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

 

 


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