A little boy walking down a dirt road dragging a chain
encounters a cigar-smoking, Cadillac-diving, gold-toothed fat-man who growls,
“Where’s the post office, boy?”
The little boy says, “I can’t understand you, Sir, because your
car radio is making a noise too loud to hear your words.
The fat man mutes the radio and replies incredulously, “This
song just won the Grammy’s for Theo, what kind of hick are you?”
The little boy says, “My Grammy’s back at the house and she
wouldn’t call that a song, much less music.”
With the hurt tone of one insulted, fat-man whines, “I don’t
suppose an atheoist like you would know where the court house is?”
Little-boy answers, “Never heard of the dude and don’t know
where the court house is.”
Fat-man says, “You probably don’t know where the highway out
of this God-forsaken place is either — and why you pulling that god-damned chain
anyway?”
Little boy looks fat-man straight in the eye and says, “Did
you ever try and push one of these things? … besides, I’m not the one who’s
lost.”
In reference to the previous post about what's wrong with public education, these guys are probably drop outs, just to find room for this fascinatingly beautiful invention of theirs. I don't care if it does have a genre name.
This is what my asylum echoed while I was reading Bite the Hand, by my friend Pisces Iscariot at the Far Queue. We're saying the same thing from our own unique reality tunnel. Vive l'varietie
So vast no where or when is without No being too small to enlighten from within Signs of life; cycles of blood and breath Signs of consciousness; hunger and curiosity Signs of intelligence; finding theme in variety Signs of love; celebrating theme with variety
Water seeks the lowest places on its way to the center Turned back at the bottom by hot farts from the core Boiled off at the surface by hot farts from the sun Oceans are the dressing in a spherical heat sandwich Sloshing to and fro keeping up with Sol’s sway as the Earth turns away Streaming steam into cool shadow’s shaping of it clouds To rain upon parched land, gathering again and giggling in puddles Running off in rivulets to creeks and culverts, cascades and canyons Rills and rivers, chilly spray from spring shower shivers On water’s way to the center.
Curiosity urges observation to get to the bottom of the question Foiled by language turned speechless too close to the truth Crushed by granite authority demanding jackhammer proof Observation is the white filling in the consciousness cookie Reflecting on one’s perceptions of seeing and being seen Dissolves hard edged objects into fuzz-fringed fur balls Nodes in the energy field of now’s network stretching to connect With other dimensions and frequencies, traditions and heresies Crossing other variations melded in meditations On wisdom’s way to the theme.
Born to seek the longest path of least resistance on our way to dying The observer we’re born is rewarded for causing smiles And tamed with shame and blame for causing frowns Newborn mind is molten mettle minted between god and country A coin tossed between the certainty of faith and the logic of law Lands sometimes on a cutting edge exposing where lies lie Duplicity exposes the mendacity of sanctity and legality Debilitation of leaning so hard none can walk alone Shucking the prosthetic environment of culture’s crutch On our observer’s way to enlightenment.
If civilization is a lemon Let learning from our mistakes be the lemonade we make of it.
This is part of a larger video about the pond, but it's here because I've always been beguiled by night
Fascinated by sunrise, I sit my seat in the garden shed well before false dawn creeps across the land where I live. As Earth rotates Priest and I inexorably east, the materiality of the atmosphere’s rare air high enough to see over the now silhouetted shadows catches glimpses of the radiant energy source and transmits them down to us as a gradual approach to full daylight.
Well after it is bright enough for me to write these words, Sol himself appears in piercing shafts of light, unabsorbed by the hungry leaves that recently grace the filigree of winter’s black branches with clothing of spring foliage, to strike our eyes with shocking directness despite the gentle announcement of its coming. These rays of pure white energy from that fiery orange ball are parsed into the daily spectacle of their sparkling spectrum as they strike the shiny slime trails of slugs’ overnight devouring the remnant meal of chicken feed and the spherical Pink Floyd prisms of dewdrops condensed upon the leaves of the garden vegetables.
Bemused by noon hour when shadows are their shortest, my flute and I respond to the spontaneous symphony of nature’s voices in a harmony unrehearsed, though variations of nature's theme are repeated every day. In a response learned in early chickhood, my fowl family returns from scattered scratch, scratch, peck, pecking for the resurging burgeon of insect life to be found over their eight acre hunting grounds, to enjoy the tattered tortilla’s I strew for their midday snack and a headcount by the mother hen I've become.
Intrigued by dusk, my seat in the shed transports me into the turbulence formed by the heated air of the day being cooled and driven upward by the cooler darkness of earth’s shadow overtaking us at the insensible pace of a thousand miles an hour as the light wanes as it had waxed in the morning. As if by precision meters, the girls return at a time varying with the length of day to roost for darkness’ duration.
Beguiled by night, my imagination is unleashed to create realities of invisibility to posit materiality behind the reflections of man’s puny lights off of beings found during the day by their shadows. Toads gather in the pond for bufo orgy time, filling our ears with roars belying their tiny size as they procreate polliwogs in a plethora of ova contained in ribbons wrapped around the stems of papyrus recovering from recent frostbite depletion them selves. The scent of a skunk, approaching with a curiosity equally beguiled by night, grows from my nostalgic fondness for its freshness to an odor threatening my gag reflex and fades again as she passes on. Priest is sensed more than seen as his paler shade of dark brushes my shins and hops into my lap for the umpteenth mutual appreciation moment of the day.
A single grain breaks loose of the crowd at a kissing of the spheres emptying past proof of multicounted moments fully filling futures always to come in the present so often wasted waiting killing time 'til the promised revolution brings the "bottom to the top" solution for the one's who think they'redone nothing left new under the sun life's not in the glass time's not in a jar we're all in a body vastly bigger than we are
The sanity defined by civilization seemed to find ways to reinterpret my maybe musings about the human condition to be personal attacks in most imaginative ways throughout the year. I was all too often lured into personal responses, as if their demonizing party line stereotypes or quoting the bible represented willingness, much less the ability of the offended to carry on a rational discussion
Coupled with my having stumbled onto the 10th Daughter of Memory writing exercise, the foregoing dilemma suggested I change the direction of this blog from philosophical ponderings about my observations of the living universe, so easily taken offense to by faith’s delicate certainties, to one of strictly fiction based on such observations. I am beginning to see the rationale for originating fables and fiction throughout the ages as a way to get a message across indirectly to those able to apply Mary’s Little Lamb’s problems to their own life, thereby avoiding the more direct identification with the real population referred to as mindless, faithful sheep.
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For those more willing and able to discuss opposing views with the understanding that the essence of the duality is the win-win objective rather than a lose-lose contest of righteousness, I have moved my ponderings to a new blog available to all who find it in plain sight. You are welcome until offended — at which juncture I would hope you’d be so kind as to throw yourself out into the street. Watch out for cars … headed for the cliff.
This year found me a keeper of chickens and an eater of their delicious free-range eggs to supplement my less than desirable progress in growing my food in the garden through Texas summers. This year was a disaster, with only Serrano peppers coming back after the drought — watering every day cannot beat 100°+ for several months — trees began shedding leaves in mid June!
Having a quasi roomie and companion for stimulating conversation through six months of the worst heat was a more than compensatory distraction from discomfort though it left me missing her quite more than I expected and a never before indulged chocolate addiction – acne at seventy-one?
The UN climate summit succeeded in only resolving that people in suits consider people otherwise dressed or from below the equator to be unworthy of protecting from the ecological disaster by supplying them money to achieve the same standard of living that is causing it in the first place. Rather than dragging people out of the rain forest and selling them an air conditioner we should be planting trees and naturally ventilating our houses in their shade with the fresh air they regenerate symbiotically. Don’tcha jus’ love politics?
As 9/11/01 fades, 12/21/12 looms … “ these are the times” … "this is a record of the times" … “we’re all going down” … “together.”
Stragedy plots a way to side step inevitability.
Only carbon based life could generate so much irony.
This is my submission to this installment of 10th Daughter of Memory, though the post just before this is the result of getting so reflective about the Moon’s dawning I followed curiosity way off the theme. Boy oh boy, without reflection detection we’d need television.
The threshold was virtually tangible As the aura of the action A beacon beckoning attraction Spiced the night air so frangible Drawing awe from all those who saw What they were told/wanted to see saw A martyr speaking words quite hangible About love and the greedy to those who have not Promising a hybrid car in every lot Band-aid on harm to nature grown gangible Dopes the gap in the myth for now But Monsanto has new fields to plow Helping civilized gangs be more fangible Chewing up earth like they’re fighting Offering up their necks for the biting For the masters, bending over, ever so bangible
They shan’t have my ass
I grow my own food In an ancient car hood And a barrel that used to hold oil A tangerine tree And six chickens for me And a hammock treating me royal A babbling brook The cat naps in my nook I seem active minus the toil Sir David’s camera speeds up the plants As in my slowed down garden gazing trance When they too do seem to so actively dance
As in its time this myth too shall pass While all its dupes remain quite harangible Mister Natural - R. Crumb
Here comes Peter Cottontail Hopping down the bunny trail Where, perchance, flew Ollie Owl Spotting hopping with keen eyed scowl It was over in a trice Haunting echo left on the ice Rabbits scream as they are eaten Now silenced on this path well beaten Silenced too are their stomach's growls By this meeting of two prowls
... Promise was that I Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver; Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves ... John Milton, Samson Agonistes
If one considers the Philistines to be the US praising the Lord and passing the ammunition and the Zionist hawks that yoke Israel into this blatant genocide they are perpetuating, Milton seems pretty prescient from both sides of the coin.
