Month: December 2004

  • Last words of the old year: Be yourself the arsonist of all aging decadence now encountered.  And rise from the char and ashes in the new year with a phoenix’s fresh wings!


     


    What’s up, Earth?


     


    It’s well-observed that rotation of the Earth is slowing (days are getting longer by leap seconds at the average rate of 2 ms per day, or .7 seconds per year).  


     


    Tidal braking, core fluctuations, even atmospheric anomalies (and scientists aren’t even really sure what else) slows the Earth’s rotation constantly


     


    And it has been speculated that Earth’s rotation will continue to slow until, just as one face of the Moon now always faces the Earth, one face of the Earth will someday always face the Moon, too.  Then, apparently unmoving vis-à-vis one another, the Earth and Moon will have a rotation-locked stare-off for forever more.  Now that’s true cosmic love for you.


     


    But in the meantime…since 1972, 21 leap seconds have been added.  21 in the first 27 years, but NONE for the last 6 years.  The love affair since 1999 seems to have lost its fulgent fire.  In the chart below, the red line indicates actual slowing while the blue line shows the reactive deduction of leap seconds mankind has made to ‘stabilize’ timekeeping.


     



     


    Notice that 1999 seems to be an inflection point and since then the slope of decrease has diminished distinctly.  Meaning that the Earth hasn’t slowed down since 1999 as quickly as it had for at least the previous 27 years (though 1986-90 showed a small anomaly).


     


    It’s speculated that the Fuck-It Tsunami slowed down the Earth’s rotation measurably.  How much won’t be known for several weeks until precise measurements are made.


     


    Was the Fuck-It Tsunami (Phuket actually) a correction?  Are more such corrections in store?  


     


    Either the previous (pre-1999) rate of slowing was ‘too fast’  or the current rate is ‘too slow’ and some significant forces/events need to kick in to speed up the rate of slowing once more.


     


    Fuck-It.


  •  


    i'm in a outlandish mood:
    waiting for Fate to strike (strike-back) at any time.
    what's that you say?
    it just hit me upside the head from behind?



  • Wildlife partisans in Sri Lanka expressed their surprise in seeing no manifest of large-scale mortality among animals, indicating they had safely made it to higher ground.


    "Maybe what we think is true, that animals have a sixth sense," said Gehan de Silva Wijeyeratne, who runs a hotel in the Yala National Park.


    Maybe it's time to rehone our Gaiac instincts and intuitions, eh, mankind?

  •   Visit notforprophet's Xanga Site!        

     
          To exploit the flaws of time: that is the quest.
  • Whether or not the blogbotters (see post below) have broken any laws for which they can and will be held accountable, the face of Xanga will likely change in response.


    To interrupt their efforts, you have to understand that a bot relies upon scripts and, once launched, an almost total non-reliance on human intervention in order to perform repetitive tasks rapidly.  In this case: auto-generated blog signups, random auto-commenting, and occasional targeted auto-commenting. 


    If you can locate the source IP of the bot server(s), you can immediately block them at your domain.  But then the bot server(s) may switch to new IP addresses-especially easy if it is a coordinated attack-and you will have to respond by blocking again. 


    In this Xanga case, however, the bot(s) seem to be hiding behind internet anonymizers that shield information about the source IPs. Xanga could block the anonymizers, if it could discern by server logs, who they are.  Or Xanga could just block a list of 'known' offensive anonymizers as an act of hopeful preemption. But determined trollers (the blogbot writers) will always find another anonymizer service out there somewhere-they're as prolific as free email services on the Net.  Hence, blocking is problematic, reaction by shutting down discovered botted-sites is like putting out a house fire with a garden hose, and prevention becomes the key to success.


     What can Xanga do to prevent or interrupt the activity of troller's bots?


    CAPTCHA is a technique widely used by many internet services to stop bots in their tracks. It is an acronym for "completely automated public Turing test to tell computers and humans apart". 


    What Xanga can do is implement a CAPTCHA at time of sign-up.  If that proves inadequate (for example, let's say that trollers have been laying the groundwork for a long time and have already registered hundred of thousands of blog names that they have yet to release), then another CAPTCHA somewhere in the commenting process may be required.


    Trollers hate CAPTCHAS because they break the automated bot process by requiring human interaction.  But beyond the laboriousness of interaction, I'll bet that these trollers find personal reciprocation with the target of their attack supremely odious to themselves. They pride themselves ultimately on having automated processes and intelligent machines defeat the target and establish their reputations.  It is precisely the persona-borne (in this case, blog-borne) impersonality of it all that gets them off.  Force them to become persons, to be real and hands-on, and watch them back off real fast.

  • Someone's been very busy messing with Xanga.


    aka: Something BlogBot This Way Comes...


    The following list of 381 xanga sites (at bottom) were all created on 12/24.  Most automatically redirect to: http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=leox_dicaprio (who may well be a victim).


    And the 381 sites have all been used to flame/spam the following sites which  made Featured Content today (on the Classic side):








    1. Visit Heroic_Homosex's Xanga Site! HEROIC HOMOSEX TO LOVE ANOTHER MAN AS AN EQUAL AND A MAN WIT...
    Total eProps: 733 | Total Comments: 255
    Posted by Heroic_Homosex - 12/26/2004 at 1:04 PM









    2. Visit la_faerie_joyeuse's Xanga Site! Naproxen_the_FLOODED9968 has decided that, even though I'm u...
    Total eProps: 704 | Total Comments: 0
    Posted by la_faerie_joyeuse - 12/26/2004 at 11:01 AM









    3. Visit rainina11thetime's Xanga Site! [Read entry]
    Total eProps: 404 | Total Comments: 255
    Posted by rainina11thetime - 12/26/2004 at 10:19 AM









    4. Visit kitten42's Xanga Site! Xanga Type your first post here, then click "Submit" to publ...
    Total eProps: 398 | Total Comments: 136
    Posted by kitten42 - 12/26/2004 at 3:54 PM









    5. Visit leox_dicaprio's Xanga Site! HEROIC_HOMOSEX BECOMES BUBBA'S FUCKTOY After a year in priso...
    Total eProps: 247 | Total Comments: 150
    Posted by leox_dicaprio - 12/26/2004 at 6:46 PM









    6. Visit Ash_o_leigh's Xanga Site! NOW I remember why I hate being home... Fuck this.. If you w...
    Total eProps: 220 | Total Comments: 0
    Posted by Ash_o_leigh - 12/26/2004 at 1:57 PM









    7. Visit eli371's Xanga Site! 5am just back from the hospital... shit i seriously hate dea...
    Total eProps: 194 | Total Comments: 113
    Posted by eli371 - 12/26/2004 at 9:57 AM


    The #1 site above appears to have been actually the flamer/spammer himself (themselves).  All the rest appear to be victims.


    The rate of commenting on la_faerie_joyeuse  (#2 above) was about 18 per minute for 22 minutes.  This suggests that there was a mechanism used for auto-commenting. The pattern of the offending site names (see below) and the fact that they were all created on 12/24 also suggests that an auto-creation mechanism was used to generate them.  The only other explanation could be a team of deviants working in cahoots.


    Update: Here's the auto-populator's self-glorying explanation of his (their) activity left on leox_dicaprio 's latest post:


    lol, one of my "hacker" friends sent me to your page and I just bursted out laughing and almost started to cry. The FBI does *NOT* give a shit about this kind of stuff, its very small potatoes compared to the *REAL* crimes the FBI works on (you know, terrorism, fraud, etc. things that actually are worth caring about rather than you getting totally owned and used to mop the floor on Xanga). We are all sitting here online having the times of our lives watching you pretend to think that you really "got" him. By the way, no "hacking" (which is an incorrect term, the correct term is cracking) occured to do the comment flood. A simple script was written to register accounts and post comments to random pages. If you think that is "hacking", then you are just dumb. I think its really funny that you take such offense to the text he posted. It is not like these people who read it are going to be emotionally scarred for life (and anyone who really is does not belong on the internet or out in public). Fundamentalists like you are what is responsible for the puritan-like censorship that is starting to occur everywhere in the media. Also, there is no way for you to track us. We use several layers of anonymous international proxying of our connections to post our stuff. Good luck trying to contact the Russian, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, or Brazilian (just to name a very small few) authorities to get the kind of cooperation you need to trace it to the ulitmate source. You have been trolled and you have lost! Have a nice day.

    And, yes, they are anonymizing-proxying as they say since they bypassed my own self-designed PHP detection scripts which would have recorded them otherwise (I got hit earlier, too.)


    Reflective later Update: These autopopulators are right: they've committed no crime.  They did not hack but mere opportunized on a Xanga sign-up and commenting vulnerability.  Yes, they violated Xanga's 'Terms of Service'  so that each individual site can be shutdown.  But I believe they can generate more newer sites faster than old ones can be shutdown.  So I think that they'll just abandon 2 or 3 day old 'known' sites and create auto-generated fresh ones to work their will.  They face only 4 practical restrictions: 1) the limit of their own CPU power - their computer(s) and anonymous proxies can only crank out so much in a given time, 2) Xanga recoding its sign-up and commenting to prevent blogbot injection, 3) A slip-up where they were not stealthed and Xanga, by logs, can crosshair-bead the non-anonymoused source IP, or 4) Me, finding out who the fuck they are and storming their quisling teeny-bopping pad and smashing the fuck out of their server with a sledge-hammer equal to or in excess of the mass of their combined brains.  heh


    I think you can conjure up the implications:  Xanga should be very concerned. (And I have contacted John, et.al. 3 times already.)


    Here's the list. It appears to be partial. InvisibleAng's comment here refers to other names not even in this list.  And elsewhere, others - more names.  So an actual comprehensive list, if constructed, would almost certainly be in the 1000s.
































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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  • Tsunami-destruction is horrible, isn't it?  They're now saying 20,000 dead as a result of the Sumatra tsunami Sunday, but surely that toll will climb with discovery in time.  Yet on the global scale, a tsunami like the Sumatra one is just the result of a pebble-like toss into the ocean bucket.  What would be the result of a boulder-like toss into the same ocean bucket?


    Mega Tsunami.


    There is no known earthquake force than can trigger a mega-tsunami, but nature provides two other inputs: asteroid impacts and massive landslides.


    Curiously enough..."On Christmas Eve, NASA issued its highest-ever threat warning when it gave asteroid 2004 MN4 a rating of four on the 10-point Torino Scale used to rate intergalactic threats. The highest previous rating was one. The rating for 2004 MN4 means there is a 1.6 per cent chance it and Earth will collide when they crosses paths on April 13, 2029."   - Herald Sun   If the asteroid struck an ocean (probable, if it occurs), what would be the result?  Mega tsunami.


    But were talking calculated chances with that asteroid. There are actually PHA's (Potentially Hazardous Asteroids) 'discovered' every year that aren't even discovered until they are upon or past the Earth's orbit since they approach in stealth from directly behind the Sun.  We currently have no way to calculate the probability of collision with any of those.  Yet we know they are there.  And they are still coming.


    But what if scientists told you there was a 100% certainty of a mega tsunami?  What if they told you there was a volcano called Cumbre Viejo on the island of La Palma that's perched to dump its half-trillion pound mass into the ocean, thus setting off an instance of the third source of a mega tsunami - a massive landslide into (or under) the ocean?


    There is a 100% certainty. 


    “This is a certain event,” said Professor McGuire. “It's a matter of how we cope with it, not whether or not it's going to happen… The U.S. government must be aware of the threat but I am sure they are not taking it seriously."
      —
    Why America's Coast Could Be Toast


    The questions are: What will the damage be?


    “It sounds like the plot of a fanciful Hollywood disaster movie. A dangerous volcano in the Canary Islands erupts, sends a giant tsunami travelling faster than a jet aircraft into the major population centres of America's east coast, killing tens of millions and wiping out New York and Washington DC.”

    And: When?


    "No one knows. It will happen during an eruption of Cumbre Vieja. It is an active volcano, last erupting in 1949. However the next eruption may not destroy the island, the next 10 may not. Only on thing is certain - one-day an incredible force will surge through the Atlantic Ocean."
    Armageddon Online


    In other words, anytime.  Or sometime within the next 1000 years. 


    If you are a werewolf, prepare with certainty to witness this doom.  Ohterwise, hope that it's our descendants and not us that ride this Wild Wave.

  • I just got done talking to my sis, Jude, thus making a needed holiday connection.  Of course, we talked of many things, all around.  At one point the conversation turned to Death and I declared that even that is something to look forward to, if inevitable, and one has the power to meet it head on.  Like knowing one’s about to die on a battlefield but glistening with the energy to take as many of the enemy with you (thus saving comrades) as you possibly can.  “Of course,” I mentioned, “Death is common and awaits us all.  Yet it’s unique to us individually in our never having experienced it before.”  “Well, there are those who have had near-death experiences,”  she corrected me.  My reply: “Near-death experience?  I’ve never had one of those.  I did have a near-life experience once, though.”


  • Christmas Eve in Dreamland (Lake View Cemetery).  In the distance is Garfield's Monument.  The single set of tire tracks are mine. And I just got done running a crunch-aching 3.5 miles.



    On the ride toward home from Dreamland, Christmas Eve.  I was born under the sign of the Sun.  I am precisely inexplicable to Astrologers who do not allow for such an interpretation.


    A stranger I happened upon on my Christmas Eve sojourns (after sunset, still fuzzily homebound - stopped for Christmas cheer) earnestly invited me to a Christmas dinner. Gonna have a duck, a goose, a hen, and roast beef.  I will be there in spirit - even as I  sit, sun-kissed, in meditation - finding my way.

  • Cleveland got it’s third heaviest historic one day December snow fall yesterday making it the snowiest December on record.  I spent a combined 6 hours yesterday and today whacking, hammering, shifting, shoveling, pushing, lifting ice-snow.  What made it especially onerous yesterday was a sudden changeover to rain for several hours after 15 inches of snow fell and then, just as quickly, a switch back to snow again.  The snow got water-logged and each shovelful weighed about 30 pounds. So imagine 30 pounds by 30 pounds by 30 pounds lifted and tossed about a thousand times and  that approximates the ordeal of the experience.  Oh yes, I also got soaked by the freezing rain: slushy shoes, washrag socks, dipped pants, drowned winter coat, dripping cap, even dowsed underwear.   And I had to go into work like that since I was late (for having to shovel my way out the drive) and didn’t have time to change.  So at work I spent 45 minutes with a hairdryer stuffed down my pants desiccating myself.  When I finally dried off I was as happy as a baby with a needed diaper change.



     Here’s a short description of the storm from the local rag:


    Roads turned into sledding chutes, and holiday travel plans frayed. Power lines snapped around the region, at one point leaving 100,000 homes in the cold. Overtaxed roofs buckled under snow and ice and collapsed in Avon and Solon. Homeowners were stranded.



    Breakfast this morning consisted of: 2 ova of Gallus domesticus, 16 ounces of legal (coffee-mediated) speed and 2 tabs of non-steroidal anti-inflammatory salicylate .



    Though I have to work today, I have the rest of the year off of the ‘regular job’.  I’m so looking forward to reading some good books, studying my Chinese, taking some long (7 mile+) Dreamland runs, and entirely revamping my approach to work and love.



    To revamp our interpretation system means to intend its reconditioning. It means that one deliberately and carefully attempts to enlarge its capabilities. By living in accordance with the sorcerer's way, dreamers save and store the necessary energy to suspend judgment and thus facilitate that intended revamping. If we choose to recondition our interpretation system, reality becomes fluid, and the scope of what can be real is enhanced without endangering the integrity of reality.



         -Carlos Castaneda (Art of Dreaming) 



     And to All: Peace on Earth, Good Will Within

  • I love being up past midnight and blogging.  Know why?  Because I'm free.  Not only enjoying freedom, but liberty.  And I bet none of you can define the distinction adequately.  (Don't even try since Emperors from ancient China and Pharaohs from ancient Egypt are sitting seanced-empanelled in the event of a needed review.)  But...it down't matter.  (heh, I just invented the word 'down't', I think it's much more expressive refusatorily a term than a mere 'don't, down't you?!')  By the way, tonight I'm the Magister Ludi.  Now...would that be 'Master of the Lewd' or 'Master of the Game'?  You tell me.  Please.  Please.  Please. 


    All I know is that it excludes me from being the Martyr of the Tame.  And if you think, in accordance with the ding-dong beat of xanga, that I'm tame, stick it up your ding-dong.


    Merry Christmas.

  • Some unusual Christmas reflections…

    Susu presented an interesting clarification upon the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. Apparently, “five golden rings” doesn’t refer to rings on your sweetie’s finger, but ring-necked pheasants. Hence, the first seven gifts are birds and then the last five are people. So, ‘true love’ is gifting birds and then, all of the sudden, people become bird-gift surrogates? What’s up with that? My question is: who traffics in the giving of people as gifts? Slave-owners and slave-traders, of course. So maybe eight maids a’milking are actually wet nurses attending plantation babies whose momma is cavorting with indentured lords a’leaping (while her husband slips dollar bills into the thongs of the enslaved ladies dancing)???

    Melchior, King of Arabia, gifted Jesus a chest of gold. Yep. He didn’t reach into his pockets and rummage for a few spare gold coins. All the depictions I see, show a fairly hefty chest itself made out of gold and, I’d imagine, it was filled with gold, too. Otherwise, you’d end up with the ‘big-empty-box-little-gift spoof’—totally inappropriate for a child king. Last I checked, a chest of gold is a king’s fortune and, in fact, it is traditionally explained that this signifies that Jesus was, indeed, a king. Significance aside, Jesus was rich from that moment on. My question is: What did Mary and Joseph as caretakers do with the fortune? Yes, a manger scene is touching cinematographically . But if I were destitute and had a newborn relegated to a manger then suddenly came upon a fortune, I’d buy into some better lodging (even if I had to bribe a lodge manager to evict someone else) before another flea could bite my baby’s ass.

    For an extreme view of where capitalists would take us with the ‘traditon’ of holiday shopping, take a look at Commodifying Jesus or WWJDWS—What Would Jesus Do (While Shopping)?

  • A Forgotten Landmark



    Every Christmastime of late, and sometimes even upon the Eve, I have visited the site of the very first public Christmas tree in America and have stood there contemplating the possible meaning(s) of Christmas.




     


    But it’s funny because, though there’s a plaque in commemoration, there is no tree!You’d think the community would embrace the holiday spirit and celebrate the location of the first historic Christmas tree in America with a grand re-creation and festive lighting ceremony.But no. Alone, I arrive in darkness (virutal, if not actual) each Christmas and alone I have always remained.  For the site, besides the mundane plaque, is entirely forgotten and totally uncelebrated.And yet a billion dollar industry in the sale of Christmas trees and tree ornaments has spun/spawned from it, to say nothing of the joy that the 'tannenbaum' has given us all at this time of year .Oh, how quickly we forget!


     


    Here’s the story about the controversy and scandal that the first public Christmas tree in America caused.


     


    And here is the actual record of the first decorated private tree…but it was Schwan’s tree described above that launched the tradition in America.  In any case, it all started in northern Ohio.  Woohoo for my neck of the woods.

  • This, now, for me, is living: thrown into the middle of Central America, taking in the sun-soaked morning, sitting at a shaded table on the outdoor balcony of a small town café sipping coffee, caressed by warm, gentle breezes, without a single obligation (consciously realized) or a pressing necessity to work, watching pretty girls occasionally wandering by, and just jotting thoughts that come to mind.  Oh, I suppose it could be better:  I could be laying upon a pristine Pacific beach, sunning, drinking daiquiris and otherwise doing the same—but that’s tomorrow.  Or I could be conspiratorially knocking down beers under a thatched-roofed, deep-shadowed, open-air cantina bullshitting with the local hombres—but that’s later tonight.  Then again, maybe not.  In fact, I’m sure I’m in just  the perfect spot to match the consciousness of the world at the moment .  And here’s the mantra of my quest: Have laptop, will travel.


     






  • I have given up hope of carnate love, in this time, this age—whether it should last but an evening or beyond the dearth of a kalpa of yet unborn worlds.  I’ve been ripped, stripped repetitively,  disrobed too methodically of the fabric of passion that shrouded me fervantly in desire’s shade.  I huddled in it like a feminine soul, investing faith in promises sweetly, earnestly made yet vacated as if they were from a world of borrowed, visiting life fleeing for the safe harbor of the recovering mother ship .  Piercing ardor rules no longer.  Snow has arrived to powder my desert.  And the houri of frozen ferocity has commanded me:  Thou shall not quetch of the cold in the kingdom of the lost.

  • So glamorous.  You remind me of Marilyn M.  And when you're lost in the lights, the way you move and comport yourself just makes me want to make myself your wide-eyed, transfixed friend .  So friends it is.  Everhence.  Not that 'everhence' is a bonafide word, mind us.  But then, somewhere between your flaggelantly expressed advertence hereabouts and my profession of tomorrow's utter insignificance when confronted by your unavoidable reclusion is our playful moment of everlasting imaginative tryst...




  • A view outside from my 'home office' (note: cam now offline-can still be viewed from the sidebar). I just spent 30 minutes shoveling this amazing white stuff falling from the sky. It's truly a mystifying substance. I think I'll take a ride beyond the neighborhood to see if this is just some sort of localized meteorological distortion.  It's so pretty and surely of some potential utility-I only hope it's not radioactive.

  •  “Today is a good day to die.”


    -daily morning prayer of Crazy Horse, 19th century warrior.


    1) Rumi, a 16th –17th century Sufi (Persian) poet observed: “No one knows your real name until your very last breath.”


    2) Schwelgien, a 21st century American psychic warrior  has further observed: “The process of your birth finds no surcease until your very last breath.”


    3) Furthermore, the process of your death commenced with your very first breath.


    4) There is only birth and death. The common perception that birth and death are discrete entry/exit terminals with a segment of life (lifespan) “in between” is misleading. Birth shades into death as death shades into birth. Any segregative distinction is superfluous.


    5) If one views life as something sandwiched “in between” discrete dichotomies of birth and death, then one is apt to consider as the foremost practical issues: “What do I do with my life?”, “What am I to make of myself?”, and “How am I to make a living?” In other words, one encounters the difficulty of what to do with the “intervening” segment of time. If death is seen as something inevitably awaiting us, the issue is: "What can (should) we do while we wait?"


    6) If, however, one understands life as the ever-developing and interacting processes of both birth and death, then no “intervening” undefined state arises. One is always being born to some degree (a logically fuzzy birth) and is always dying to some degree (a logically fuzzy death). And naught else.


    7) Hence, life is never the matter of fill-in-the-blank. Destiny is always occurring. “Life is much too busy being everything to seem anything--catastrophic included,” 20th century, e.e. cummings.


    8) Death in the common perception is merely a spectator sport. Everyone watches “the event.” Even the person dying, if conscious, is sometimes inclined to observe “the event.” “I don’t want to die!” is then the lament. As if there were another choice! As if one hasn’t been dying from one’s first breath!


    9) Death is truly experienced as a unique process--no fingerprint, no snowflake is as individual as each and every one of our deaths. Yet we never die alone. Which amounts to saying that no one lives your life but you, yet you never live alone. "No man is an island," 17th century, John Donne.


    10) Gossip assumes the pretense of knowing someone’s real name before their last breath. In this light, gossip is seen as a form of societal hyperventilation.


    11) Death always shames those who gossip. People who gossip live in secret shame because death makes gossip infamous. Who dare gossips about the dead without dread of recrimination?


    12) Hence, gossip is the deathcast in the spectator sport of life. Woe on he or she who lives watching death and dies watching life--by proxy through gossip--without ever fully living and dying themselves. As Merton, 20th century mystic-monk, made out: there are “those who hide in the shadow of an answer to a question they are afraid to ask.”


    13) Kerouac, a 20th century American poet/writer observed: “There is only the Golden Eternity.”


    14) There is only our Golden Eternity.

  • I have so much to do, so many fucking commitments. But now, suddenly today, I'm feeling so adrift of 'it', from this, from all of you, that I feel like buying a twelve-pack, going to Dreamland (cemetery), run bare-chested around in the snow just to feel some life, some intensity, some still-in-this-worldness and, perhaps, even get myself locked-in for the night with the beer. The beer and whatever else may happen to be trudging through the snow.


  • Life is short...







    ...love, let love.

  • Just for the hell of it, I joined a mainland China blog.  Just for a single sortie.  You know, just to check it out-not to keep it going.  I must remark that it helps to know Chinese (I do know a bit), otherwise you're better off just reading fortune cookies.


    What's happening blogwise in China? Ten-thousand (a 'myriad' of) flowers are blooming.  And out of a myriad (there's that word again) of cartoon characters, I got to pick Rocky the Flying Squirrel as my blogging avatar. woo-hoo


    But who the hell is Bianca Broussard?



  • I succumb to her as a goddess, because we’ve never met.
    (it’s safe, you see, her radiance reaches
    across space-time-mind
    softly luminescing, never scorching.)
    She is a lover: alone, distant, mysterious—such with her suchness.

    ea est et barbara, et mihi cara,
    splendidus igneus, sol muliebris-
    movens me atque, procul penitus

    Last night I listened to the radio Geminids streaming in,
    impinging on the frequencies of nothingness
    with soft twangs suggestive of guitar in requiem.
    From yonder, did I imagine, they were arriving-
    pitters of worldly unworldliness,
    the dust of a solemn lust, goddess-cast.


    * the sound of a geminid echo

  • I’m trying to be the Beast.

    ( Best, I mean, best. Damn residual spanish accent lingering from my years spent in central american jungles eluding beasts—at which I was the best.)

    But Beauty is so elusive.

    ( Like one of those dandelion seed-a-ma-things that takes to the air and you don’t even realize that as you run to catch it to satiate your childhood need to catch things that you’re breathing so hard and it’s actually all your commotion and your huff-a-puff breath that’s setting it adrift.)

    I wonder if she knows what she’s missing.

    ( You see, there were wildflowers everywhere. There were flowers wild where you fell. And the raving petals between us, pressed, made an aromatic threesome.)

    I wonder too much for a Beast.

    ( Ever skyward as a child, looking, peering. No one else looked cause they knew you had the sky covered. You were earth’s sentry, a natural. If any UFO’s were to be sighted, you’d be the one to come through. What they didn’t know was that the aliens came to you in dreams. Some lucid and still remarkably wakeful.)

    I wander too much for a Beast.

    ( Where words have never gone before, to go. Where worlds are yet to begin, let in. Enjoin chaos, permit no whorl from whirl discernment until…the first rise of sun. The first remembered one. The one that shafted you.)

    I wonder why I wander.

  • It has





    just begun





    to





    .

  • I’m looking for a few ways to make life more exciting without making it more dangerous.


     


    Drugs are not an option.


     


    I’m beginning to wonder if running in the cemetery (Dreamland) at and after dark (the only time now available to me) isn’t sometimes more dangerous than I’ve supposed.    There was the other night, for instance, when winds were howling at 66 mph and branches and more from ancient trees were coming down all around.  No one about at all.  15 minutes until close.  It was a bit of a thrill running light-footed, watching upwards for logs about to roll…


     


    But I’m never going to quit running.  no.

  • The earlier post was not to brag, but just to attest that I'm capable of and have, indeed practiced, insanity.  Like all the rest of you.  Whether you admit or not. 


     


    Truth is, denying insanity is the surest way to merit accusation of just that. Everyone knows that everyone has, is, or will be insane at some point by liminal or otherwise protest of the pasteurization process commonly, though quite mis-, characterized as 'adjusting to reality'.  Denying only entitles you to premier membership in the Psychiatry-Is-Big-Cash, Let's-Single-You-Out-And-Declare-You-A-Cow Castaway Club.


     


    Look at it this way:  No one who's ever gone insanely mad beyond the redemption of recall has ever done so like anyone else. Each instance has been the bust-out of an emerging universe unqualifiable fully beyond itself.  Each is comprised of an only self-adventured  world: other-than-self undiscovered, immaculate, pristine.


     


    Psychiatry would have us believe that such are ‘cases’ and are 'classifiable' based on patterns, signatures, commonalities.  Baby diapers!  What is identifiable to psychiatry as a pattern is only the denial (the virtual lamination)  of insanity qua modus operandi.  So then, and only then, they got you when: you're a Deny-er (clearly, to them, a deranged liar).  Then, they pick amongst.  They choose. They discard.  Sometimes you’re lucky and win on passover.  Sometimes they hover over your cuckoo’s nest and you lose. 


     


    And then, just sometimes the Industry needs to unskew the totally-I’m-In-Denial-And-Thus-Worthy inmate population by fetching a soul right out of the blue.  They guess.  They know you admit to insanity and so, to life, are true.  Yet  they incarcerate you anyway.  You may, indeed, be borderline patternable and acquiesce or not.  On the other hand, you may be just simply brilliant, yet winning misfortune’s lottery on that particular day.  Shitty day: I knew I should have stayed in bed. 


     


    Now all I’m wondering is: when’s my lover-savior going to appear (or I appear unto) to spend that otherwise Day of Wrath all day in bed with me?

  • I’ll probably not be posting any new self-pics publicly for a while – though already taken pics may pop back up, time to time. (Well, hell, who cares anyway, heh? I’m just a guy and kinda scary looking at that – so doing you all a favor.) Got a notion to take some revealing ‘before’ shots now and hopefully more appealing ‘after’ shots in the spring and pair them up in a blog. Meantime, I intend to undertake a regimen of training with a view towards running a marathon in April or May. Need to: a) lose weight, b) strengthen my upper body, c) improve overall flexibility. I will, of course, continue running, trying to nudge up stamina/endurance. But I will let speed just take care of itself.

    Yesterday was a bizarre day in so many ways. Among other things, I actually threatened verbally to kill someone. No joking. Some motherfucker tried to cut me off on a heavily trafficked 6-laned road in the early evening. I was in the middle of the three westbound lanes as he tried to squeeze me off and pull ahead of me from the right in order to avoid a parked car in his lane ahead of him. Problem was that if I had braked in order to allow his intrusion into my lane, I risked getting plowed from behind by another car that was tailgating me. And I couldn't move to the left / there was a car there, too.  :I was sandwiched-in.  So instead I sped up in my own lane, prevented his intrusion, and forced him to change lanes somewhere behind me. Fine. But apparently he had a problem with that since he then swung around to the far left lane, wormed his way, passed me up, and then close-cut back into my lane with a hollywood-dramatic (and very dangerous) fishtail just ahead of me before swinging back into the left lane once again.

    That did it. Red light just ahead and he stops. I stop next to him and I’m OUT of my vehicle pounding on his passenger side window (just short of enough to crack it), screaming, “You dumb motherfucker, you could have killed me. I could fucking kill you for that.”

    Not the end of it.

    He pulls through the red light and over to the side of the road, gets out of his truck, and motions for me, with that familiar cuffed-hand egging on motion, to approach him. Approach him? I yell: “You want me to come up to you? You want me to come up to you?  If I step on up to you now, I’m going to kill you.”

    He retorts: “I could arrest you,” and reaches towards his waist and in beneath his coat as if, possibly, for a gun ..or badge at least.

    “I’d kill you before you could arrest me.” :: blurted. (holy hell, did I really say that? yes… yes…)

    Then I watched just long enough to assure myself he wasn’t pulling a gun (didn’t want to get shot in the back) , issued him one last “Fuck you, asshole,” turned around, and got back to my vehicle. And by time I had gotten back into my vehicle, he was back in his truck, too.

    Maybe he was a cop. Or a retired cop. Or a wannabe – who knows?

    Then the fucker ran another red light to get away from me.

    Words. Powerful, dangerous words.

  • "Give yourself permission to be yourself, and don't be frightened by the unknown."


     -John Daido Loori

  • 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
    upon 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.)


    or let cry
    (droplets to sea)

    and make real.

  • There is a disconnect between this, all this, and myself in real life.  A developing, broadening disconnect.  There have been signs suggesting such for a while, but they were signs that I chose to ignore since they were indications that appealed more to my emotions than my reason, more to feeling than to knowing.  But last week I could no longer resist acknowledging the rift as the true dimensions of its extension and  the rate of its expansion came clearly to me in a vision.  And that’s precisely it: visions.  I am being whelmed over by visions once again.  They come especially as I run, alone, in the cold, at sunset in the cemetery (which I often refer to as Dreamland).  And with the visions are voices or, perhaps, just a single voice.  It’s hard to distinguish whether the whispers are from a lone warbler or are a blended chorus provisioning themselves in unison.


     


    Last Thursday while running, a whisper: “It’s a lie.”   Altered reality, heightened perception ensued.  Before I could respond with unmoving lips “What’s a lie?”,  the vision.  Kicked-in.  Kicked down the door of unknowing.  I ‘saw’ things even as my heart protested they couldn’t be true.  Dark things.  Things that must and have already begun to change my life.  Yet in this vision there was also hope, of sorts, I suppose.  The voice (or another voice? voices?) whispered: “You are a king, you know.”  That while running between row upon row of graves.  Goosebumps.  Immediately my gait lengthened, my back straightened, my eyes searched everything everywhere, and the pain, the pain that has chronically accompanied me on these runs for pretty much the last 9 months, went away.  What did I see?  A pair, two brothers, both Norsemen, running the very same ground as I was upon.  They were ancient yet alive, shaggily-clothed and running in a snowstorm.  Intrepid they were and disregarding of all comfort. And then I realized …  they were running through the winter!  I mean literally that: I discerned their intent to ‘run through’ the cold and darkness of the grisly season unstoppingly.  Suddenly a shift of vision.  I lost track of one of the ancient ones.  And I ‘became’ the other one.  I saw myself as I ran as the lone brother that was left.  Left behind.  Left afar.  Left to run.  Through the winter.  Unto Spring.  And then the feeling of being a genuine king flooded my consciousness.  And an enlightenment followed: I, in visionary embodiment of that ancient Norse king, have been left to seek.  Simply seek.  


     


    Strange, no?    But I expect stranger yet to come.

  • The opposite of love is not hate.  The yin of intimacy’s yang is not detestation.  The anti-matter of affection’s mass is not odium.


     


    It is avoidance, immovable impassivity, immutable phlegm.  All signifying the onset of Evil.


     


    Enemies in war, while not brothers, if real warriors, can often see themselves in one another.  And so understand.   Thus compassionate brutality ensues.


     


    Two in a rocky relationship, may lead each other over increasingly treacherous terrain.  They may well “hate” each other, at times,  for leading each other down a path of eventual perfidy.  Yet, while in relationship, they traverse it together, in some fashion, in some form.  One doesn’t plainly passively watch while the other slips unknowingly into an unspotted abyss that the first perceives clearly as evitable.  Decency requires at least a last minute “Watch out you stupid asshole!”


     


    But what of violence intended to destroy love?  Is not such violence directed against another the essence of  hate?


     


    I argue it not.  Hate can be a catalyst to violence.  But such violence is usually directed to eliminate or diminish the subject-object in some, if not all respects.  To make ‘it’ thereafter more or entirely avoidable.  And when the dust settles, the winner’s trophy is tomorrow’s aversion secured, not hate ensconced forever. 


     


    And violence that assures the destruction of love can be executed with utter indifference, too.  In fact, such unmoved violence, even more so than the emotional variety, is closer to the very essence of evil, the antithesis of love.  It is as efficient as it is effective.


     


    But agitated violence that’s driven by a love for violence (qua violence) is driven by a perverse what? for violence.  


     


    And what of intentional self-destructive violence?  Very often, though not always, it’s depraved narcissism, a form of  self-destroying love.  Narcissus so loved himself that it led inevitably to succumbing to a drowning death. 


     


    Oh, love has many forms.  Some may stretch deep into the darkness of otherworldy netherspheres.  But that stretching is always some form of energetic entanglement together.  Or reflective energetic entanglement with oneself. 


     


    Still, love is light, whether direct or reflected, whether intense or tenuous, and everywhere in between.  And light is essential energy.  Some forms of light energy can maim us, blind us, or even suck us entirely up.  Yeah, love, too, can be a bitch. 


     


    But the opposite of love?   The void.  Known better as darkness complete.  Evil totally ensues when nothing else transpires.  The true opposite of love is nothing.

  • I just met the most beautiful girl so awesomely in love.  But not with me.  Her heart’s rage abounds romantically unconstrained for the lover she awaits—the one she hasn’t yet met.  Not eye to eye.  Not lips pressed to lips.  The sun shines, her heart glows—‘tis only a golden eternity.


    How long should one wait for love?  How many young lasses a'passioned waiting for their white knights on golden steeds have grown tending to old without ever planting, yet never abandoning the seed of unmatchable dreams?  And for a man, is it not the same?  To look.  And expect.  And wait...oh Patience, Grasshopper.  Hop another blade of grass.


    Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to w-o-r-…to w-a-r… to l-u-v 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 sometimes wear the costume of the fool, but am never seen.

  • We can begin this again.  We haven’t gone so far.  Except for the word disorder.  The disquiet  engendered  by obtuse fulminations.  Did I say I love you?   Did I not aver, articulate, sound out, enunciate?  They say words get in the way.  And for that, they use words to say.  I ask: who are they?  Those that huddle in the shadow of answers to questions they’re afraid to ask.  Those that drink the wine to dire drunk instead of stoning the sun of grape.  Those who die wondering why they’re wondering why they’re back where they began.


     


    Begin.  To live again.

  • Now that Microsoft has released its blogging service, Spaces, and is poised to become the “Great Popularizer of Blogging” worldwide forevermore, might not we expect a rebellious undercurrent of the extant to devise and popularize a new slang term for “blogging” so as to distance themselves from Microsoft’s marketing strategies?


     


    Actually, I expect some ingenious high school students, if not already, to spread new slang for “blogging” so as to avoid the intelligible discernment of coy high school administrators who are, or soon shall be, keying on intercepted or overheard messages which they view as subcultural/conspiratorial.


     


    Already? Sure.Like popularized brand-names jell-o, a xerox, or kleenex, a lot of Xangans already refer to their blog as “my xanga” and use it even as a verb: “Did you xanga today?”But it’s far-fetched to project that all blogging will ever be known as “xangaing”.heh heh


     


    So what shall it be?


     


    I propose the slang “slamming” (as employed on my comment page) or “bashing” or “brusing” (web-rusing?!).Yep.I think with Microsoft enlisting billions worldwide to become part of “the blogging revolution” that I’d rather be know as a bruiser, I mean webruser, henceforth. 

  • For love of bubbles...


    type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer">


    Virtual Bubblewrap © www.virtual-bubblewrap.com
    ooo...I like clicking on "Fresh Sheet" even more than the enticement of popping.

  • What happens when "it goes away"...


    From Willow :


    Madmartigan, swordsman extraordinaire, just after being hit with a faerie's pouch containing the magical Dust of Broken Hearts. He's attempting, at night, to rescue a baby princess from the devices of an evil witch.  The witch's sensuous daughter, Sorsha, is entrusted with guarding the kidnapped baby.  He's sneaking past the sleeping Sorsha when the Dust of Broken Hearts 'kicks-in'...


    MADMARTIGAN: Oh, Sorsha. Awake from this hateful sleep. It deprives me of your beauty. The beauty of your eyes.


    Sorsha's eyes open and a dagger flashes from beneath her bedsheet and appears at his crotch.


    SORSHA: One move, jackass, and you really will be a woman.


    Madmartigan reaches out with both hands.


    MADMARTIGAN: You are my moon, my sun, my starlit sky. Without you I dwell in darkness. I love you!


    SORSHA: What are you doing here?


    MADMARTIGAN: Your power has enchanted me and I stand helpless against it. Come to me, now, tonight. Let me worship you in my arms.


    SORSHA: Get away from me!


    The dagger slices his shirt right up to his throat.


    MADMARTIGAN: I love you!


    SORSHA: Stop saying that!


    MADMARTIGAN: How can I stop the beating of my heart? It pounds like never before.


    He grabs her free hand and clasps it against his naked chest. Her other hand presses the dagger against his throat.


    SORSHA: Out of fear.


    MADMARTIGAN: Out of love.


    SORSHA: I can stop it. I'll kill you.


    MADMARTIGAN: Death next to love is a trivial thing. Your touch is worth a hundred thousand deaths.


    And the next day, after the Dust ‘wears off’ and Mad has regained his previous senses.  He has taken Sorsha prisoner…


    Sorsha twists her body uncomfortably.


    SORSHA: You're holding me too tight.


    MADMARTIGAN: I don't want you to get away.


    SORSHA: Why? Because I'm your moon? Your sun? Your starlit sky?


    She angrily whips her head around and her thick hair hits him in the face.


    MADMARTIGAN: Get your hair out of my face or I'll chop it off.


    They ride along in silence.


    MADMARTIGAN: Did I really say those things?


    SORSHA: You said you loved me.


    MADMARTIGAN: I don't remember that.


    SORSHA: You lied to me.


    MADMARTIGAN: No I didn't, I... I wasn't myself last night.


    SORSHA: I suppose my power enchanted you and you were helpless against it...?


    MADMARTIGAN: Sort of...


    SORSHA: Then what?


    MADMARTIGAN: It went away.


    SORSHA: Went away??   "I dwell in darkness without you," and it went away??


    She elbows him hard in the gut and makes a run for it...


    Question:  Does it ever really  just "go away"?

  • I fell asleep last night composing a single-sentence post that went unwritten.  It  went like this: “After suffering through a nightmare where he found himself cast into a strange world  that drove him to a bizarre activity called ‘blogging’ which  stole away his heart, the rush of all desire,  and time—oh such precious time,  he finally fell back deep to slumber, to forgetful, forgiving sleep.” 


     


    Freakily enough, I then proceeded to dream that I was a blogging insurgent, dressed in full camouflage, outfitted with a blogging backpack (for mobile blogging access), and  traversing the blogosphere by running at incredible speeds on all fours like a hound.


     


    And upon awaking?  Well, here I am posting this.


     


    I would ask for help but that would be like panhandling other beggars in the alley.

  • Janet (Xanga coder) has created a nice interactive tool to customize the Comment Page.

  • Last night I got a Japanese blog:  notforprophet Spaces.  Actually, take a look - it's Microsoft's Spaces, the beta of the blog engine it is about to release to the English-speaking world, too (probably this week).


    Although I don't read Japanese at all, it only took me a few minutes to figure out how to join and construct a post.  I guess that all blogging tools are written in Blogese!


    So I was wrong: Microsoft didn't buy Xanga to compete with Google's Blogger.  whew.


    godzilla-big players with new blogging tools = the first TV blogging commercial??

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