The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

bonebrushing the edges of the res interna (upper transcend)

Month: March, 2008

Tired old man we elected king

Who is John McCain? Can a pugnacious penguin, a tortured bravo, really rule this increasingly complex behemosity known as Amerika? Merrik, you Young Empire, do you want an Old Man to lead you, the Fortunate Son of admirals, the hero locked in bamboo cages? Shall we let the Son of the Jungle loose on the Men of the Deserts? What does he know of warfare and empire? How can he mistake Shia from Sunni? How can he minimize the true complexity of these issues?

 ZR says bomb Iran, and misses the complexity of the issue. He does not see the other side. He does not sit in their shoes. To defeat your enemy, you must become your enemy, and the greatest defeat is to make him your friend — shall Persia stand up to the Colossus? We tremble at their shoutings, but oh how they must tremble at ours — we have them encircled — increasingly incircled — and we wonder that they are jumpy?

And what of My People, the Children of Abraham, People of the Sword, nervous in Masada?

I love them, my love for them is eternal, my heart rests in Jerusalem, but, but, but — we must follow Jacob and dwell in the house of Laban, not Esau who dies by the sword.

And so then, the King I Choose, the Secret Wanderer who has been chosen by Destiny, the Contingent One, Who Exists Because America Exists. He is our Favorite Son, the Voice of the New Tomorrow, the Bringer of Hope.

 Tomorrow comes, and with it death and dust and destruction but also life, and love, and beauty. We must turn towards the beauty and away from the dust — we must sit in the tents of our fathers, and let them wash the dust from our feet – and we must make merry, and eat good food, and rejoice — and we must love each other, and see beyond the bone-fences that hem us in and see and take our place among the starborn beings who, through the shocking surprise of their contingency, delight the silent watchers who sit beyond. That these things matter to us, and will one day matter to others. That the sun shines on us, and will one day shine on others.

The universe is cold, but there is warmth in it, and in that warmth, the warmth of future days, the promise of the continuation, we must take comfort.

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keep fighting the good fight, America

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlNm7kA9ojc

 America at its best. Karl Rove, you are a war criminal, and you and the administration you represented are a discredit to our country.

though war-criminal might be a bit strong. war tortfeasor? secretary of lies and political warfare? architect of the one-party system?

notes from news years

new years with the disco biscuits, my eyes starry, by myself at the front of the stage, things getting strange and heavy, but the sound sounded great, like I was in an echo chamber, or they were using some incredible three dimensional reverb — I was right in front of the stage — and I looked over and saw a kid, man, what’s the difference these days, a man dressed like a kid, going through people’s coats — in my reverie darkness, and assuming the worst, I wrote a story for him, of the man-child who goes to these shows and steals a wallets in order to eat — realizing that this was this creature’s role and purpose, this was what it did to eat — and what was my purpose — but I had no purpose, I was a watcher, this was my Carnival, my Festival, my License, but some people were working — for sure, for sure —

 on the other side of the barrier, a black man-child sits tripping hard, staring at glowsticks in his hands that he was making dance the danse macabre — was that this man-child’s purpose? Had someone fed him something to reduce him to this state, animal, his mind caged by bone and blotters, sitting there, forebrain gone?

 Or the fire jugglers after the show — this was their new years too, and they were working, throwing fire in the air to delight the crowds —

 The music was good — so good — insane — but distracted by the music, and then seeing through the music, the world in its dark strivings crystallized and betrayed a terrible terrible prison where rats in a wheel run endless circles, conditioned to press a button for daily bread and daily shocks, and the music distracts us from the work, the bone-crunching soul-crushing, the raking of shit, the farming of greener soylent, the grinding of bonemash —

Time. Time & Change. Frightening words. Love. Love too.

well …

now that that’s over with, I can clear my throat and wipe my eyes, maybe take a shower and scrub the dead leaves off of me. Hope springs eternal, with yellow feathers and bird-songs, and while every day I’m one day older, I don’t really mind, since every day I climb a little bit higher up that spiritual Kilimanjaro and look back down on the primordial landscape from whence I came. It is easy to be joyful in spring, and the trick to getting through winter is to remember that spring is coming. Spring is coming. Spring is coming. And then it’s here.

dreams of elsewhere

sometimes I dream of Elsewhere, and the dreams are always strange, like dreams are, but doubly strange because of the utter strangeness of the place – the rooms and layouts of rooms change and shift — last night I climbed stairs and the building was on the wrong side of the street, and the stairs led to an upstairs apartment which sort of exists but does not exist —

when I wake from such dreams, I wake smiling, happy for the visit, and the beautiful strangeness of memory.

seems like dreams, dreams must have been the beginning of magic and gods and all of that back in the ancient past of our race, when everything was new and yet to be learned. Sometimes, in the gray shady area suspended between waking and dreaming, I am back there, to my own ancient past, when I was young and learning things for the first time. It is a strangely alienating experience, and it makes me think back to F.N.’s Birth of Tragedy, and the suspicion that all our knowledge and turning towards the world becomes, like the yellow pages of an old book left to the elements,  an ossified apollonian construct of foreknowledge and anticipation that blocks our view of the absolute dionysian reality underneath.

In the place between dreaming, the pages of my life fall away, and my soul is fresh and naked and exposed, and I feel the world pressing up against my self, and I experience it again, as if for the first time.