Month: March 2003

  • M.O.S.E.S.
    (Massive Overlay of Suffusing Endothermic Suppression)


    Saddam had become a seething snake unleashed in the Great City.  From the current raging ground and overground fire, he has now taken a slithering refuge into a massive web of reinforced caverns underground.  Conventional strategizing would pursue the path of bunker-busting bombing and burning to penetrate hundreds of meters of earth and tens of feet of steel.   Fire!  Fire!  All our weapons employ fire.  


    Yet the German designer of those bunkers has claimed some have been built to withstand 20-kiloton nuclear warheads.  And Lt. Col. Resad Fazlic, a retired Yugoslav Army officer who helped build some of the subterranean fortresses, believes they are “almost impossible” to destroy. 


    So is a doomsday application of a pulsating, penetrating hellacious inferno really the solution to Saddam’s debunkering?  Shall we pursue a policy of more and more and more until the mushroom clouds forming over Baghdad are no longer the sort that don’t irradiate?


    On a clear night, look to the sky but fix your eyes not upon the planets or any visible stars.  Darkness is all you’ll see.  Blackness is the distinguishing characteristic of all in the Great un-Be.  But let us not forget, it is not the darkness that kills (or preempts the genesis of life) in the farthest reaches of the cosmos, but … the Cold. 


    Dr. Victor Fries, one of the most brilliant scientists and cryogenic researchers for Gothcorp, was inspired by the story below (by Rumi, 13th century mystic and Persian poet) wherein he (Dr. Fries)  interpreted ‘the snake’ to be Saddam.  Thus inspired, he has envisioned a new weapon system dubbed MOSES that would suck the heat out of the bunkers and render the hardened, buried steel and nuclear-bomb-denying caverns a frozen wasteland…



    Listen to this, and hear the mystery inside:
    A snakecatcher went into the mountains to find a snake.

    He wanted a friendly pet, and one that would amaze
    audiences, but he was looking for a reptile, something
    that has no knowledge of friendship.
    It was winter.
    In the deep snow he saw a frighteningly huge dead snake.
    He was afraid to touch it, but he did.
    In fact he dragged the thing into Baghdad,
    hoping people would pay to see it.

    This is how foolish we've become!
    A human being is a huge mountain range!
    Snakes are fascinated by us !
    Yet we sell ourselves to look at a dead snake.
    We are like beautiful satin used to patch burlap.

    "Come and see the dragon I killed, and hear the adventures!"
    That's what he announced, and a large crowd came,
    but the dragon was not dead just dormant!
    He set up his show at a crossroads.
    The ring of gawking people got thicker, everybody
    on tiptoe, men and women, noble and peasant, all
    packed together unconscious of their differences.
    It was like the Resurrection!

    He began to unwind the thick ropes and remove
    the cloth coverings he'd wrapped it so well in.

    Some little movement.
    The hot Iraqi sun had woken
    the terrible life. The people nearest started screaming.
    Panic! The dragon tore easily and hungrily
    loose, killing many instantly.
    The snake catcher stood there, frozen.
    "What have I brought out of the mountains?"
    The snake braced against a post
    and crushed the man and consumed him.

    The snake is your animal soul. When you bring it
    into the hot air of your wanting-energy, warmed
    by that and by the prospect of power and wealth,
    it does massive damage.
    Leave it in the snow mountains.
    Don't expect to oppose it with quietness
    and sweetness and wishing.
    The nafs don't respond to those,
    and they can't be killed. It takes a Moses to deal
    with such a beast, to lead it back, and make it lie down
    in the snow. But there was no Moses then,
    Hundreds of thousands died.
     
    Rumi Home Page



  • Powered by audblog- can't -

    I was waiting for those
    magic words
    I never heard.


    So I settled for freedom instead.


    I was hoping for the touch
    of you
    healing me anew.


    Untouched, I drifted with the dead.


    I was yearning for a single kiss
    to steal me
    for eternity.


    But 'can't' is all you said.

  • Powered by audblog...hush...

    it’s the hush before the rush
    as you creep on through the blight
    concealed both from Devil and God
    preparing for the fight
    each move that’s made is catlike
    not a twig or branch is broken
    there’s a signal of impending doom
    yet still no word is spoken.


    it’s the rush before the hush
    with the enemy in sight
    and a finger on the killing trigger
    as adrenalin screams
    ‘fight-flight’
    then…
    -release-
    sending
    another soul
    forever into night.

  • Here's a very thorough account of the emergence of blogging as an alternative to mainstream journalism. 


    Yet, I still maintain that blogging will eventually, at pure core, become something more:


    Is blogging a new and emerging literary/graphical/(perhaps even audible) art form?  Should it, will it rank among other genre of recognized expression such as the novel, the essay, the poem, the sketch?  Will the “Art of Blogging”  be a credited English course in tomorrow’s universities (surely, the kiss of death) ?



    I dare to struggle and say: yes.


    Though like a journal in having a timeline that flows like a river carrying fluid thoughts to the sea, the key to this art form (dare I say that?) is its performance: its interactivity.  The best of posts, uncommented, remains the haunting one hand clapping in the forest—which is a rare and ethereal accomplishment: a pure essence of expression, standing by itself, pristine, an incontrovertible entity.  But the highest form of blogging always invites response: the initial post is one hand posed awaiting the second hand, the comment,  which issues the *clap* or sometimes the *smack* or sometimes a chaos of *slaps*, *hugs*, and *gawks*.  So the timeline of expression invites a timeline of response—and thus the blog is woven as a form for all to see.  Hence blogging distinguishes itself as a most genuine form of expression—and is utterly artistic at its height—when it creates community.

  • While the news media appears hostile to blogging conducted by its 'embedded' personnel in the field of combat in Iraq (probably because it rightly senses the outside possibility of blogs usurping and undermining its traditional outlets), the US Army is aware of numerous soldier-bloggers, enables them with its technological resources, and apparently conducts no censoring. 


    Moreover..."The Army is considering incorporating blogging into its secure network where troops communicate with each other and their families. If such a system were put into place, the general public would no longer have access to such blogs."


      --Yahoo News


    Perhaps, besides the Battle for Baghdad, blogging is reaching a critical moment due to the evolution of communication on the battlefield in this, the first full-fledged cyber-assisted war.

  • A Stash of Reflections


    (different colors, different comments)


    I've long been one of those the gods have forgotten.  At first, it seemed horrific to be left out of all the godly equations.  But as time goes on, I believe that those who played with the gods have begun to look at me with envy of my unenhanced humanity.  For 'they' as players have become worn and thus have been discarded like old, broken toys by the gods.  Yet I, like a plaything that has sat unnoticed in a corner for all these years, retain a freshness simply because no one ever 'got me'.


    In  spring, do the crocuses croak?  Or cuss?  Neither.  They merely crisscross the land with irrepressible beauty.


     


    The real warrior takes responsibility for his/her whole world.  Why get suckered into sipping off a proffered silver spoon when you can take the sword of self-responsibility into your own hands?!


     


    Like the dark counterparts of 'sunshine patriots', most of these anti-war protesters are 'dark-cloud dissidents'.  When this war is won and the sun shines again, they will be in little evidence unless you look under their rocks.


     


    Why this war?  It takes two to tango.  And Saddam had been pressing impatiently 12 years for a partner.


     


    Upon a suggestion that George W. and Saddam settle this war face to face in personal showdown, winner-take-all: I'm all for this!  Seeing that it's likely that Saddam now has shrapnel embedded in his abdomen and IV's sticking out of his arms, I think our dear President will have a distinct advantage.


     


    'Here'--where is 'here' really? 

    Reminds me of a time when I was recovering in a hospital ICU and, awakening groggy from anesthesia, I begged the two nurses making smalltalk between themselves nearby to let me go back to my room.  They coyly replied: "Sure, if you can tell us where you are right now."  I was drugged and perplexed.  I wasn't sure....  I looked around and then volunteered: "Well, I'm, I'm...here."  Ha ha--I felt that I had won my freedom with that sharp, crisp pronouncement.  But to my dismay, they continued the interrogation: "And where is 'here' exactly ?"   I couldn't help myself.  I had to tell the truth, the whole truth--the damn sodium pentathol was still a residue in my veins. "Planet Earth," I blurted, in a cathartic rush of honesty.  "That's what we thought," they said as a hush. And resumed chattering between themselves--and ignoring me--for the next half hour.

  • If your only knowledge of current events came from a sampling of random xanga, you’d have a good clue that spring is in the air but no idea whatsoever of the war in Iraq. 


    I randomly sampled 20 sites with blog dates Of March 21st or later.  Not one mention of war.  Here, instead, were the topics discussed:


    speeding ticket
    college
    coping with alcoholism
    volleyball practice
    band pics
    the Oscars
    xanga premium/eprops
    creatively destructive ranting and raving
    prom/relationship
    avoiding dirty old men
    rainy day
    basketball loss
    sunburn and pinkeye
    lacrosse and meds
    warm weather
    snowboarding/atm/pillow fights
    love bf/gf
    a trip to VA for games
    Hi!
    music lyrics


    Meanwhile, even though mentions of ‘warblogs’ dominate the non-blogging news about ‘blogging’ (see my blog 2 items below), and even though ‘warblogging’ seems like a couture item with some blogelites, blogging about the Iraq war seems to be falling off the fast track for now.  Perhaps it’s because the ‘embedded’ news media with their live visionphones have leaped over the blogosphere to make the impact of war more immediately accessible in the context of the established news media than ever before.  Perhaps it’s because the internet so far seems aware of (and thus has made semi-famous) only one Iraqi citizen blogger genuinely sharing his experiences from Iraq.  And even one of the most popular warblogs of this campaign, CNN’s Kevin Sites private blog about his on-the-ground experiences in Iraq, has been squashed by disapproving CNN management. 


    So it seems both in the mainstream (random) and even at the cutting edge of technological presentation, warblogs are losing the war of media preemption. 


    Well, it doesn’t matter, dammit.  Bloggers have better things to do!

  • I ran in the cemetery at lunch today.  And I tried to audioblog my run.  My slant was to be: I have often blogged about running in the cemetery, and I have often blogged wireless from the cemetery right after a run, but finally the ultimate: blogging while running via a phone-initiated audioblog.  I tried.  But I couldn’t run and dial the numbers and codes on my cellphone with any precision.  So I said: fuck it.  And just ran instead.


    And I just ran again tonight.  But harder.  Much harder than a run that results from the previous manner of just saying ‘fuck it’. 

    Earlier this evening, I had a proposition planted in my mind and thought by hard running to burn it clear of any clinging detritus.  What proposition?  Hardly believable.  First a blind kiss from behind on my cheek.  Followed by my surprised “Hey, What do you have in mind?”, answered by my acquaintance’s “I’ll do anything you want to do.”  Which led to small talk at a table.  But not small for long as she revealed to me: “I found my lover with another woman yesterday.”  Of course,  I queried her long enough to discover that she had stopped over ‘his place’ unexpectedly last night and discovered the ‘two of them together’.  But most damningly, when she walked in, he was only in his underwear.  End of affair.


    In response to her opening up like this, I was in the midst of offering what comfort I could from a man’s perspective, most naturally, when she grabbed my bicep firmly and said: “I want you to be my rebound.  Make love to you and forget about him. You'll be my rebound.”  


    I did not blush.  I did not cringe.  I knew I had her, if I wanted her, and stared deep into her eyes.  And looking at her, I thought: “What man about wouldn’t want this needy, 22 year-old, highly intelligent, flowering blond fox?”  Yet, in response to my self-posed question, one word came as an answer: Freedom.  She didn’t really need me.  She needed a release, a gate to find her own freedom.  Not a one-night stand.  Not a relationship-stand-in.  But some time, distance, and healing to put what WAS before last night behind her.   And though infused with a moment of mutual desire, I felt this-her real need.  And saw her genuine fulfillment transcending any immediate passionate involvement with me.  So, to put it delicately, I ‘let her off the hook’ that she had snagged herself on.  Damn me.  And tossed her back into a gentler ocean of, hopefully, healing emotion.  Even as she declared that she was going consequently to "forget it all' while partying with a girlfriend later tonight.


    And I ended up, instead, an hour later running.  Running with that very same spirit of freedom, I believe, she was seeking.  Thus running, perhaps, tandem by spiritual synchronicity, yet nevertheless alone.  Thus always alone.  And always running.

  • One way to keep a finger on the evolving pulse of blogging is to check the occurrence of such terms as ‘blog’, ‘weblog’, and ‘blogger’ in the news regularly.  Google News, which is a “news service compiled solely by computer algorithms without human intervention” is perfect for this in that it offers both a ‘sort by date’ and ‘sort by relevance’ presentation of inclusions from over 4,500 news sources worldwide.


     


    Of course, such a perspective represents just what established news sources are thinking and saying about  blogging at a given time, and not necessarily what bloggers mostly might actually be thinking and saying and doing themselves.  Thus, perusing news reports of late  about blogging, one could easily come away with the impression, if one had no previous conception, that blogs are all about war—that there are warblogs and anti-warblogs, with hardly any more varieties of flavor whatever. 

    Of course, the news media is deeply preoccupied, even ‘embedded’ in the current war effort, so it is no surprise to find it steering interpretations of all forms of emerging culture into a single reinforcing war spectacle.  This doesn’t mean that the news’ representations are abjectly ‘wrong’—there are, indeed, subsets of blogs which could primarily be considered ‘warblogs’ and their dissident counterparts.   But it does remind us that the temptation always exists, and the occasion sometimes occurs, for the news media to synergistically slant reports to coincide with its own generative interests and fascinations.


     


    You and I, of course, know that such a characterization of blogging is woefully inadequate.  In fact, I suggest, on the contrary, that the real strength and significance of blogs today, given the established media’s current passion with primatizing the spectacle of war, is to balance the ‘dark news’ of the battlefield with a rich portrayal of life in every form aside from that battlefield also.  Not that the preponderance of blogs will necessarily embrace just the ‘light side’ of things or wholly ignore the impact of war. Nor should they.  But that blogs generally, undriven by the need to hype a spectacle for purposes of securing a revenue stream, can now balance this driven media frenzy with individual, day-to-day, wide-ranging published portrayals of how precisely ‘Life goes on within you and without you.’  


     


    So it is Spring.  And I am contributing to no war effort by writing this.  But neither am I detracting from one.  I’m merely gazing out my back window at my brown garden, waiting for the flowers to bloom so that I can more fully appreciate the miracle of rebirth.  I’m also gazing up at the sky and wondering if there’s an asteroid out there on an impact course with earth that will someday make today’s ‘Shock and Awe’ seem comparatively ludicrous.  Never forget: the Earth is a spaceship upon a cosmic odyssey.  And we are collectively its –nauts and nuts, astro-nomically considered—and otherwise.


  • A friend becomes a photo-victim while I demonstrate wireless blogging from a coffee shop.

  • These are the thoughts I can never write—or, if written, never share. How could I ever admit that I’m crazed beyond control just by the imminence of feminine energy? No, not just sight—though women always make the scene, for the spectacle of femininity has no compare. Nor just touch, nor soothing voice, nor enchanting fragrance. Though just light accidental brushing against women can thrill me with chills, and a woman’s unexpected whisper too near to my ear can claim my mind, and a girl’s blossomed fragrance ever compels me to fantasize myself as Pacino playing the blind Lt. Colonel in Scent of a Woman. Of taste? Don’t get me started—I can’t dare talk about that. Yet not one of these alone, or even the compilation of all, ever approaches—or even constitutes—the mysterious allure that female energy has for me, in and of itself.

    I’ve been on battlefields with spectacular histrionics, in fights of gallant kinetic involvement, awash in the ocean surf’s captivating and rippling rhythmics, at times soothingly intellectually massaged to my mind’s core. Immersed, engrossed, wrapped up, and absorbed in drugs, extreme sports, dark missions, far odysseys. No match. There’s no match throughout the abundance of all…to one moment of exposure to the vibrancy of a woman.


    So what comprises the source of this captivation? This magnetism which can be even empirically meager? This essence disembodied yet pulsing from the incarnate? So am I driven and ensconced in endless reflection…but reflection, like Narcissus, merely shows me myself. What Echo is there that I now long to hear, the actualization of which was clearly once near…but dispelled and now latent in reverberation’s valleys?


    Ah! Valley Girls, I ruse in response to myself. Probably as close with this answer as with anything else.

  • When shall IT begin?  (No, not the unsuspected comet strike streaking from behind the Sun towards Earth, but the major foray of attack upon Iraq, or, from your vantage point, U-Reek)?"


    The General (1-Star) in me says: Thursday at High Noon - or shortly thereafter (the beginning of U-reek-ian tomorrow night...or thereabouts).


    How many shall die?


    Are you talking about how many people die in the world every day, day-in, day-out?  Ha! Any human-induced activity can make only a small blip in the expirations arising from such sex-driven-ness.  Or do you mean: How many American soldiers will die in the above referenced cataclysm (no, not the comet, but the occasion when 'you totally reek')?


    The General (2-star) in me says: 217.  But more than half of those will be by 'friendly fire'.  Meaning either you or your buddy, half the time, is a fuck-up.  Hey, someday war will become obsolete when the only victims are those from 'friendly fire'.


    How long will it last? 


    Longer than the longest orgasm, but...


    The General (3-Star) in me says: 3 days and Saddam is sowing daisies, or sucking on a daisy-cutter, or choking on peanut butter.  Then 2 weeks to scrub out the Republican Guards. Bush&The Republican Party vs. the Republican Guards, ha! :: Oh my god, it's self-annihilation, it's terminological reclamation. it's Publican Re-incarnation.


    The General (4-star) in me says: Riddance, good to middling.

  • So let’s say your Saddam and you’ve been told to leave Dodge by first light (Baghdad time) or else…


    How would you spend your last night before the Showdown and Shootout at the Baghdad Corral?


    1) In a local saloon drinking hard liquor, making the girls happy, and playing hands of poker.

    2) The same as above but with ‘additional’ aces up my sleeve.

    3) Watching CNN News to catch the very latest developments with the faint hope that North Korea goes ballistic first.

    4) Making calls to France, Germany, and Russia to thank them for their futile efforts but to inform them that the ‘secret deals’ will no longer be honored.

    5) In an underground firing range pumping George Bush targets full of explosive rounds.

    6) Playing with a Ouija board and asking Micky Mouse for guidance and, hopefully, victory passes to DisneyWorld.

    7) Hanging out with Bin Laden since they haven’t found him yet, so his pad is probably safe.

    8) Running around a cemetery since any angel of death seeing me would mistake me for nfp and thus pass me over.

    9) Riding around Baghdad at 120-140 mph in a Spyder sports car—always wanted to do that and this might be the last chance.

    10) At a masquerade ball dressed up as a battered Cinderella while everyone else is required to pose either as Saddam the Great or Bin (Laden) the Beautiful!


    Or…_________________________________________________.


    Any better suggestions will be sent along to Mr. SoDamn Insane, but hurry—time's running out.

  • LiveJournal is publishing its own statistics.  The two most interesting: 1) of 932,081 users, 425,901  (46%) are considered ‘active’ (meaning the other blogs are defunct); 2) of their bloggers who ‘declare’ gender, 63.4% are female and 36.6% are male.


    The latter breakdown on gender (slightly less than 2:1 female) is precisely the breakdown I’ve noticed on Xanga over the last couple years.  That reminds me of the refrain from Surf City (Brian Wilson and Jan Berry):


    And we're goin' to Surf City, 'cause it's two to one
    You know we're goin' to Surf City, gonna have some fun
    You know we're goin' to Surf City, 'cause it's two to one
    You know we're goin' to Surf City, gonna have some fun, now
    Two girls for every boy



    Oh, by the way, as a ‘paid member’’ to LiveJournal, I have a few free LiveJournal accounts available for ‘friends’ (you see, if you don’t pay, it’s free but by invitation from ‘paid members’ only) and I’m hereby inviting first-comers (since I have too few friends until I run out (of friends? no, I mean ‘accounts’).  But you can only have one (if I have any left—friends? no, I mean ‘accounts’!!) if you don’t quit Xanga dammit!

  • This blog is now on Baghdad time.  It saw a soon-to-be vacant niche and seized it (since Saddam is now on borrowed time).


    With all the internet's instantly-updated newsfeeds, here's a novel idea: scan the daily front pages of 201 newspapers from around the world and make them web-viewable.  The Newseum is the place.


    There is no greater disaster in the spiritual life than to be immersed in unreality, for life is maintained and nourished by our vital relation with realities outside and above us.  When our life feeds on unreality, it must starve.  It must therefore die.


      - Thomas Merton

  • On the verge of war, I now feel personally so fortunate in having forsaken a promising military career some years ago. Given my training and the unit I was with, the chances would be better than excellent that I’d now be a senior NCO in the midst of desert action had I remained …and survived until today.





    …”the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air”



    I’ve never liked that verse (up there). I abhor morbidity and consider the tools of destruction antithetical and uncelebrative, although sometimes necessary. I’d lump the glorification of “the rockets' red glare” along with “ring around a rosie, a pocket full of poseys” (a ‘rosie’ being smallpox) and “rockabye baby…when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby…” (ouch).



    And then there’s MOAB—(massive ordinance airburst bomb)—which has been grotesquely feminized as the ‘Mother of all bombs’. Wasn’t it Saddam who was doing the dehumanizing ‘mother of’ thing (‘mother of all wars’, ‘mother of all battles’, etc.) just a while back? Must we become akin in rhetoric to him?



    And yet…Kali is the dark goddess of cosmic dissolution and total destruction. Look into her wild eyes, taste her protruding tongue, feel the point of her bloody sword, pray that your skull doesn’t become another ornament on her belt of severed heads. Learn the lesson of Kali, for soon she takes to the battlefield once again:





    In Hindu mythology, the gods could not kill the demon Raktabija. Every drop of his blood that touched the ground transformed itself into another demon. Within a few minutes of attacking this asura with their weapons, the gods would find the entire battlefield covered with millions of demon clones.

    In despair, the gods turned to Shiva. But Shiva was lost in meditation, so they turned to his consort Parvati. The goddess immediately set out to do battle with this dreaded demon in the form of Kali.

    She rode into the battleground on her lion, and Raktabija experienced fear for the first time in his demonic heart. Kali ordered the gods to attack Raktabija. Kali then spread her tongue to cover the battlefield preventing even a single drop of Raktabija's blood from falling on the group. Thus preventing Raktabija from reproducing himself.

    Drunk on Raktabija's blood, Kali ran across the cosmos killing anyone who dared cross her path. She adorned herself with the heads, limbs and entrails of her victims. To pacify her, Shiva threw himself under her feet. This stopped the goddess. She calmed down, embraced her husband, and shed her ferocious form.



    -the story of Kali

    …Ground Control to Shiva, Ground Control to Shiva. Shiva, are you there? Over.



    This is Shiva to Ground Control
    I'm stepping through the door
    And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
    And the stars look very different today



    For here
    Am I sitting in a tin can
    Far above the world
    Planet Earth is blue
    And there's nothing I can do



    Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
    I'm feeling very still
    And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
    Tell my wife I love her very much she knows…

  • Powered by audblogfor gone


    so my energy succumbs (they judge)
    and I’m cast as the lowest of the low.
    most won’t care enough to notice. 
    few, of even the brightest, will ever truly know
    the story whole.


    yet I’ll continue to expound
    in my roundabout way.
    no labor of love is lost
    that works for a better day.


    no labor, no love
    is lost…
    forever
    is lost…
    i’m lost
    for gone.

  • Soaking in swirling waters in the tub this morning I found myself accompanied and cuddled by an indulging unreality.  One that flashed maya down my spine and  offered samsara as a tit to suck.  It knew my weaknesses so finely, too finely, this notion of consummate romance.  Who was she?  It doesn’t matter.  I had captured her essential beauty eidectically in my inner eye, and i…oh shit, this isn’t what I wanted to write about.   Let me try again:


    It’s Springtime across America.  Irrepressibly so.  I took my “Death to Winter’ run in the cemetery yesterday making it official.  Henceforth, any snow storms shall be considered “freak spring snow’.


    And since it’s Spring, I’d like to share my favorite springtime poem, by e.e.cummings, with you all:


    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


    And if even the mountains are dancing, shouldn’t we too?

  • Now AOL is about to do it.  And CNN is talking about it.  But whenever I search, as I do daily, 'Google News' for 'Xanga', I get no (slash) hits.  Yet Blogging is Going Mainstream.






  • This is Damn Cool~!

    And here's the rest of the ever-changing gallery

  • Take my word for it, this guy nfp, he’s out to lunch.  Rumor is, he’s under psychiatric care.  Seems he once was a pretty respectable scientist and statistician before this thing you got here—whaddya call it, blogging?—made him stupid.  Yeah, it changed his whole personality.  He disappeared from the Academy and turned up here.  It took a while to track him down.  Now every other word is ‘blogging’ or ‘propping’ or some such nonsense.  He seems as brainwashed as this Elizabeth Smart girl.  Hell, he’s even talking in verses like her.  But he’s probably in good care now and they’ll likely resurrect him soon.  Reinvest him with his old outlook, hard science, and No Fucking Poetry.  Meanwhile, before they pull the plug on this blog-thing, here’s a sample of the real nfp’s previous prowess:



    "Sediment Mixing by Lampsilis radiata siliquoidea (Mollusca) from Western Lake Erie," with P.L. McCall and M.S. Tevesz. Journal of Great Lakes Research, V.5, pp. 105-111 (1979).

    "Identification of Monosaccharides in Hydrolyzed Nautilus Shell Insoluble Matrix by Gas Chromotography/Mass Spectrometry," with M.S. Tevesz, B.A. Smith, D.G. Hehemann, R.W. Binkley, and J.G. Carter. The Veliger. V. 35, pp 381-183 (1992).

    "Identification of Monosaccharides in Hydrolyzed Bivalve Shell Insoluble Matrix," with R.W. Binkley, M.S. Tevesz, T.E. Hionidou, P.L. McCall, and J.G. Carter. The Veliger. V. 37, pp 410-413 (1994)

    "Organic Matrix Composition of Modern and 8.7K BP Mya truncata (Mollusca: Bivalvia) from Arctic Canada," with M.J. Risk, M.S. Tevesz, and C.D. Karr. Kirtlandia, No. 49, pp. 15-20 (1996).

    "Seasonal Variation in Oxygen Isotopic Composition of Two Freshwater Bivalves: Sphaerium striatinum and Anodonta grandis," with M.S. Tevesz and E. Barrera. Journal of Great Lakes Research, 22(4):906-916. (1996).

  • *snoops around and checks in on nfp*


    *is amazed that he's still blogging after several years*


    *contemplates leaving a comment...naw...*


    *decides to play with the drawing-thingie instead*


    yes, the audios (audblog) and visuals (groupboard, nfpcam) attendant to this blog are demeaning the written blog word.


    nfp is a goddam blogging heretic.  he is destroying the innocence of the blogosphere.


    screw him. 


    *nfp also needs to change his xanga password*

  • I'm feeling strangely mellow.  As if I've been drugged.  Or shot by one of Cupid's arrows.  But that can in no way be.  I move too quick.  I duck too fast for such arrows to ever scathe me. 


    We live in a sibling society where the prototypical puer aeternus trysts with the typically proto puella aeterna in cam-recorded gardens of unprivate delights.  What a sight.  See her slither in passionate expectation.  See him quiver under erotic usurpations.  If only they'd run away together into the night...


    I'd like to speak with clarity and confidence.  But then you'd understand.  You'd understand that I never really had a license to carry that gun.  You know, the one I put to your head with a bullet called 'obsession' in the chamber.  And I squeezed, gently squeezed until non-desire was dead.  And then, remember, I chambered a hollow-point round of 'sensation' for myself and incredibly blew away my own heart.  O happiness...how happiness was.


    I could run away from that trouble on the horizon-that rumbling arising from yonder, that dust being stirred up afar.  I could, but I won't.  Instead, trouble will find me its double.  It will see me and be sick.  Its sense of doom, its premonition that the end is near will find fruition in me.  Cause I sting like a butterfly!   hahahaha

  • The most poignant story of the week comes from Japan where women who are trapped in unhappy marriages are secretly arranging to be buried apart from their husbands, saving money from housekeeping for a separate burial plot which can cost up to £16,000.

    Haruyo Inoue, a writer who coined the term "post-mortem divorce", says: "The wives feel that they have no choice but to stay with the husband while they are alive, but in the next world they would like to get their freedom back."

    —Allison Pearson, "Till death us do part," The Evening Standard (London), February 26, 2003


    Unhappy wives?  These wives are acting just like France, Germany, and Russia vis-a-vis Saddam Hussein: wait until he naturally disintegrates (is he biodegradable ?-I thought he was a biohazard ) and then be free of the menace.


    And what disposes these wives to believing that being buried together dooms one to togetherness in the otherworld?  Die like Romeo and Juliet or Bonnie and Clyde and then maybe there is linkage.


    These wives remind me of orangutans whose most grotesque known act of violence is breaking off small twigs overhead while huddled in the trees and gently dropping them upon those invading their territory who are perceived as a threat.


    Post-mortem planning is pure fantasy.  Let go of it.  Seek a true alternative.


    I just love a quote that I encountered on shang2ti's site yesterday:


    Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.

         Helen Keller


    Superstitions are fantasies: release.


    Making one's life a daring adventure is the greatest quest of our times.

  • Powered by audblogrecovering vision (audible)

    To be brilliant once again...
    All you've got to do is let go of everything that's a fantasy.
    Everything that's serving as a fantasy to you.


    And here is a silent prayer:


    As it's spoken, so shall it be.

  • Yesterday’s post and pic (Panama, 2003) were inspired by Rosemary’s Friday post and a casual remark she later made to me about ‘the girl’ she saw ‘with me’ on my live cam as I was leaving for work on Friday morning.  Well, there was no ‘girl’ out in the driveway with me, at least, none that the living would normally catch sight of.  But I think, perhaps, that Rosemary was attuned that day to ‘the other side’ and what she saw may well be ‘an accompaniment’ that I’ve felt with some intensity for the last five months, principally during my wintry jaunts in Lakeview Cemetery…


    Powered by audblogan accompaniment (audible)


    When I run I know she runs with me
    For then I’m in her land:
    a garden of stones and memories
    that most living see as a cemetery
    yet for her seems like the sun and sand.


    When I breathe she hears: the sound of the sea
    The rush of that air is a rush
    that sweeps her up into tandem bliss
    with new promise of thrill for all she missed
    now silenced by the Hush.


    When I pound earth, she feels: ‘thump, thump’  ‘thump, thump’
    As if my feet were the valves of my heart.
    She thinks I’m running the ocean shore
    And each step is a chance to live once more
    Before the dark Depart.


    But ‘the others’ know that I also run in ‘their land’
    And I see things the living ignore:
    the looseness of doom,
    the lostness of gloom, and
    a shiver of hope on a shadowy shore.


  • I wonder if 'She' runs with me?

  • Techno-Tittilations or Things I Do While My Muse is Away


    I’ve spent a little time lately updating yet another website, www.pianofest.org.  This site is austerely functional (meaning: graphically unadorned) per request of Pianofest’s director, Paul Schenly, who’s a drinking buddy of mine.  Ah, culture!  When will it ever rub off on me?


    I got a G3 or 3G—whatever—type cell vision-type phone just recently.  Using it’s built-in web browser still sucks since the input is still by phone keys and not keyboard and that entails arduous repetitions (hitting ‘7’ four times, for instance just to type a single ‘s’).  So I don’t use that browser at all.  The big advantage to me is using the phone as a modem to my laptop.  Finally, I’m able to connect mobilely and remote at speeds of 120 kbps or better (like an ISDN line or double the speed of a typical phone line connection at home).  And with my phone provider, Sprint, the time I spend thusly ‘online’ is considered ‘unlimited minutes’ and, hence, not charged to me beyond the basic rate.  So, essentially, it’s cellular service with free-and-fast-ISP included.  The catch: Sprint is no longer selling the laptop cables and software for laptop-dialing.  In fact, they’ve recalled the unsold connection kits from RadioShack.  Seems that people who have these kits are going hog-wild with uncharged bandwidth usage that Sprint failed to foresee and finds hard to live with.  *shrugs*   Not me, of course!



    I found a free Windows 2000/XP time-saving front-end shell for Internet Explorer: iTrix


    is an Internet Explorer-based web browser that can manage up to 64 web browsers in a grid with basic browser functionality. iTrix features a Navigational Grid with thumbnails for easily locating browsers within the primary grid and an Address Manager for keeping up with your favorites which includes a address queue for controlled browser launchings.


    What the above blurb means for me with regards to blogging is that I can easily create multiple ‘groups’ of my SIR which I can send as a group to a queue to load into my browser, say one address every 10 seconds (configurable).  If the group contains a list of sixty blogs, it will take 6 minutes for all sites to load. (time to make coffee).  After (or even as) the sites load, they are accessible in both the full-browser sized grid and as informative thumbnails.


    Essentially, it can act as a staggered staging of the Sites You Read (my SIR is your SYR!) with just one click access. 


    This is most useful  and timesaving for visiting the same sites day after day after day. 


    If you’re really organized, you could even create a ‘daily’ group, an ‘every-other day’ group, a ‘weekly’ group, a ‘they haven’t posted forever but check-up on them group’, etc.


    And, yes, silly rabbit, iTrix is for iKids.

  • A little while back, Darling32 asked me if I'd be interested in assisting a friend of hers setup a Quilt site.  The result is Kim Gillilan's Sugar Pine Designs.


    There's an especially cool Zoom-n-Pan applet embedded on the Home page and associated with the center quilt graphic "It's A Party".  If you click on "It's A Party", the applet will launch (it's loading a large graphic, a little slow, but well worth it).  Once the quilt appears, you can right click to zoom in, left click to zoom out, and use the mouse to pan.  The amazing thing is that if you zoom in close enough, you can actually see the textures of the fabrics and the actual stitching of the artist!


    Kim sells her original Patterns and also is available for Gallery commissions.  If interested, use the Contacts page to get in touch with her.

  • Xanga versus Blogger, a brief update


    As I mentioned a week or so ago, I’ve begun a statistical comparison of various characteristics of Xanga and Blogger blogs.  I have been collecting data from recent random Xanga and Blogger blogs posted over various times of the day.  Although I intend to expand my sampling to larger samples soon, I have now collected large enough samples of each category of blog to make some valid statistical comparisons.


    One huge consideration and difference, which I mentioned before, is the significant infusion of foreign language blogs into Blogger.  While in my sampling, I encountered no (0%) foreign language blogs in Xanga (yes, some exist, but very few), 20% of all blogs posted to Blogger are non-English.  These blogs were not included in the results below, so I’m in fact only comparing Xanga and Blogger English-language blogs.


    My initial findings:


    1. There are some undiffering similarities.
    2. There are also some real differences.
    3. Interpreting the differences is very tricky.


    Given 30 random samples of each blog, averages for various measures: 





























     


    # of words


    characters per word


    passive voice, % of sentences


    Flesch Reading Ease


    Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level


    # of graphics


    Xanga


    161.3


    3.9


    0.7


    73.7


    5.7


    0.20


    Blogger


    190.0


    4.6


    2.8


    60.4


    7.3


    0.23


     1. Similarities:  Comparing the above means by One-Way Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) resulted in a determination of no significant statistical differences between Xanga and Blogger with regards to a) the number of words in the typical blog [p=.65], b) the percentage of passive voice sentences in the typical blog [p=.17], or c) the number of graphics employed in a typical blog [p=.87].

    2. Differences: Comparing the above means by One-Way Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) resulted in a determination of significant statistical differences between Xanga and Blogger with regards to a) the number of characters per word (word length) in the typical blog [p=.00], b) the reading ease of the typical blog (Flesch—lower score signifies harder to understand) [p=.01], and c) the grade level presentation of the typical blog (Flesch-Kincaid, lower score is lesser) [p=.05].

    3. What do the differences mean?  On the surface it would appear that Xangans, on the average, write blogs that use shorter words, are easier to read, and are  targeted for a lower grade level!   Blogger blogs appear to be, on the average, more verbose, harder to read, and targeted for a higher grade level. 


    That does it.  I’m out of here!  But the truth in blogging may be that ‘harder’ is not always good (thinking is sometimes bad) and ‘higher grade’ is not always a blessing (the greatest truths may be most elementarily stated).   For instance, the following ‘sample blog’ (contrived by me) would register a reading ease of 99.3 (very easy) but a grade level of only 0.5:


    Honor thy father and thy mother. 
    Thou shall not kill.
    Thou shall not steal.


    On the other hand the next ‘sample blog’ below, by contrast, would register a reading ease of 44.5 (rather difficult)  and a grade level of 8.9 (above that of standard text):


    Respect your parents in all matters appropriately parental.
    You are not permitted to engage in homicide.
    You are prohibited from engaging in theft.


    The best guidelines I’ve found for employing such statistics as Reading Ease and Grade Level are here.


    Up next: comparing Xanga ‘Featured Content’ with Xanga ‘random’ blogs and/or comparing Xanga ‘Featured Content’ with Blogger ‘Blogs of Note’.


    Also, down the road,  after I’ve collected much larger samples, I intend to perform a content analysis of the blogs and draw comparisons between Xanga and Blogger.  Do Xangans talk more about sex?  Do Bloggers blog more about politics?  One key area where a difference may lie is in the ‘community content’ between these two blogs: if Xanga is indeed a more cohesive community than Blogger, you’d expect to find more Xanga blogs mentioning or referencing each other and more Xanga blogs mentioning or referencing Xanga itself than Blogger blogs doing likewise.

  • I’m not sure if yesterday would have been the right day for the right people to screw with me, but it was sure the wrong day for the wrong people to mess with me.  I finished some work yesterday and was feeling erotically aroused. No, the work wasn’t the reason.  It may have been due to something someone said to me the previous evening or, perhaps, even due to the residual effects of that ‘extra cup’ of coffee that sent me ‘climbing up the wall’ the day before.  In any case, when a man finds himself alone and yet erotically aroused, it’s time to take action.  So naturally, I headed for the cemetery to run for 40 minutes in a full-blown blizzard.  Nothing like a cold run to transform wanton eroticism into a focus of warrior readiness.  I would have run longer, but the cemetery was closing, and seeing that Faerie Death was no where in sight, I had no rational for spending the night (or eternity) wandering about the sacred grounds.  So with my warrior propensities reawakened, I set out through the gates, back into the world, and decided that a beer or two would assist in keeping me ‘loose’.


    The first beer wasn’t disappointing.  But I literally ran into a 'wall' when I had to use the restroom in this first locale—a 'wall' of hand towels that some guy, all alone and standing at a wash basin, was ripping up, forming into balls, and tossing onto the floor right inside of the door.  My immediate instincts screamed 'psycho in the vicinity'  and my instincts were right: The guy was a weirdo getting totally anal about hand towels.  His mannerisms were nervous and twitching—but not abandonedly drunk.  And he had apparently defined the restroom as his ‘private space’—which I had just violated.  But seeing that I had stumbled upon this scene with a vital need to use the facilities, I didn’t avoid the situation but sought clarification instead by challenging him directly. 


    “What the hell is going on here?”, I asked. 


    The weirdo pretended to ignore me, but I noticed  his facial expression immediately contorting into a contemptuous smirk.   I sidestepped the burgeoning paper pile, walked over to the urinal and started to whiz, keeping my eye on him all the time.  


    “Hey man, what’s up with all of this?”,  I again confronted him, “You know, what you got going on here is pretty strange.” 


    I was hoping he’d offer some—any— verbal reply so that I could assess better just how whacked out he just happened to be. 


    And reply he did: “I didn’t come here to answer 20 fucking questions.” 


    Hrmm…had others already asked him 18 previous questions?  Was he now at a breaking point?  And if so, was if flight or fight?


     “That may be.” I continued, “but that mess on the floor over there has just put me into a state of high alert.  You know, it’s indicative that something funny’s going on here.” 


    He headed for the door—flight!  But as he exited he shot back, “I don’t have to explain anything to you, dickhead.”  Ah, an inkling of fight.


    To which I responded: “Just keep walking, dumbfuck.”


    That wasn’t the end of it.  He was waiting just outside the restroom, but I had a feeling he might be lurking about, spotted him immediately, and brushed past him quickly, yet in full readiness to physically respond if necessary.  There was no incident just then, but I could sense he was tense: he didn’t want to let go of ‘his’ restroom and he was still perceiving me as a ‘threat’.  So back at the bar with my beer, instead of just sitting down, I turned around at a distance of about 20 feet to observe his next move…


    He was clearly agitated, coming undone, and staring at me.  He then bellowed out: “I’m ready.  You want to take me on, I’m ready.”


    I laughed at him making sure he’d see my grin.  I was ready, too.  Though there was no need to so inform him.  “You want to step out, let’s step out,” is all I said.


    He backed away.  I informed management about ‘the maniac’.  They escorted him out and, no, he wasn’t waiting for me when I left 5 minutes later.


    Scene Two.  I sought out a calmer locale to have a second beer.  Then I’d go home and write about the first ‘scene’.  I was figuring that just enjoying another beer in a calm setting would put me back at ease and restore the proper perspective by which to digest and analyze the earlier commotion.  So I walked into a ‘neighborhood type bar” ( the first, was actually, a club) and managed to enjoy the first half of a beer before Weirdo II, the Sequel sat down on a bar stool next to me.


    I hadn’t even looked at him yet, or given this guy any indication whatsoever that I was cognizant of his existence, when out of nowhere he starts saying ‘intimate’ things.  I was trying to ignore him, but he wouldn’t let me: the bastard propositioned me and then touched me. 


    I moved quickly, rising from my barstool and turning to face him as I brushed his hand away: “Hey dude, you don’t know me, I don’t share your sexual proclivity (yes, I manage to use big words even on the edge of battle), and I don’t play in your sandbox.  Understand?  I don’t play in your sandbox. ”  I paused purposely, then added: “And you’d better not touch me again. ”  Then I sat back down to finish my beer and mind my own business.


    He tried to say more—to talk dirty—but I ignored it.  I was triggered on one thought: Don’t touch me again. 


    But he did.  He acted like he was leaving, but after getting up, he started to put his arm around me and tried to whisper something.  BAM.  Just one motion and I was back on my feet and he was flying uncontrollably across the room and banging into a table.  He was visibly shocked and shaken as I screamed: “I told you not to fuck with me, asshole.”  This was anything but a gay bar, so I explained to the management, that was quick to intercede, just precisely what had transpired.  He, too, was escorted out the door—more for his protection than my peace of mind, I’m sure.


    I sat back down.  It took about 10 seconds to calm myself and put this latest ‘scene’ out of mind.  And, of course, I finished the beer.


    I wonder...Was there a full moon yesterday?  Or were these matters of misdirected Mardi Gras energy gone bad?

  •   nfp's first phoneblog


      or even a 6:10 pm update on my whereabouts


    Yep, phoneblogging is here (link above).  Well, not part of Xanga yet, but in the blogosphere.  A startup called audblog is working with a number of established blogs, Blogger first, then Radio, MovableType, and LiveJournal...) to enable audioblogging from anywhere via a phone call.  Here's some info from their FAQ:


    What is it?

    audblog enables audio posting to your current blog site with any phone at any time from any where. Its easy and fun.

    How does it work?

    Actually, it is simpler than publishing a text post. You call the number, record a post, then your blog is updated with an audblog icon and a link to your recorded audio. Super simple.

    How much is it?

    audblog is offering a FREE trial to experience the ease of audio posting, ie. Audio blogging. The trial allows you to create one FREE post. Then for an initial low subscription rate of $3 a month you can create 12, two minute audio posts. Additional posts may be purchased at any time in blocks of 12 for 3 dollars. You will have 12 posts available every month.


    Will aud(io)blog(ing) ever be a part of Xanga? 


    I don't know.  It appears that the audblog service needs to integrate one's blog credentials with the audblog, meaning that Audblog, Inc. would have to coordinate with Xanga, Inc. to make it happen.  Will that  happen?  Hey, I'm still waiting for the Xanga store to open!


    Meanwhile, I might try audblog out on my Blogger site for a while and copy the link here as I did above, if for no other reason, than to 'capture a moment'.

  • Have you ever wondered what 'contellation' alien beings who can see the Sun view us in?  Perhaps the Sun is the 'Clit-star' in the constellation of 'Pussy' in an oversexed-solar system of tri-gender freaks!

    Double-damn: Their astrology is pornographic!!  And alien kids aren't allowed to cast eyes to the night sky until the age of 18.  But they all do so at tenderer ages anyway... fucking alien youthful rebels that they are!

  • Face it, the internet or the Internet (it doesn't matter which) is doomed because it isn't alien-friendly .  Do you really think that our binary architecture is compatible with alien sub-base two transcodes??  Fuck no!  DARPA (the developers of the internet, sorry Al Gore, you were still too busy jacking off at the time) is now too busy attempting to spearhead eTextiles for the military to render our internet cosmo-netic compatible.  As Gomer Pyle used to say: "Shame, shame."  Shame indeed!  Meanwhile the IE vs. Mozilla debate is like asking whether you'd prefer to be shot square in the head with a .38 slug or a .45 .  Uh-huh...duh...why not both?? !!


    aside to Namaste:


    Oh, yes, and like my last comments to you, this prior comment is about to become my newest post !


    Perhaps, henceforth, my posts will only consist of comments (of mine) left first as a scoop on your site!  mwuahaaha!  I'm feeling like Dr. Evil  

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