Now I don't feel so bad!

Seems the celebration of a New Year's day started over 4000 years ago, but not immediately post-Yule as is now the custom, but in the Spring when "faces called flowers float out of the ground."

I say that I don't feel so bad because I've been going around today like some sort of anti-traditionalist proclaiming that for me, after Yule, Spring and its attendant rituals are the next most meaningful calendarically.  After all, the true beginning of newness should usher in with more than just toasts and good feelings about a tax year just completed and new taxes to look forward to in the year ahead...Oh yeah, thank the Romans, the great codifiers, for the arbitrary selection of January 1.  Seems that the Roman senate, in 153 BC, declared January 1 to be the beginning of the new year in order to compensate for calendrical inadequacies with the precession of the equinoxes.  Yes, Rome!  The same ones who brought you the Census, taxes, and the state-sponosred lottery (well, i.e., the Colliseum games, at least for the participants...LOL).

So instead, I cast my thoughts to Spring when the revival of spirits stir the Earth once again:

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

Yet now alone in the near-death grip of winter, not overly celebrative, pondering the proximate magical toll of "the new year" when an inverse cinderella spell will transform the pumpkin of the past year into the royal coach of 2002, I still await more light.

"Season's Greetings" is not merely safe.  It really says it all.

My friend Laura is playing games.  No wonder I never see here anymore.

So what's this about a penguin named Kevin in space?

I swear that even a zoo animal leads a more exciting life than me.

I just dropped someone off this morning at work and then kept riding around because there was nothing more thrilling to do...

*randomly canvassing the street matrices*

*turns down an alley*

Ah! A pair of kittens huddled in the middle of the road!

*gets out of truck to play with kitties, they run off terrified of approach*

Oh!  They're starving!

*throws only food in truck--popcorn--out of windows for kitties; kitties think the popcorn kernels are projectiles and run for their lives*

Eeek!

*resumes cruise*

*spots a young girl flagellating in the middle of the road trying to flag down a ride*

Oh my God, she's a whore!

*notices cops who also see her--wait a minute--I am a cop--no, that's not right either*

*cops wish her a Happy New Year, then pull off; crack-starved, she gets into some deranged-looking trick's car*

No, no, no--I didn't stop!

*gets the hell-outa-highwater*

*wonders why beer cans don't have embedded microchips that beacon when opened so highly-techno-sensored cops can detect open containers on the road*

No, no, no--dont give them any ideas!

*seeks rapid refuge from the immediacy of bleakness*

Spaced Penguin!

Cingular

Me?

Then why do I look like generic roadkill?

This is so pitiful, I'll let it proclaim itself:

OAK BROOK, IL (December 20, 2001) - Just as the Olympic Games recognize outstanding athletic achievements, McDonald's new Olympic ad campaign pays tribute to a world class group of men and women who serve millions of customers every day around the globe.

Called "World," the commercial breaks this week and showcases McDonald's World Champion Crew preparing for their moment in Olympic history. It supports a worldwide crew initiative that will send 400 gold medal crew members from nearly 50 countries to Salt Lake City.

McDonald's will launch a second Olympic-themed ad, "Toboggan," beginning January 4th. The spot will feature four children who, while tobogganing down a hill, are magically transported into an Olympic bobsled competition. As the kids lean to take the hairpin turns and feel the excitement of speeding down the icy bobsled course, they imagine themselves crossing the finish line in a moment of triumph, illustrating the type of "magic moments" only McDonald's can provide.

*their moment in Olympic history*

Damn, maybe I should go to Salt Lake City merely to partake of this MickeyD epic assemblage of unsurpassable excellence!!

The only thing more pathetic than such "magic moment" commercialism, is the tawdry design of McDonald's website itself.  Need to barf??  Go visit.

John--what is that --> (what is this?) ??  Haiku?? ooo-ooo-ooo can I do that with my Premium, too?!

Oh my god...BurmaShave was a small company (like Xanga) that lost in a hostile takeover to Phillip Morris and then went ungloriously to smitherenes 3 years later.  Is John suggesting by this showmanship a parallel future fate for Xanga?

Oh...and now you can "blog so much...you lose the farm" !!  Isn't losing or selling the farm  a euphemism for dying??!!

I ask a favor: speed it up, please, and make it subliminal!!

you're quite the Xanthropologist, NFP

...commented seanmeister.

This from the Xangeroo I consider the pre-eminent improvixanger, the one who monkeys most brilliantly with code to make our sites more fun. Damn, the man even features The Smileypropomatic Javascript Generator , a magnificent machine that forever has changed the face of our Xanga  currency (yes, my eProps not only flash, they're bigger than yours! hahaha).

But Xanthropologist ??  Naw, I'm just a curious blogger lost on my xangabouts, encountering the bizarre, benign, droll, and marvelous on my endless xangoddysey.

If you recall from a previous blog:

I have found the actual lost kingdom of Xanga (<--no shit) at last!!!

I hereby declare it our Mecca!  All true Xangaroos are hereby instructed to travel thereto sometime during their lifetime.

Whoever gets there first, please blog back and inform if the accomodations are suitable to my needs for kingly comfort! wahahaha

(p.s., the link to the kingdom of Xanga above doesn't always seem to be available--too funny!  If not, begin your journey here.)

(p.p.s., Nyree observed that Fucole--she laughs because she imagines as I imagine that it's pronounced *fuck-all*--is near Xanga!  Well, Gole and Candua are near Xanga and Fucole, too!  So...if my Gole is to Fucole Xanga, I suppose it's something we Candua!!! Mwuhauhauaua   )

...and, yes, now I have found our way to get there, and our manna to sustain us upon the way...

The Raft (translated from Portugeuse) was the typical Boat of the Brazilian northeast coast, was brought of Asia, for the Portuguese, where it had the name of " xanga ", in the ends of century XVI.  Its fragile construction does not use pregos in six logs wooden light, two mimburas, two edges and two woods of center, to form the floor. Placed on the floor, we find the candle bank, the salgadeira, carninga, bank of government, calçador, chocks of the bilge keel, espeque, tolete, you line, mast, crossbar and you peg. Used in it fishes, its capacity depends on the size, a raft of 39 palmos can support with easiness the weight of two toneladadas.  The fishing that work in the raft respect a hierarchy with much discipline and solidarity, the master is who orders in the raft and has the function to direct, its rank is the bank-of-government, the proeiro is to the side of the salgadeira, collects the product of fishes and places in samburá, when she is necessary wets the cloth with the cuia of candle, thus more good using to advantage the impulse of the wind, the peak-of-nose goes the front counterbalancing the weight, and rebique, generally a boy or an old one, fits the work lightest. The Xangadeiros (i.e., Xangeroos ) had been the first Brazilians who if had refused to carry enslaved blacks, come of the ships to be sold.

And to compliment our diet of freshly-caught fish, we have:

Xanga Cheesecake deep-fried inside a flour tortilla rolled in cinamon and sugar served with Vanilla Ice Cream
£3.45    ...from the amigosrestaurant menu

Our Captain??  Of course, dreadpirate!!

a torrent of emotion should be spewing forth--what's the blockage?

oh? did i miss a post yesterday?  naw.  wanted to get the word out on the hawaiian happenin.  these punks (oh that's so affectionate) are making Xanga a *hangout* (their terminology:  *I know you guys are gonna have like a million Xanga hang-outs with out me* --DoLpHiN0864 )by swarming like a SWAT team on assault.  then after Xanga they'll all hit up AIM, then mebbe ICQ, etc., i.e., the rounds.  like a Hemingwayesque movable feast, they yearn to course in synchronicity. consequently they surf the multitudes of encounterable cybermedia like boats on the high seas all in proximity experiencing the same tsunami.  yeah--there's the metaphor: Hawaii and beaches and surfing and...surfing and the internet.  damn if language isn't the Great Seducer: of course, island surf babes and stoned punks are gonna surf the internet, too.   kids will eat ivy too--wouldn't you??

so the question of the moment is: do you like nekkedness?  and if not, why did you even bother to learn to read?  cause damn if words don't rape emotions more often than not.

What's up with the Hawaiian punk babes on Xanga? Yep, there's a rage of them.  And they hang. 

Punks (or something...) - Hawaii  (44 weblogs)

Hawaii peeps!  (58 weblogs)  the largest U.S. States blogring

Seems they’re emerging as a threshold visible cohort on the Featured Content page now and now again.  yea!  freshness and diversity is welcomed.

And I’m coming to think that they’re a mere manifest sample of the real underbelly of Xanga: thousands and thousands of high school students or youth of that age (14-18) who as a group blog frequently, even incessantly, but typically below the threshold of individual notice on the Featured Content list.  They’re, perhaps, the real swell of the-count-the-hits traffic on the Xanga server.  While the typical popular top of the Featured list xangs individually prominent with more propping intensity,  the overall legion of the Unfeatured  has always churned in decentralized interactions like guerilla fighters never congregating in tight critically amassed formations.  Until now with the Hawaiian punk babes.  They deploy with the bang of a gang!

Here's a slice in Featured time:

#4

like i said before... MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!! oh yea tracie was like the fir...

Posted by HideoSan321 12/25/2001 at 4:41 PM read entry

Hawaii (though declares Japan) male

Total eProps: 30
Average eProps: 2
Comments: 15

9 Hawaii female / 1 Hawaii male / 5 others

#14

Next person to piss me off will get a big 'FUCK YOU'...so assholes be aware!..he...

Posted by XloserpunkX 12/25/2001 at 10:44 PM read entry

Hawaii female

Total eProps: 20
Average eProps: 2
Comments: 11

5 Hawaii female / 2 Hawaii male / 3 others

#18

i WOULD give everyone in the xanga world eprops for christmas, but i'm sure ever...

Posted by unpliant 12/25/2001 at 3:54 PM read entry

Hawaii male

Total eProps: 18
Average eProps: 1.8
Comments: 12

6 Hawaii female / 2 Hawaii male / 1 other

So I'll coin it: Xanghawaii

So I’m at a holiday party (family-type) last night and the hostess coyly observes me not eating anything and she says “Aren’t you going to eat?  Everyone has to eat at this party! ”

“Maybe after this beer,” I replied, toasting with the bottle in my hand.

Or the next beer…or the next beer…

Just before I was about to leave, she again insisted, “Didn’t you eat anything?  Are you one of these patriarchal types who just drinks, drinks, drinks ??”

“I’ll grab something on the way out,” I placated her.  And I did—a  near full 12-ounce glass of Baileys Irish Crème.  Don’t you just love it when peeps put their liquor out so you can properly self-medicate?!

So was I a scream at the party?  Hell, I just sat there motionless, buzzed, stoned, for almost a half hour, floating away with nothing to say.  Until a 9-year prodigy who wants only books for Christmas approached me and asked me to play chess.  "Chess?"  I looked into her sweet, intelligent brown eyes and recognized *A Quest* --she was stalking her prey and she chose me because…because…I never let her daddy win at the game and how she does love daddy.  Yes: Revenge!

So I accepted the challenge but warned her: “When I was your age, I was reading chess books and memorizing the openings of the grandmasters.”   Ouch.  Ouch.  She was very good, with a strong grip on the fundamentals and able to see developments a couple of moves ahead.  So it became very hard work as I had to expand my strategy to encompass a number of moves beyond the horizon of her chess-vision, something like 4 or 5 moves ahead.  Ouch.  Now her daddy wants me dead.

But it’s okay because after I slaughtered her at chess and extinguished her desire to ever play the game again  (okay, so now I’m exaggerating) , I dragged out my laptop and let her play a couple of funner, seasonal games I had downloaded for free from the internet.

Many of you know of Elf Bowling, I’m sure, already.    But for those who don’t, both versions I and II are available from Nstorm and both are equally hilariously irreverent (though I'm partial to version I--it's more christmassy).  Just watching the elves antics and listening to their comments will cave your day in with laughter—guaranteed.

On the other hand, one of the strangest, eeriest games I’ve ever seen comes in  a small exectuable called *snowcraf*
    It’s only what it seems to be—a snowball fight between opposing gangs of cuddly, giggly pre-teens—and yet…and yet…well, just try it and see if you don’t remark the same as the 9-year prodigy who played it and then gleefully pronounced: “That’s evil.”

(p.s., I downloaded and checked both for viruses—they’re clean)

urban christmas

monkeys rule the world
and christmas is in the deep
hold fast to the fire
and Love’s body keep.

snow is falling black
snow men of dust
you sweet candy momma cane
you gonna lick lust.

people zombi stone-faced
no spirit of the Birth
ya mine nas well lay dem down
right now in da irth.

merchants so gleeful
to see the green flow
as bakers stamp ginger men
in brown greasy dough.

presents to ‘xplode
wrapped in dead trees
“Mommy, I want this and this
and these and these and these….”

platic pines assembled
“place A into B”
turn on the lights
and “Look children, see!”

Santa’s making tv ads,
Rudolph’s in a zoo
Mr. Jing-a-ling’s drunk on the corner
and looking for a screw.

people still ripping at people
nations still making wars
the strawberry fondling Jing-a-ling’s thing 
still very much a whore.

no matter what the time or turn
grim monkeys stomp the earth.
face deep into the fire
and hold fast to the Birth.

~listening *Yellow* @ coldplay~

sometimes words can make a difference.  all your comments on yesterday's blog did a  difference make for me in strumming life along and staving off the dangerously entangling, expanding circle grip of fate that faery Death did visit upon my kitty Hawk.  thanks.

What has me laughing: houses with Christmas lawn decorations where more than one Santa is portrayed.  I mean, picture yourself a kid and being told there's a real Santa and then looking out the window across the street to see 5 of them presiding in mutal self-mockery. 

Such duplicity with visions of sugarplums does multiplicity mix.  I have actually made a sport over the years out of spotting mutliple (schizoid) neighborhood Santa displays--most ever was 8, this year 3 (but haven't had much time to look).

Now here's something useful: mailexpire , a time-driven expiring alias for your current email address that you can use to help avoid spam (Sex Ponography And Mayhem).  Hey, it took me 10 seconds just now to generate this:

Your auto-expiring email alias has been created.
Your alias is husbankish@mailexpire.com
Reminder: xanga
Alias created: 2001-12-24 02:55:31 GMT
Alias lifespan: 12 hours
Alias expires: 2001-12-24 14:55:31 GMT

So, for instance, let's say you need to submit a genuine email address (or alias) for password verification to a new free duper-trooper internet service (ok) but they will in turn sell your email address to marketeering spammers (very bad), well, jack, the mailexpire alias' clock's a'ticking (very, very good) as sure as Cinderella's coach turns into a pumpkin on the stroke.

and finally, finally, finally in Northern Ohio at this very moment we're now having our first appreciable virgin snowfall of the winter season.  think I might just go out and tramp in it--as most men are want to do.

My kitten, Hawk, is gone.  Quite unexpectedly tonight I had to put him down as he slipped quickly away under siege from congestive heart failure, a finally fatal complication of the feline leukemia he was born with.  He died purring in my hands, trusting to the end.

And Love is contemplating
in solemn mystification
the world without me.

There will be silence when I'm gone.

There will be silence.

Cause I'm gone.

My body's wracked with pain,
I'm being financially slain,
My thoughts are half-deranged,
All my friends are lost--or changed.
I am the terminator terminating
under the duress
of an extreme prejudice.

And Love is contemplating
in solemn mystification
the world without me.

There will be silence when I'm gone.

There will be silence.

Cause I'm gone.

“Don't you think you’d be safer down on the ground?” Alice went on. “That wall is so very narrow!”
“What tremendously easy riddles you ask!” Humpty Dumpty growled out. “Of course I don’t think so! Why, if I ever did fall off—which, there’s no chance of—but if I did—” Here he pursed up his lips, and looked so solemn and grand that Alice could hardly help laughing. “If I did fall,” he went on, “the King has promised me—ah, you may turn pale, if you like! You didn’t think I was going to say that, did you? The King has promised me with his very own mouth to—to—”
“To send all his horses and his men,” Alice interrupted, rather unwisely.

Humpty Dumpty was not an egg at all; nor was he an English king as people frequently believe. Humpty Dumpty was the nickname for a huge wooden battering ram built for the army of King Charles I in the mid-1600s to roll down a slope, across the River Severn, and up against the walls of Gloucester. During England's Civil War Gloucester was held by Oliver Cromwell and his Roundheads. While Charles' army was busy building the "Humpty Dumpty" the Roundheads were secretly widening the river. Thus Humpty Dumpty was wrecked in midstream, "had a great fall", and toppled into the water, drowning hundreds of soldiers--and there was nothing all the king's men could do about it.
    --Phonological Awareness

It’s my Xangaday tomorrow --> 12/20 <-- today.  
And I’ll cry if I want to.
It’s fuzzy how funny time here can be.
It will get even fuzzier without doubt while I’m drinking beer later tonight.

Where have VeryModern and toreibjo gone??
*ponders going on a walkabout to find them*
Have you ever heard of the Happy Blogging Grounds?
The love—you take it with you.

Got to credit the XangaTeam—the server lately appears fast and stable. 
Are we yet ready for the next evolutionary breakthrough in blogging—an integrated chat and file-sharing applet? 

My thoughts just now are random scattered jotlets of soon forgotten-ness.  Better that way.  What way?

I’m strange: I never get headaches, I never puke, and I’ve never considered suicide--ever.  Am I human?  Mebbe reality has yet to hit… *proactively pulls plug on fan*

This year is the first in memory that I haven’t sworn while putting up the (damn-oops) Christmas Tree.  Have I mastered the art or just lost my edge?  Or because the tree was small, soft, cute, and fragrant was I subliminally overcome with love-making hormones while handling it?  (It was soft!!!)

Did I mention that I’ll be drinking beer later tonight? 

hahaha...should i not have fun? okay!  so having provided some famous quotes about love in the last blog, i'm here arrogantly quoting myself from some of your blogs, seeking fame within the framework of subtle transference...

I think many of us have been subconsciously counting the days away from 9/11 rather than the days before Christmas.   That's why it has gotten here this fast and seemingly unnanounced!
--at JasmineRose's

On multiplicity:

the hero has a thousand faces,
and god has a thousand names.
even cable channels proliferate endlessly,
all different and yet the same.
--at mysticalraine's

and you're androgenous...for you're his image in the mirror.  and your eyes--so bare as you stare--bathe in mutual captivity, awash in love's imagery, seeking an ocean of passion sublime, beyond time, beyond stare.
-- at lcsaph's

naw, shit--unless it's toxic to begin with--is the stuff of good compost.  and compost is the future fertilizer of a good story.  so place the shit on the compost heap of experience and let it aromatically ferment.
now you could give some consideration to throwing out the bathwater, but take care of the baby!
-- at Prometheus' 

I compose at least 60% of my blogs while showering.  I have seriously thought about getting a hermetic seal for my laptop so that I can blog in the shower without the need to commit my shower compositions to the intermediate of mental memory.
--at zoodom's

 I once knew a female psychologist who changed her house alarm password to "oh shit" because the first time the alarm went off, and the alarm people threatened to send the police if she didn't know the password, she responded "oh shit!" and then realized if that's what she'd normally say in that situation, then it must be the perfect password!
--at Hogs_N_Kisses'

Yes, allow the imagination to fire your spirit and heart.  *Reality* is only fit for the dying and dead.  Allow yourself always to roam energetically-free throughout the many levels of endless undiscovered worlds instead.
--at agrochick78's

As it happened, I immediately fingered Osama as the mastermind and then proceeded to describe the numbers (15-20), the weapons, and the staging tactics of the terrorists aboard the four flights.  One of my colleagues at work was later self-confessedly amazed at how accurate I was in discerning such details simply given the spectacle of terror in the moment.
Let's just speculate that I was tapping into a psychically-apparent potential.
--reply to seanmeister at notforprophet's

Perhaps this is not as truly strange as you think.  Carlos Castaneda revealed through his Yaqui sorcerer series with don Juan the belief of the ancient sorcerers that the universe is almost entirely *female* in its composition and that only here on earth is there an excess of *maleness* compared to the general cosmic composition.  Hence the universe as a whole is in ravenous pursuit of *malehood*!  Hey, we got it made!!  Or...we are entirely doomed.
--at Deadeye's

...a relevance of words

"Everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahmin... learn to love the world... to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it."   --Siddhartha by Herman Hesse

"It seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most important thing in the world." --Siddhartha by Herman Hesse

"The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was... Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along." -- Rumi (1207-1273)

"And think not, you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course." --Kahlil Gibran

"Love is the fire of life. It either consumes or purifies."  Anonymous

"Not how one soul comes close to another but how it moves away shows me their kinship and how much they belong together."  --Nietzsche, Aphorism 251

...and i don't even like nietzche.

Sweetly does vision of yesteryear my partaking of your earthy nature nurture.  By recall of my youth, such placid palaces were once in exuberant abundance.  And at every turn, one could find a secret garden.  Over every hill, one could dance into an elating pasture.  But all that has transpired since those idyllic days has driven these sanctuaries to virtual unpresence. Now the world gives homage not to such tendering concerns.  The world has announced the death of Pan.

And mourn I have...until your enchanting presence arose amidst the noise and clatter of that damning pittance.  Now once again the songs of my youth float clearly!  Soar as a melodic waftings in new dreams through my heart!  O woman, I leap in bid for this sojourn!  My heart bounds out of my breast, my feet skip in dance!  I take in this deep breath—chi!  And exhale in new trance the sunrise of the morrow.

They say the worlds revolve around the sun; but of the sun, what body does it seek?  Does it gyrate around a center of galactic entropy?  Does true brilliance orbit in any manner at all?

Still, hearts play in that sun, yet the darkness, too.  And the to’s and the fro’s that fill the center, the hides and stumbles that join together, revolve not one about the other.  They circle about the now of discovery of what it means to be us!

your'e such a girl its unbelievable-- *as a man* , i could hug that to death.  as your friend, i'm just sitting here typing with a big smile on my face.  you know, your *flip-flop, on-off* overly-sensible troublesome waffling is really surely just your heart fluttering.  fluttering by just like those huge blue panamanian butterflys that used to accompany some unseen warrior on his jungle runs. and the *insanity* is just heart ascending over mind.  and the *butter melting* just your irresistible personal value-added  flavoring to routine yet chaotic poppings of lifecorn. and the *soul sin-heavy*, first and foremeost, your awareness of precious souldom which mostppl  have become thoroughly desensitized to; and then, merely  a matter of lingering with cowering mind-grounding soul rather than letting the fluttering heart take it to wing.  and *mind off dreaming*  is just, well, just the most amazing you exploring…looking for new worlds…or new ways in old worlds…demanding nothing less than romance…yet much always more…

I am the future face of air terror.  It’s the bomb within me.  The one they missed at airport security even though some small change in my pocket set off the alarms and they repeatedly wanded me down.  Hell, even my new running shoes alarmed repetitively as if there was a knife hidden in them—though they didn’t check.  But it’s the bomb they missed.  The one implanted deep within and remotely triggerable by radio signal.  By the little seeming transistor radio I carried on in my handbag.  Or by a comrade bouncing a signal off a satellite in my vicinity.  And, oh yes, did I mention the demented doctor who implanted the bomb, also enwrapped it in a plastic-sealed bag of the bubonic plague.  He used to do tummy-tucks of cocaine for the Medelin Cartel but now he’s with our cause.  He knows it ain’t a science yet, but figures there’s a fair chance that as my body blows a hole in the plane’s fuselage, the plague will get jettisoned airborne over my departure or destination city.  What city?  Now that’s not a fair question.  I’m an equal-opportunity terrorist and would hate to see you personally miss out.  

So today was a test run; tomorrow’s the targeted flight.  Think I’ll mosey on down to the tiddy bar, booze a little, and let a couple of those salacious babes fondle the unseen death within me for one very last time…

If I were the mastermind of the Anti-Terror Crusade, I'd always allow bin Laden to escape.  "Take us to the next terrorist sanctuary," I'd psychically mock the prick as he once again would mysteriously elude our almighty juggernaut.  "Take us and watch the dogs of war forever snapping at your heals."

Indeed, bin Laden would become my favorite Trojan Horse.  Taken in by friendly terror-sympathizing nations, he'd open the gates of war with every fond heartening of hospitality extended to him.

Or maybe I'd just treat bin Laden like a hunter treats baboons in Botswana.  There when a hunter is thirsty and in need of water, assured that a hungry and curious baboon is watching, he'll  gather some very specially tasty nuts, carve a small hole in a log or trunk of a tree, place the nuts in the hole and then disappear.  The baboon enchanted by the possibility of a nut feast, will rush to the log, stick his hand in, grab the nuts, and become entrapped since his fist filled with nuts is bigger than the hole and he won't release !  So the hunter then has the luxury of reappearing, walking straight up to the frantic baboon, putting a chain around his neck, knocking the nuts out of his hand, and binding him to the tree.  Then, the hunter will indulge the baboon with its second favorite treat: salt.  Lots of salt.  So much salt that the baboon begins to die of thirst.  So thirsty that it will become careless when released, beelining straight to its hidden and yet-unknown water hole (you see, the baboon has much greater acumen and instinct in locating water in the desert than do human beings), not even caring that the hunter is closely following him.  And thus the hunter finds the water and allows the baboon to go free for similar service in the future.

So in Afghanistan, the hole carved into the log with the nuts inside were the caves of Tora Bora (CIA-produced).  And we let bin Laden there enter with impunity.  But once there and surrounded, he couldn't escape, couldn't release himself.  And as we salted daisy-cutter bombs (oh how those terrorists do love bombs) down around him, he grew ever more frantic for release.  So frantic that when unleashed, he headed straight for the next terrorist oasis.  Go, bin, go!    Bingo!

( yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and notforprophet is evil...mwuauahahaha )

i’ll tell ya…this flu vaccine (henceforth referred to as FV) is still trippin out my head…i’m constantly bombarded by raptured halluci-notions.  just when i begin to think that i’m finally in the enwrapping embrace of a kinder. gentler, understanding humanity, the drugs kick in and i’m tripped away again.  bullshit?  oh yeah, well here’s my moment’s vision:

…humbug green sheep have you any tools?

yes sire—to make fire, some incendiary ooze…

blasting caps to blast her,

gelled gasoline for flame

and an accelerant to expedite

the consumption

of all that remains.

I’ve even got visions of sugarplums dancing in my bed:

er….sorry.  I guess this one is some other kind of fantasy

...and one of the greatest gifts a prof can get from his students...

                 Gratitude!!!

Well, strangle my Xanga!

What's the deal?  Has the gift of Premium to all become a blithering albatross leading to such current sluggish access that if I were a lover in my honeymoon bed awaiting my mistress' reluctant exeunt from the shower/powder room that I'd be pondering divorce (or at least my navel)??

Ack!!!  ...and so this is the way that Xanga ends, this is the way it ends, not with a thudding blog, but with a whimpering page unloaded??

have I gone too far?
the ancient taoists warned: the farther you go , the less you know.
have I spent too much energy shaking my branches when I should have been sinking my roots?
am I with the wind gone to the farthest corner, the only lonely corner,
the one-you-cannot-find-because-I’ve-just-invented-it-that’s-how-far-I’ve-gone gone corner?
or have I been merely revving my motorcycle at the starting line with the actual race soon about to start? and the corner that will soon test me is the one where I could wipe out?
or like a satellite getting ready to get slung around the corner of the sun for ultrathrust into endless amazing space…am I sailing smoothly towards the cosmos like a man’s hand upon a pretty girl’s petticoat lace?
or haven’t I gone far enough?

so may I close my eyes?  yes?  ah, much better!  but you’re thinking *How can he type with his eyes closed?*  LOL  how in this world could I not go mad with my eyes open?  yes—there’s the rub, you chance a smirk, *He has gone mad for sure!*

well, you’re very bright, and oh so witty
—quite unfair cause you’re so damn pretty! 

on second thought, i’ll not close my eyes at all, not be denied the sight of vibrant you.   but for the sake of  unfluttered angels, be calm, my dear.  and stay real—for me, for you, for our potentially stellar unborn mars-raised children.  for if you stare into my eyes, bluer they shall yet become—total surrender to thee, my azure-gazer.  and then with nightfall when the moondust sprinkles compellingly and we go round and round.  and you become my moxibusting aromatic herb.  my most quintessential drug.

i just got a flu shot and i am woozie.  Don't know why i do that every year--well, it's free.  And it always knocks the trippin hell out of me and might as well be LSD.  But that's pretty consistent with the way other drugs act on me--they never do what they're purported to, but always just spin me free. 

So mebbe for the next day or two i'll be in the mist of moonglow.  hiding in the shadows of esoterica, eroterica, or plain hysteria. laughing with the wolves and crying with the warlocks.  secreting myself away in caves and thinking if they bomb me that i'll change my name to osama.  psychically harvesting the thoughts of the dead but not quite gone.  wondering why every color i look at immediately becomes my favorite color.  fantasizing that i'm a hero loved by all the women--ha!  yes, just a boy who fell down, skinnned his knee, and needs a cookie handed to him by some surreal creature with tiddies. and milk!  and milk!  

o oh goddess...don't leave me now!  cause i think i'm on the wrong planet cause i'm seeing too many moons.  LOL  ripples in the water will do that you know.  ripples! believe it or not!

fluuuuuuu...mmmm....nice sound: i fluv fluu!

Sundays suck the blog! 

*mental note* : take Sundays off!!

Oh...but it's Monday already!

Thank God.  The weekend was killing me!

the restlessness I sense is love emote
like a baby first wailing with air in throat
or a heart cave-hidden from the sun remote
or sailing upon the seas in a sinkless boat
adrift for a million years.

can you drown in tears?
have you tried, have you cried?
or is it better to remain sullen
and above the tides
that sweep away memories
of love side-by-side,
and use your eyes only
henceforth to see,
tearless, wide?
 
to clearly see that sea of a billion tears
and the sinkless boat of a million years
with the gimlet prescience of a peerless seer
knowing forever
you’ll have nothing to fear
because you can no longer feel.

apparently

awaiting

nothing

from

no

one

I

hear

the unstruck sound

Now follow my instructions: breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out...

that's better!

Terrorist bastards.  I’m all for profiling them statistically, weighting responses, and preemptively detaining all probable suspects.  Get the assholes of the street and behind bars, brainwash them if necessary, torture them if convenient, and return life to normalcy for the rest of the peace-loving citizenry.

As a statistician trained in the construction of surveys, here’s a criteria list I’ve quickly devised to isolate ticking-terrorist timebombs:

1) Are you a young man between ages 16 and 30 and of Arab descent?

2) Have you ever actively associated with young men between ages 16 and 30 and of Arab descent?

3) Do you speak Arabic and/or are familiar with the tenets of Islam?

4) Have you ever carried a concealed weapon?

5) Have you ever carried contraband aboard a commercial aircraft?

6) While upon a commercial aircraft, have you ever visualized it crashing with all loss of life?

7) Have you conducted such visualizations upon a commercial aircraft recently?

8) Have you ever constructed an incendiary or explosive device?

9) Have you ever listened to disembodied voices providing you instructions for living your life?

10) Are you willing to die in an instant for your beliefs?

11) Have you ever fled or attempted to flee from an arresting authority?

12) Were you aware of any of the details of the terrorist activities on board the flights of 9-11 prior to their release as common knowledge in the press?

13) Have you ever used illegal drugs in conjunction with the induction of a religious vision?

14) Do you believe you’d make a “good terrorist” if fate inexorably cast you into that vocation?

15) Have you ever said: “Fuck this country.” or “The United States sucks!” or anything to that effect?

So how did you do?

Personally, except for item 1, I must answer *yes* to all of the above.

For convenience of imminent arriving authority, my handcuff size is 6.  Now I, too, love Big Brother.

Happiest b-day wishes to my sister ahanna as of yesterday and to my dearest and sweetest friend katie as of tomorrow!!!

*kiss* *kiss*

...now here is the loveliest girl in my life:

 my daughter

I've been sedated by some unseen force. This is not good.  Not good.

I'm surprised I can even blog at all.  I'm no longer thinking for myself.  Oh yes, and I've lost all sense of humor (did I ever have any?).

All this after delivering what I thought was a wonderfully brilliant lecture on bivariate and multivariate regression techniques last night.  I intoned, I joked, I cavorted quite finely.  And was atop the concepts all the way.

What does a surfer do when the ocean is a still mirror without waves?

The Real Xanga??

...20 randomly visited sites:

My heart feels like it's in a holding pattern.  I don't think I really ever got off my recent flight back to Cleveland.  Hence, a reprint from 3/5/2001:

What a strangeness always the world brings when you open yourself up to it vastly!  No room for routine as each succeeding surprise washes upon you like a tingling ocean wave.  One learns how foolish mundane *expectations* can be.  One learns to live like a tourist in a potentially predatory universe…

 …to live like a tourist in a potentially predatorial universe seems to me to be not simply a valuable strategy, but an indispensable one. Conversant tourism predisposes one to fun engagement with a probing awareness, to sensitized discernment, and to activity without habituated involvement.  Precisely: take in everything possible with heightened perception while never settling into a pre-fabricated template—a habit. For it is the nature of habits to inhibit conscious awareness for the sake of optimizing an efficiency in performance of some well-rehearsed structured task ("good" and "bad" habits are the same in this respect). But in a universe which can be changeable and predatorial, yet the structure of which is otherwise largely unknown, habits—either good or bad—may turn into fatal assets without warning.

As a youth of 14, I started seriously entertaining notions of a, no—wrong word—not “a” but “my” first love affair with a girl.  Oh how romantically consuming it was to going to be!  How marvelous this country, this America to provide young men like me this opportunity!  Ha!  How much did I know? Nothing!  I woke up 11 years later as a sergeant in the U.S. Army stationed deep in the heart of Central America—still a virgin!  There I was: warrior-clad, a father-figure to my troops (who’d ask me, time to time, for paternal advice about making it with their girlfriends!), in charge of a jungle mission, and still wondering why the monkeys in the coconut trees could get it on, but not me!

So what the hell was I doing with my youth for all those years?  Too much of everything to ever be bored!  I read books while others frolicked, but I stayed tuned with utmost attention.  You might say that my attention was transfixed somewhat by the psychic television network (PTN) that played its transmissions endlessly but unrepetitively, for my enrichment, at times I thought, and then at other times I thought, in preparation for my mortal demise.   What played on that channel?  You name it!  I watched two Catholic popes die in their beds while I was laying distantly in mine.  I caught unrehearsed glimpses of several heads of state betrayed, subsumed, and destroyed.  I watched the PTN with such consummation that I grew a third eye!  And that third eye had great acuity in detecting a nemesis that had a habit of stalking me now and then from behind.  *duck* !  Of course I could see it coming!  How else could I have survived? 

So the sexual allure of my youth—to and from girls—while always there, played like a *ping* with a TTL (time to live) of: timeout!  I *pinged* but got timeouts always since the PTN channel redirected everything to infinity or thereabouts before even toying in echo a response.  “In time…in due time,” I reassured myself--a thought which was so completely out of that world  and  beyond the  bounds of then referable time.

But I was reborn in the jungle!  I found my manly fate in the tropics!  Thus my affinity with all tropicalities: the procession of humidity and heat, the huge blue slow flapping flutterbys, the python stretching so long across the road that its head and tail was obscured by the encroaching junglement, even killer-bees that suffered me to walk among them!  Even vampire bats that led some troops in unawakened sleep to a painless pallid death!  All of it dangerous, all of it beautiful, all of it shared with an open heart and the deepest sense of intimate relatedness. All of it me!  All of it and "my first lover" so becoming a fulfillment so becomingly!

The weather here in Cleveland is insanely beautiful.

I’m sitting now on  a huge sandstone block positioned as a-one-of-many lumps in the extensive breakwater on the south coast of Lake Erie and blogging short-sleeved while sipping a beer under a brilliantly sunny sky overlooking relatively placid waters  which are usually an embattlement of polar ice, cold, snow, and whipping waves this time of year.  Damn, there are still-lingering gnats and flies buzzing occasionally and flowers that haven’t even frosted-to-wilt yet.  And today is not a mere exception.  The pattern of mildness all fall has been exceptionally consistent except for one freak dusting of snow a month (though it seems years) ago which flaked for half of a day, then vanished as if succumbing democratically to its own innate self-discovered bizareness.  I’d be surprised if this isn’t the warmest fall—oops—with the coming of December it is meteorologically winter (though not calendarically until the winter solstice later this month)—on record in recorded weather history, if not all-time since the Mesozoic Age of extensive tropicality.

So I’m sunning like a  man for all seasons upon a winter’s battlefield sans the polar siege.  And as I listen to the water swish, I ponder nothing that I’ll never miss.

I just met the most beautiful girl so awesomely in love.  But not with me.  Her heart’s passion abounds romantically unconstrained for the lover she awaits—the one she hasn’t yet seen.  The sun shines, the heart shines—‘tis only a golden eternity.

How long should one wait for love?  How many young hearts waiting for their white knights on golden steeds have gown old without ever planting, yet never abandoning the seed of dreams?

Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to w-o-r-…to w-a-r… to love we go.

How can I so see everything and feel so much, yet remain untouched?  You’d recognize me as the fool on the hill, if I were on the hill , but I’m not.  I’m living, breathing, jumping, running, flying…sailing through this world of immensities, some intimately heartfelt, many otherwise, seemingly forever tangential to love’s torrent outpour of consuming finality.

I am the fool never seen.

a panoply of cloudom awaits
beyond the constraints of gravity and drag
with a trip to a city to visit a friend who’s visiting just the same.
now gazing at the horizon as we corkscrew away from earth
the curvature of space panorams an endless context.
there are no lines, no trips straight here to there
i concentrate concentrically
leaping roundabout in flight
while where without the sun just shines,
just shines.