Surprisingly, "Old Prayers Revisited" is the work of that iconoclast, philosopher and part-time, self-taught theologian, Elmer Eggplant. I write "surprisingly", because usually that cantankerous old coot was much more loquacious than this.
Obviously, "Old Prayers" is a reworking of an old prayer attributed to the Holy Idaho [Madyou 6,9]. Elmer though, always maintained that it was a series of prayers and not a single prayer. He also was convinced that "bread" referred not only to food, but to the activity and struggle of life -- he based this on his observation that, "lechem" in the Strug language had a root meaning of "kneading" the dough from which bread was made.
The heavens is our father and this blue earth is our mother.
Glorify their name in being, awareness and love.
May the kingdom of spirit manifest on earth as in the heavens.
We accept our daily bread even as it is given.
We forgive others that we also be forgiven.
Let us tread not paths of temptation.
We hope to be delivered from all evil.
That which-is, the power and the glory belong to the almighty eternal, forever and ever.
So be it.
________
The reader should note that in his reworking of the prayer attributed to the Holy Idaho, Elmer turned the viewpoint around -- instead of, so to speak, asking the Great Potato for boons, he is building an attitude oriented towards what he refers to both as "what-is" and "almighty eternal". As a matter of fact, according to his notes, his original title for this piece was "Several Statements, Prayers and Injunctions"
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Hanging the Witch...
[The unknown poet of the Third Galaxy maintained that much of his most powerful work was in response to tales related to him by people he knew. As a case in point, here are his notes to "Hanging the Witch", both of which I dug up in the 21st Edition of the Absolute Truth:]
A child was delivered, stillborn, in Greenbrier, Tennessee. The mother died not long after in child bed.
The mark on its head matched the boot of the father, a leading citizen. He accused the midwife of witchcraft and led the mob that lynched her. This event occurred sometime in the 1880's.
As was common in those times, no one was ever arrested.
The child was born dead
with the mark of the devil on top of its head.
"It was the witch who did it!" the father said.
He called the boys around,
they put on their long, white gowns
and pointed hats and rode out of town.
They rode to a certain house
and loudly called the old witch out,
"Come out, witch, you know what this is about!"
"You killed my only son!"
"It was with witch-work your deed was done!"
"You did it, we know it, we know that you're the one!"
Then suddenly, out she came,
her eyes burning blue flame
in the moonlight -- her hair a shining silver mane...
So, you come again with death,"
she said, "and whiskey on your breath!
Behind your masks, you know the truth of this!"
Indeed they did, but they
hung her and the body swayed under the tree
-- they shouted with glee and the stars were amazed!
But no one spoke in speech
about the wife he'd batter and beat
and trample on and kick with his feet.
His hobnailed boots,
how could they not know the truth?
It was in fact himself who had abused
his wife and unborn babe
and laid them rudely in the grave
and yet another woman had to pay...
She was in fact a midwife
and a witch too if that's what you like.
She was both a giver and a healer of life.
Her name was Laura and she
was albino, indian and strange to see.
She was married to a Scottish man named Charley.
The story is true, you see.
Her great granddaughter told it to me.
It happened in 1880 in Tennessee.
A child was delivered, stillborn, in Greenbrier, Tennessee. The mother died not long after in child bed.
The mark on its head matched the boot of the father, a leading citizen. He accused the midwife of witchcraft and led the mob that lynched her. This event occurred sometime in the 1880's.
As was common in those times, no one was ever arrested.
The child was born dead
with the mark of the devil on top of its head.
"It was the witch who did it!" the father said.
He called the boys around,
they put on their long, white gowns
and pointed hats and rode out of town.
They rode to a certain house
and loudly called the old witch out,
"Come out, witch, you know what this is about!"
"You killed my only son!"
"It was with witch-work your deed was done!"
"You did it, we know it, we know that you're the one!"
Then suddenly, out she came,
her eyes burning blue flame
in the moonlight -- her hair a shining silver mane...
So, you come again with death,"
she said, "and whiskey on your breath!
Behind your masks, you know the truth of this!"
Indeed they did, but they
hung her and the body swayed under the tree
-- they shouted with glee and the stars were amazed!
But no one spoke in speech
about the wife he'd batter and beat
and trample on and kick with his feet.
His hobnailed boots,
how could they not know the truth?
It was in fact himself who had abused
his wife and unborn babe
and laid them rudely in the grave
and yet another woman had to pay...
She was in fact a midwife
and a witch too if that's what you like.
She was both a giver and a healer of life.
Her name was Laura and she
was albino, indian and strange to see.
She was married to a Scottish man named Charley.
The story is true, you see.
Her great granddaughter told it to me.
It happened in 1880 in Tennessee.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Hounds of Hubris
Here in the Happy Little Kingdom, I have been following a program about the Brits and the history of their troubled isles. Yesterday, the theme was about the time after the Union and the last Jacobite uprising.
At that time, fed up with centuries of endless wars over power, religion and fine points of succession, they revelled in peace, freedom and a certain prosperity -- and the vision was to share this with the rest of the world.
However, in short order, the United Kingdom dominated the world with what, up to then. was the greatest empire the world had ever known. In short order, millions and millions were enslaved, impoverished, even dieing of starvation to feed the machine that fed the empire.
With an historian to guide you, it's easy to see how it happened, but it's harder to understand why it, almost inevitably had to happen.
Similarly, today, we have our Arrogant Empire which grew both quicker and with ever so much more fragility, and has begun to collapse hardly before being recognized for what it is.
Hoping I will not be accused of snark, I can thankfully say that we have already learned our lessons and Arrogance will never be hounded by the hounds of hubris.
At that time, fed up with centuries of endless wars over power, religion and fine points of succession, they revelled in peace, freedom and a certain prosperity -- and the vision was to share this with the rest of the world.
However, in short order, the United Kingdom dominated the world with what, up to then. was the greatest empire the world had ever known. In short order, millions and millions were enslaved, impoverished, even dieing of starvation to feed the machine that fed the empire.
With an historian to guide you, it's easy to see how it happened, but it's harder to understand why it, almost inevitably had to happen.
Similarly, today, we have our Arrogant Empire which grew both quicker and with ever so much more fragility, and has begun to collapse hardly before being recognized for what it is.
Hoping I will not be accused of snark, I can thankfully say that we have already learned our lessons and Arrogance will never be hounded by the hounds of hubris.
Monday, August 25, 2008
On Doing Good and Whacking Bugs...
Sorry folks, but you are in for some cracker barrel feel-os-o-phee.
That was nice of me, I don't sneak up on you -- it's just like in the old days of tee-vee, when I was a young whippersnapper back in Poosah City: "...and now folks, a word from our sponsor". Then there was a commercial and then they said, "...now we return to our broadcast."
Of course in those days there was only two, then three, then four channels to choose from -- and the zapper had yet to be invented. If you wanted to change channels, you had to get off your butt. Today, depending on how closly you are interfaced with the audiovisual beast, you have at least 30, but more likely 500 channels of illusion to choose from -- and many of them are HD!
But what I wanted to talk about was "doing good".
It's good to do good. Heck, even the bloodiest dictators and tyrants will subscribe to that. Name me one of those mass murderers who wouldn't tell you that they were only trying to "Unite Europe", "Spread Democracy", "Baptize the Heathens", "Give Our Homeland a Place in the Sun" -- or whatever dollop of bullshit that suited the time and culture.
Myself, I like to see the big things in the small, minute daily things. One of my older paroles is: "The Third World War Begins At Home." That is, what is your connection to the holy shit even stoopid guys like me can see flaming down the tube?
I dislike killing bugs just because they are in the house. If possible, I try to escort them outside. Does that mean that I am doing a "good thing"? Well, the honey bee gets lifted outside because there is a serious problem with the number of honey bees here in the Happy Little Kingdom. Yellow jackets and the late summer and early fall get whacked with my little electric fly swatter.
Am I good? I don't know -- is the electric fly swatter really painless? It could well be that getting squished by a rolled up newspaper was the preferred way to go by yellow jackets -- it's hard to get a statement from them, though.
As for escorting little things like moths in my hand outside the house -- it sounds like a no-brainer. Of course it is a "good thing".
But I remember one time I threw a little night moth out the back door and, even as it landed on the tiles there, a little sparrow swooped down and graciously accepted the snack...
So, was there "good" here? I suppose the sparrow would say, "Yum!" And, when you get down to it, who really gives more than a half damn about a bittsy little moth?
That was nice of me, I don't sneak up on you -- it's just like in the old days of tee-vee, when I was a young whippersnapper back in Poosah City: "...and now folks, a word from our sponsor". Then there was a commercial and then they said, "...now we return to our broadcast."
Of course in those days there was only two, then three, then four channels to choose from -- and the zapper had yet to be invented. If you wanted to change channels, you had to get off your butt. Today, depending on how closly you are interfaced with the audiovisual beast, you have at least 30, but more likely 500 channels of illusion to choose from -- and many of them are HD!
But what I wanted to talk about was "doing good".
It's good to do good. Heck, even the bloodiest dictators and tyrants will subscribe to that. Name me one of those mass murderers who wouldn't tell you that they were only trying to "Unite Europe", "Spread Democracy", "Baptize the Heathens", "Give Our Homeland a Place in the Sun" -- or whatever dollop of bullshit that suited the time and culture.
Myself, I like to see the big things in the small, minute daily things. One of my older paroles is: "The Third World War Begins At Home." That is, what is your connection to the holy shit even stoopid guys like me can see flaming down the tube?
I dislike killing bugs just because they are in the house. If possible, I try to escort them outside. Does that mean that I am doing a "good thing"? Well, the honey bee gets lifted outside because there is a serious problem with the number of honey bees here in the Happy Little Kingdom. Yellow jackets and the late summer and early fall get whacked with my little electric fly swatter.
Am I good? I don't know -- is the electric fly swatter really painless? It could well be that getting squished by a rolled up newspaper was the preferred way to go by yellow jackets -- it's hard to get a statement from them, though.
As for escorting little things like moths in my hand outside the house -- it sounds like a no-brainer. Of course it is a "good thing".
But I remember one time I threw a little night moth out the back door and, even as it landed on the tiles there, a little sparrow swooped down and graciously accepted the snack...
So, was there "good" here? I suppose the sparrow would say, "Yum!" And, when you get down to it, who really gives more than a half damn about a bittsy little moth?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Feeling Futility
Sometimes I suspect the unknown poet of the Third Galaxy must have been one sick puppy.
On the other hand, if you had been born on the day the unholy trinity was revealed to the world and grew up with the knowledge that your poor planet was double damned and doomed and going to hell in a hand basket -- I guess you'd have your dark moments now and then...
When all you ever did was prove your fertility,
ít's hard to be confronted with your own futility.
When everything in front of you is running down at the heels,
and the man in the mirror looks just as tired as you feel:
You're tempted to say:
"O shit!
I'm sick n' tired of all of this!"
"I'd let it go if I only could,
you know, I really would!"
To simply take a simple breath and let it go with a sigh!
If it was that simple, it would be simple --
but you know it really isn't!
You have to wave good bye,
even after you've closed your eyes...
On the other hand, if you had been born on the day the unholy trinity was revealed to the world and grew up with the knowledge that your poor planet was double damned and doomed and going to hell in a hand basket -- I guess you'd have your dark moments now and then...
When all you ever did was prove your fertility,
ít's hard to be confronted with your own futility.
When everything in front of you is running down at the heels,
and the man in the mirror looks just as tired as you feel:
You're tempted to say:
"O shit!
I'm sick n' tired of all of this!"
"I'd let it go if I only could,
you know, I really would!"
To simply take a simple breath and let it go with a sigh!
If it was that simple, it would be simple --
but you know it really isn't!
You have to wave good bye,
even after you've closed your eyes...
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Pale Sarpint...
In his notes, the unknown poet of the Third Galaxy writes that he got the unusual spelling of "Sarpint" from a line in an old folk song, "The deadly, pizen sarpint..."
The smell of burning wormwood fills the night,
a disgusting fragrance that could only delight
the Pale Sarpint, who is always ready to bite...
The venom in its teeth is so deadly, that sight
alone is enough to kill -- if seen in the light!
But light is rare in the kingdoms-of-the-night:
Hordes of red-eyed creatures file by
the Onyx Throne, under the Sarpint's eye...
Until the moment comes, when the Sarpint bites,
they continue to exist and, in a sense, they survive.
But what is life, and what is it to die
when you're only waiting for your chance to die?
(The Sarpint rises suddenly to bite
and the smell of wormwood permeates the night!)
The smell of burning wormwood fills the night,
a disgusting fragrance that could only delight
the Pale Sarpint, who is always ready to bite...
The venom in its teeth is so deadly, that sight
alone is enough to kill -- if seen in the light!
But light is rare in the kingdoms-of-the-night:
Hordes of red-eyed creatures file by
the Onyx Throne, under the Sarpint's eye...
Until the moment comes, when the Sarpint bites,
they continue to exist and, in a sense, they survive.
But what is life, and what is it to die
when you're only waiting for your chance to die?
(The Sarpint rises suddenly to bite
and the smell of wormwood permeates the night!)
Monday, August 18, 2008
Pinch Me...
It's kind of wierd, these past few days, when I hear the news, even here in the Happy Little Kingdom (where everyone has enough to eat and the King is a Queen and she isn't in drag...) I get this feeling...
Yes, even here, I have to pinch my self when I hear the news.
The UN Peacekeepers, in their response to a blatant attempt to ethnicly cleanse Ossetia, are declared to be ominous aggressors of the same sort that squashed the Czechs in '68 and the Hungarians in '55. The French president is a Hero of Peace. The Codpiece is spewing outrage that someone (other than Himself) is invading a sovereign country and Friend of Peace and Democracy...
Elsewhere, a president, faced with impeachment, abdicates -- the president of a great democracy and major player in the War Against Terror, a Power With Nuclear Weapons...
Umn, it was not the Codpiece (fat chance of that!) -- it was that Hero of Freedom and Democracy, Pervez Musharraf. (Any takers on bets that he will be back in the saddle before Mad Kane is (s)elected?)
Pinch my cheek and tickle my toes -- no it ain't a dream, not even a nightmare, just bullshit served up as usual for joe six-pack...
Yes, even here, I have to pinch my self when I hear the news.
The UN Peacekeepers, in their response to a blatant attempt to ethnicly cleanse Ossetia, are declared to be ominous aggressors of the same sort that squashed the Czechs in '68 and the Hungarians in '55. The French president is a Hero of Peace. The Codpiece is spewing outrage that someone (other than Himself) is invading a sovereign country and Friend of Peace and Democracy...
Elsewhere, a president, faced with impeachment, abdicates -- the president of a great democracy and major player in the War Against Terror, a Power With Nuclear Weapons...
Umn, it was not the Codpiece (fat chance of that!) -- it was that Hero of Freedom and Democracy, Pervez Musharraf. (Any takers on bets that he will be back in the saddle before Mad Kane is (s)elected?)
Pinch my cheek and tickle my toes -- no it ain't a dream, not even a nightmare, just bullshit served up as usual for joe six-pack...
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Soul Pearl
Daily, willful, loving attentiveness to life unfolding is often a painful experience. Yet it is most necessary for what is all too easily called "spiritual developement".
Among the humblest of creatures, the oyster has little choice in the matter and yet produces something as wonderful as the lusterous pearl. We, with the potential with which we are imbued -- what can we not produce?(!)
The oyster is an animal, tasty swallowed whole,
that can easily assume a different role.
Should a bit of sand or grit stick in its tender flesh,
the oyster will feel pain without any rest.
And how many tears must the oyster cry,
to wash away its pain,
before all its agony undergoes a change?
Every tear the oyster cries is worth far more than gold.
Every tear the oyster cries comes from its very soul.
The product of its tears, you see, can charm a pretty girl.
The product of its tears, you see, is a bright and lusterous pearl!
And how many tears must the oyster cry,
to wash away its pain,
before all its agony undergoes a change?
A necklace of a band of pearls, it is a pretty thing
of beauty held together by a piece of ugly string.
The beauty of the pearl is what we all adore,
but don't you think, if you cut the string, they'll all fall on the floor!
And how many tears must the oyster cry,
to wash away its pain,
before all its agony undergoes a change?
And every time you take a breath,
or let out a sigh,
you show that all of life is exactly the same!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Police State 2.0
I don't have any outrage to report today about the use, mis- or ab-use of the Portable Instant Torture Device more commonly referred to as "taser".
This of course does not mean that such has not taken place, which it most certainly has. A toy like tool such as this, with the predicate of "harmless" (when used as directed), will of course be used with a certain promiscuity.
But the taser is only symptomatic of larger developments which broadly are known as "crowd control". Ostensibly, "crowd control" should be "humane" -- that is in the sense that the technology should not leave (long lasting) physical marks or (heaven forbid) trails of blood or dead bodies. Such is okay for outright tyranny, but not in free and democratic societies.
However, the purpose of crowd control is to keep people from demonstrating their dissatisfaction or anger over something. The problem is that crowd control cannot distinguish between citizens who have a legitimate bitch or authority which feels itself threatened.
When I was a young fellow, I remember scenes in Asimov's "Foundation and Empire" where the Imperial Police dispersed crowds with "neuronic whips" which, leaving no marks, left people (temporarily) writhing in agony.
Today, we have goo-spray, pepper spray, rubber and plastic bullets, water cannon, heat ray, sonic dispersal and many others. Combined with CCTV, face recognition and many other computer supported technologies to identify and/or red flag undesired activity, the ground work for tyrannies of behavior and even thought control has been laid. The problem is that "the bulwark against tyranny is dissent" as Amy Goodman succinctly puts it.
Naomi Klein points to this development in the 2008 Olympics in her essay Police State 2.0. As always, she's worth a read.
This of course does not mean that such has not taken place, which it most certainly has. A toy like tool such as this, with the predicate of "harmless" (when used as directed), will of course be used with a certain promiscuity.
But the taser is only symptomatic of larger developments which broadly are known as "crowd control". Ostensibly, "crowd control" should be "humane" -- that is in the sense that the technology should not leave (long lasting) physical marks or (heaven forbid) trails of blood or dead bodies. Such is okay for outright tyranny, but not in free and democratic societies.
However, the purpose of crowd control is to keep people from demonstrating their dissatisfaction or anger over something. The problem is that crowd control cannot distinguish between citizens who have a legitimate bitch or authority which feels itself threatened.
When I was a young fellow, I remember scenes in Asimov's "Foundation and Empire" where the Imperial Police dispersed crowds with "neuronic whips" which, leaving no marks, left people (temporarily) writhing in agony.
Today, we have goo-spray, pepper spray, rubber and plastic bullets, water cannon, heat ray, sonic dispersal and many others. Combined with CCTV, face recognition and many other computer supported technologies to identify and/or red flag undesired activity, the ground work for tyrannies of behavior and even thought control has been laid. The problem is that "the bulwark against tyranny is dissent" as Amy Goodman succinctly puts it.
Naomi Klein points to this development in the 2008 Olympics in her essay Police State 2.0. As always, she's worth a read.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Drill! Drill! Drill!
"Drill! Drill! Drill!"
No, that is not a paean to the marvels of modern, painless dentistry -- that is the war cry of the Gaia-rapers who sing as they march to the drumbeat of talking points and sound bites:
"We must drill in the national forests, off shore and on land -- only then can we free ourselves from dependency on oil from foreign countries ruled by ogres like Sugo Half-azz and populated by Little Brown People who look like Bulimo Charisma!!!"
And thus it came to pass that the good citizens of Arrogance, trembling in fear of four dollars a gallon at the gas pumps, their fingers hovering over the touch screen voting machines, let their common pinkie point to Mad Kane who then became Prez of the United State of Arrogance!
The result, of course, was such that even a blind drunk stumble bum face down in the gutter could have foreseen it: disaster -- spelled of course, with a capital "D", red and orange flashing lights, wailing sirens, klaxon horns, fart balloons and a chorus crying "Woe!", "Ve!", "Arrgh!" and "Holy Shit, Batman!"
The thing most strange was, even as their banner "Drill!" was being raised as their Jolly Roger on the mobile oil rigs, ready to set sail to the frozen tundra of the far North and start producing oil in, oh, 4, 5, maybe 6 years or more -- at the very same time the Arrogant oil companies were exporting more and more, in fact, record amounts of refined oil and gas to the Little Brown People and even -- gasp! -- the yellow Chinee!!!
When asked about the discrepancy and their apparent lack of Arrogant Patriotism, the fat man with the man with the big cigar shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Money don't never smell bad, sonny boy!"
No, that is not a paean to the marvels of modern, painless dentistry -- that is the war cry of the Gaia-rapers who sing as they march to the drumbeat of talking points and sound bites:
"We must drill in the national forests, off shore and on land -- only then can we free ourselves from dependency on oil from foreign countries ruled by ogres like Sugo Half-azz and populated by Little Brown People who look like Bulimo Charisma!!!"
And thus it came to pass that the good citizens of Arrogance, trembling in fear of four dollars a gallon at the gas pumps, their fingers hovering over the touch screen voting machines, let their common pinkie point to Mad Kane who then became Prez of the United State of Arrogance!
The result, of course, was such that even a blind drunk stumble bum face down in the gutter could have foreseen it: disaster -- spelled of course, with a capital "D", red and orange flashing lights, wailing sirens, klaxon horns, fart balloons and a chorus crying "Woe!", "Ve!", "Arrgh!" and "Holy Shit, Batman!"
The thing most strange was, even as their banner "Drill!" was being raised as their Jolly Roger on the mobile oil rigs, ready to set sail to the frozen tundra of the far North and start producing oil in, oh, 4, 5, maybe 6 years or more -- at the very same time the Arrogant oil companies were exporting more and more, in fact, record amounts of refined oil and gas to the Little Brown People and even -- gasp! -- the yellow Chinee!!!
When asked about the discrepancy and their apparent lack of Arrogant Patriotism, the fat man with the man with the big cigar shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Money don't never smell bad, sonny boy!"
Sunday, August 10, 2008
From Tasers to Tskhinvali
Digby has yet another interesting and slightly snarky piece about tasers, this time their proposed use in schools on teenagers.
But on to today's topic -- we'll be hearing a lot of loose talk about the recent armed confrontations between Georgia, Ossetia and Russia. In particular, we are sure to hear some comparison to Iraq. Therefore I think it important to set the record straight from the beginning!
True, there are some similarities -- but what are they?
1. S. Ossetia shares a border with Russia while Iraq is only 7000 miles from the US!
2. There is a North Ossetia in Russia with a half million population -- they are of the same ethnic group as the hundred thousand living in South Ossetia (who carry Russian passports). Meanwhile, there are/were only 24 million Iraqis in Iraq who carried Iraqi passports!
3. South Ossetia has been, although not officially recognized, since 1992 de-facto independent of Georgia after Georgia declared independence of the Russians in 1991. Iraq, on the other hand was a sovereign nation until the invasion and occupation in 2003 by the US and the Coalition of the Willing.
4. Georgian military, in an attempt to end the Ossetian separatist movement, attacked on 7 August its capitol, Tskhinvali, turning it into rubble. The Russians responded the next day with air and ground forces more or less finishing the grinding of rubble of Tskhinvali. The US, on the other hand, threatened by the imminent attack by Saddam using model airplanes and hot air balloons filled with rancid chicken shit not only turned much of Baghdad to rubble but also many cities like Falujah and Najaf.
5. The Russians had an interest in protecting the ethnic Ossetians south of their border. The Americans on the other hand had an interest in protecting the buildings of the Ministry of Oil.
6. The Russians have been bombing military air fields in Georgia, while sending both troops and tanks into South Ossetia. The US, meanwhile, has bombed everything in Iraq while deploying tanks and hundreds of thousands of troops and armed "contractors".
Having allowed for these few similarities, I'm sure you will understand that American, Brit and Danish protests over the Russian invasion of sovereign Georgia in no way can be considered a case of "the pot calling the kettle black"!
Actually folks, all snark aside this is the short-short story: whatever your preferences, Russia is the official peacekeeping force in S. Ossetia. When the Georgian president Saakashvili decided to coup an occupation of Tskhinvali while everyone's attention was on the OL, it didn't work. The phrase which West Media uses to describe Saskashvili is that he is "devoutly" pro-West (= American puppet)
The Russians convened an emergency session of the UN Security Council. But their resolution was blocked by the US, Brits and Georgia -- the glitch was in a phrase which required both sides to renounce the use of force. Thereafter, not being Holland in Srebenicia, the Russians sent in troops and armor to reinstate order in Tskhinvali and bombed military bases in Gori and elsewhere in Georgia.
The report is that 1500 Ossetians died under the Georgian attack (as well as a reported 15 Russian peace keepers killed and 150 wounded). If correct, this is more than 1% of the S. Ossetian population!. Under the bombing of a military base in Gori a bomb hit an apartment complex in Gori and 50 Georgians were reported dead. In Iraq such are called "collateral damage" -- unless they are men of military age, then they are Al-Qube terraists.
A last note, the Ossetians are a Persian people who were driven from their original homeland south of the River Don by invading Mongols.
But on to today's topic -- we'll be hearing a lot of loose talk about the recent armed confrontations between Georgia, Ossetia and Russia. In particular, we are sure to hear some comparison to Iraq. Therefore I think it important to set the record straight from the beginning!
True, there are some similarities -- but what are they?
1. S. Ossetia shares a border with Russia while Iraq is only 7000 miles from the US!
2. There is a North Ossetia in Russia with a half million population -- they are of the same ethnic group as the hundred thousand living in South Ossetia (who carry Russian passports). Meanwhile, there are/were only 24 million Iraqis in Iraq who carried Iraqi passports!
3. South Ossetia has been, although not officially recognized, since 1992 de-facto independent of Georgia after Georgia declared independence of the Russians in 1991. Iraq, on the other hand was a sovereign nation until the invasion and occupation in 2003 by the US and the Coalition of the Willing.
4. Georgian military, in an attempt to end the Ossetian separatist movement, attacked on 7 August its capitol, Tskhinvali, turning it into rubble. The Russians responded the next day with air and ground forces more or less finishing the grinding of rubble of Tskhinvali. The US, on the other hand, threatened by the imminent attack by Saddam using model airplanes and hot air balloons filled with rancid chicken shit not only turned much of Baghdad to rubble but also many cities like Falujah and Najaf.
5. The Russians had an interest in protecting the ethnic Ossetians south of their border. The Americans on the other hand had an interest in protecting the buildings of the Ministry of Oil.
6. The Russians have been bombing military air fields in Georgia, while sending both troops and tanks into South Ossetia. The US, meanwhile, has bombed everything in Iraq while deploying tanks and hundreds of thousands of troops and armed "contractors".
Having allowed for these few similarities, I'm sure you will understand that American, Brit and Danish protests over the Russian invasion of sovereign Georgia in no way can be considered a case of "the pot calling the kettle black"!
Actually folks, all snark aside this is the short-short story: whatever your preferences, Russia is the official peacekeeping force in S. Ossetia. When the Georgian president Saakashvili decided to coup an occupation of Tskhinvali while everyone's attention was on the OL, it didn't work. The phrase which West Media uses to describe Saskashvili is that he is "devoutly" pro-West (= American puppet)
The Russians convened an emergency session of the UN Security Council. But their resolution was blocked by the US, Brits and Georgia -- the glitch was in a phrase which required both sides to renounce the use of force. Thereafter, not being Holland in Srebenicia, the Russians sent in troops and armor to reinstate order in Tskhinvali and bombed military bases in Gori and elsewhere in Georgia.
The report is that 1500 Ossetians died under the Georgian attack (as well as a reported 15 Russian peace keepers killed and 150 wounded). If correct, this is more than 1% of the S. Ossetian population!. Under the bombing of a military base in Gori a bomb hit an apartment complex in Gori and 50 Georgians were reported dead. In Iraq such are called "collateral damage" -- unless they are men of military age, then they are Al-Qube terraists.
A last note, the Ossetians are a Persian people who were driven from their original homeland south of the River Don by invading Mongols.
Friday, August 08, 2008
From Tasers to the Terrible Times...
We note the occasional use of tasers which are both abusive and unusual enough (i.e. sensational) to grab the attention of the national press in the US.
For example, the young fellow who fell off a motor way overpass and broke his back -- when the police, called by alert citizens, arrived, they ordered him to stand up and when he wouldn't (couldn't) comply, they tasered him, uh, 19 times before they realized the was screaming not only because of portable electric torture devices they were using on him (tasers), but because of his (broken) back
But what about the fellow who was going around banging on doors in the neighborhood shouting that someone was going to shoot him. The police were called and his shouting was, in a sense, prophetic. He was tasered and, down on the sidewalk with his hands handcuffed behind his back, he was stomped, kicked, hit in the head.
When he puked into the gutter and went motionless, after a few minutes an ambulance was called to the scene. The medics worked on him for a while, but it was End of Story for the fellow.
I hope I will be forgiven for going off on a tangent which has little to do with the tragedy his death must be to his parents.
The fellow was shouting that "somebody was going to shoot him" -- i.e. he feared he was going to be killed -- and that's pretty much what happened. True, he was "only" shot with tasers, but the end result was the same.
My brains being in their normal state, that is addled, it occurred to me that this individual was perhaps suffering from not being able to cope with a proleptic, that is prophetic, experience of a future event.
I know a couple of people who have had this sort of experience, that is, they had to live with knowledge of an experience which occurs in what we think of as the future. Heck, I've been there myself!
Carl Jung claimed that he presaged the terrors and upheavals of the coming W.W.II in the dreams related to him by his patients. He also related more personal incidences of a related phenomenon he called "synchronicity" -- that is, when events would seem to have a causal connection, but with no possible logical explanation.
(There used to be a word for more dramatic experiences of synchronisity -- miracle.)
As for fellow who puked into the gutter and expired, I would like to compare his situation and fate to that of what seems to be a broad swath of opinion or intuition in our poor world today that "someone is going to shoot us".
My deep feeling is that there is no certain fate; it does not matter how "real" or traumatic the experience of the "shooting" is -- the important thing is the approach we take in living with the knowledge of the coming experience. If the fellow on the sidewalk had in the years before he was "shot" had changed his approach to life and stopped doing alcohol and other drugs, he may have never been "shot" or at least survived it. (The police have been implying this, with a couple of DUI convictions to back it up.)
There are those in our poor world today who maintain that if we but "Accept the Holy Idaho as our Personal Savior", then it doesn't "matter" if we take part in the Terrible times, using all the obscene weapons at our disposal, condemning millions to incineration and billions more to slow and agonizing deaths. When our poor world has been burned to polluted ashes, the Holy Idaho will come in a Cloud of Glory and take his chosen spuds up to live with the Great Potato in the Great Colander in the Sky!
Such Wondrous Bullshit of this grade or worse is, unfortunately, not all that hard to find...
However, it should be obvious that anyone who, by their words and deeds help to usher in the Terrible Times -- however sincere their protestations may seem -- have no relation to or understanding of the Holy Idaho and, consequently, their chances of being allotted a place in the Great Colander is exceedingly slim.
In sum, we may well feel or even know as a certainty that the world is going to hell in a hand basket and that may indeed be the case. But that doesn't mean you need to climb into the hand basket or encourage others to do so.
In the final analysis, all that really matters is our relationship to our common humanity.
For example, the young fellow who fell off a motor way overpass and broke his back -- when the police, called by alert citizens, arrived, they ordered him to stand up and when he wouldn't (couldn't) comply, they tasered him, uh, 19 times before they realized the was screaming not only because of portable electric torture devices they were using on him (tasers), but because of his (broken) back
But what about the fellow who was going around banging on doors in the neighborhood shouting that someone was going to shoot him. The police were called and his shouting was, in a sense, prophetic. He was tasered and, down on the sidewalk with his hands handcuffed behind his back, he was stomped, kicked, hit in the head.
When he puked into the gutter and went motionless, after a few minutes an ambulance was called to the scene. The medics worked on him for a while, but it was End of Story for the fellow.
I hope I will be forgiven for going off on a tangent which has little to do with the tragedy his death must be to his parents.
The fellow was shouting that "somebody was going to shoot him" -- i.e. he feared he was going to be killed -- and that's pretty much what happened. True, he was "only" shot with tasers, but the end result was the same.
My brains being in their normal state, that is addled, it occurred to me that this individual was perhaps suffering from not being able to cope with a proleptic, that is prophetic, experience of a future event.
I know a couple of people who have had this sort of experience, that is, they had to live with knowledge of an experience which occurs in what we think of as the future. Heck, I've been there myself!
Carl Jung claimed that he presaged the terrors and upheavals of the coming W.W.II in the dreams related to him by his patients. He also related more personal incidences of a related phenomenon he called "synchronicity" -- that is, when events would seem to have a causal connection, but with no possible logical explanation.
(There used to be a word for more dramatic experiences of synchronisity -- miracle.)
As for fellow who puked into the gutter and expired, I would like to compare his situation and fate to that of what seems to be a broad swath of opinion or intuition in our poor world today that "someone is going to shoot us".
My deep feeling is that there is no certain fate; it does not matter how "real" or traumatic the experience of the "shooting" is -- the important thing is the approach we take in living with the knowledge of the coming experience. If the fellow on the sidewalk had in the years before he was "shot" had changed his approach to life and stopped doing alcohol and other drugs, he may have never been "shot" or at least survived it. (The police have been implying this, with a couple of DUI convictions to back it up.)
There are those in our poor world today who maintain that if we but "Accept the Holy Idaho as our Personal Savior", then it doesn't "matter" if we take part in the Terrible times, using all the obscene weapons at our disposal, condemning millions to incineration and billions more to slow and agonizing deaths. When our poor world has been burned to polluted ashes, the Holy Idaho will come in a Cloud of Glory and take his chosen spuds up to live with the Great Potato in the Great Colander in the Sky!
Such Wondrous Bullshit of this grade or worse is, unfortunately, not all that hard to find...
However, it should be obvious that anyone who, by their words and deeds help to usher in the Terrible Times -- however sincere their protestations may seem -- have no relation to or understanding of the Holy Idaho and, consequently, their chances of being allotted a place in the Great Colander is exceedingly slim.
In sum, we may well feel or even know as a certainty that the world is going to hell in a hand basket and that may indeed be the case. But that doesn't mean you need to climb into the hand basket or encourage others to do so.
In the final analysis, all that really matters is our relationship to our common humanity.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Happy Birthday!!!
Well, it's that time of year again - August 6th and happy birthday to me on a date which most people associate with Hiroshima.
Most people who react thus to the date August 6th thus will also think of August 9th, when Nagasaki was closely wedded in mass death to Hiroshima.
But fewer know that Fat Man and Little Boy formed an unholy trinity with a far less well known figure, Gadget, who bloomed from a tower on July 16th and demonstrated beyond a doubt that the "Bomb in the Mind" could actually blossom into our reality.
I'm reminded of words the unknown poet of the Third Galaxy wrote so many years ago in the Arrogant Prophecies:
"The blossom bursts into the night,
budding bleeding stubs of such sick delight
that all who see it loose their sight,
they madly rage and praise the majesty of might"
After two generations of Cold War, a decade of wasted opportunity for peace and true reconciliation on our poor world followed by yet another decade of wasted human lives and resource in wars pointless, except for world domination -- which in itself is a pointless pursuit, as is obvious from human history -- what has been accomplished?
Indeed, what has been accomplished?
Nada.
Zilch.
Nothing but holes in the ground, filled with blood crying for justice.
If justice were to come in a single night, who could stand before such a wind -- we have indeed "...killed all our yesterdays and tomorrows and today is busting into flame..."
Happy birthday.
Gadget .016 seconds after it's birth on the Tower at the Trinity test.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Remember When the Peace Began?
Remember when the Peace began? It was the first day of the week -- my mind comepletely wasted, I became a total freak.
Friend Ravenheart send me an amazing letter y'day -- you can read something about where he's coming from now here at his "Bipolar Shaman" site. The letter inspired me to pull out something I wrote oh, maybe ten years ago and dust it off a bit.
Here's the story, such as it is: On Friday, January 25, 1973, I lost my mind. Well, I didn't lose it so much as, it being overheated and spinning around madly, some gears and springs sort of popped and flew off on their own in various directions...
For three days I was in living partly in an alternate reality: the world had been destroyed by the atomic and hydrogen bombs; all that we thought was reality was nothing more than the collective memories of the public mind -- and they were slowly fading into a restless night, cold, dark and ugly.
I found my mind again, but it wasn't it very good shape: rather ragged around the edges, cut and bruised -- I've sometimes wonder why I bothered to get it back. In fact, when I think about it, I've spent not a little of these past decades trying to lose it again...
Some of my best song poems, Deep Water, Lay Down, Take a Lesson from Mary and, of course, Crazy Bird are responses to that experience and, surprising to some I suppose, they are full of faith, hope and love.
At the end, I had an odd conversation of sorts with what I thought of as a flaming mandala that told me, among other things, that all that is holy and sacred, all the saints, both hidden and unknown are contained within its scintillating patterns.
Having tried too hard to find answers to questions of Hope and Truth and Love, I went into my hell and there, in hell, I found love -- my Love...
On Friday afternoon, as the door closed behind me, I realized I had forgotten my key; even as I heard the click of the lock, I realised the mistake I had made...
Well: there was nothing to do about it; who could say I would ever return, and if I returned, as what would I return?
My Love is a dancer, light on her toes -- my Love is a rainbow, completely unclothed, my Love is a diamond both polished and uncut.
My Love gives me the world in one rain-drop, a drowning flood flowing forever, the ground slowly sucks it up.
Before my journey was over, I would end up telling a couple of LDS misionaries that they could go into town and "...become traffic lights if they wanted to", but, as for me, I was going to go "...out into the fields and become a bush"... Recalling that incident, I have to laugh a bit. Being at the center of my mental hurricane, the internal logic was crystal clear to me, if to no one else.
The delusion that the bombs had fallen -- that was also quite logical, the newspaper headlines were screaming that "Peace would come on Sunday" That the papers were referring to Vietnam completely escaped my notice as I had, so to speak, bigger fish to fry...
I say there was a internal logic of sorts to the delusions I experienced during those days. But that does not mean to say that my thoughts were cogent, or even coherent -- in fact, as I began stepping the flights of stairs down, down, down to the streets of that grey, winter afternoon, I had already forgotten about the key. When I returned a few hours later I was surprised to find that the door was locked. So, I smashed the window with a big stick I had found in the Wilderness.
With every eye blink: hypnogogic images flashed behind my eyelids; when I opened my eyes, yet another world, strange, unknown...alien...was revealed. My mind was in a constant turmoil of desire and dread, constantly permutating. I embodied thesis and antithesis, fascination and fear; and hovering over it all, like some crazy bird -- a flaming wish to know the "Truth".
Truth? What is "truth"?
A good question, or maybe meaningless: I suppose it all depends on how you ask it! That was Pilate's question you know, and the bible says that the accused man before him gave no answer -- or, was the answer in the silence? There is a legend, you know, that Pilate died a christian martyr's death. Like as not the story is only legend. But if true, or even partly true, then Pilate perhaps, like so many other, found the Answer to the Question: "...eli, eli, lama sabachtani?(!)"
It's hard to be a hero and it's hard to hold your breath, it's hard to face the fact that you are facing death, but once you've faced it all, you can surely face the rest!
Take a lesson from Mary, take a lesson for free, take a lesson from every living thing you see.
Friend Ravenheart send me an amazing letter y'day -- you can read something about where he's coming from now here at his "Bipolar Shaman" site. The letter inspired me to pull out something I wrote oh, maybe ten years ago and dust it off a bit.
Here's the story, such as it is: On Friday, January 25, 1973, I lost my mind. Well, I didn't lose it so much as, it being overheated and spinning around madly, some gears and springs sort of popped and flew off on their own in various directions...
For three days I was in living partly in an alternate reality: the world had been destroyed by the atomic and hydrogen bombs; all that we thought was reality was nothing more than the collective memories of the public mind -- and they were slowly fading into a restless night, cold, dark and ugly.
I found my mind again, but it wasn't it very good shape: rather ragged around the edges, cut and bruised -- I've sometimes wonder why I bothered to get it back. In fact, when I think about it, I've spent not a little of these past decades trying to lose it again...
Some of my best song poems, Deep Water, Lay Down, Take a Lesson from Mary and, of course, Crazy Bird are responses to that experience and, surprising to some I suppose, they are full of faith, hope and love.
At the end, I had an odd conversation of sorts with what I thought of as a flaming mandala that told me, among other things, that all that is holy and sacred, all the saints, both hidden and unknown are contained within its scintillating patterns.
Having tried too hard to find answers to questions of Hope and Truth and Love, I went into my hell and there, in hell, I found love -- my Love...
On Friday afternoon, as the door closed behind me, I realized I had forgotten my key; even as I heard the click of the lock, I realised the mistake I had made...
Well: there was nothing to do about it; who could say I would ever return, and if I returned, as what would I return?
My Love is a dancer, light on her toes -- my Love is a rainbow, completely unclothed, my Love is a diamond both polished and uncut.
My Love gives me the world in one rain-drop, a drowning flood flowing forever, the ground slowly sucks it up.
Before my journey was over, I would end up telling a couple of LDS misionaries that they could go into town and "...become traffic lights if they wanted to", but, as for me, I was going to go "...out into the fields and become a bush"... Recalling that incident, I have to laugh a bit. Being at the center of my mental hurricane, the internal logic was crystal clear to me, if to no one else.
The delusion that the bombs had fallen -- that was also quite logical, the newspaper headlines were screaming that "Peace would come on Sunday" That the papers were referring to Vietnam completely escaped my notice as I had, so to speak, bigger fish to fry...
I say there was a internal logic of sorts to the delusions I experienced during those days. But that does not mean to say that my thoughts were cogent, or even coherent -- in fact, as I began stepping the flights of stairs down, down, down to the streets of that grey, winter afternoon, I had already forgotten about the key. When I returned a few hours later I was surprised to find that the door was locked. So, I smashed the window with a big stick I had found in the Wilderness.
With every eye blink: hypnogogic images flashed behind my eyelids; when I opened my eyes, yet another world, strange, unknown...alien...was revealed. My mind was in a constant turmoil of desire and dread, constantly permutating. I embodied thesis and antithesis, fascination and fear; and hovering over it all, like some crazy bird -- a flaming wish to know the "Truth".
Truth? What is "truth"?
A good question, or maybe meaningless: I suppose it all depends on how you ask it! That was Pilate's question you know, and the bible says that the accused man before him gave no answer -- or, was the answer in the silence? There is a legend, you know, that Pilate died a christian martyr's death. Like as not the story is only legend. But if true, or even partly true, then Pilate perhaps, like so many other, found the Answer to the Question: "...eli, eli, lama sabachtani?(!)"
It's hard to be a hero and it's hard to hold your breath, it's hard to face the fact that you are facing death, but once you've faced it all, you can surely face the rest!
Take a lesson from Mary, take a lesson for free, take a lesson from every living thing you see.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
The Great Anthrax Mystery...
The Great Anthrax Mystery has finally been solved, sort of.
Following the communal madness of 9/11 the anthrax mailings brought a surreal aspect into the common insanity. First of all, it was denied, but then, when people started to die, it could not be ignored. Somebody or someones had sent a portion of mass dead out, by mail -- we were shitting in our collective pants, was it Saddam? No, it wasn't. He was innocent, as he was of 9/11 and all the other reasons for the illegal invasion, occupation and assorted war crimes the present (mal)administration has managed to do.
Whatever, when the
"prime" suspect in the, until now, unsolved anthrax murders, kills himself, please excuse me, but this is almost as weird as when the guy who knew about the bullshit with the the Brit involvement in the Iraq debacle slipped and slit his wrists while wrestling with his conscience.
Following the communal madness of 9/11 the anthrax mailings brought a surreal aspect into the common insanity. First of all, it was denied, but then, when people started to die, it could not be ignored. Somebody or someones had sent a portion of mass dead out, by mail -- we were shitting in our collective pants, was it Saddam? No, it wasn't. He was innocent, as he was of 9/11 and all the other reasons for the illegal invasion, occupation and assorted war crimes the present (mal)administration has managed to do.
Whatever, when the
"prime" suspect in the, until now, unsolved anthrax murders, kills himself, please excuse me, but this is almost as weird as when the guy who knew about the bullshit with the the Brit involvement in the Iraq debacle slipped and slit his wrists while wrestling with his conscience.
Friday, August 01, 2008
My New Baby
Well, dear hearts, as of today, I am an official retiree, with no connection to the working force that keeps the Wheels of Industry clunking in a Walter Mitty sort of way...
While we were in Scotland, I got me a new "baby", specifically, a TW15 Baby from Tanglewood -- here is a picture:
...and here are her vital statistics:
Solid 'A' grade Sitka spruce top
Solid mahogany back and sides
Maple Bound
Green abalone inlaid sound hole decoration
Solid one-piece mahogany neck & headstock
Ebony fingerboard & bridge
Green abalone inlaid dot position markers
Bone compensating saddle
Bone top nut
Gold Kluson style 'mini' machine heads, with 'butterbean' buttons
Elixir Nanoweb strings
Chrome fitted guitar strap buttons
She rings like a bell and her tone is clean and true all the way up her ebony neck. I got to hold and cuddle her for a mere 200£ (list price is 350£)
While we were in Scotland, I got me a new "baby", specifically, a TW15 Baby from Tanglewood -- here is a picture:
...and here are her vital statistics:
Solid 'A' grade Sitka spruce top
Solid mahogany back and sides
Maple Bound
Green abalone inlaid sound hole decoration
Solid one-piece mahogany neck & headstock
Ebony fingerboard & bridge
Green abalone inlaid dot position markers
Bone compensating saddle
Bone top nut
Gold Kluson style 'mini' machine heads, with 'butterbean' buttons
Elixir Nanoweb strings
Chrome fitted guitar strap buttons
She rings like a bell and her tone is clean and true all the way up her ebony neck. I got to hold and cuddle her for a mere 200£ (list price is 350£)
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