Studio 54 closed

Just when I was going to post about how useless internet surfing is, Charles happened to post about a website he's found where they are apparently horridly honest. I haven't visited yet, the day is young. However, just knowing about it means we're saved again. Saved from throwing our laptops into the fireplace or the dumpster, whichever is handiest. We can go on posting for a few more days until the big questions return. And questionable it is my friends, don't scoff too quickly.

We've been over this many times, even now it glares from my archives. Before actually getting out of bed this morning, it came to me in predawn, post dream clarity that Visible is right, it is all in our minds. This world, this life, we've dreamed and created and maintain as if we are clubbing at Studio 54. Today, we are in these places, tonight, other places, tomorrow, who knows? And yet, deep down, under the gloss, we know something is wrong, something doesn't make sense. What do we do when something in life does not make sense? Like all good western citizens, we ignore it and continue to do what we always do, confident it will eventually make sense. This method of dealing with a created reality is built into the fabric of our very lives.

This is how our nations handle everything. You can read four headlines on your welcome pages, each one contradicting the next. House prices are up. House prices are down. Employment is up, unemployment is skyrocketing. Recession over. Crisis worsening, we're in the eye of the hurricane between subprime and ARM, or is it CRE today?

Now you ask, is this making any sense? No. Do addictions make sense? No, again. We'd like to know the point, but the point is loathe to be acknowledged. We don't want to kill off our species, so we ignore our overpopulation crisis and the accompanying rise of overmarketing and overwarring, all which denies our prolife vision, a vision not from any religious beliefs or desire for financial gain, but simply from the natural right to life entitled all species. We live, therefore others too must live. There is no secret to the equality of life. That is not an ideology, it is sensory knowledge, Life IS sacred because we live.

All that is wrong, that down deep under the gloss wrong, is wrong because it was never right on a small scale. On a larger scale growing larger, the monster is untouchable. We are doomed because we ignore it. But ignore it we will because this is how we handle everything. I wouldn't exactly call our situation western procrastination as much as a circular void of solution where everything positive is countered by a negative. When a one-fits-all answer is not available, we do nothing. Scanning over the past decade, we have done nothing. We have taken cover online and the issues we discuss worsen. What happens when there is no more web? You don't really know yet, do you. Trust in the way our planet has rotated lately and that will give you some vague idea.

Never again will we have normalcy because what appeared as normal was just another phase of the dream that twists and turns incessantly as dreams will. Glancing at what we know of the other regions on our planet, many have never known what we think of as normal. Western civilization might as well be on another planet for all the lack of similarity in thought and lifestyle. But westerners time for domination is over. Every day our schizophrenia is more apparent along with citizens' Alzheimer's. We go back and forth while going nowhere.

I discovered a used bookstore a while back and purchased a college literature anthology for a dollar. Pre-owned literature is castaway cheap I thought, leafing through tissue thin pages packed with the meaning of life from hundreds of articulate voices, many still living. There I found redemption, a confirmation in print we've always known truth, but choose to ignore it. In this most recent go-around, we blew it with religion. We sent out missionaries to denigrate all not living in our western imperialistic shadow and stole their free will while deifying the corrupt and the mundane. In a nutshell, it is the hijacking of free will that is the bitter root of our destruction. Our worst failing was an abject failure to see all living species as One naturally occurring and naturally maintaining gift born from Mother Earth, perfectly balanced in the Universe to exist and flow with all heavenly bodies and we blew it big time.

The debate today is not whether we will escape judgment day, but will there be another go-around? My vote goes into the yes basket, but next time humans will be left out of the mix. The part of the plan allowing guardians for the species didn't work. The deified corrupt and mundane thought they were capable of more. The citizens don't get along, they overpopulate and steal free will from everyone and everything else. They lie to hide their agenda until it can no longer be hidden. They've become confused and unnecessary, rampaging though the rotten fruits of their labor, trampling the sacred, valuing nothing, having lost all sense of purpose.

After the slate is wiped clean, perhaps archaeologists of the future, if they exist, will uncover our used literary anthologies and see where we went wrong. Inshalla, God willing, they do not ignore our mistake.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

conceits of the starfish

All these people that you mention Yes, I know them, they're quite lame I had to rearrange their faces And give them all another name ...
Bob Dylan, Desolation Row

This week has not been your typical turbulent week, rather it is a week of disturbing revelations where we've been forced to acknowledge there will be no new story of a better world quite as quickly as it seemed during last week's typical turbulence. Why is this you might ask?

As far as I can tell we remain duped and divided. Are you aware of the inane categorization taking place among seemingly truth friendly luminaries? Even the highest echelons of reality philosophy appear to suffer from this dis-ease of categorization - which is just another word for denial. I won't repeat all of the dialogues here, they are illogical. You'd almost miss it if you concentrate solely on the marvelous literary qualities arranging facts, you could be encouraged to go along by the brilliance of metaphor and poetic genius, line after line with words you have to look up to absorb the entire radiance of such cohesive content. Until, one day, you see a sentence or two that wipes the whole charade off the face of the map.

... believers in some sort of apocalypse, etc., all rejected. So disappointing. People who can't understand the science and can't observe for themselves shouldn't waste their time here...

There are a more than a few similar culls going around lately, it is the season of the witch after all. You'd better watch it out there, my friends, they don't like us, they don't think like us, they strongly reject us in fact, and they have esurient agendae among their fraternity that becomes obvious when you finally recognize what it is you are seeing. Dare you challenge them unless you want to hear somebody tell you your presence is ignorant and alarmist. Now, its okay to have an agenda. We'll call an agenda a point of view in the altruism of sharing information. However, in the search for factual and authentic information on the websites in discussion, you could easily ignore the profit agenda while enjoying the scenery. Only when you reread that confusing sentence or two do the alarms go off. Who are they trying to impress? Potential and existing clientele, ah, the smart blog as a sales tool, toned down so you won't notice those hands rifling through your pockets?

A satisfactory portion of what is served by these fraternal heroes of the liquid crystal display is actually nutritious. Maybe this is a commonality shared among many venues, in any anonymous interaction, like a thoughtfully prepared prix fixe meal in an urbane organic restaurant with aspartame powder visible on the dessert? You got something good, but you noticed they really didn't go all the way. You wondered why, if the time was taken to do one part of it properly, what happened at the finish line?

Afterwards, leaving the scene, you'll realize we've got a long way to go. That realization brings on multiple questions concerning denial and hypocrisy. You know you are for real, we have long abandoned our representative selves by now, so you wonder why these others who appeared to be on the same journey suddenly slam on the brakes. This can only be they have not suffered enough yet, especially tragic when they write so skillfully about suffering ... chaos, nature, politics and the dollar. They are not stupid people, they know what they do, they have compromised at our expense. How quickly would they open their minds if you bought their books?

Certainly it explains why we as a civilization remain fubar. No one wants to step forth, even while calling for transparency, they deny the root issues that keep us enslaved inside The Trap. Perhaps the trap is designed with cubbies just for these people's preaching? Oh, it helps pass the time, keeps you pretty occupied, you could even become a Groupie of the Cubby if you were so inclined, but you are not. We're still at the doorway looking out discerning between a hustle and the truth. ''Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive''. You think they have any idea they are deceptive? No, nor is there any thought given to tangled webs.

There is so little left to believe, its more direct to just quit believing and go by your own golden rule of intuition. Spirituality is the key, a void of spirit tells us all we ought to know. You do not have to be a disciple of any religion, you do not have to be anything other than true to yourself. All answers spring from the Creator within. You have to listen with undivided attention to understand. The real work is in the application.

Until we as a united body of humanity relentlessly apply the test of spiritual intuition a.k.a. humilty, compassion, grace, we will struggle indefinitely. At some point, sooner rather than later, rising sea levels will intervene and our immediate struggle will change dramatically. Denial decoupled from self-interest reveals the futility of any motive other than the motive of sheer physical survival. The information is there, hand in hand with the denigration of the information. Denigration is rooted in fear of loss for one's station in life, self-righteous selfishness, material protectiveness, desire for flattery and greater economic achievement. We've seen it over and over and we see through it.

The little people are very accepting. They would never think to suspect motive before jumping in with both feet, heart and mind. How much of the civilized world operates on that principle? I'm thinking easily 95% of humanity does this without hesitation and no matter how much evil reigns down upon the populations, most people always will. The remaining 5% are simply careless. They will come to find their compromises adrift, while desperately clinging to a capsized hull, in a dry hurricane that breached the glittering coastlines with no warning. Salvation wouldn't be available since similar emergencies will be unfolding simultaneously, past peak, in the coming diaspora, the fraternity, the conceits and the compromises worthless on the ocean's floor.

come together

Many things are falling into place, it appears sudden, but when you lay out the bits and pieces you'll see there is a pattern which gives meaning to it all.

First you'll want to examine how things are going for you personally at this time, take the past into consideration and some of those sharp memories of your childhood. Put that stuff into a manila file folder and label it Done.

Then read this. It is important. I'll wait while you digest the material. Go on, do it now. I'm not going anywhere and if you had the time to visit today, you have the time to read the links. I am on pause until you come back because this is part one of a two part story, the New Story. Our personal Year Zero.

Welcome back. The Done folder goes into the circular file. You know, we've been wasting a lot of time, although it appeared our time was purposeful, it did not actually get us where we really want to be. It occurred to me recently the huge body of outrage resulting directly from our stupid situation, our limp fury and bandaged heads from all the beatings against concrete walls, had an almost indescribable momentum AS IF IT WAS DESIGNED. Designed to be impossible to remove. What are walls meant for anyway? In the old story, walls worked. In the new story, there are no walls. We couldn't help it because we were born into it and it takes a train to cry. That's a good stage BTW, at least it opens the heart. After dwelling in that stage long enough, you know you must move on, you'll get a headache from the heartache. It seems that just about everyone born into the western gravitational system needs a lifetime to figure out how to get those Manhattan telephone books off their feet. Until you just remove them by yourself, going from one step to the next is unbearably difficult because those phone books are the pages of our past, our ancestors and their Karma, but remove them and all of that stops. It stops with you. You are at the end of that story here and now. Its over.

Everything feels better, brighter, more real, as it should be and as you always knew it was meant to be. The windows are open and the crispy season of turning leaves brushes against your face. You could almost fly. It doesn't matter what criticisms lie in wait, they have no meaning anymore, the Complaints Ledger went out with the Done folder. Could it get any better than this?

Yes, it can. There is a stunning coda to the new story. Just when you made the greatest breakthrough of your life, no phonebooks, no complaints, there was a very small and silent part of you that still longed ... the part that says "but what about?"

Now read this.

We could just stop here and live happily ever after. No more blogging required. Except, I like blogging, besides, I like art, too. Mostly, I like to see where these ideas lead and best of all, what other people do with them. In our new story, everyone is exploring their potential, it never stops, where one starts another takes it higher. To hell with copyrights, to hell with the selfishness of me-isms and mines. We WANT our ideas expanded otherwise they die, contracted, against all reason, which is exactly backwards from our natural intent.

If you read the links before you visited, we are on the same wavelength already and traveling together in light years. If you are just reading them now, there is no time like the present. The hologram is gone, the prison bars melted, the door of the trap was sprung wide open. Take it easy, the only thing holding us back today is language, our thoughts move faster than words - and words, geeze, they're backwards too.

I've been trying to compose snail mail letters to a friend in rehab. You can't imagine how difficult it is to convey meaning by hand, my handwriting races into the margins now. I've been trying to explain our new story, you can't link in paper letters, heh, and I imagine she won't be allowed to have those letters until she leaves. I want to tell her drugs have nothing on the truth, but that has to wait for a few more weeks when her real crisis begins. All of our crises are the storm clouds under which the play of civilization unfolds. Our protest acts as lightening followed by the rains, the floods, tsunamis of unrest and devastation. Our illnesses and discontents never had to be. Our guilt was rooted in singularity, thinking we were alone, or special, or separate, or smarter, or more adept or thwarted or unrecognized somehow and slighted, misunderstood, under-represented, without free will, enslaved and mysteriously used against our better judgement, ie; forced and coerced unnaturally. Our collective materialism was the buffer and it failed miserably in our hour of need. Each failure reinforced another and another until we found ourselves virtually helpless, lost in a vast universe of illegitimacy. You have to just shake your head in grief, how long has it been anyway, that you felt really, really good?

Well, let's go then, into the new story and get it on. Erase those hated words, rush and urgent, deadline, harsh, rehab, mainstream, zeitgeist, statistics, etc. Surely you'll have your own list of prehistoric nonsense you've used repeatedly to be in the "know". In the new story, we know nothing and everything at the same time, call it a speedball state of existence if you must, a state of union with the All where what IS completely extincts what WAS.

when winning is losing

Our good friend, Charles, the bloggin' rockstar, reminded us this morning just who won the Nobel Peace Prize. Thank you Charles, the irony was not lost.

"What can we say about Obama's Peace Prize? A slap in the face of "bring it on? ..."

That Peace Prize screams consolation. Of course it must have been known for awhile the perceived innocent community organizer, virginal and charismatic on the world scene, was a contender. How clever to bestow such an honor on an individual rather than rewarding the St. Valentine's regenerating degenerates. The bobblehead emptiness of his winning pearly whites is recognized - as in a Miss America pageant, but his handlers are welcome nowhere. If you think this was all planned to the nth degree, I'm on your side, candidate submissions closed February 1, 2009, after receiving 200 submissions. Was there ever a more transparent see-saw plot?

Indeed, a scorn slap in the face to the Pulp Fiction overdosed, the drunks crying tomorrow ... "Hurry up with that adrenalin injection! Damnit, throw em in a cold shower fer crysakes!" What else do we do to bring em around? Ah yes, the Prize ...

They don't want our dollars or our bailouts either, BTW, two rather fundamental, but too crass to mention, reasons to immortalize the lone individual, although they are forced to rely on them at the moment.
Everybody know what happens when you walk away from the Monopoly table. Those nice people you were so recently playing with grab everything and you are denounced, sour graped, whatever you said is mistranslated into dangerous accusations of the spoil sport who's probably gonna rat them out. How this will work when the basket of currencies is realized is yet to be known. I trust we'll be sending letters by carrier pidgeon from our bicycles which is OK with me. We'll have a lot more time to meditate anyway. That is, if we don't turn ourselves inside out and underwater in all hell breaking loose inflation wars.

The more fabrications covering truth, the more convoluted it grows, the more wars without end fomented (hated word) to revise failure fabricated into illusory successes. Especially multi-front failures, municipal, county, state, regional, nation, continental and the allied nations under the NWO. Everybody has a pony in the ring.

It has such a familiar feeling to it, doesn't it? Are you racking your brain yet? At its most basic, as Visible noted yesterday:

"... Politics is a world of strange contradictions. That’s how you can be both a pimp and a whore at the same time and have it make perfect sense..."

Nobody will back down because they can no longer tell the difference between fantasy and reality, if they ever could, a situation vastly worsened by the calculated mandates they themselves sealed in stone which to this day still supercede through dogged persistence and brutal enforcement. This is 4th Generation Warfare at its most insane, forget the technology, we're looking at crisis management carpetbagging under multiple realities - actually an extremely common psychological mechanism many ordinary people unconsciously perform to keep themselves from achievemnt and thus, get by for entire lifetimes continuing through generations with the assistance of crutches - "I can't do this because of that" and "I can't do that because of this".

I bet Charles does a mean Little Wing.

Once upon a time, my father took a swat at me and missed, but broke my finger. I had to wear a cast and sling for six weeks. It was at the same time Little Wing was popular on late night FM. It fit so well. My friends and I went to a drive-in movie, it started pouring and we left. We were in the heavy hallucination stage by then, the windshield and windows were a mass of breathing colored exploding lights. At last, Little Wing came on the car radio and there I was, my little wing broken, we drove on. It seemed forever, entire chapters of civilization defined by the swish swish of the windsheild wipers. It has never been disproven I might be writing this from Heaven.

notebook of a revolutionary jaded

Here we go into Winter. Again. One day it was too hot and today we're sliding down the thermometer - overnight. I am disturbed the Juncos have not shown up, I record their arrival annually and they are weeks overdue. They are my control group for Climate change. Meanwhile, the war drums are growing loud enough for silencer earphones, some sentinel warning siren grinds into the Eustachian tubes burrowing into the deep mind so we are never really settled, always on the brink of disaster somewhere, maybe here, maybe not. If you live in Nevada you would know the drone of Predators send you to sleep, wake you before sunrise, you would have seen the glazed eyes skilled in war games hanging out in the casino, feeding the paycheck into the slots as if ... as if it were all about the joystick. Do you think victims of joystick mania have any idea what is really happening when the drones start humming?

We were driving through a tight canyon sandwiched between semis when a couple of F22's took a detour overhead, low buzzing the lanes. By the time we gathered words of exclamation, they were gone. In that brief second, we were shown how fast death clears the landscape ... maybe families were gathering water, hanging laundry, an ordinary day, a vanilla sky and then nothing.

What accident of birth has us reading here today while Indonesia is swamped? Isn't this a question that has no answer? The western world demands answers for everything, flirting into WW3 where they have yet to understand some people and places will never be understood. The best we can do is observe the irony.

There are some words I detest. My grammar school principal used to close the day over a cloth-covered loudspeaker beamed into each classroom. She had a sense of humor that even 5th graders got. "Wagons Ho" meant the busses arrived. Her most hated word was Harsh. We loved her for that since everyone easily identified with a subconscious harsh reality even if we didn't understand it. My hated word is Urgent. Thus when I see the western world claim urgent action is "required" (also hated) against Iran, my skin crawls. When I see people encouraging one another into WW3, I know they really don't know, they have not been there, they are mouthing opinion without a basis in reality. They have never whispered inside a mosque in Isfahan and listened to their whisper bounce off a trillion tiny pieces of gleaming colored clay set perfectly in place centuries before a western world existed.

I read the small details in news stories, the minimized denial that what you are seeing is not what you see. You could actually read, digest and miss those details, put there for balance, "required" you might say. Those details are the sirens going off, we'd like to make it stop, it hurts, it grinds. Three months it warns and you can't blame us this time. Sounds like we'll make war for Christmas. It can and does happen just like that. Everyone remembers waking up to the nightlights, bombs bursting in air over Iraq.

By an accident of birth, winter finds us continuing our standoff with propane heat delivery, the fatted, gloating truck rolling up and down hairpin turns servicing the underemployed, out of credit, out of luck who convince themselves life is hell on Earth and there is no other way especially when the easy way stares them down. Livity asks we remove our personal survival from pipelineistan. We're ready all but for the chimney cap going into place this week. The primary woodpile is huge with extra piles scattered wherever there is room. The Fireteacher lives up to his name and I am cast in the role of carrier, all-weather assistance, snow, sleet and hail. Out comes the wheelbarrow, on comes the rain, then drizzle, then flakes fall and we are transformed into a fairytale. Today's soliloquy wraps with the last line from The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock: ... Till human voices wake us and we drown.