heart attack. A third came after four more years. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery at age 47. In late November of 2000, while waiting for the United States Supreme Court to complete its judicial coup, and thereby elevate Darth, and his minion George II, to the vice presidency and presidency, of the United States, respectively, Cheney was hit with a fourth heart attack. A fifth struck in 2010.

In the many meantimes, Cheney underwent coronary artery stenting, urgent coronary balloon angioplasty, the implantation of a cardioverter-defibrillator. Etc., etc., and etc. He also had fitted this and that and the other, and more, pacemakers.

In the spring of 2011, amid desperate and extraordinary attempts to extend his life, he became a man with no pulse.

Basically, Darth Cheney is a roboman. Nature, it tried to carry him off. And many years ago. But technology. It keeps him keepin’ on.

furthur=>

Buy The Ticket, Take The Ride

 

Same As It Ever Was

Recently in an antique shop I came across this wonderment that is not actually an antique, but is surely a wonderment. And that is a volume of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare that actually fits in the hand. Rather than, as with most such tomes, requiring a forklift, or a team of Sherpas, to transport from hither to yon.

Of course, within 72 hours of bringing it into the yeshouse, the cats contrived to dump water all over it, and now it looks like it’s been in a shipwreck. But that’s another story.

This story, is that while some people receive daily wisdom from perusing the pages of the Bible, I have taken to dipping each morn into the Wild Bill book. I open the thing at random, and there receive the Message.

Today I first spent some minutes amusedly perusing the tubes, there learning that everything is Terrible, and is just going to get Worse; yea, verily, for sure Bad Doom is at hand, and it’s all Unavoidable.

Apparently nothing has ever been as bad as it is now.

It’s kind of touchingly arrogant and affectingly presumptuous, really, believing that one’s life-span happens to coincide with the Times of Worst Ever. But that seems to be what humans have been about. Continuously. For the past 200,000 years.

Then I bent to the Bill, and there encountered some serious foam-fleck from the Bishop of Carlisle, in Act IV, Scene I of King Richard The Second:

And if you crown him, let me prophesy—
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
And future ages groan for this foul act;
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d
The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls.

So yeah. Same as it ever was.

Speed Kills

So here we have Sarah Palin, former Republican nominee as vice-president of the United States, now a public and obvious meth-mouth. Keep poundin’ that Panzer Powder, honey.

The Opening Of Doors

Value

He had a penis eight hundred miles long and two hundred and ten miles in diameter, but practically all of it was in the fourth dimension.

Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast Of Champions

The above Wisdom is basically all I have to relate about the recently concluded great tsursis involving the US government shutdown, debt-ceiling limit, blah-de-blah-de-blah.

Many people’s underpants, during this tsursis, they became extremely deliver us from the black managitated. Foam—yea, verily—it flew, from many lips. Some people, they—forever—lost all semblance of any control.

Such as the deeply brain-damaged pentecostal retrovert, heretofore an assumedly sane stenographer, who commenced insanely barking, there on the floor of the House, when the nation’s duly elected Representatives, dutifully, in the last act of this most recent kabuki, voted to accept the latest kick-can, that would move the next moneyed tsursis, ninety days or so down the road.

So barked she:

God will not be mocked. The greatest deception here is that this is not one nation under God. It never was. It would not have been. The Constitution would not have been written by Freemasons. They go against God. You cannot serve two masters. Praise be to God. Praise be to Jesus.

Yeehaw.

Back in the day, we used to have what were called “building-shouters.”

These were mentally divergent individuals who felt it Necessary to go, every day, to some particular building, and there shout at it; yea, verily, until their lips bled.

My friend Danny, he used to work at the Los Angeles Times. He, and all the other reporters, would report each day, to the Times building, there to do their journo work. And also, each day, would report a building-shouter. Who stood outside the building, all day, every day, during regular working hours. Screaming at the building. Till his lips bled.

No one was ever quite sure. What it was. That moved the building-shouter. To shout.

But shout. He must.

Once, Danny and his people, they went out on strike.

So too, did the building-shouter.

He did not return. Until his fellow, indoor, recognized workers, they also returned.

He, clearly, the building-shouter, considered himself. Part of the Process.

One of the many unforeseen and unacknowledged effects to flow from the Age of the Intertubes is the mainstreaming of the building-shouter.

People who are mentally divergent, who have nary a clue, who are born under the sign of the propellor-beanie, who are fit best but to drool, may, thanks to the intertubes, pound out their nonsense, all day, and all of the night, and dangerbuilding-shout, alpha to omega, to such a crescendo, that their divergence, may, in the course of things, begin to creep into the brainpans, of beings heretofore considered at least fitfully sane.

Language, as William Burroughs aptly observed, is a virus. And insane language, it can spread, as easily and as virally—and maybe even more so—as sane language.

And so we have: today. Where most all the American “political blogs”—from the “lefty” StormKos, to the “righty” RedMentalState—are primarily occupied by some form of building-shouter. People who have nothing, really, of worth, to offer. But the cords on their necks, strained and swollen. And the projectile, nonsense vomit, ceaselessly flowing, from their mouths, into their fingers, and, from there, onto their keyboards. And on out to us.

To stain, if we might read it, all of our beings.

furthur=>

Talkin’ Baseball

“Cuba invented baseball.”

“What?”

“Cuba invented Novikoff-Wayback-1947SignalOilBaseballCard008-e1339883013114baseball. The Indians who lived here, the ones Columbus found, they used to play a game here with a ball and a bat.”

“Oh.”

“You never read that?”

“No, what I read in Moscow was that Russia invented baseball. There is an old Russian game with a ball and a bat. The article said that Russian emigrants to the United States took the game with them.”

“I’m sure one of us is right.”

—Martin Cruz Smith, Havana Bay

The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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.

And there’s a fuck of a lot of them out there. Clogging the i be kill the planetgoddam harbor. So one can barely see, the rise of the sky.

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.

Bullshit.

Bollocks.

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.

furthur=>

Lots Of Grief

 

Clothes Make The Mutant

I have just been informed, by the Chief Panjandrum of the David Bowie Is The Greatest Of All Gods Marching And Chowder Society (Icepick Division), that Bowie has been proclaimed “the best-dressed person in British history.”

“Bowie had to overcome a king, two queens and a political heavyweight to triumph in our poll, and in doing so has struck a blow for 20th and 21st-century fashions,” editor Rob Attar said. “David Bowie has received many accolades in his glittering career, but surely none of them compare to [this].”

I have several problems with this sin gdesignation.

First, it is the work of but 4000 people who submitted online ballots in a poll conducted by the website arm of BBC History Magazine. This means either that Bowie people somehow got wind of this poll, and quickly flooded it with paeans to the Master, or that BBC History Magazine is congenitally the vortex of a dangerous Bowoid cult, one that should probably be Suppressed.

Second, Bowie is not a “person.” As revealed in the documentary film The Man Who Fell To Earth, he is an alien being who came to this planet in search of water. Instead, he encountered alcohol. In which he proceeded to become permanently immersed.

Third, his name is not “Bowie.” He is in truth David Robert Jones. And, as set forth in the documentary television series Fringe, he has been about, in several universes, trying to crash the whole place to a close. Fortunately, he is, in all and every universe, inevitably ultimately upended by universe-hopping people powered by hallucinogens.

Fourth, neither Jones/Bowie, nor any other male human and/or alien in the entire history of Britain, has ever, at any time, been better dressed, than is Kate Winslet, when she is naked.

Fifth, I recently purchased a small print of Jules Breton’s The Song Of The Lark. I submit that the woman pictured therein should have been awarded the BBC History Magazine appellation. Because she is Real. And so is what she is wearing. Which is probably all the clothes that she owns. She is down in the dirt of it, of human existence, as experienced by 99% of the people ever to populate this planet. And yet she is singing.

It could be objected that the Song Of The Lark woman should be disqualified, because Breton was a French painter. But so what. As is well-known, the French overran Britain in 1066. And therefore everybody there, since, has been, really, French. It’s just that, after near a millennium on that wintry windswept isle, all their teeth went bad, and they forgot how to have good sex.

Down The Rabbit Hole

People in the television burrow of ABC, beyond a shadow of a doubt giddy and giggly on fun drugs, decided, fun. with lots.a couple days ago, that The Thing To Do was to outrageously ravage a promotional spot for some new Once Upon A Time network slop-show.

By inducing Alice in Wonderland‘s White Rabbit, to inscribe a circular hole over Snow White’s vagina, and then leap head-first into it.

Thereby, bringing new meaning, to the phrase “down the rabbit hole.”

See, below:

No satisfactory explanation, has yet emerged, to explain this weirdness.

Clearly, these people, were just fucked up on drugs. And so, went with it.

And good for them.

Better this. Than what the sober TV people ceaselessly push forth.

Non-stop blood-pornography. Of humans dead and suffering. Accompanied by all the shiny happy pushers of video-games. Coldly, methodically, slaveringly, inducing, deliberately training, the young ones, to kill.

Semper fi.

Hoo-rah.

Anchors aweigh.

Big Feet

Cruel And Unusual

Pigs have feet for a reason. So they can stand, and walk, and run around on them.

So they do not need to be carried by humans.

But, apparently, this is what is going let the pig goon now,  there in North Carolina.  Police officers heave pigs into their arms, and then wander around with them.

This is Wrong.

Last night I was watching a film about Levon Helm, and in it he noted that the reason why people in his crew put rings in the noses of their pigs is because otherwise the pigs are apt to use their powerful snuffling abilities to dig massive sinkholes, upend tractors, relocate houses.

This brought to mind one early Sunday morning, some years ago, when I answered a knock at my door to encounter my sleep-tousled and irritated neighbor, who had arrived to inform me that my pig, Eleanor, had just knocked his house off its foundation.

No fence made by the hands of man, or even woman, could contain Eleanor. And apparently she had felt, this morn, the need to go root and rock the neighbor’s house. I think maybe the neighbor had earlier said something rude to her.

These things happen.

That pig in the picture, s/he don’t have no ring in the nose. So that police officer better watch out. His house, I reckon, is likely soon to move.

Where We Started

seems like i’ve known you
for a thousand years
seems like i’ve watched you
grow from a child

I don’t communicate, these days, with a lot of humans.

I just can’t.

As to why: I don’t want panic! panic!to talk about that now.

I just want to say, to those humans with whom I do communicate, and who have recently, and sometimes repeatedly, expressed to me that they are in some form of tsuris, over this debt-ceiling/government-shutdown phantasm: honey: don’t.

Just go to your intertubes, and call up some newspaper front-page, from ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago.

See, then, that it is, as all ways, always the same.

“News,” then as now, but a means, to cloud the doors of perception.

if the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear to man as it is:
infinite

Have you ever met, encountered, spoken to, physically rubbed up against, a Boehner? A Reid? A Cruz? An Obama?

No. You have not. Then how do you know, that they are no more, what it isthan a Max Headroom, there in your head?

You don’t.

And so they are not.

They do not exist.

Not in your universe.

If you make it so.

In your universe, may I humbly suggest, you want to go back to where you started. To before the doors of perception became obscured. To something like what is in the video below. To where you were frisky and frolicking and for the great wide open.

That is Reality.

All the rest, is road-grime. Churned up to smear. The doors of perception.

The Said Admiral Is Dead

(For, as ever, mi Anacaona, and all the Taino. And also for all and every life extinguished by racist genocidal killers, such as the unnamed victim of the unrepentant ARacistPoet, member in good standing of the smirking laughing gas-chamber StormKos, a.k.a. the DailyKlan.)

They say it came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Taino, uttered just as one world perished and another began; that it was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door that was cracked open in the Antilles. Fuku americanus, or more colloquially, fuku—generally a curse or a doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and the Doom of the New World. Also called the fuku of the Admiral because the Admiral was both its midwife and one of its great European victims; despite “discovering” the New World the Admiral died miserable and syphilitic, hearing (dique) divine voices. In Santo Domingo, the Land He Loved Best, the Admiral’s very name has become synonymous with both kinds of fuku, little and large; to say his name aloud or even to hear it is to invite calamity on the heads of you and yours.

No matter what its name or provenance, it is believed that the arrival of Europeans on Hispaniola unleashed the fuku on the world, and we’ve all been in the shit ever since. Santo Domingo might be fuku’s Kilometer Zero, its port of entry, but we are all of us its children, whether we know it or not . . . .

—Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

Much about the Admiral is not known. Where he was born, and when: these are not known. The arc of his early years, when and what he studied at the University of Pavia: these, too, are not known. Where he obtained his ideas of geography, this is not known. The Admiral, it developed, did not know geography: he believed, to the end of his days, that where he landed in 1492 marked the far eastern fringe of Asia.

What is known is that when the Admiral stepped ashore on Hispaniola, he brought original sin to the New World. For the policies he pursued there exterminated that island’s people, the Taino. Every one.

All the Indians of these islands were allotted by the Admiral . . . to all the settlers who came to live in these parts; and in the opinion of many who saw what happened and speak of it as eyewitnesses, the Admiral, when he discovered these islands, passed sentence of death on a million or more Indians, men and women, of all ages, adults and children. Of this number and of those since born, it is believed that there do not survive today, in this year 1548, 500 Indians, adults and children, who are natives and who are offspring of the stock of those he found on arrival.”

Today, “the Taino survive in the shape of one’s eyes, the outline of one’s face, the idiom of one’s language.” All the rest, is gone.

furthur=>

The First Monday In October

Below find excerpts from NSA intercepts of recent communications involving various justices to the United States Supreme Court.

John Roberts: Yes, David, be assured: the Plan is proceeding apace. We have firmly defined corporations as persons, thanks to Scalia pulling enormous quantities of effluvia out of the vast cavernous reaches of his capacious anal canal. And last term, in the Voting Rights cases, we succeeded in bashing the Negroes and the Brown uber allesOnes off the walls of the Alamo; this term, we are determined to declare definitively that Negroes are, in fact, not persons. Scalia says if “no Negro is a human” was good enough for his hero, Judge Taney, in Dred Scott v. Sandford, it’s good enough for us; and, since we went back to the 19th Century for the “corporations-are-people” decision, there is no reason why we can’t return to that same century for the “Negroes are not people” ruling. As Scalia points out—convincingly—the Founders did not regard The Blacks as human: so why should we? (Nino says Thomas won’t be a problem—he doesn’t consider himself black.) The Negroes-ain’t-persons doctrine will also obviate the birther cases: it won’t matter where Obama was born, once it is determined he is a non-person. He could have been born in Peoria, or even on the grounds of Liberty University; but, if he’s a non-person, he can’t serve. The day is coming, David—believe me—when the White House will be White again. As you know, I have been working for this Negroless day since my days in the Reagan administration. Hewing always to my secret motto: Land o’ cotton uber alles! Soon, David, we shall see again the Real America: the one where White businesses are people, but the Wrong-colored creatures who work for them are not. Next, we shall see about lifting the requirement that such creatures be paid . . . .

Stephen Breyer: Okay. What I need you clerks to do is to find me some cases this term where I can vote so it looks like I’m a liberal. While meanwhile fulfilling, always, my prime directive: fellate business.

Samuel Alito: I am hoping that in one of the 954 cases on the docket this term where we get to sneer at Sandra Day O’Connor and meanwhile march on a road of bones to the complete and total abolition of all abortions in this land, that we can find some “hook,” in which we may rule that the government not only can, but should, install monitoring devices in the reproductive regions of all American women. (Maybe “national security”?) Because, really, the only way to get these animals under control is to track, in real time, what goes in and out of their vaginas. As is well known, the only permitted use of a vagina is to receive a married penis, at the peak time of fertilization, and lizardpersonthen to expel a child, some months after fertilization has occurred. Meanwhile, Nino says he is working on the opinion wherein we shall declare that life begins when a man looks at a woman and decides she should have his baby. I’m excited! When that decision comes down, there are already many babies out there, from me!

Sonia Sotomayer: Elena, I asked Ruth about poisoning Scalia, and she says it just won’t work. She says she’s tried several times, at those dinners they have together, to slip damn great doses of poison into his food, but none of them have ever had any effect. It is her opinion that he actually died many years ago—probably from an aorta blow during one of his many uncontrollable fits—and was then replaced by some sort of manufactured RoboJustice, that is impervious to poison. Also, she says nothing really can be done about Clarence telling you, during conference, to “get me some more coffee, bitch”; according to her, “that’s just his way.”

Anthony Kennedy: Roberts was being an ass again, swaggering in here to smirk: “Look, Tony, in this job you can’t just be about pleasing the homos. You got to do that last term; this term you need to take the heat of the health-care cases, re-rigging the thing so it continues to serve our corporate friends, which the knuckledraggers in the stupid tea-hats are just too dumb to get.” I asked him if I could at least write the opinion striking down the contraception-coverage requirement, but he said he’d promised Sam and Scalia that this term they could exercise total control over all cases involving “the holes.”

Elena Kagan: Looks like I may get the decision where we decide that the Fourth Amendment permits cops to seize, without a warrant, people’s cellphones, and roar through all the contents. The ghost of William O. Douglas came around to start screaming at me again last night: see about doubling down on my downer prescriptions.

Clarence Thomas: The porn the clerks got for me last term was for shit. I need good hard continuous action this year; how the hell else am I going to stay awake in this damn job? Also, thank “The Cleaner” for stuffing in the Jimmy Hoffa landfill that Post reporter who was planning to break the story that the reason why I never ask questions during oral argument is because of the earbuds implanted in both my earholes, broadcasting non-stop dirty talk from Vicki, Vixen, and Juggs. Oh—and find out if that reporter, before he disappeared, told anybody in his family about me. If so, The Cleaner says there’s room for them in the landfill.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg: Just waiting to find out what part of my body will need to be removed and/or replaced this term. Meanwhile, watched the last episode of the lordthat Breaking Bad show. Regarded wistfully the part where the machine-gun mounted in the car cut down all the bad boys. Oh well. A girl can dream . . . .

Antonin Scalia: I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. And I, the Lord, said unto Roberts, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them.


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