Weblog.
We blog.
Nowhere.
Now here.
xanga.com unity
Busy am I inventing *love sand*
I got the idea last night when a girl in a bar was telling me about the first time she made love on the beach (conversation inspired by the drink she was sipping, Sex On The Beach) and how it was awesome except for the grittiness of the sand that got shoved uncomfortably into certain regions. Think: sandpaper. Of course, had she planned it, she could have taken a beach towel along. But some things are spontaneous, no? And there's something to be said for au natural with only nature and each other, yes?
Anyway, I started thinking that there must be some grade of sand (with a specific moisture content, compactability, clingability, etc.) that would be more comfortable, perhaps even ticklingly enjoyable, sinking into in the heat of frolicking passion. Love Sand. I am off on a mineralogical mission to find and/or define the perfect Love Sand.
Sand-sensitive Associate for co-testing now desired.
I haven't for the past 10 days been able to get this song out of my head. No, that's not quite right. It's infused more than my head--perhaps heart, perhaps other body parts. Or more likely, it's a dream in me yearning for reality. Hell, I hope it never goes away. Or rather, that I wake up some morning and it's dreaming me.
LA ISLA BONITA
Written by Madonna, Pat Leonard, and Bruce
Last night I dreamt of San Pedro
Just like I'd never gone, I knew the song
A young girl with eyes like the desert
It all seems like yesterday, not far away
Chorus:
Tropical the island breeze
All of nature wild and free
This is where I long to be
La isla bonita
And when the samba played
The sun would set so high
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby
I fell in love with San Pedro
Warm wind carried on the sea, he called to me
Te dijo te amo
I prayed that the days would last
They went so fast
(chorus)
I want to be where the sun warms the sky
When it's time for siesta you can watch them go by
Beautiful faces, no cares in this world
Where a girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl
Last night I dreamt of San Pedro
It all seems like yesterday, not far away
(chorus twice)
La la la la la la la
Te dijo te amo
La la la la la la la
El dijo que te ama
“How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?”
Gotta love Satchel Paige, baseball pitcher, (died 1982). Paige was born July 7, 1904, or was it 1906? He was never quite sure. He said, "My birth certificate was in our Bible…and the goat ate the Bible…That goat lived to be 27." Paige lived to be 73 (or was it 75?)
Tips Satchel had for staying young:
1. Avoid fried meats which angry up the blood.
2. If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts.
3. Keep the juices flowing by jangling around gently as you move.
4. Go very light on the vices, such as carrying on in society. The social ramble ain't restful.
5. Avoid running at all times.
6. Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.
*OOoo #5 hurts and I don't even want to say why-ouch*
They asked the “Satchel Paige question” of Sister Beatrice, turned 100 on May 22nd, in “Crossroads, The Newsletter of the Franciscan Sisters of Chicago” (well, yes, I'm on their snail mail list and even read the dang newsletter!) She responded:
“100 is a big number but the happiest days are still promised to me.”
Great answer!
But my question to you is: Why is 100 a 'big number'?
Now 10,000 seems like a big number—let's do that!
Would you settle for a 3-digit yearly income? Why settle for (or even less than) a 3-digit lifespan?
What kind of death industry conspiracy is this??
Could we conspire to have everyone in the death industries die first and not follow their act?
Would you regret being the long-lived prison guard (played by Tom Hanks) in the movie The Green Mile?
“How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?”
On a side note, I called the local mental hospital today, and they said that while they could provide good drugs, they could not guarantee uninterrupted access to Xanga, so screw that early retirement option!!!
The Tigered Cage
The circus done, the circus train
pulled out of town in the wind and rain,
across the plain, then into hills
and higher yet, with mountain thrills.
With the storm breaking out as a mighty front,
The train in the mountains was but a runt
Of a toy on traintracks with which the storm played,
And wheels screeched as cars were swayed.
But with the circus opening the very next day
In another town yet far away,
The train pressed on with undue speed,
Not heeding the danger in its driven need.
So it entered into the trestled pass--
whipped with gusts and going much too fast,
And at the turn that screamed for *slow!*
It lurched and leaped and almost lost control.
But though metal strained and it near-sideways flailed,
The circus train did not derail.
Yet the chains on the flatcar did snap and zing
As the tigered cage did take to wing.
Toppling and twisting down trellis and slope,
This tripping cage did now bring new hope
To the tiger tired of iron bars
And riding on flatbed railroad cars.
End over end and bump upon bump,
The bars bent a little more with every thump.
The tiger roared as downward it hurled,
Awaiting its moment to rejoin a free world.
Two endings, choose one:
1)
They found the cage, sans tiger, of course.
And for the loss of the tiger felt great remorse.
Now the tiger roams in the forest at night
Reinstilling its world with respectful fright.
2)
They found the cage, sans tiger, of course.
And for the loss of the tiger felt great remorse.
But for Tony the Tiger is was a great break
As he lived the rest of his life eating Frosted Flakes!
Our Priorities???
Even though this is far from scientific, a casual Search Survey of Xanga Says:
Oops!
Too many results, please try different keywords.
For:
Life
Mother
Father
Earth
Water
Air
Man
Sun
Food
Fun
Home
Work
What?? Too many results!! What kind of wimp Search Engine does Xanga employ??!! What, you can only search for the “less popular” topics?? It seems as we continue to blog as a community that the above list will be augmented by some of the topics below which still are searchable, I suppose, until the “hits” reach some critical “Oops!” threshold.
Nonetheless…
Searched all xanga for "love"
Search Results: 30431 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "God"
Search Results: 11300 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "mom"
Search Results: 7801 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "woman"
Search Results: 7038 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "money"
Search Results: 6798 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "dad"
Search Results: 5252 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "fuck"
Search Results: 4137 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "death"
Search Results: 3865 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "dog"
Search Results: 3458 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "boyfriend"
Search Results: 3179 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "cat"
Search Results: 3078 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "truth"
Search Results: 2901 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "sex"
Search Results: 2765 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "blood"
Search Results: 2392 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "girlfriend"
Search Results: 2320 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "war"
Search Results: 1944 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "drugs"
Search Results: 1928 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "beer"
Search Results: 1632 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "freedom"
Search Results: 1169 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "eprops"
Search Results: 1082 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "devil"
Search Results: 749 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "whore"
Search Results: 420 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "penis"
Search Results: 238 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "vagina"
Search Results: 57 Weblog Entries
Searched all xanga for "cunt"
Search Results: 42 Weblog Entries
What’s interesting about this list is that compared to a search by the same keywords that I did with AltaVista of the whole web, Money, Sex, and Death are relatively demoted and God, Mom, and Woman are relatively promoted on Xanga compared to the rest of the net. Damn, Xanga averages out as lucid bastion of Feminine Virtue while the rest of the world seems enveloped in crass material cares and indulgences!
Okay, ignore me!
*goes back to play with the Teletubbies he’s discovered in Mr. Rogers’ Xanga neighborhood*
All people dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the morning to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people, for they dream their dreams with open eyes, and make them come true.
T.E. Lawrence (AKA "Lawrence of Arabia")
Direly needed inventions:
1) Calorie-free alcoholic beverages.
2) Interface to tap your brain and let it work your job while you sleep.
3) World Gravity Reduction Engine so that gravity sucks less.
4) And I was going to say *Women who say "Yes!"* but that's pushing things too far into the realm of fantasy.
Inspired by someone who likes *toys*
It is now largely forgotten that the world was once catastrophically threatened with hysteria. More dangerous than the post-modern threat of a nuclear cold war, hysteria challenged humanity and drove the greatest minds to strive for innovative relief. Does this claim sound hysterical? It isn’t (Well, maybe it is. But then that would be consistent with this blog’s theme!).
Actually, in the latter half of the 19th century, there occurred a medical pandemic among women which was labeled “hysteria” with symptoms ranging broadly to include lassitude, irritability, depression, confusion, palpitations of the heart, headaches, forgetfulness, insomnia, muscle spasms, stomach upsets, writing cramps, ticklishness, weepiness. abnormal fear, unexplained sweating, and excessive vaginal lubing (unprovoked sexual readiness)—in other words, almost anything! It was, at that time, deemed that about 80% of women suffered from this critical “dementia.” The medical solution? Hand massage of the vulva until the patient reached orgasm! Yes, many doctors (all males) spent much of the latter part of the 19th century masturbating women who flocked to doctors’ office for the “cure.” (Tragically enough, women who couldn’t reach orgasm so assisted due to a predisposition for clitoral orgasm—which wasn’t induced—were diagnosed as “sexually immature” by the likes of Freud and his brethren and constrained to years of unfruitful, even psychically-damaging, therapy to induce orgasms only in the vagina. But that is another story…)
You might think that this was a pie job (little jack horner, sat in a corner…stuck in his thumb, made her bum hum) for horny male doctors. But actually, the doctors were generally extremely overworked, distressfully fatigued, and in desperate search of a faster, less draining solution to saving femininity, and thus humanity, since everyone was aware that “hysteria” would take down the pillars of civilization, if unabated.
But this was the age of the steam engine, the steamboat, and forays into canal construction. Little wonder then that eventually a real man (Dr. George Taylor, 1869) would devise a coal-fed, steam-powered contraption called the “Manipulator” for pelvic massages (paddle that pelvis, down that lazy river…) Unfortunately, the dimensions and expense of this orgasm-assistant were such as to make it unpractical in all but very formal institutional settings.
Yet, lo and behold, another doctor was thinking *small* and devised the first battery-powered, portable vibrator (Mortimer Granville—1883), “good ole Mort”. However, though a fantastic innovator, he was morally-stodgy in asserting that his invention was not for assisting female orgasms but merely for the excitation of men’s skulls. Right, dude. And condoms are balloons. And handcuffs in the bedroom are in case you need to arrest a burglar breaking in at night. (Didn’t he realize that once the women got a-humming that men’s skulls would get all the excitation they could handle??!!)
Immensely popular from the onset, this invention, marketed as the Weiss vibrator, was almost as tremendous a relief to doctors worn down by vulva-throbbing as it was it was to the women “undergoing” this newest electromechanical “therapy.” No wonder a recent study of female portraiture pre- and post-vibrator periods shows women’s post-smiles spreading wider by at least a quarter-inch!
Fact: The vibrator was only the fifth household device to be electrified, after the sewing machine, fan, tea kettle and toaster, and preceding by about a decade the vacuum cleaner and electric iron – obviously suggestive of a woman’s priorities!
Today, the Summer Solstice, is the singular day of the year noted for the most daylight and the least night. This solstice (for there are two—summer and winter) is an astronomical event when the Sun reaches the Tropic of Cancer (or astrologically speaking, enters the sign of Cancer) which may vary slightly year to year due to the Earth’s general precession. Throughout much of European history, due to lack of precision about the nuances of the precession, the Summer Solstice was traditionally celebrated beginning the eve of June 23rd (Midsummer’s Night) and ending at sunset of the 24th. The eve of this day, also the feast day of John the Baptist, was commonly known as St. John’s Eve.
The young maid stole through the cottage door,
And blushed as she sought the Plant of power:
“Thou silver glow-worm, O lend me thy light,
I must gather the mystic St. John's wort tonight,
The wonderful herb, whose leaf will decide
If the coming year shall make me a bride. “
And the glow-worm came
With its silvery flame,
And sparked and shone
Through the night of St. John,
And soon has the young maid her love-knot tied.
But why was this eve “Midsummer” for Shakespeare (A Midsummer Night's Dream)? Are we not told by the popular press that the Summer Solstice marks the beginning of summer that will end upon the arrival of the Fall equinox (variable also—this year Sep 22nd)?
Well pagans, being historically prior, first designated this solstice for celebration. According to older folk and pagan calendars, Summer actually begins on May Day (1st ) and ends on August 1st, with the Summer Solstice, imprecisely “middling” between those dates. So even though the common folk and lesser pagans were somewhat inexact about the occurrence of the Summer Solstice (fixing it on the 24th instead of variable) and the midpoint between (which would be around June 15th), nonetheless, Shakespeare immortalized it as day of nuptial festivities, possibly “nothing but a dream” (Puck), when following a comedy of confused matchmaking, happy newlyweds troop off to honey their beds.
Now check this out: Traditionally, Druids and other pagans have sojourned to Stonehenge in Britain on the Summer Solstice to witness the precise alignment of the stones with the sun’s rise on this day. But America, too, has a “Henge” – Carhenge!! Located on the Nebraska plains, it is a direct copy of Stonehenge even with the height and width of the cars matching the original stones!
Of course, being America, Carhenge doesn’t only line up with actual sun on the solstice but also with the car-corporate Sun...
Okay, all you pagan solstice-worshipping car-owners, now line up, fill up, and race your engines!
You want to know how I'm feeling after returning from a 3-mile run?
I shouted Fuck You three times while hauling.
Once to some sniveling teenage boy who caterwaulled "Run, Forrest, run."
Once again to some fat bastard in a car who abruptly cut me off pulling into his driveway with his significant bitch. (I had to slow to avoid hitting him, so I clapped and shouted "Move it!" He rudely replied "Shut up." Fuck You.
And then again to the same fat bastard when he decided to follow me and caught up with me a quarter-mile down the street shouting "Asshole" repeatedly from his car window. Fuck You. (I had sensed him coming, I could feel his energy latch and lurk, like a faggot, upon my swiftly fleeting figure.)
I'm feeling like a mean-ass son-of-a-bitch tonight. And I'm prepared to backup my sentiments.
Toreibjo has been doing a great job of grounding us in the origin of the names of the days of the week, but what of the origin and significance of the week itself?
There was a time, years ago, when I was literally living my life so entirely one-day-to-the-next that a “weekend” had no personal implications except to push fate forward one more day, then one more day, then yet again. Don’t mistake me, life then was so intense (the life of a Repo Man is always instense!) 'cuase every day was the essence of the future unfolding. Hence, distinctions within the week, or even of week to week, were so very weak that I personally (not culturally, of course, since common sense dictates cognizance of how others live) dispensed with them.
I want to know what became of the changes
We waited for love to bring
Were they only the fitful dreams
Of some greater awakening
I've been aware of the time going by
They say in the end it's the wink of an eye
And when the morning light comes
Streaming in
You'll get up and do it again
Amen
Ah, but then I was a warrior in a warrior’s domain (George, George, George of the Jungle) while today I’ve become an acculturated player drawing my meager sustenance from a bank, a college, and whoever else will let me touch their PC.
I'm going to be a happy idiot
And struggle for the legal tender
Where the ads take aim and lay their claim
To the heart and the soul of the spender
And believe in whatever may lie
In those things that money can buy
Thought true love could have been a contender
Are you there?
Say a prayer for the Pretender
Who started out so young and strong
Only to surrender
And so a week is a week again for me, too. But what the hell really is this reoccurring constraint upon our conception of time that has us humping in its midst?
(Hump-day)
The following is formerly from the Web's Global Encyclopedia, now defunct:
Next to the day, the week is the most important calendric unit in our life. And yet, there is no astronomical significance to the week. Nothing cosmic happens in the heavens in seven days.* How, then, did the week come to assume such importance?
The first thing to understand is that a week is not necessarily seven days. In pre-literate societies weeks of 4 to 10 days were observed; those weeks were typically the interval from one market day to the next. Four to 10 days gave farmers enough time to accumulate and transport goods to sell. (The one week that was almost always avoided was the 7-day week -- it was considered unlucky!) The 7-day week was introduced in Rome (where ides, nones, and calends were the vogue) in the first century A.D. by Persian astrology fanatics, not by Christians or Jews. The idea was that there would be a day for the five known planets, plus the sun and the moon, making seven; this was an ancient West Asian idea. However, when Christianity became the official religion of the Roman empire in the time of Constantine (c. 325 A.D.), the familiar Hebrew-Christian week of 7 days, beginning on Sunday, became conflated with the pagan week and took its place in the Julian calendar. Thereafter, it seemed to Christians that the week Rome now observed was seamless with the 7-day week of the Bible -- even though its pagan roots were obvious in the names of the days: Saturn's day, Sun's day, Moon's day. The other days take their equally pagan names in English from a detour into Norse mythology: Tiw's day, Woden's day, Thor's day, and Fria's day.
The amazing thing is that today the 7-day week, which is widely viewed as being Judeo-Christian, even Bible-based, holds sway for civil purposes over the entire world, including countries where Judaism and Christianity are anathema. Chinese, Arabs, Indians, Africans, Japanese, and a hundred others sit down at the U.N. to the tune of a 7-day week, in perfect peace (at least calendrically!). So dear is this succession of 7 days that when the calendar changed from Julian to Gregorian the week was preserved, though not the days of the month: in 1752, in England, Sept. 14 followed Sept. 2 -- but Thursday followed Wednesday, as always. Eleven days disappeared from the calendar -- but not from the week!
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*Yes, it's true that the average time from, say, half-moon to full moon is 7.383 days, but this is less than 12% closer to 7 than to 8. (Possibly mindful of this, the Romans had an 8-day week.) In any case, the exact moment of half or full moon is hard to judge. The moon determines the month, not the week (the very word "month" has been related to "moon" for thousands of years; in Sanskrit they are the same.)
An Insight, for SSS
First at birth
Was the umbilical cord cut.
And tied so I wouldn’t ooze to the universe.
From that moment on, a new hunger ensued
And I pursued a plot to consume the world.
But by my own intrigue would I have been consumed,
Had not I fasted, taking only water and tea,
Thus moderating appetite to a balanced satiety.
Now I am told that such a cord’s been cut again--
One that fed me unrequited love,
Which while supplied no hunger did I have.
But now the knot that’s tied is the not of having you,
And the love that circles, closed like blood,
Now yearns, unfed, to devour.
Yet it is only I that I’d consume,
If the rage within unmoderated roils.
So again, I take to water, this time a spiritual sea,
Finding surfeit in the rippling of waves sublimed,
As I sip my brew of newfound self-subtlety.
Difficult Decision?
I have a buddy of notable stature, at times dominating demeanor, and with the ability to cast an unflinching evil-eye stare, who, nonetheless always manages to get girls around the bar to laugh and giggle when he coyly smiles and pronounces: "I love to watch."
The first recorded voyeur was a common man turned king, Gyges (r. c. 680-c. 652 BC), who attained his position by murdering the former ruler after seeing his wife nekkid.
It began when the arrogant king of Lydia, Candaules, believing his wife to be the most beautiful woman in all the world, boasts of her sexual prowess to one of his bodyguards, a man named Gyges. Sensing his disbelief, he felt the only way to prove himself right was for Gyges to see his wife nude. The bodyguard protested, saying such an act would dishonor the queen and that "one should mind one's own business." More likely he was afraid of the dreadful punishment awaiting him if he were caught. But Candaules was unwavering. He arranges for him to hide behind the door of their nuptial chamber. When his queen enters and disrobes for the evening, Gyges gets a remarkable look at her exquisite physique, and sneaks awestruck out of the room when her back is turned.
Alas, "the woman glimpsed him as he went out, and perceived what her husband had done. But though shamed, she did not cry out or let it be seen that she had perceived anything, for she meant to punish Candaules." She readied those of her household that were most faithful, and summoned Gyges. When he arrived, the lady addressed him, "Now, Gyges, you have two ways before you; decide which you will follow. You must either kill Candaules and take me and the throne of Lydia for your own, or be killed yourself now without more ado; that will prevent you from obeying all Candaules' commands in the future and seeing what you should not see. One of you must die: either he, the contriver of this plot, or you, who have outraged all custom by looking on me uncovered." (Herodotus, Histories 1.8-11)
He reluctantly consents to her demands and waylays Candaules in the bedchamber. She keeps up her solemn pledge, and he, thus married to the very woman he voyeuristically gazed upon, rules Lydia for 28 years.
I hate it when life is filled with such tough decisions.
African dust storms are sending germs to America, some executor with a death fetish prepares to execute another inmate on the same damn table on which McVeigh died days ago, Gov. Rick Perry on Sunday vetoed a bill to ban the execution of mentally retarded death row inmates, the India monkey-man, already responsible for 3 deaths, is labeled as a "mere figment of the imagination of emotionally weak people” by authorities, and only the 18th known Martian rock on earth is discovered in Oman.
All I can say is: Keep those rocks coming!
And...
Here, for the special benefit of JadedFey, is a sexualization of today's news:
African dust devils are sending sex germs to America, some perv with a snuff fetish prepares to execute another inmate with the same damn condom that strangled McVeigh died days ago, Gov. Rick Perry on Sunday vetoed a bill to ban the castration of mentally retarded death row inmates, the India monkey-man, already responsible for 3 orgasms, is labeled as a "mere figment of the imagination of sexually-needy weak people” by authorities, and only the 18th known Martian gonad on earth is discovered in Oman.
All I can say is: Keep those rocks cummin!
Happy??
Some days I wake up and know that I can’t make a difference.
Which is okay if you are in the wilderness and on a solitary sojourn.
Wake up—stretch—climb out of the sleeping bag. Stay put or move camp? Doesn’t matter. Go for a hike or collect firewood? Whatever! Take photos, write poetry, or take a shot of Jack from the bottle in your pack? Everything, anything, nothing at all. Just lay in an idle pasture of wildflowers sunning , or sit by a stream letting the sonorous gurgles replace any inclination to think, or stand at the bottom of a mountain, look up, and start hiking. Want to walkabout? Great! Prefer to sit and meditate? Yeah! What, when, if—will make no difference. And knowledge that it is so is actually reassuring. No impact is attuning, harmonizing, conveying of a sense of participation in things eternal. The mind is clear and breathing is slow and deep. Shuffle. The day is the dealer and you are one card in the deck. Nature shuffles and you play, are played, as aimless as a game of solitaire. Though some hidden creatures may watch aware, there is no interplay. Space resolves all commotion into respectful, non-invasive coexistence. One moment transcendentally sentient, the next lulled into mindlessness. Relax there are no cares, and Nature, sweeping in as particulars and then back out to cosmic dimensions, enlarges as it absorbs you. It’s as meaningful and meaningless and laughable as Ziggy staring at an X indicating “you are here.”
Some days I wake up and feel that I can’t make a difference.
Unfortunately, I’m not always then in the wilderness on that solitary sojourn.
Just Trying Something Out...
I gave toreibjo a suggestion as he was soliciting. Yes, soliciting must be legal in Norway. Anyway, what I suggested to him was a cool, easily-managed, interactive poll that I just encountered on Jasmine's site.
So, experimenting as I'm inclined to do, I thought I'd try it out, too. And that's what you'll find in my *More Stuff* module to the left
<----
Hey, the evermore-wireless web is all about freedom and sharing and fashioning a way to get your message out. So Tor or anyone, if a poll seems such a tool, incorporate.
btw, interactive polls on Xanga were big for awhile about 3 months or so back (questions like who is the sexiest Xanga guy, girl; who is (was) urnightmare, Bianca, etc.), but until coming upon Jasmine's , there seems, at least in my blogging experience, to have been a Xangan dearth of them.
*hrm...wonders if a poll of whether polls are fun/useful/expressive makes any sense?*
The Craziest Sex/Sex Experience I Ever Had
Door #1 I've never had any that could be construed as crazy. Which, in itself, is crazy. In fact, people who've had crazy sex envy me for my traditional steadfastness. They marvel and drool at how I can find an endless rerun, or even drought, utterly cool.
Door #2 I once got off in class as a freshman in college while taking a midterm Chemistry test and just thinking about the stunning girl sitting in front of me. And I flunked the test with a big fat 0 because the professor left the classroom before I had a chance to turn it in and wouldn't accept it thereafter. So she may not have F-ed me, but he did.
Door #3 She dragged me into the girl's restroom and locked the stall's door. She proceeded to strip entirely naked and required that I do the same. She then positioned herself upon the toilet seat, straddling the gap, wrapped her legs up in a reverse-lotus style behind her head and said “Now Cum!” I….I….I….well, she groaned and smothered herself in a certain biological emollient, rubbing it all in and all about her body—privates, breasts, and pierced tongue. Just afterwards, I thought I heard someone approaching, freaked (because of the locale), ran for my life, and I never saw her again.
I fell asleep at the keyboard again last night. It seems I'm falling alseep everywhere but in bed--on the floor, in the shower, in a chair, sometimes even head to the keyboard. Maybe I should design a keyboard with soft, fluffy keys that can double as a pillow. And each key would have a little hypodermic-type injecting sensor so that after I fall alseep, they could shoot into my head, and type my dreams as I experience them. I can see it now…a repetitive synapse burn of s-e-x, s-e-x, s-e-x…
No, not really. I hardly ever dream about sex, actually. What do you think I am, some kind of fantasy-fiend? No, I'm an on-again, off-again lucid dreamer mostly, so my dreams are always about *scenes* -- backwater takes on energy raveling and unraveling, strangers talking, whispering, crossing streets, smoking on benches, walking by the sea. None of it ever makes much sense, except upon the rare occasion that I flow precisely with the lucidity and am able to seduce the dream. Then all the gibberish and cross-referencing becomes intelligible and I am listening, sensing, feeling, knowing, reaching out to the world, this world, our world, other worlds—through dream energy, by directing the dream. But, of late, the art of such has eluded me. So I've only been dreaming of chaotic, shadowy, whispery *scenes* where humanity get anonymously amassed and the morass of oblivion eventually enshrouds me.
Just a thought: Is falling asleep at the keyboard on the Internet Highway the same as falling asleep at the wheel?
Did I crash? Did I burn? Is this?…no, I don't want know.
I can see beyond the limitations which I pose for myself
the light, your shadow,
and your delicacy interceding there between.
But this vision is soundless and shameful
since I watch but cannot touch,
I lurk but cannot listen.
You notice my desperation and hasten to barrage me
with unrelenting mouthed insistencies,
while motioning intrepidly
salvationary glyphs of meaning.
And almost can I read your lips,
as almost surely I would taste those lips,
if I only I could loose my grip and slip
into the light with your shadow.
Tourist or shipwrecked? What's the difference? Isn't the shipwrecked one a tourist in a predatorial universe? And isn't the tourist potentially shipwrecked in the event that the conveyance of tour fails/derails? The two are contingently related.
Apollo or Dionysus? What's the distinction? Wouldn't Apollo become a party-goer in an unremittingly comic universe? And might not Dionysus abandon his pipes, the celebrative and seductive pipes of Pan, and sober to the quo of status if colliding planets and exploding stars (dis-asters) were daily fare? The two are embryonically entwined.
Cyrano or Shylock? What's the contrast? If there were no one to love in the entire world, would Cyrano have spawned his romantic enchantments? If commerce came to a halt, would Shylock have spun his financial wheels grinding flesh in a hellish rut? The two are contingently predicated upon their tragic apprehensions of existence, though split irrevocably upon separate courses. Yet both were very misunderstood.
Shakespeare or Howard Stern? What's the disparity? Apples and oranges are actually very comparable. Both are fruit that fit in the palm of the hand. Both have skin, juice, sweetness, pulp. Bach or Pachabel? George, John, Paul, or Ringo? Prince or the Artist formerly-known as Prince?
The Taoists of ancient wisdom-infested China claim that light and dark, high and low, good and bad, beauty and ugliness must coexist. What is beautiful if everything is beautiful? Nothing. Nothing is high if nothing is low. There is no shadow without light.
Yet life is short. So choose. Lest you huddle lowly in the dark shade of an answer to a question that you are afraid to ask.
Mary Ann? or Ginger?
Hey, look: no more dick be-licked ads on this blog! Aw!
I didn't do it--I swear didn't screw with it this time.
*hint: xanga made good on premium promise to loose the ads.*
What more do you/would you want from Premium to nudge you to blog at a cost?
I prefer something additional and more practical like... letting us pay for Premium with eProps! Why not? They be Xanga's currency, no? Do they issue currency that they will not accept to pay a debt?!
or
How about...AutoBlog! Xanga posts something everyday on your behalf. It could even just be a string of
*la-la-la-la-la-*
Then even if you have nothing to say, you just let it go. You'll never need an excuse again for going on a "word fast" or taking a hiatus! (Of course, you could overwrite what they post if you feel really creative.)
or
Even...AutoProps! Just designate eProps to deposit automatically to pre-scheduled recipients at the moment of their postings. Yes--never be late with a eProp again! No more "Oh, I'm sorry I forgot you!" (I really am sorry SallyAnn 
)
Of late, it seems, that writing blogs and dutifully attending to commenting upon the posts of others has come to consume entirely too much of my devotable life. So it is with great sadness and sorrow that I announce that I will henceforth curtail this activity.
Beginning today, I will no longer be posting my own weblogs or commenting upon those of others between the hours of 2 and 4 AM on Sundays in leap years when the moon is full.
There. That should free me up entirely. I only now hope my hands don't become the devil's workshop. 
I'm too lazy to delete this post. Could someone just delete it for me, please?
Thanks in advance,
notforprophet
*purges self of all meaningless babble*
*would feel like baked toast had anyone been party to the craziness of this morning*
Now where was I...??
At 12:00 PM, Hazel writes:
i would if i could |
| Posted 6/12/2001 at 12:00 pm by hazel - delete |
You mean you can't? Just hit the "delete" URL--see it says delete !
At 12:18 PM ournightmare writes:
wtf |
Posted 6/12/2001 at 12:18 pm by ournightmare - delete wtf? Oh, I see! You need my password to log in as me. If I revealed my password would you only delete this one and very post? Can I trust you? Who can I trust? |
At 12:36, I observe:
Nice try, someone! There are now 0 comments--the comments are gone!
But wait...they are still there!!??
Oh no, this post is only half-dead. Oh please don't tease--do it all in!
At 1:06 and 1:07 PM Prometheus wrote:
{Code}
Posted 6/12/2001 at 1:06 pm by Prometheus - delete
Oh nice try, Prometheus! You battered it with code, but it still hasn't toppled. However, now things are really ugly!
At 1:09 PM JadedFey wrote:
Stares at screen for awhile ... stares at clock equally as long ... Narrows eyes ... *groans* Enamored greatly by the brilliance of the NFPerson of the day ... (hey man, I have a house to move, a life to get on with ... so of course I'm playing on the internet ... it's so much more real ... I feel ... so much more connected ...) Ick.
Posted 6/12/2001 at 1:09 pm by JadedFey - delete
Wow! At least for the time being, JadedFey's comment is the only one that counts! This post is coming back to life--perhaps triage is not the answer.
At 1:38 Sarah wrote:
tres amusant |
| Posted 6/12/2001 at 1:36 pm by sarah - delete |
Sarah counts, too! Yay!
At 2:13, I observe:
Comments back to *0*
this post's flatlining________ quickly...
at 11:13 PM, I observe
It is possible that the Xangaguradians, aka John, Genius, and ilk and kin, have fixed this post since the comments, at one time at 0, are back to 12--where they now should be!
And there's no longer a decrement/increment function as a possibility.
Do you think they've noticed and fixed my hack?
Well. I'm glad they took a hint. After all, who wants Xanga on its knees?? 
)
Yes, for those tracking the facets of personality (a.k.a. JadedFey), I am the Tuesday NFP, a flippant fellow given to garrulous levity and insistencies, who has absolutley nothing better at the moment than to share a defecation ditty...
Peeing Eye
I tell you, it was staring at me--
so hard that I just couldn’t pee.
I moved , then it decided to flush:
I hate when the potty makes me blush.
"I was a young boy, oh so unwilling. But she was an alien with a green vagina!"
--most notable quote from forthcoming book "Memories of Youthful Abductions"
I was helping someone in the office with a PC problem this morning, crouching down in front of their keyboard and monitor, when they kindly offered: “Do you want the chair?” and I declined respectfully “No, I prefer lethal injection.”
What to do with the child-killer’s remains?
I say: Cast him into a translucent lucite building block and make it the cornerstone of a new federal penitentiary dedicated to keeping child-killers from ever seeing the light of day. Or if to grant them occasionally a glimpse of daylight, only through this lucite block-window and then let them behold the grimace of death casting shadows in the light at which they’d peak.
*shakes self loose of morbid thoughts and entanglements*
*wishes all the children in the world a nice day upon which to play*
Don't you just hate it when you feel the quickening of a new affair, only to discover that your lover may be residing on another planet? Or perhaps, it is you who are no longer *here*?
Or stranger yet, not another planet, but a beckoning from deep within Amazonia coming somewhere up among the third canopy of overhang? Life in the trees! But the forest's so thick you can't even parachute in.
Does the oddysey never end?
I'm restless when I hear the drums beat.
Life is nothing but Faerie Dust and Thorns...
-Laura
Xanga’s a dream
and we are its dreamers.
comments are pixy dust which cakes in our eyes.
eProps are surprises left under the pillow
for faerie-post notions placed
as lost baby-teeth.
Yet Xanga’s a dreamland
where dreams can be real,
and friends that we make
can be friends that we feel
will help us transcend
this quaint thing called space-time.
as I wander from one friendly blog to the next,
my heart makes a connection
though my eyes just read text,
my soul spins a journey and imprints a design.
Xanga’s a dream...
and you've all become mine.
I seem to have shared some secrets here.
*O well. nobody will believe you anyway!*
How is it from hiddeness to blogging truth such things arise?
What's the one secret, if shared, that would leave us all utterly surprised?
*don't worry this is a super-private post--all comments are encrypted and cloaked from even the host*
My secret for today: I've lost my mind, and would probably miss it, if it were still around to remind me that it is gone.
When I get lonely and seek refuge
I sometimes find solace in subterfuge.
Upon the 2nd-floor balcony of Garfield's grave,
I'll drink a six-pack, laugh, and rave.
I propose no offense, but to just have fun
Soaking in the summer cemetery sun.
James A. Garfield Monument
Lakeview Cemetery in Cleveland Ohio
O what should we care
When we are dead
If those still alive dance upon our heads?
Ashes to ashes,
Yet stomp to stomp,
Let the living howl and the breathing romp!
I only hope that when I'm under dirt
And a partyer comes along
That she's wearing a skirt,
Has nice pink panties and is cleanly-shaved.
Then I'll pray hard
That she does misbehave!
I simply am--lost again.
How is it that I'm always drawn back
to pondering the primal motions of things
--such as the worlds revolving--
as if I'm once again an infant transfixed
upon watching a mobile suspended from the ceiling
as I lay in solitude in my playpen?
I close my eyes and a montage ensues.
Could I merely own it with my imagination,
like a giant Jimmy Stewart rabbit friend,
then better I'd be.
But what I partake with that inner eye
wrecks imagination quite critically
as it arises and then expands
as reality to infinity.
The Tiger and The Cat
Long, long ago, before zoos existed to glamour in their acquisitions of prized wildlife, there lived a certain wild tiger in the countryside and his distant cousin the domestic cat in a burgeoning urban locus of commerce. In those olden days as even now, the domestic cousin cat was adapted quite well to his surroundings, feasting almost at will upon the copious urban vermin forever infesting the crowded matrix of municipal hovels and securing for itself possession of an inalienable niche as lovable pet and mouse-catcher. The country tiger, on the other hand, back then was not the huge, stately, and ferocious beast now so feared and lauded in the wild, but a rather scrawny, scrappy, gangly-looking creature that was so obviously down on his luck.
One day in the summer of a now long-forgotten year, when the domestic cat cousin just happened to venture out to the country on a weekend sun-n-fun picnicking jaunt, he ran into his decrepit cousin, the tiger. panting hurriedly and with head to the ground, running quite madly up and down a well-worn country path. “My dear …cousin,” implored the cat just barely recognizing the disheveled tiger as kin, “I sincerely hope you take no offense that I ask, but what unfortunate fate has befallen you that you appear so crazed. sickly and lost here in your own native habitat?”
With glassy and slowly comprehending eyes, the tiger glanced up and through cracked lips uttered, “Is that you cousin? O glory be! My rich little cousin from the city has come to visit me!”
“Well, I’m here for a picnic,” responded the city tabby, “But now that I’ve run into you, why don’t you join me, cousin, and we’ll make our re-acquaintance and feast delightfully .”
The scrawny tiger which hadn’t had a decent meal since beyond a memory of moons, of course, purred at this opportunity and used the occasion to pour his heart of ache and disillusion out to his generous benefactor-kin. “You, my dear city cousin have obviously done so well for yourself!” admired the tiger. “ Your shiny coat, plump stomach, and glistening teeth all so attest. But me—I am a wreck! O dear cousin, I’d do anything to learn the secrets of your success!”
The cat listening compassionately to the tiger’s lament, responded without hesitation: “I’ll tell you what, coz, I’d be more than happy to assist you! And to that end, I’ll return every weekend until it’s clear you’re once again the master of this wild locale.”
And thus did a great transmission of hunting knowledge and sleight of paw wisdom begin. The tiger hadn’t an idea about how to crouch low while approaching game, so the cat first taught him that. And circling while on the prowl was also a foreign concept to old tigger, so cousin tabby, upon a subsequent weekend, also conferred to him that know-how. The weeks passed and one skill after another did the most generous cat impart. For his part, the tiger learned quickly and learned well, as was reflected in the his stature growing haughtier, and his coat getting glossy again, and his ribs disappearing below a comfortable layer of new fat.
Finally the day arrived when the tiger felt and looked the part of pure ferocity again. And, upon the very next weekend, as the cat approached for the tiger’s graduation from months of tutorials, the tiger bellowed, “My most precious cousin cat, I’m feeling tremendous and, I dare say, that I now look as well as thee! But before we celebrate, surely there is something, perhaps just one thing more that you can teach me?”
With a huge smile on his face the little tabby beamed back, “You have learned everything I know—perhaps even better than me. So cherished cuz, let’s rejoice in our equality!”
But with that assurance, the tiger turned face and growled, “Well, then little feline friend, since I can’t have you bragging to the world that you made Great-Me what I now am, goodbye forever to you!” And with that, the huge looming tiger lunged through the air with fangs glistening death.
But just before his pounce would have meant the end of poor kitty, the city cat jumped BACK and the tiger ended up biting only dust. “What the hell was that?? “ cried the tiger in embarrassed disgust, “I thought you had taught me everything, all of your tricks.”
“Well,” yelled back the quickly homebound city cat, “Sometimes, the little things, I just forget!”
And that is why even to this day, though the giant tiger-types (all-consuming corporate webites/webmasters and powers-that-be) seem to rule the internet with great aplomb, nonetheless, do we pussycat-sized Xangan blogging types keep them dizzy with our never-ending back-stepping prolificity (if not actually envying our eProps for their resemblance to gold dubloons!).
Power to the Peeps!
Xanga day and night
Nonstop blogging: a dream sequence…
Up until 3 AM canvassing the sites hereon, I was led finally by fatigue to retire to bed.
Take a break, take a rest, right?
Hell, no.
There I was back on my PC while dreaming, dreaming about reading…who else?… VeryModern’s posts. So I had just completed reading a post of hers that was a continuation of something and a to be continued of something else, I typed a little comment, added eProps, then hit submit and…
The movie started! Action! Action! And there was Elsa shivering half-naked in the rain, pulling a tattered raiment over her shoulders. And as the credits rolled, under her name two eProps appeared. Hurrah!
Then there was another, rather gaunt character—Jean Stanzwycki (wtf??) with only one eProp to her credit, but of course, she was only co- to Elsa (or so I imagined). Good work, too!
Next, instead of a list of ePproppers on this post, there appeared a huge eye-shaped oval and inside the oval were the names of all us bloggers in little bubbles bouncing around, and occasionally knocking into each other in a game of blogging dodgem—BAM!--that was fun!
Then the view panned out, and the single oval was matched by another, and the symmetry became clear as the ovals came to constitute the eye sockets of the Grim Reaper. Ooooh!
Panning out further still, the Grim Reaper melded onto Elsa’s back as a tattoo and there were all of us, little bubbles still bouncing around in great merriment!
O Xanga I love you! You’ve even made my dreaming so much fun!
Not a Question of the Day...
...but a question, nonetheless:
If you could either know all the truths and have an apprehension of all the knowledge of our current civilization, and hence, be the true master of the moment
or
Have an awakened awareness of all the truths and knowledge now vanished yet once realized by all previous cultures and civilizations, and hence, be the master of lost covenants and wisdom
which would you?
This page has been re-activated because we have received complaints that revealed a violation of our Boundaries of Sanity.
A higher power has informed me of my former incarnation
A reckless life rife with excess for which, reincarnated, I now pay.
Hence, I have this travail of an odyssey to return home from my run around the world--running back in the other direction--and it must continue without delay.
To that end, today I pushed on for 7.5 (3.75 X 2) miles more.
Now I've only 24,970 miles to go. Or is that bottles of beer on the wall??
Syb-or-Toy
when she *purrs* I can’t hide,
‘stead I trip, then I slide
as I slip deep inside of her
mystical realm.
tightly wrapped deep within
her warm gorge, I begin
to take marvelous measure
of her hidden love treasures.
a pleasure dome? Xanadu?
as queen of all does she rule
drawing me deeper towards bliss
with every *lick*, every *kiss*.
once begun I can’t stop
and she takes every drop
of my soul burning brightly,
all repeated thrice nightly.
when she *purrs*
I revolve
then dissolve
but can’t hide.
I have taken steps to retain a lawyer in an imminent lawsuit against Xanga.
I have had enough. Charades and shenanigans are fine. But when Xanga itself permits subliminal advertising that adversely affects my mental health, I must strike back (the id which constitutes my superego declares it apropos).
So I was asleep last night when I heard a voice. It said "Dick" "Dick B lick" "dick be licked" I woke up so hard that there was practically no blood left in my feet, head, or hands! You bastards!!! Sucking so hard on my proverbial Achilles' appurtenance!
Class action, anyone??
One Less Toy
Hey, the XangaTeam broke my banner-toy! It used to cover the advertisement and bounce left and right on stroking keys, but doesn't work anymore!
What can I say except...they're watching me. Hrm...I wonder if I've become part of their early warning system for subversive activities??
And what really could I have expected? After all, I was *playing* a little havoc with their revenue stream.
I could fix it. I really could cause I already tried to and was successful! But defiance for defiance's sake is silly--and dangerous to one's blog and other living things!!
*prepares to take down the rebel flag*
*returns to the plantation-blog whistling *"When Johnny Comes Marching Home"*
(Update: OK...for those of you who missed the banner-toy but still want to see it in action, go here. Just remember to use the *A* key to move the banner left, and the *D* key to move the banner right. If you get there and that appears broken too, then thank the XangaTeam for keeping up with me!)
Yours in the never-found,
Sincerely lost but not alone,
Always the beautiful answer who has a more beautiful friend,
i'm ((((wound up)))) with no >>>place<<< to go,
so i'm going to go out and run,
hoping to rediscover the frontier of my soul,
Meandering in warrior wanderings,
yet too stoned to be gone for long,
What I am trying so hard to say is:
I’m struggling for the best of all worlds, but still happy to be here today.
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