I should probably be frightening the crap out of everyone today.  The phrase “with extreme prejudice” resounds again and again—as if an order—in my head.  Is that my prior military training flashing back or merely some pathology infecting my mind? Feeling unlackadaisical even though lost, I ‘m like a wandering renegade samurai with an unsheathed sword.  It would seem like I should be able to render all insensate with a single swift swing.  But I don’t know why I am not projecting this terror….

So I walk into a coffee shop and assume a place in line.  While waiting, I notice a utility razor with a projecting blade sitting on a freshly opened stack of today’s newspapers. As the line peels away and I get my turn, the attendant asks me promptly what she can get for me.  Deftly with a  warrior’s acumen, I grab the utility knife, thrust it towards her—handle jutting first,  cutting edge towards me—insisting “No,… what can I get you?”, my question building in a purposefully powerful crescendo.  She giggles nervously, then graciously disarms me (disarmed by a woman again—is that my life’s story?).  She still awaits my answer…*taps*… as I gaze around and then up to the daily bulletin board.  It features a daily trivia question that gives 10 cents off your purchase for a correct response.  Today’s question is: “What are the ashes made out of that are used on Ash Wednesday?”    Without thought or emotion, I unblithely blurt out: “The teeth of pagans’ slain pet dragons.”  The girl humors me, “You’re right!”  But I add quickly, “Palm fronds, of course.”  She nods once in acknowledgement, and follows-up laughingly, “I like your first answer better!” 

Damn it, girl.  I’m shoving knives at you, I’m speaking of dragon’s teeth without even smiling, I’m right on the edge of primal defilements--and your reception of me is so pleasantly cordial???   I give up!  What’s the use!  Smile back and say gently , “I’ll have a medium to go, dear.”  

…the Beast next turns his attention to the deadly cream and sugar.

But, perhaps a rose, without a name, under certain circumstances, would smell even sweeter.  Does naming dampen the deepest of appreciations?  Does the cognitive association of some “thing other than self” with a name prevent an unbounded realization of total essence?

It seems to me that in my most intense moments of past experience, namely lovemaking, psychoactive venturing, and reaction to life-or-death situations, names have played no part whatever in the pure experiential light-and-darkness-kissed chroma thus actualized.

Pure experience beyond names: that’s the essence of both animalistic and mystical (and animalistic-mystical) apprehension.

You’re  all bones.  Just bones. Hey, I’m bones, too. What else is new?  It’s the way Time has of wearing down this weary world.  Except.  Except… (except what?)

Insight: A View Inside My Morning Head

While walking through a snow-covered parking lot on the way to work this morning, I noticed that one of my shoes had gotten untied.  The prospect of crouching down in the snow to tie it didn’t excite me, so I looked around for another option.  Nearby was a huge Ford F-500 truck, parked, with the logo “LESCO” all over it.  You know the goofy commercials: “A-s-k LESSSSCOOO!”  Well, it’s rear bumper was conveniently low and appealing.  I was alone, but if you had been nearby you would have heard the following conversation:

“A-s-k LESSSSCOOO!” 

“Hey LESCO, do you mind if I tie my fucking shoe on your rear bumper?”

(tying shoe)  “I didn’t think so.”

Truth is, I have a problem with both of my shoes always coming untied.  At least 6 times a day.  And especially when I run.  It’s very, very annoying.  Bit this hasn’t always happened to me.  Just in the last half year.  Do I need a remedial shoe-tying course, I wonder? 

I’ve begun double-knotting my shoes of late.  They still work their way loose and get undone.  No lie.  Is this a metaphor for my life?  Do I go to triple-knotting?  I’m running out of lace!  Oh my god, it IS a metaphor, isn’t it?

Weed, Doom, Gloom, and a Twinkle in the Sky

Weed...

How ironic is it that President Bush’s now ex-friend named “Wead” was the one who revealed that Georgie smoked weed?  And since conservatives like Bush maintain that smoking weed can totally screw you up, shouldn’t we demand a full accounting by Bush in order to determine if the weed actually whacked him for life?  Who knows, he may yet be prone to psychotic flashbacks as scientifically chronicled in the documentary “Reefer Madness”.

Doom... 

Speaking of bird flu crossing over to humans:

"This is a very ominous situation for the globe," CDC Director Dr. Julie Gerberding told a meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science.

...if the virus develops into a form capable of spreading among humans, in the most optimistic scenario 2 million to 7 million people would die worldwide, and the toll could potentially reach 100 million.

The mortality rate is very high — about 72 percent of identified patients, Gerberding said.

"our assessment is that this is a very high threat. ... You may see the emergence of a new strain to which the human population has no immunity."

Gloom...

The proof is in the oceans:

Scientists have found the first unequivocal link between man-made greenhouse gases and a dramatic heating of the Earth's oceans.

Tim Barnett, a marine physicist at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography in San Diego, said: "We've got a serious problem. The debate is no longer: 'Is there a global warming signal?' The debate now is: 'What are we going to do about it?'"

These changes are happening and they are expected to amplify.  It's acertainty that these changes will put serious trains on the ecosystems of the planet."

Paris Hilton’s cell phone was hacked over the weekend.  Holy Goddess.  Whoever would have imagined that her PIN was ‘airhead ’ and that someone would have had the gaul to crack into her phonebook stack?! .  We are not safe in our intimacies!  We are not safe as a digitalnation, I tell you!   Now I’ll have to change my (compromised) number.   Again.   Already, as a result of the hack, I’m getting hundreds of  unwelcomed  lascivious non-anonymous proposals from hot, needy, almost unsatisfiable mavens professing ear-bruning, unpublishable ‘things, thangs, thongs’.  Don’t worry—if you had my old number, I’ll get in touch somehow.   Even if it means hanging out on your doorstep like a dropped-off old-fashioned bottle of milk.  Until you take me in.

Well, well.  It appears pretty certain now that President Bush was once both a pothead and a cokehead .

So where was this substantial information when the electorate would have had a first (2000) and last (2004) chance to act upon it?  Instead of admitting things like a man and living up to what politically would have been considered 'faults', Bush understood that only remaining the Hypocrite would allow his election and re-election.  Politically astute, Hypocrite through and through.

The question arises: Now that he's 'outed' and faces no electiion, will he finally grow up and be a man and own up?  Or stay the mouse?

In my estimation, this  - AVG FREE - is a very, very good FREE antivirus.

It has earned the VB (VirusBulletin) 100% Award...

The VB 100% logo is awarded to anti-virus products that:

AND it just detected 4 trojans on my daughter's pc that Symantec Antivirus earlier missed on a full scan.  Goodbye Symantec.

Okay. This constitutes my public service announcement for the week.

But while you're at it, if you haven't already, you may want to download and run:

Microsoft's Antispyware (beta1).  It 's the only free anti-spyware that is real-time memory resident, self-updating, and runs scheduled (nightly) scans.

But since no one antispyware package catches everything, go ahead and get Ad-Aware , too.  It's free, but you'll have to run it and keep it updated manually.

Finally, get  Spyware Blaster  and keep it updated.  It's a free program that blocks adware and spyware from installing in the first place.

Now back to my mystical ruminations....

Just a followup note:

I just wrote to Jennifer Howe of Tampa Bay News 10 and invited her to view your responses in the previous video blog.

Here's my invite:

Here's a good sample of feedback from a wide variety of Xangans about
your Xanga story.

http://www.xanga.com/item.aspx?user=notforprophet&tab=weblogs&uid=206232829

Note: A disproportionate number of my readers are adults, parents
even, and many have been blogging on Xanga for years and years. I
personally have been blogging on Xanga since Dec. 20 2000, the day
after it went public. My daughter also has a blog here.

My own opinion?  Your stories have almost certainly made Xanga more
popular.  In our society amongst youth, taboo = attraction.

But does Xanga need to be more popular?   Alexa already ranks it the
25th most popular global website:

http://www.alexa.com/data/details/traffic_details?q=&url=http://www.xanga.com

Dreamland Scuttled

I tried to build you a Taj Mahal, but failed.

I was a fool.

I didn’t have the blueprints.

The heartprints, the you-prints.

I managed only to move some stones around:

From here to there, there to here.

Ended up instead constructing  a makeshift Stonehenge.

And now, without you, enringed - I sit alone,

Glorying every evening the set of Sun.

To dare or not to dare.

It’s just a starting point.  An orientation.  Again.  Where you end up (or not) —the love you take (or not) —is equal to the…

(or not) forprophet.

( I dare.)

"It's innocent, but dangerous..."

   click here

Tampa Bay's News 10 unveils the evil Xanga and gets is banned

note: I edited all mention of "notforprophet" out of this video in order to protect the "dangerous".

I have a lot to say!

But not *quite* (*quite*) in the mood.

Later.

But I love you all the same.

Is there a stupider holiday than Valentine’s Day?

If you answer “Sweetest’s Day”, then you’re my kind of lover.

No. I’m not bashing love or chocolate. (or love of chocolate.)  Merely the ritualized imposterizations that commercially attempt to hijack true romance and  render it a shallow, wanton ritual.  Commercialization.  Commercialization is a perversion, right?  Maybe we should go back to the roots of this holiday to find its true meaning?

Take Cupid. 

A winged baby with a little bow and arrow bringing lovers together?  Hell no.  In Roman times, he was a god who took the form of a horny, insatiable youth going about the countryside getting all the girls and goddesses pregnant.  Raw unsugary sex, baby.  And, believe it, his arrow was no dildo.

And Valentine.  Who the hell was he?  We know he was a priest who wrote love letters of sorts.  Well, given what we today know about the kinky predilections of the priesthood, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the object of his romantic overtures wasn’t a pre-teen girl.  Or boy. 

The Romans called  this holiday Lupercus. Their priests “purifed” young naked maids by whipping them with a whip made of goat leather (called ‘februa’ – February, anyone?!) after which the girls would sneak off to make babies.  Except Augustus Caesar used the occasion of this roman holiday to totally humiliate girls and women who were childless—whipping them hard as a form of public derision. 

Oh joy.  Show your love.  Whip someone today.

This is a self-contained Dreamland concoction. 

Conceived during a 5-mile run. As runs go, a tough run. Seven downhill-uphill laps around Section 8.  Started out lamenting my unsolicited solitude. Ended up just feeling tough. Just tough.  Like a, if needed, terrorist assassin . Like a once-tortured wild animal hardened to duress.  Like the little engine who could.  And did.

I did. I sprinted at the end.

(No, wait…I didn’t really—I merely speeded up.  Okay.  Going to leave the laptop alone for a minute and finish this run the right way.  Excuse me, please. …

And an uphill sprint, at that.

Typical February day just south of the north coast of Lake Erie. Patches of snow are scattered about like blotches of rash on a baby’s ass.  Except the rash is red.  And the snow is cold.  And the ivy on the graves of the deceased still clings as it has always clung.  All in all, a very anti-valetine-ory display: no lovers walking hand-in-hand, no flowers like faces floating out of the ground, only predatory birds criss-crossing the sky scanning for tender future morsels to pluck upon.

~a Dreamland bird mausoleum~

Live like a Hawk.  Die like a Hawk.  Outside looking in, and through, the doom of death.

So you think you're aware of your little world, huh?  Master of your immediate environment.  Guru of the neighborhood given.

Okay smarty-pants and panties, answer me this...and WITHOUT LOOKING:

What are the colors of the fire hydrants in your municipality, top to bottom?

Okay, if you have to look, go ahead.  But fess up.

My hydrants are tan atop and chocolate on the bottom.  I actually had to stop my car and get out in the frigid cold air in the dark last night to confirm that.  Standing aside the hydrant, I suddenly had the urge to pee, too. hrmmm.

This may be selfish, but I hope Xanga dies before you and I do.

It's snowing sideways outside.

Is it possible that the Earth has tilted more and we haven't noticed?

This is from one year ago, today.   But I looked  the very same yesterday doing the very same thing.  Some things never change.  Though I swear that a couple of those graves have moved.

I once blogged a haiku:

"Earth sends a message:
Mind you, life is one short fuck.
Don't get stuck watching."

Guess what?
I got caught watching.

That's the bad news.

The good news is that I caught myself.

So instead of suffering life imprisonment, I'm sentencing myself to repetitive doses of daily reality.

*sniffs reality*     mmmm,   smells like a daisy.

The Joy of Fishes
by Chuang Tzu (250 B.C.)

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu
Were crossing Hao river
By the dam.

Chuang said:
"See how free
The fishes leap and dart:
That is their happiness,"

Hui replied:
"Since you are not a fish
How do you know
What makes fishes happy?"

Chuang said:
"Since you are not I
How can you possibly know
That I do not know
What makes fishes happy?"

Hui argued:
"If I, not being you,
Cannot know what you know
It follows that you
Not being a fish
Cannot know what they know."

Chuang said:
"Wait a minute!
Let us get back
To the orginal question.
What you asked me was
'How do you know
What makes fishes happy?'
From the terms of your question
You evidently know I know
What makes fishes happy.

"I know the joy of fishes
In the river
Through my own joy, as I go walking
Along the same river."

Translation by Thomas Merton The Way of Chuang Tzu, New Directions Books, 1965 

*note: Thomas Merton was a Trappist monk and mystic.  I've read quite a bit of his work-over 70 books. While studying Chinese and embracing Taosit precepts in my 20s, I understood his joy in doing the same.
 

tomorrow: ignore the pain. ignore the pain.

the physical pain. the emotional pain. will cease.

the lonliness will be no more.

going to score with the Earth.

have sex with Gaia.

sublime ALL the frustration, the inhibitions of multi-years.

yes, the details are obtuse and inexpressible
because I have yet to out figure things.

(though I have already figured them out.)

i'm healing. fucking right.

gonna be strong again.

even stronger than before.

gonna write.

gonna write good stuff.

even better than before.

*tick* *tick* *tick*

oh.

fuck xanga.

It seems that even when I’m in dire need,

Those dear to me whom I might depend upon,

Seek succor from, to whom I might turn for sure support

Are yet even needier, more dire than me.

Oh. And thus the giving goes. 

From less needy to more should the charity flow.

Ah, no one said the life, the life of a warrior

Would ever be easy.

Thus somewhere in the 30^th century they may unlikely utter:

“He died a long, long time ago.  Unaided.   Much as he lived.”

Like a 3^rd century Roman emperor, when weak, I’ve come to expect the attempt of knives thrust into my back.

 And I am weak.  Currently nearly incapacitated by extreme neck spasms that have left me unable to turn my head at all.  Strangely, I cannot recall an initiating injury.  Rather, I awoke the other day with neck pangs, thick mucousy saliva,  and a mild impairment of my sense of taste.  Though thus bothered, I proceeded with my plans for the day nonetheless.  Yet as the day progressed, my range of motion became less and less.  Unquantifiably impacting were three slips on black ice that day: one that put me down,  the other two scattered my balance in mutually opposing directions. 

Ah, the ice was stabbing me in the back.

So did the slips break me?  Or…am I suffering manifestations of some mysterious illness?

Now I’m facing a second day of not working.  And a second day of pulsating, nearly incapacitating pain.

I’m determined for this not to continue.

I shall will myself to heal.  Will myself to heal.  And be stronger than before.

Here's a "concept" post: experimenting with a new way to blog content. If I weren't in extreme pain, I would have concocted new content. As is, some posts from the past... Impressions, ideas anyone?

• ~lulling~
  
• ~novas~
  
• ~stars~
  
• ~no resolutions~
  
• ~unheld~
  
• ~shadow~


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