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.


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.

It was bad enough, when such people were confined to the tubes.

But now, now: they are everywhere.

—The insane pentecostal freakazoid who barked about Freemasons on the floor of the House: she is a child of the intertubes. All of her brain damage; all of it flowed from her reading of the tubes.

Ted Cruz. A man who could probably not pass a driving test. But who has subsumed himself, in every bull-goose-looney rightbent nuttery to flow from the tubes, over the past fifteen years. And now stands, proud, as its all and every avatar. And, as he recently showed, he can, wildly waving his red-ass, like some sort of atavist baboon, bring, at least for a time, the whole of the government, to his heel.

Anybody, can believe anything, these days, and easily, thanks to here on the tubes.

Such as: when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to two days of community service in a county morgue, this was an Infallible Sign that she had been “called to chaos,” as an MK-ULTRA sex slave, to be used and abused by the same sex-slavering Masonic Babylonian cageddemons who croaked Marilyn Monroe, forced Sirhan Sirhan to shoot RFK, and commanded Madonna to tongue-kiss Britney Spears, live, and on stage.

Such as: Barack Obama is driven by “Zionist neurons,” which transmit Orders to an army of nano-engineered “Wall Street and London” operatives, who circulate, nefariously, in his bloodstream; the Russian puck band Pussy Riot—with several members currently in jail for offending Vladimir Putin and the Russian Orthodox Church—consists of nothing but “bigots and hooligans,” in willing service to “Wall Street and London”; Aung San Suu Kyi is a slavering murderer, jefe of a crazed cabal of “genocidal bigots” in monks’ clothing, a willing cat’s-paw of “Wall Street & London;” ; global climate change is a total hoax, perpetrated by “banksters and oilmen”; the Boston Marathon bombing was a “US/Saudi/Israeli” false-flag operation . . . though, at the same time, the two Tsarnev brothers—including 19-year-old Zhokhar Tsarnev—are “longtime CIA double agents,” who somehow suddenly and unaccountably ran amok.


But I see that, yet again, I have gone off on filigree.

For what we are here, tonight, for, is money.

Which does not exist.

Humans are real young ones. On this planet but for—best guess—200,000 years.

Money, we know when that first showed. Invented by the Lydians, in 7000 BCE.

So money, then, but a pipsqueak. On the pipsqueak, that is human beings.

For many centuries—even millennia—money regarded as something strange and unusual, and not at all accepted, by the vast majority of the peoples on this planet.

Not until the past several hundred years, when European colonialists succeeded, in forcing all of their ways, across all and every of these planet’s peoples—to the point where we must, today, stifle the vomit, that comes into chinese in cageour mouths, when we see leaders of China, a country with a sophisticated civilization stretching back millennia, dressed in Western-style monkey-suits—did “money” became something acknowledged across all and every.

But it’s all over now. Money.

Thank gawd.

As I have explained many times before, the future of “money” is this:

(1) All the money is over.

(2) There shall be a worldwide debt jubilee. Nothing is owed to anybody.

(3) All world currencies shall be obviated. Stripped of worth. Replaced by a single world currency.

(4) Said world currency shall then be evenly distributed, in the exact same amount, to every man, woman, and child on the planet.

I have actually designed this new currency. The plates are ready to go, there in the basement. When the time is right, I shall turn the crank. And start turning out the goods.

Soon, after, humans shall realize that money, even in this sublime and refined form, is pure folly.

Money is simply a retrovert knuckle-dragging ape-man way of assigning value.

Formerly, before the great European colonialist wave, of sucking up all and every, value was variously represented, merchant-wise, in shells, or skins, or song, or women, or men.

And in—what was really important—such things as light on a leaf. The slight soft barely audible fairy-buzz of a hummingbird’s wing. The heart-tearing song of the lark. The moon, shining—swollen, fat—beaming below. On all, who in the light of that night, might be coupling below.

It’s a full-moon night, tonight. If you’re coupled into, here, on this planet, what Is Real, you have dancingbeen feeling that.

And a thousand other all and everys. To which money can assign no “value.”

Europeans, alas, amusingly, tragically, settled, for “value,” but on “metals.” And then “coins.” And then “currencies.”

One of my favorite all-time human stories, because it illustrates absolutely how Europeans are even now being swept, rightfully, into the dustbin of history, involves the first white folk to move into what is now known as Arizona.

Looking for gold.

At first, the Apache—the land it was theirs—they didn’t care. For they equated gold, basically, with shit.

To them, gold had no value. They regarded it with contempt. Turquoise, that was their grail.

It was only once they belatedly understood that Europeans would do anything, to get gold, that they understood gold had value.

To insane people. The Apaches understood. To insane people: gold had value.

And so, too, today, to insane people, does money have value.

This is easily demonstrated. Simply open your wallet, or your purse, and gaze there upon your American currency bills.

Do not regard them for what they might represent. But for what they are.

What they are, is paper.

And pretty ugly.

If you look around, now, your house, I have no doubt that your gaze will settle upon paper, that, intrinsically, in and of itself, throbs with more value, than your American currency bills.

So, too, with metals.

So sad. The people who believe that, though currencies may be worthless, metals are precious.

Nah. It’s all the same group-agreement.

Gold, or silver, or whatever—these, too, have no all and every value. We know this from the Apache. Of Arizona. Who regarded gold as filth.

Gold, is only “gold,” in your mind. Outside your mind, it can as easily be as the Apache saw it. No more of worth than silt. yesOr sandstone. Or shit.

Anybody. Who is anybody. Knows that if you have once successfully fed a wild animal. Here on this planet. You have gathered to yourself more gold. Than all the all that may once ever have existed. In Fort Knox.

I was, as Hunter S. Thompson once so memorably expressed it, “ripped to the tits,” when I inscribed the above. A week or so, today. But, today, I no longer have the faintest idea where it was I may have been going with it. That my mind can now be emptied, to such an extent: amusing.

Surely, for instance, there was a reason for the introductory quote, from Vonnegut, about the extra-dimensional penis. Perhaps it had to do with how whatever may be apparent on the surface, here to humans, generally has roots a thousand feet deep.

Although I don’t really know.

“Although I don’t really know,” these days, my favorite collection of words.

Long have they collided around, inside my cranium. Since I first encountered them, many years ago. In Carroll Ballard’s Never Cry Wolf.

In the end, there were no simple answers. No heroes, no villains. Only silence.

But it began the moment I first saw the wolf.

By the act of watching, with the eyes of a man, I had pointed the way, for those who followed.

The pack returned for the cubs, as there are no orphans among the wolves.

And eventually the losses of that autumn, became a distant memory.

I believe the wolves went off to a wild and distant place somewhere.

Although I don’t really know.

Because I turned away. And didn’t watch them go.

An admission of abject failure. Of killing, where there had been an attempt to care. And then a letting go. So that no more harm, can follow.

Ballard, next, offers, immediately thereafter, the benediction, the absolution; an Inuit song:

i think over again my small adventures
my fears
those small ones that seemed so big
for all the vital things
i had to get and to reach
and yet there is only one great thing
the only thing
to live to see the great day that dawns
and the light that fills the world.

So yeah. I like where it came to rest. This piece. Even though, I, the author, no longer know, what it was supposed to be about.

Coming to rest, with all the all of value. Invested in the successful feeding. Of an animal. Wild. Feral. And knowing all of all of what that might mean.


22 Responses to “Value”

  1. 1 nancy a October 22, 2013 at 6:02 pm

    “Anybody. Who is anybody. Knows that if you have once successfully fed a wild animal. Here on this planet. You have gathered to yourself more gold.”

    Yes. 1000X Yes…

  2. 2 mieprowan October 24, 2013 at 12:57 am

    Not want hate like tree talk. I’m glad you are alive blueness. I like the idea that we get to contstantaly just go off and do something else, also p
    ease tell a*** that we adore here.

  3. 3 Alexa October 30, 2013 at 1:04 am

    this is great. it’s a concise and eloquent truth in only seven words.

    Gold, is only “gold,” in your mind.

    • 4 bluenred October 30, 2013 at 2:56 am

      The piece is complete brain damage. But, it is good, that from the rubble, you can extract, a nugget. And that particular nugget, that you did unearth—”gold, is only ‘gold,’ in your mind”—that, brain damage or no, is Truth.

  4. 5 Forex December 26, 2013 at 6:59 am

    Fantastic issues permanently, you may picked up some sort of emblem brand-new readers. Precisely what may perhaps you suggest in relation to your own publish you made at times before? Every specified?

  5. 15 Forex January 13, 2014 at 11:28 am

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  6. 18 Miep January 19, 2014 at 11:36 pm

    Regions further must apply. Regard your failure as as wearing shopping boots. They can be cleaned.

    Bring wonder to your underhangings! Those, too, can be improved.

    When outdoor nothing fails, ask yourself: are your lenses too clean?

  7. 19 bivens April 10, 2014 at 5:27 am

    Beneficial time great website! Gentleman. Exceptional. Wonderful. I’ll save your site as well as go ahead and take provides nourishment to in addition? Now i am satisfied to get a great deal of valuable information here within the posting, we want develop extra methods in this connection, appreciate revealing.

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When I Worked

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