Thou dawnest beautifully on the horizon of the sky, O living Aton, who was the beginning of life.
I am laying out in the sun helio-tripping.
I am hoping today is a better day for hopefulness and friendship!
*daydreams about astrally relocating into a certain hot chick's bed in anticipation of lovemaking that would require the invention of new words to describe!*
Month: April 2001
-
-
Bianca’s DEAD !!
This is an amazing development! Bianca Broussard, our much loved and hated Bianca, has apparently died from Terms of Use.
Does this mean that her progeny have finally done her in?? Or is she the parakeet in a cage that has just wilted away??!! You don't think that a lawsuit against spamming caught up with the ole girl, do ya??
(I heard your whisper, bright fuschia! *your lord!*)
By way of explanation...
Like any good cub reporter, I followed an anonymous tip from "brightfuschia@hotmail.com" (doesn't exist!) to Bianca's now barren blog. brightfuschia also is not a Xanga member, by that name, hence, anonymous. brightfuschia addressed me as *my lord* and then simply left Bianca's URL. Mystery upon mystery, the gate to all meaning. -
Is Xanga a dirty word??
It is. In almost all languages. It has just been suppressed insidiously by taboo. For the longest time. The medieval Popes knew. And insured its obscurity with the Crusades. The Shakers knew. And insured its murkiness with their extinction. Atlantis knew. And took the impropriety along with it to the bottom of the ocean. The Dalai Lama knows. But only smiles when he thinks about it. But just listen. The archetypal pattern is still ingrained in our latent human cerebral protoplasm:
The xanging bastards who conspired to turn this xanging word into a taboo were real xangholes. To them I say: Xang you, motherxangers! You can suck my xang! O, yeah, they tried to stick it up our xang and create an ugly, xanging mess, those son of a xangs! But they didn’t realize who the xang someday they’d be dealing with. Xanging right, you xangsuckers! We are the resurrect! We are taking you head on! We are Xanga and we shall xang until the xanging end of time!
-
A Rational Explanation
...for all my seemingly diversionary postings of yesterday:
1) I decided to experiment a little and post some server-based Anfyjava chat script in a private post. I had a notion it would work in the header section of the blog (my HumanClick chat already works there--and this is similar), but wanted to see if it would work in the journal section as well. If so, I was going to make it public.
2)After doing such, only a small gray box appeared on my private screen (www.xanga.com/private/home.asp) upon refresh. It wasn't working. But to my horror, there was no "eprops-comments-edit-email" byline. Only blankness until the bottom of the screen. There was no "Next 10" line at the bottom either. I thought that I had lost all my posts.
3)I immediately switched, and after several refresh timeouts got to the public view (www.xanga.com/notforprophet) expecting to see a tabula rasa. But all my previous post were still intact! So although I could no longer see or edit these posts from my private view, that alone seemed the immediate impairment.
4) But now Xanga was acting up. It became terribly hard to view or post anything in both the public and private view. I was using Internet Explorer 5.5 on this first PC (my laptop) and decided to switch to another available LAN PC behind a firewall that had Nestcape's Communicator 4.76 on it and give access a try. Forget it. I couldn't even, after minutes of attempts, log into my private site. Switching back to the laptop and lowering my firewalls, I then attempted to use Netscape 6 to log into my private site. Once again more difficulties, yet when I finally got in, my private site consisted of only the money background and nothing else! Clearing the cache and refreshing/relogin in didn't help! So I decided to switch back to Internet Explorer where at least the "New Weblog Entry--Public Preview--Get xTools" header was still visible.
5) Still no previous posts, but could I post something new? So I attempted to access the "New Weblog Entry" window, again with all kinds of difficulty, but I finally got in, wrote my first post-script post, and again, with all kinds of trouble and reattempts, got it published! So I could breathe--I still had a life on Xanga! Now I had an idea...
6) Perhaps the offending Anfycode, which was causing all my visibility problems and seemed to be contemporaneous with the generalized Xanga access issues, would "go away" if I could push it off my front page--if I could post 10 posts and force it onto a "Next 10" page. Hence, my numbered posts. But once again nothing was easy, as it was taking multiple retries and logins and lockups throughout. I spent hours in the posting of the next 10 posts.
7) Throughout this 10-post period, access from the other computer was impossible. Timeouts were predictable, unrelenting. But I periodically attempted such, nonetheless, as a test. But I was posting exclusively off of my laptop via dialup with firewalls down. ...Finally, I was at the final post that would push the offending javascript to the "Next 10". "Submit" and ...it worked! I had a "Next 10" link at the bottom of my private screen again--and the javascript grayhole was banished thereto. Now could I access Xanga from my other PC??...
8) Yep! Right in, no problem! And Netscape displayed all the features on my private page again! Dare I click on the "Next 10" to see what awaited me there? Of course...and still the javascript gray void wall. But at least, I had a fresh start and could move on....
9) Now that my private malaise seemed put off into the "Next 10" nethersphere, would Xanga overall seem more responsive? That is, was my difficulty causing Xanga's performance impairment? Well, outside of a laboratory where there are strict controls, it is impossible to establish direct cause and effect. And I wasn't about to repeat the experiment to see if the same overall performance symptoms returned. Still my correlative observation, was that the Xanga performance issues ceased at precisely the moment of my personal 10-posts liberation. A precise impression--yes. Cause or coincidence--not precisely established. But if merely coincidence, the onset and disappearance of Xanga's ills was timingly eerie.
10) Lesson learned: Don't play with Anfyjava fire!
-
AahahAAA! #11
So it was a problem! I got my "Next 10" back at the bottom now (meaning that the javascript hole has been relegated to offpage obscurity) and suddenly I can use Netscape Communicator to login to my private page again!
I still can't go back beyond today and edit or delete anything. Not that I'm disposed to do so, anyways. It's just that now I'm constrained to remain an idiot-savant of the moment blogwise.
Hey, does anyone want me to post the code so that they can try it on their page??!!
Forget it!! I love you all too much.
Except those of you I hate--and
I have no idea who you are--
(O yes I do--not really--but I pretend I don't for your sake).
But if you think it's you, you're wrong.
(If you're thinking at all, for that matter, go get a beer.)
And if you're sure it's not you, you're strong!
Now here come the Xanga bots--I must lay low--
So near I hear their pitter-patter
and their squeaking, cleanly
fixing everything I broke. -
Well, this is #10 and so very critical in my determination about how to go about in continuing to troubleshoot by blog. Yes, Xanga seems impaired, but is it merely a coincidence that this occurred at the very moment of my javascript experiment??!!
What I believe is required is a statistical procedure called ANOVA (for Analysis of Variance) to determine what part of the malaise my blog is experiencing is due to Xanga's overall impedance and what part to my javascript vortex. I need to see the Main Effects! Now!
silly useless fact: I once sat atop the Garfield Monument (Lakeview Cemetary) and partied with a six-pack and other accouterments.
Here goes...
-
ms_chif4u is claiming this is a conspiracy! Indeed, it may be, but I'm not a profiteer of such arrangements. Cry havoc, I say, and let loose the dogs of war. I'm a technician on a mission. The javascript black hole is nearly at the bottom of my private page since this is #9.
Hau bu hau, ni ne?
Another nothing about no one: during the summer, my heartbeat can slow to about 42 beats a minute.
-
#8 This is taking too much time!
hrm..I once won a photography contest when, limited to 2 photos per person, a photographer friend allowed me to submit two of his photos in addition to the two he submitted. Of course, he thought that he would win and I might get 3rd or 4th prize. But I won and he was miffed that he had the talent to win, but not the judgement to determine the top one picked. So, instead of him, I got the newspaper write-up, photo and all.
-
#7 I feel kind of like StandsWithaFist in numbering my posts consecutively here. I do miss that dear girl, she was so sweet...but needed to escape a self-confessed addiction to blogging.
more useless facts: I once psychically witnessed the death of two popes, the paralysis of a mid-eastern head of state, and the mysterious death of a Central American charismatic leader. Now do me a favor and laugh
!! Then forget that I ever even mentioned this. -
Well, at least IExplorer is providing me this publishing functionality.
Ok, so as not to bore anyone or everyone...or perhaps, to bore everyone more...
A useless fact about me: I speak Chinese. Kinda used to. Read it, too (that's more fun!)
Back to technisms--this is push-the-blackhole-script-overboard post #6
-
I am going to resist the impulse to blame myself.
Yes, my previous private access to all my entries except the last few is gone.
Yes, this commenced after a little experiment with code on a private post.
Yes, Xanga has been entirely sluggish since.
Yes, Netscape is now useless for me for logging in.
It looks like I'll have to contact the Xangods for assistance. Now I'll find out if they are benefcient deities or filled with fury....
-
O this REALLY sucks!
I can't even use Netscape to access my private page. Only Internet Explorer can see it now--and yes, I've cleared the caches and lowered my firewalls. And it takes about 15 trys to get a New Weblog entry box to appear.
Is this malaise just affecting me or others, too?
All started around 11 AM just after I tried to enhance a post with some javascript--OH, no, no! But how did I know?
At least the post was initially "private" and so didn't impact my public persona.
But has it impacted Xanga's servers more generally--or only me???
Time to push out another post...
-
Did this blog commit suicide???
I can no longer edit my previous posts!
They are available to public view, but no private access is allowed anymore. So this is my "first" post as I see if from my private page. Hey, maybe I get to start all over again...
...or maybe I post this and it doesn't post???
...or maybe I post this and it goes public but I can't edit or delete it!!!
Soon to see...
-
styxx374 is fundamentally correct in her impression of my last post: she "didn't get it."
I didn't get it either! And that's the problem. When I don't get it, I'm prone to reach into the dusty depths of forgotten memories or hazy visions. It's just a grab bag of vagrant recollections and meandering lost-outs. I didn't mean to drag anyone along with me! I was merely searching for a way out, a way to get it! But it would be presumptuous of me to expect direct assistance. So indirect assistance came in the form of : "I don't get it." And that's the end to that.
And nash, too, makes an ardent incision by observing that true inspiration may arise at any time, from even the obscure. She gets it! And she's right, too! And she has just inspired me, so this:
I embrace the contradiction: A and not A!
So fuzzy do I seem to be
Aristotle would have none of me
If he were alive today.
But I embrace the contradiction
And seemed to have swallowed a star:
Just waiting for my head to burst
Then I'll put my brain in a jar. -
I know I wasn't supposed to.
I know I didn't have permission.
But I decided to swallow the sun.
Thus inflamed, the first thing I heard:
"...I was with some new buddies. I had just moved into the neighborhood and it was just after Christmas. These new buddies, with one mentionable by the name of Frank, had just picked me up and we were cruising the neighborhood looking for Christmas trees discarded on the tree lawn. And every house or so--you know, not everyone one, one here, one there. we'd stop and light the trees on fire, So that at the end of the street, you'd look back and see all these tree lawns on fire.
But as we were doing this, I said 'Hey, come on, look, guys. Is this your idea of fun? I mean, if you want to do some shit, let's do some shit." And then I turned to Frank and I said: "Do you know what Sigmund Freud says about people who need to light fires?' And that was it! Next thing you know, we're all out of the truck and turning over strangers' Fords and Chevies!"
The next fundamental reverberation...
"...the truth is not so tough...
merely what we agree upon, me and you,
...and if you believe in me, then all that is, is true."
The third aspect obtained...
"When things are misunderstood, most people try to reword them. Occasionally, the forward-looking know precisely when to re-world them."
Re-worlding, re-wordling, tra-la-la-la-la...
"I just met a girl who believes that the greatest compliment a guy ever paid her was telling her that she had 'inner thigh development that could crush a guy's head like a grape.' "
The fourth pillar envisioned...
"All future culture hinges on the development of the fully-functional digital wallet: a portable. pocketable , personal ATM instantaneously in touch with the entire known economic universe."
...And that was enough. -
nothing finds possibilities
in the nice female prostitute
with no further potential
now fucking prone.
she's all for profit.
Should you ever trust a woman? Of course.
Should you always trust a woman? Hell no!
Here’s a letter a self-appointed “lover” wrote to me while she was in prison. Her *revealed intention*—only later discerned—was to shake me down for material support and cash. This (needless to say?) was a never-fulfilled postal fantasy:
…I'd like to do this with you:
I call you and have you pick me up. I'm dressed very sexy to your liking. I'll be wearing a very short skirt and a very tight sweater revealing every curve of my body. I'll also be wearing a black lace bra along with black lacey panties and a garter belt and stockings to match. We then go to dinner and then out for a while, and then we get a room at a nice hotel somewhere. Once we get to our room, I turn the lights down and I have you sit at the edge of the bed. As I turn the radio on to some soft sexual music, I begin to dance and then strip for you as I remove my blouse. You can tell I'm excited, my nipples are very hard and erect as you can see them through my bra made of lace. I then move my hand behind my back to undo the bra and slowly remove it as I work my way down undoing my skirt and slowly peeling it down off my hips. As it falls to the floor, I'm now dancing in front of you in only my panties and garter belt and stocking and heels. As I straddle your lap placing one leg over each one of yours, I grind my pussy along your crotch as I give you a lap dance. As I dance against your very hard cock, I lie back and begin to unbutton you shirt caressing each nipple and then caressing them again with the wetness of my tongue and then with my mouth I suck
them very gently. Working my way down to your waist where I undo your belt and then your zipper and bring your very manly part to my mouth as I kneel between your legs. As I suck you very long and gently, working my way down to your balls, enduring every inch, I then stop and lie my self against your body warming you with every touch. As you remove my panties, I then once again straddle you at the waist and insert you deeply inside me slowly rocking and riding you. I then raise up and down on you as I watch you disappear inside then reappear. I do this a while as you enjoy every minute as I can tell by the look on your face. It feels so good to the point where I can't any longer hold myself back as I cum all over you. As you feel the warmth of all the love I have for you, you cannot resist but to fill me with all the love you have for me. I don't want to move at this point so I take all of you and leave it inside as I lay upon your chest and kiss your lips and hold you close to me. Not ever wanting to let you go.
Love always, Your Tricia. -
It was a night of lucid dreaming. The very moment after laying down and closing my eyes with my hands by my sides, I was impacted with vivid images of my hands and arms flailing uncontrollably in all directions--as if I were a mad orchestra conductor. Mind you, I was not "asleep" in the conventional sense, but had just started my entry supra-consciously into a dream state.
So I "see" my mad gesticulations from a prone position and have a sudden urge to return to the keyboard to type. But I realized if I did so, I'd interrupt the dream flow. So I decided to allow, instead, the lucid imagery to unfold.
Next, the "wall whispers" slipped in. The "wall whispers" are usually subliminal but become liminal when a lucid dream state keeps me supra-consciously awake even though ordinarilly I would have sunk into the mattress unaware. As if I "see" myself and "hear" them, but the whispers only "see" me sleeping. Barely audible, then audible, then not. In and out. Two sizzling evocations were wafted that I, quite remarkably, "heard" clearly. One voice said: "We'd think for him, if only he'd let us." And the other responded: "But he won't let us." Again, at that moment, I had a nearly irresistible urge to bolt out of bed and back to the keyboard. But I thought to myself: "I'll remember this in the morning, better then than now." And I continued to move on.
The next moment of the dream journey left me utterly awash. I had a vision of an ocean of endlessly repeating waves. But it was an ocean of psychic soundings, and the waves were intimations from afar. Succeedingly touched by each wave, my inner awareness welled...until oversaturated, and then another shift.
Her name was Tasha Litchi. And I remember nothing else.
-
I just awoke from the shower/bathtub (where I had fallen restlessy asleep) . I am startled and instantly drawn back to this Xangan connection, which I left open behind a firewall. Energetically, I am overwhelmed by a vague notion of impending structural change. *critical mass* ? *service* ? What is all of this?? Xanga's sailing again.
My cat has just fallen dead alseep with his head buried into the side and paws upon the keyboard of my laptop. I've had to push him away twice, but he's groaned from deep within and slithered back to a position of obstructive contact. He doesn't want me to continue to type. So I guess it is also time to slither myself to sleep.
I'm leaving this connection open, for the night, behind my firewall. I will be back first thing after awakening in the morning to see if what I just wrote makes any sense at all.
-
~~~In the Sights~~~
We were heading out east to a popular country beach on the Lake Erie shoreline for an afternoon of beer-drinking and girl-watching. My buddy Mike was driving his convertible BMW and I had taken to two wheels on my Yamaha 400 (I know, I know…this is a totally-wus bike power-wise and towards the high-end, but it was one of the quickest bikes from a dead-start with an aptitude to always do a wheelie.) Once out of the city limits and on the open highway, we decided we could "open up" a little--police surveillance was unlikely, so throttles went agape. Hot highway, screaming breeze, dodge the kamikaze bugs, race the earth with ease. I had taken to the inside "fast" lane on this 4-lane highway and my buddy was shadowing me in the outside lane. Cat-and-mouse, then mouse-and-cat, we exchanged leads, side-by-side, as we took turns splurging on accelerators. Finally, I had had enough. I zoomed solo to a lonely lead, leaving Mike to become a small detail in my rearview mirror. Wild speed, free man, suck the rush! Looking back but occasionally in that rearview mirror, details remained receding dots.
Then one of those dots decided to get bigger, and I figured "OK, here he comes…" From dot to small dimension to geometry, a re-encounter coming up my lane, …but damn, the details--shape, color, hug to the ground--weren't right. It wasn't Mike, but whoever it was, was in a world of hurry, and the thought *the cops* crept in. So now, watching the mirror more than the highway ahead, I slowed from well 100+ back down right around the century mark, both to get a better look and to suggest to the cops, if they were cops, *Hey, I'm not speeding after all!* With the distance between me and this car coming up behind now even more quickly closing, I observed more detail: a convertible, meaning, not a cop! But then, who the hell and why? Perhaps, medical emergency, I thought. So I shifted to the outside lane to let the car by, but it shifted likewise behind me in response. Now in the mirror, with the car about a fifty feet back, I could see a guy driving, smiling, with a girl next to him. What the f???…I decided to accelerate and shift back to the fast lane again. But this maniac behind me followed, in apparent locked-in delinquent pursuit. So now I'm doing about 20 (add the century, of course) and this creep has crept to within feet of my back tire. Assessing this finally as a life-threatening situation, what maneuver, I brainstormed, did I need to take to shake loose???….
But then another dot to dimension to geometry did grow in my mirror: my friend, Mike, of course! He had been laying back, observing the interplay of myself and this self-appointed adversary, but had seen enough. So now it was my turn to watch as Mike brought his convertible up to the right of the car behind me until he was precisely side by side. I could see him grinning behind his sunglasses, and his blonde long hair was streaming in the rushing air as he looked directly over to the girl now door-to-door opposite him. She was a brunette, apparently not really "into it" since she lacked the evil smirk her boyfriend had assumed. She was about to get "into it" even less as my friend Mike pulled his Colt Commander 9mm pistol and aimed it, still smiling, directly at her head.
The unfolding show in my rearview mirror was about to end. The horror she realized as she turned to observe a bullet poised at the far-end of a short barrel was unmistakable. She looked to the right: beholding a gun and a smile, turned to her left, grabbing her boyfriend, who himself then looked swiftly to the right with instant dreadful recognition. That car's details of geometry soon transformed back into dimension, then but a dot, pulling off to the side of the highway in a braking cloud of dust.
Now this buddy Mike was the friend who had also once saved me from falling off a cliff. So as he pulled up along side me with us both still flying at full cadence down the road, I felt doubly-indebted for his assistance. I looked over to my right, and gave him in acknowledgement, while myself grinning, a full thumbs-up. His response? The pistol which had disappeared now suddenly reappeared and the sights were targeted directly at my head! Still grinning, Mike was playing psycho by suggesting that he was about to take me out.
Mike loved to grin like the Chesire Cat, and complementary to that character, did the threat he posed to me, once played for full-effect, disappear. We did proceed to the beach to relax, watch girls, and drink beer. -
~~Body Gone *Poof*~~
Yes, all ten of the speculations in my previous post have true stories behind them. But for the moment, I am especially concerned about Holly's claim that I induced JadedFey's premature submission complex with item #10. I can't have that on my conscience! So here's an expanded clarifiication for JadedFey's benefit...and in order to avoid the wrath of the other one.
It was an incredible summer morn. I was work-free and laying out in the sun, drinking a glass of wine, reading the first of two selected books, two books being what I would typically read during that summer's average day. Lying on an outdoor furniture cot, facing west with the sun coming over my shoulder, I had just set the wine glass down with my left hand on a flat stone and reached to set the book down to my right on a low brick structure, when I felt no assault of pain, but only an immediate and unexpected wooziness. I was alarmed: something had changed. My mind's outlook was shifting, my metabolism bothered, my time perception suddenly expanding. I tried to stand up, but collapsed in the act to my knees. Wtf? Of course, wtf!! Then I saw it: an insect-like entity as I had never seen before (or since) docked on my right forearm with its proboscis injected into my skin, sucking? injecting?, who the hell knew. It was about two inches long and amazingly thin, with banded alternating black and yellow stripes and mosquito-like wings. And it was seemingly sucking my consciousness away. " Why? What?" were practically the only challenges I could mentally self-mount before the trip kicked in. And I mean painless, psychedelic, visionary floating imagery type-trip. Yet I did have enough remaining sense to pick the creature off me-and it departed to my picking without protest. In fact, it seemed lifeless as I put it into a nearby empty glass jar which I inverted on a perfectly flat piece of sidewalk sandstone. Of course, my fading, delirious thoughts were that if this bite were poisonous, perhaps having the bug would assist in treatment. So the bug sat motionless with wings spread under the jar as I laid back down on the cot watching it until I passed out…or didn't care anymore…I can't remember which.
Dreams and hours later, still on the cot and sunning, I awoke feeling strangely refreshed. After but a moment's disorientation of the "where-am-I what-am-I-doing" sort, memory of the scenario returned and I thought-sought: the bug! But when I looked at the inverted glass jar, the bug was gone! Wait, its body was gone, but the wings remained! Had the jar been moved?-no. Was the sandstone anywhere uneven so that something could have gotten in to eat it or it could have crawled wingless out?-absolutely not, it was a perfect quarry seal. And the translucent shimmering wings were still arrayed in the exact life position in which I left the bug, but its body had vanished!
OK…psychedlic bug…body mysteriously gone *poof*…you tell me what it was??? -
So I’m the odd one out? OK, so let’s keep it that way. So, no, I am not going to tell you all the 10, 27.5, or 50 odd things about me that you don’t know but might find illuminating. If you are all so smart, figure it out. But what I will share are a few things about me that I wish I knew for sure:
10) If I that strange looking bug that bit me, causing me to trip, which I captured, but which mysteriously disappeared from the jar, was really an alien.
9) If I have any close relatives of which I’m unaware. Offspring? No, no, no…please…don’t want to go there.
8) If the Army ever pumped me with LSD. God knows that they got me so high on a lot of other experimental crap.
7) If I’ve ever had a secret admirer, or even a virtual Echo whom I unknowingly but perhaps narcissistically snubbed.
6) If anybody has ever had me in their sniper scope crosshairs but for some reason failed to take me out. And if this person was the possible admirer mentioned above in #7.
5) If I ever broke any bone in my body besides my ankle of which I was unawares. (I broke an ankle once and didn’t learn about it for 5 years when x-rays confirmed the break. I denied it. The doctor laughed.)
4) If I could lose my mind without losing my life. (I would like to try this.)
3) If that bricklayer blonde beauty that I met in a bar years ago was really an angel.
2) If I really would have fallen to my death hanging from a cliff had not a buddy happened to come along and throw me a lifeline in the form of a tree branch.
1) And, finally, if my eyes are really wolf blue, or if that’s really someone else in the mirror.
-
Somebody thinks I'm strange because I pronounce "Xanga" *zohnga* (sounding like *long*) rather than *zanga* (sounding like *sang*).
Please tell me I'm not alone.
Please tell me I'm not strange.
If nothing else, please tell me! -
I used to feel this way:
The "Information Highway" is really so typical an expression of the modern experiment and the American predicament. We in America seem more than any other people to wholeheartedly embrace the highway myth, namely, that paving the broad, expansive, never-ending freeway is not merely a path to, but actually one of the fullest expressions of, the Dream. But just as the auto highway system in America has torn into much of the rich beauty of the landscape, defacing and transforming it into functional yet charmless environs, so too does the "information highway" seem to rip through the delicate constructions of numinous consciousness. With its impulsive push to display and purvey overwhelming amounts of data (perhaps as Carl Sagan might say, "billions and billions of gigabytes of data") in its quest for manufacturing a modern technological philosopher's stone--i.e., a point access to all at once, the Internet appears to serve as the perfect mechanism for initiating an irreverent, leveling, and madcap understanding of the world.
To continue the comparison, the national highway system has served as a technological surrogate for the wilderness with a unique provision of its own chaos and predation. What could be more of a jungle than a confounding traffic jam? What wildland provides more danger and induces more mortality than the national highway system? And road rage-isn't that sweet? The Information Highway (Internet), too, displays this trait of surrogate pseudo-wilding. Its construction of so many backwatered, if not uncharted, cyberlands appears to provide the new wilderness for us modern exploring-prone websurfers to probe and inhabit. But the degree to which we depend on this psuedo-cyber wilderness for an authentic wilderness experience really bespeaks a paucity of the spirit in the eternal quest to reinvest (experience) and/or reinvent (experiment with) life in its fullness--in the context of all time and space. Using Microsoft's Explorer to explore the Information Highway in a primary and indulging fashion is, at best, a very diminished expression of the genuine quest of the human spirit to explore the untold mysteries of the universe.
Since engaging in Xanga, however, my outlook has changed:
the internet is part of the universe.
as such, it is a microcosm of the macrocosm.
microcosms recapitulate the macrocosm.
Recap! Recap! Recap!
Damn the diatribe, dialog ahead!
*looks at attitude change*
*looks at Xanga*
*thinks: brain on drugs* -
Congratulations, toreibjo, on completing your first month of blogging. Now that your probationary period has ended, you are entitled to all paid Xangan holidays and two weeks of Xangan paid vacation. Also, please indicate your preference for either a direct deposit or bi-monthly checks as remuneration for your blogging labors. The retirement benefits, for which you are now eligible, are fantastic. The trick is staying around long enough to collect on them. Given your wily and unpredictably deft, yet good-natured maneuvers on your own blog during the initial probationary period, I’ve little doubt that not only your survivability but burgeoning success is well-assured. As a token of our appreciation for your selfless dedication demonstrated thus far to the Xangan community, please accept our sincere appreciation and this award, the Gargantuan eProp Community Commendation Medal.
Power to the Comment! -
Am I dreaming or did I really hear that voice? What voice? Listen:
*abandon the blog*
Did you hear it? Or am I the only one?
But...why...
Why stop? Though I'm sometimes given to romantic excess, I see a modification of that inclination and not wholesale cessation of communications as my solution. Yeah, sometimes my heart leaps and I blurt. The blurts can sometimes even be beautiful, alluring, and seductive--and especially self-so. But they are still blurts. But like any properly sensate and self-regulating organism, I learn from other's feedback. I learn, too, from disciplined self-analysis. In that sense, I've a tendency to be Jungian in disposition. And admire Jung for sleeping with a pistol under his pillow as his provision for the end-of-experiment should he have ever found himself deranged by his own analysis. So ceasing communication, for me, would be tantamount to invoking a "metaphorical Jungian pistol". But I here see no need for that--yet! Better it is for me now to heed the advice of Ernest Hemingway: "The great thing is to last and get your work done, and see and hear and understand and write when there is something that you know and not before and not too damn much afterwards."
So let's not contrive an anomalous pause or force unending spew, but merely write when there's something that we know! Hence, this.
Earth sends a message:
Mind you, life is one short fuck.
Don't get stuck watching. -
And everyone will die and go to heaven,
We will all be angels someday.
What you are in this world
Don’t count for nothing.
We are only children
Lost along the way.
We will all be angels someday.
We are only children
Lost along the way.
We will all be angels…
We will all be angels
...someday.
from Oscar the Angel, Don Schlitz
-
Another day, Easter even!
Thanks to a phone call that cracked a crevice through which I could crawl. There are so many pleasant prison dreams in the prison catalogue I been browsing. Look: this prison cell comes with a hot tub and pink walls! And that one: drinks for nothing and the prance-dance of endlessly deluding sex! Step in, try the cell out, they banter, no obligations! And you step in and then the door slams behind. Soon the spaciousness of the cell that appeared from without begins to dwindle as the walls begin to retract toward the hollow center. Stop! Stop--I'm inside...what is this, a garbage compacter??? Like a bat out of hell I'd be, but I need an opening. There appears no ultimatum, only a fate of spatial attrition...until the phone call--*crack*--and I'm whisked away by a loving guardian faerie. Aloft with wings in the night fluttering so lightly!
-
Of course, you will never read this. It is obvious that you will never read my posts again--so I can say anything I want, right? Okay!
I love you! I hate you. I love you! I hate you. I love you! I hate you. I love you!
There. Hey, this is great having a friend that doesn't respond! I can fantasize anything I want: like, for every unread blog of friendship, God takes a year off of my purgatory. Or that for every unread beauteous word expressed (like a flower blooming in a forest forever unseen), the entire world is secretly enriched.
Yes. That's it. So I will write a hundred ditties for you--all going unread. Then years hence, as fates work out, I will publish "The Unread Ditty Book" and everyone will go "Aw!!!" You will even read the book (though you never read these posts) and go "Aw!!" and realize they were all written for you. And you will run around telling everyone else going "Aw!!!" that these ditties were actually written for you, and they will go "like 'Right'." But it will be there right in the introduction, a dedication, "For -you- , ditties galore!" And it will be an awesome sight!
Now don't bother me. I'm busy thinking up some new ditties. This is important work!
I love you! I hate you. I love you! I hate you. I love you! I hate you. I love you!
-
The Peeling Dream (maybe in anticipation of agrochick78's thoughtful blog)
(public service: for those not wishing to partake of all details, skip to the end for a concise summary of dream)
I had a strange and disturbing dream.
I was in a large crowd on an open street and we were all moving in one direction, at first slowly, then at a trot, then at a run. Eventually everyone was running furiously, running away from something, some danger, some lurking harm. I wasn't frightened but alarmed.
Nonetheless, as I continued to accelerate, I happened to encounter and jump onto a glider that someone else was steering ever so close to the ground. (Yeah, I can be reckless like that in my dreams?even in real life!) So now I was flying and the guy who was flying it said he didn't mind me going along for the ride. But it was clear that we had to get away from the lurking danger coming up from behind. So we climbed from street level to high above the cityscape. And it there became apparent to me that there were tens or hundreds of thousands of people running below and--that they were all very young--teenagers or younger. But the guy steering the glider was older, as I was, and he said, ?You know, we'll have to hide." And when I asked why, he said because we were 'older'. And somehow I had the immediate realization that there were only youth in that society and that I was a criminal for having grown older and that I would be arrested or worse, if I were caught.
So the glider pilot guided the glider to a far away region, set the glider down in a sparsely populated forested area, and just took off running without me--apparently to hide as he had advised me to do also. I started running, too, but a police squad car (where did that come from?) noticed me and started chasing me. With wise feet, I ran and dodged and hid and avoided immediate arrest.
But then a fire truck came around a corner (where did that corner come from?) and found me standing in a yard in the open. So I just dropped to the ground hoping to go unnoticed. And although the firemen at first pretended not to notice me, they actually had, and stopped the vehicle, got out, and started gathering around me (still lying facedown on the ground), they still pretending not to see me. Then some policemen and others also joined this crowd and all were pretending not to see me--while they ate some syrupy and juicy foods and purposely let the syrup and juice slobber out of their mouths and onto my back and legs. They were obviously playing with me, and I knew it, but couldn't flee. Well, then, one of the cops says, "Should we finish it?" And the whole crowd roared with approval. So I knew the end was near and I expected death.
But at the moment, another aspect of myself peeled away from my body. In an energetic and physical sense, I split. And this "other" self was my younger self--as young as anyone else in the crowd. And this younger self remained unnoticed in the crowd since he was, indeed, young and not a criminal, and so, unsuspected and unhunted. Well, my younger self walked away from my tortured self, scouted around, and found a cache of weapons nearby (the ole Maxwell Smart hidden cache of weapons, no doubt!) and selected an automatic rifle he was familiar with. Then, very calmly, he returned to the crowd and asked the crowd of cops and firemen if he should 'finish the job' and, yes! yes! said all, as they raved with anticipation. So he, my peeled-self, aimed the rifle square at my head, put the finger to the trigger...then turned on them! And gunned them all down! Some initially only got injured, but my younger self being very efficient, methodic, and quite pissed off, assured all executions, one by one.
Moral of the story? (who knows, let me try): Never underestimate the young at heart.
Concise Summary: You lazy bastards! Read the whole thing! OK, OK! Just so not as to offend, here:
notforprophet finds himself no longer a spring chicken in a world of spring chickens. The spring chickens hate anything that isn't one of them, call it pluckaphobia. Chicken of chickens, notforprophet sprouts wings and flies away! Haha! spring chickens can't fly! But all that's up must come down. notforprophet hates down, but down, down he goes. The authorities, themselves spring chickens, feel like farmers who have found notforprophet in their henhouse. O this is going to be fun! While notforprophet slithers to the henhouse floor, his younger hidden aspect, forprophet, peels away (like the spirits from their dead bodies in the movie Ghost) and plucks around, himself a spring chicken. Pecking here and there, forprophet discovers a cache of ebola-tainted corn grain and feeds it to all of notforprophet's antagonists. Happy last good friday the 13th supper, dudes, ha. notforprophet wakes up realizing that he has been chewing on his goose down pillow and now has a mouth full of feathers!
-
Trickster moves. Taboo glances. Dark dream: dark vision: dark knight. Life is chess and I'm playing black at the moment. But I fear not, since I am very good at the game. Just hope the game doesn't do some weird unannounced transform into anti-chess where the object is to lose all your pieces except the king and/or force the opponent to mate you. That would be too much like hanging with the backward-Apache warriors and I don't tender that. But something's rumbling--I'm starting to feel those psychic chills again, so I am respectfully vigilant as the literal and metaphoric night enwraps....
Got to keep remembering to keep asking more beautiful questions....
...Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question. e.e. cummings -
~RESURRECTION READINESS~
learned something REALLy WeIrD from a documentary last night about mummies: apparently, the Catholic Church has been/is mummifying all the dead popes (just like Pharaohs) in anticipation that they will need their earthly bodies ASAP on Resurrection Day. gone so far as to preserve a piece of the INtesTINE of the current PoPe--that had to be removed after an assassination attempt on his life--in order to include it in the mummification process after he dies!
no wonder the death angels are canvassing around looking for popes about to croak! O yes they do! they really do!
( The documentary was on TLC {The Learning Channel} entitled Unwrapped: The Mysterious World of Mummies )
-
Good vibes--or that by any other name--require the sentience which I know we share. The sharing is good and the capacity to do so, sweet. I am tickled sitting here writing to you. There's a deep tickle inside, and it is so harmless that I allow it to bubble up and so here I am. So I'm just your harmless bubble boy, which you can tap around, blow around--just like a toy. Sharp things are anathema. So if you put me on a bed of pins, I'll burst! *Plop* And then I'll need to scurry back to my bubble covey all perplexed about why tickles turn into pricks, yet awaiting a double or triple bubble birth which will take me for my next ride.
-
In my workplace, I have a couple of photos and articles on Hedy Lamarr (1915-2000) posted on the wall. Yes, my calendar girl she is! After all, what guy wasn’t turned on by her pouty hot looks and simpleminded honesty?
“Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid." -Hedy Lamarr
Well, I for one. Yes, she was very beautiful, but in a way that reminded me too much of my mom, so I always had to deal with an Oedipus shadow over that. And her seemingly self-demeaning honesty was anything but self-demeaning. Of all the sexy, glamorous, sultry starlets pressed during World War II into selling War Bonds for the Great Cause, she doubtlessly had the most personal justification to take offense to any insinuation that glamorous girls such as she were of necessity stupid and only suitable for selling bonds. For Hedy was the “inventive mother” of the technology upon which many cellular phone transmissions, wireless internet, and wireless networking are now based: Spread Spectrum Transmission.
Quick non-silver screen facts:
- Teenage “Trophy” in a parent-arranged marriage to Fritz Mandl, an Austrian munitions manufacturer.
- Learned the ins-and-outs of munitions by hanging out a while with daddio during his business meetings.
- Didn’t like Nazis so attempted to flee six-shooter hubby.
- In her first attempt, fled into a nightclub/bordello, hid in a room, then a “customer” walked in and mistook her for a working girl. With hubby banging on all the doors, she decided to work instead! But eventually returned to daddy bang-bang.
- In her second attempt, she drugged her guardian maid (daddy was being very cautious), crawled out through a window and made her way to London.
- Always “interested in everything,” she wondered about the radio-control of torpedos she had learned about in Austria, with a mind to circumvent the jamming that kept the U.S. from using radio-controlled torpedos against the Nazis.
- One day while playing the piano along with a friend and composer (George Antheil), she realized that he was hitting keys and she was hitting keys seemingly chaotically, but observed: “Hey, look, we’re talking to each other and we’re changing all the time.”
- She had the insight into the piano rift session to realize that if a radio-controlled torpedo signal hopped from frequency to frequency at split second intervals, anyone listening and trying to jam it would only detect seemingly random noise and be unable to do so.
- Obtained a “Secret Communications System” patent 8/11/42.
- Although it took the invention of the transistor 20 years later to make her and Antheil’s concept practical, their patent is always cited as the underlying patent for frequency-changing technology.
- Finally honored and acknowledged for her (and Antheil’s) accomplishment in 1997 by the Electronic Frontier Foundation, Hedy responded: “It’s about time.”
-
i wish she were a secret hero
or some alien from another land
then i could just hang out with her
like the lost boys with peter pan.
i'd play the puer aeternus
living life in the moment of now,
she'd be a puella forever
forsworn to youth like a vow.
with energy unrivaled
she'd dash the lifeless trash
out of all the rituals so feeble
that cause my mind to crash.
with an intellect so piercing
she'd see through all the crap.
then direct me ever so safely
away from heartache traps.
with a display of beauty daunting
she'd embarrass all who frown
and adorn the world with a taunting
when they'd try to hold her down.
and don't underestimate her raw power
physicality to her is not strange
if you'd try to mess, she'd get the best
wrestling ya to the ground half-deranged.
but she's better than this hero with secrets
and more exotic than this dreamed alien:
she's a pureblooded girl in touch with herself
a rarity, a woman, my friend. -
Jewels has a tremendous presence in Xanga. The energy and quality she invests in her posts is remarkable. And her ubiquitousness as a commenter is becoming legendary. She hardly ever, however, comes around here, though I appreciate her dearly. So, as T.S. Eliot describes it, do the worlds revolve like ancient women gathering fuel in vacant lots. I do, however, visit her posts regularly and occasionally leave comments.
In her post today, So, What If I Was The One With All The Knowledge? , she asserts “It is a fact that there are people out there who know the answers to these questions, in fact, I believe that there are people out there who know the answers to ALL questions.”
This is a pivotal epistemological assertion about the world. Upon its acceptance or rejection hinges a whole world view.
I left the following comment on her post. I share it here just to share it further:
I disagree with your premise that there are some people "out there" who know "all" the answers, even collectively, to "all "the questions. First, I believe that there is much knowledge of great importance lost, lost to everyone, and buried in antiquity. The volume of all that was once known but has been forgotten is quite huge. These "secrets" remain hidden even, or perhaps especially, from all who would hide secrets malignantly from us. Secondly, I believe there are ways of knowing available to each and everyone of us individually that are not controllable by governments or organizations because their paradigm of knowing, "science", is not fully encompassing, is energetically myopic. So special ways of knowing can inform us, and the governments have toyed in these realms of realization with secret projects, but have been unable to draw Excalibur out of the earth. There are those amongst us who have had glimpses of the proverbial philosopher’s stone who are not, nor will ever be, suborned to government control. This is something that all governments truly, either consciously of subconsciously, fear. But there’s not a damn thing they can do about it. For there is a place in this world where control of the sort that governments exercise ends, and only the Spirit soars.
-
Is blogging a new and emerging literary/graphical/(perhaps even audible) art form? Should it, will it rank among other genre of recognized expression such as the novel, the essay, the poem, the sketch? Will the “Art of Blogging” be a credited English course in tomorrow’s universities (surely, the kiss of death) ?
I dare to struggle and say: yes.
Though like a journal in having a timeline that flows like a river carrying fluid thoughts to the sea, the key to this art form (dare I say that?) is its performance: its interactivity. The best of posts, uncommented, remains the haunting one hand clapping in the forest—which is a rare and ethereal accomplishment: a pure essence of expression, standing by itself, pristine, an incontrovertible entity. But the highest form of blogging always invites response: the initial post is one hand posed awaiting the second hand, the comment, which issues the *clap* or sometimes the *smack* or sometimes a chaos of *slaps*, *hugs*, and *gawks*. So the timeline of expression invites a timeline of response—and thus the blog is woven as a form for all to see. Hence blogging distinguishes itself as a most genuine form of expression—and is utterly artistic at its height—when it creates community.
That being said, may I now add: let us all welcome ourselves to this expressive insurgency!
-
I think Xanga harbors a true commingling empath amongst us: Celeste!
Just the other day, Agrochick78 expressed her reticence to smile on all the matters that constitute the daily fare of life, and sure enough, there was Cel in virtual simultaneity on her own post saying the exact same thing.
Well, yesterday morning I re-stubbed a baby toe--which I had broken a month or two ago--only later in the day to discover that it is now re-broken (oh please, no sympathy—sympathy hurts more than the toe ever could). Sure ‘nough, I tuned into Cel’s site this morning: she’s got a re-broken toe, too.
Hey, did you lose, I mean really lose a hour over the weekend due to daylight savings time? Guess what, Cel did too. In fact, in overempathetic reaction, she lost the whole weekend.
This is too amazing!
Need a bird of a feather? Visit Celeste, she flock’s together!
-
My favorite april spring poem...
when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
e.e.cummings -
-
I’ve been asked a question with occasional frequency to which I’m reticent to respond but now humbly relent: Where do you get your ideas, what’s the source of your white light?
That is a very difficult question. Inspiration, for me, sometimes happens without warning, triggered by something I have seen or read about (or perhaps, like Scrooge explaining his visiting spirits, due to indigestion from something I ate). Other times, when my mind is quiet - when I have stopped my "internal dialogue" - a vision will unexpectedly press its way into my consciousness as an undeniably expanding bubble but from a source, nonetheless, in absolute apparent nothingness. Such moments of "aesthetic arrest" are very exciting, and when I experience one, I’m always childlike to begin my quest, to explore the alien pod at hand. Sometimes, though, I prod and then fear the bubble pod will burst and I’ll get slimed by alien afterbirth. Poke, jab, push I, nonetheless. *slimed again* Does he learn? *slimed again* Apparently not. *slimed again*
The Jungian psychologist might say my ideational imagings are salient representations of my Soul Image, my unconscious identity, my Anima (feminine aspect). As a man and woman may draw unto one another to explore the unity that is Life, so too does the conscious identity seek union with the unconscious identity to achieve full humanity within—individuation. Hence the haunting image of a woman searching in the forest (a notion constantly reoccurring to me), is in fact a representation of my own search for completion in the labyrinth of my own interior kingdom. So I have also learned that there is a universal, transpersonal dimension to the motifs in which I am awash. Quite “accidentally” not, I am infused with the same patterns that manifest in nature, in preternatural laws, and human thought dating back at least 20,000 years or a kalpa—whichever is longer. One could never believe so many coincidences to be only coincidences, probability theory notwithstanding.
The spiritualist might say I am in contact with a Transcendent Presence, Who is guiding me along the rocky path to Truth. To apprehend the intimate relation of all things is to see part of the blueprint for the Grand Plan of the Universe, and touch the Divine Will that beckons each of us to our final destiny. Perhaps this is part of the answer. Or perhaps, it’s just a logical construct. Or perhaps worse yet, it is not a benign spirit Godhead, but the Trickster Coyote who misguides me. Perhaps, the dark side grows darker with every inspirational indulgence.
The scholar might look at the themes occurring to me and suspect them to be nothing more than the cognitive distillation of what I have studied and read: science and philosophy, history and theology, anthropology and psychology. There can be no question that what I have learned in my studies has colored the tetrahedron crystals through which I perceive the world. But erudition alone cannot explain the existence in my inspirational moments of the tripped-out cosmological patterns and spiraling-staircase associations which press upon me, prior to, and independent of, my “scholarly knowledge” of them.
In my writing, it feels like I am trying to remember something: the images come to me like vague memories of someone I was, someplace I was, something important I knew. And I can't quite retrieve that knowledge and understand it in the light of conscious cognition, and I think I'm supposed to. And so this memory of..."something" has utterly seized me, and I am compelled to gaze into this darkness trying to see - to understand - just what it is I have encountered. In a way, my will is no longer my own; I am, rather, the proxy of a transpersonal force, with an agenda all Her own...
-
dear notforprophet,
whats up?my name is chad.are you a friend of Bianca's?I got your weblog on my email,and thought I would write you.I was wondering where you are from and whatever else you want to talk about.I got an email from Bianca a few days ago.shes on vacation in italy.if you speak to her tell her i said hello.
I'm from a small town in Georgia called Brunswick.Its south of savannah on the east coast.if you are interested you can check out my website at glynncounty.com
the website contains art and poetry i composed a while back.to be honest i'm lost for words.write back?
thanks,
chad milton
aka buddha box
Dear Chad,
Bianca and I are having a great time here in Italy. We actually visited the Vatican today and had an audience with the Pope. He said he had read one of my blogs awhile back and was somewhat disturbed by the implication that I was instrumental in dispatching his two former predecessors into oblivion. I assured him that those were my hyper-sensory days of psychic intervention and that since then the government has successfully sedated me with drugs. We chuckled all around. Bianca’s just a trip anymore. She hasn’t been blogging much because she’s been working on a screenplay (The Xanga Conspiracy) and a book of haiku poetry. She says hi y’all back!
Recent Comments