A Beauty, no?

Lee Yoon-hyung, age 26.

Personal worth: $191 million.

Upside: Heiress to the South Korean Samsung conglomerate which consititutes 1/6 of the South Korean Gross Domestic Product - approximately $131 billion.

Downside: Strangled herself on electrical cord in her Manhattan apartment.

I'm not as young or as cute as Yoon-hyung up there.  And I've got money problems.  And I'm an heir to nothing. 

But I have the love of a daughter as, no - more beautiful than Yoon-hyung.  And I've got enough health and energy and some opportunity to work at my money problems.  And I've got the air that fills my lungs as I run streaming through Dreamland cemetery.

Next time I run in Dreamland, I shall think of Yoon-hyung.  And again reflect upon how lucky I am.

 

           OK ALL THE PLP ON DIZ SITE IS 2 OLD 2 HAV A XANGA UR KREEPY DUDE YOU COULD PROBABLY USE A GOOD F8N OR SUMTHIN

 

My response left on her site...

 

Baby, I was the FIRST blogger on Xanga and was instrumental in getting this thing going.  Without us "too old" bloggers, there would be no Xanga for anyone today, including you.  Oh yeah, it may be hard for you to believe, but this place ain't all about you.

Ha.  Okay, so I wasn't the very, very first.   But I was here soon enough to nab God, Goddess, and fuck.  You know, the triad core of cosmic being.

By disposition, I am a creature of the the Summer and the Sun.  I flourish while running in 90 degree weather.  I lived/worked in the jungles of tropical Panama for 4 years and never found reason to complain.  My mind always melds psychic with the starkest dominations of the ever-powerful Heliosphere.

But I own the Winter.

I did not say I’m giddily over-enthused about Winter.  But I own it, nonetheless.

Yesterday an Alberta Clipper came crashing into the North Coast (where I now find haven).  There was blowing snow, winds at 30 mph gusting to 40 mph, a barometric pressure of 29.5, and a temperature of 20 F. with a wind chill factor of 0.  It was Thanksgiving, so a great day to huddle indoors, no?

Not I.  I own the Winter and must welcome its manifestations, even in late-Fall.  So yesterday I returned to a Dreamland cemetery in the grip of the Clipper and ran.  7.1 miles, if you must know.  And so I resumed the path of my vision, a vision I had about this very same time last year.

What did I see then?

There, in my mind’s eye, were a pair of rugged warriors, two brothers, both Norsemen, running the very same cemetery ground as I was upon.  They were ancient yet alive, shaggily-clothed and running in a wicked blizzard.  Intrepid they were and disregarding of all comfort.  And then I came to realize: they were running through the winter.  I mean literally that: I discerned their intent to ‘run through’ the cold and darkness of the grisly winter season unstoppingly.  Suddenly, I had a shift of vision.  I lost track of one of the ancient ones.  And I became the other one that remained.  I saw myself as I ran as the lone brother that was left.  Left behind.  Left afar.  Left to run.  Through the winter.  And then the feeling of being a genuine king flooded my consciousness.  And an enlightenment followed: I, in visionary embodiment of that ancient Norse warrior king, have been left, alone, to own the Winter and to seek.  Simply seek.  And since I own the Winter, I must lead, lead the way to Spring.

So when Spring 2006 re-appears in your neighborhood, you may thank me.  Until then, thank you, I’ll be too busy running to take any complaints.

Thank God for happiness.  Share it, if you've got it.

There are a couple of videos here.  The last for awhile.  They're low quality since they are made with a Sanyo 8300 cellphone camcorder in low light.  I bought the phone to replace a lost one, didn't really want the camcorder feature, but was told the particular model would accomodate my laptop-to-internet Dreamland wireless connection.  But the damn thing doesn't.  So I ended up last night switching the 8300 with my daughter's 8200 which doesn't do videos but will act as a wireless modem.

The first autostarts.  The second is set for manual start to avoid audio conflicts.

Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com

This, above, was shot just after a six mile run.  Often after I run, I'll take a perch against one of many huge obelisks, unpack my blogging gear (laptop, cables, cellphone-modem), possibly pop a top of a brew can, and allow inspiration to find me.  I've probably written 300 or 400 posts, a third of them poems, from this (or a proximate) very spot.

Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com

Running in Dreamland.  When I took this, I unknowingly ended running up on a girl who was behind one of the obelisks and I scared the hell out of her.  I guess pretty young girls alone in a cemetary at sunset tend to get a bit unnerved at, first the sound, and then the sudden sight of a strange man streaking directly toward them.

Damn the Man.

I've never nor will I ever play with various writing styles on my blog.  I've invented some, tortured others, seduced a couple, teased many, succumbed to one.  But play?  No, I do not play with words or their styling.  The matter is much too serious.

Words are like little kisses that I trail up along a hot bitch's reddening thigh.  She thinks the kisses are for her—but they are not.  Nor are they for me, that is, primarily for my own satisfaction.  Rather, they are word-kisses  born in-and-for-themselves—parasitical little bastards using both her and me for their own maniacal self-exhibition.  Like a virus uses a host to thrive, so these word-kisses use my lips and her thighs to find their own meaning, their own life.  So, in this analogy, the bitch is the blog and my styled words inch ever toward her cauldron core of passion.  And when it really gets good, the voyeur props amass as I'm just about to fixate orally orgasmic with a flurry of hot-tongued, lashing noospheric nibbles upon the numinousity of my seething bitch-blog beauty.

O, don't ever play with words or their styling, my friend.  And remember: only you can prevent forest fires.

Just Googled myself (the real not-notforprophet me).  And realized, quite startlingly, that the world—through Google goggles—sees me pretty strictly as a scientist:

Found co-featured on a Goddard Space Flight Center page…

Found co-featured on a National Aquatic Nuisance Species Clearinghouse page…

Found listed as a contributor to Kirtlandia, a publication of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History…

Found listed as a reference for a Waterfowl and Wetlands of Long Point Bay and Old Norfolk County publication…

Referenced as sources in two Google book searches:

Metal Contaminated Aquatic Sediments
edited by Herbert E Allen - Science - 1996 - 350 pages

Soil and Water Quality: An Agenda for Agriculture
by National Research Council - Technology - 1993 - 542 pages

Found listed as a scientist supporting scientific integrity and opposing government abuse of science on the Union of Concerned Scientists site…

Found listed on several Norwegian Statistics curriculum pages as a reference for Introduction to SPSS, the stats package…

Anything about being an eruptive neologist with a scathing tongue?  No.  Anything about being a doomnistic artist fixated upon a vision of one day short of forever?  No.  Anything about being a pulsingly romantic lover ever-whelmed by the compellingness of feminity?   No.  Anything about being a mystic looming on the psychic edge of sanity?  No.

Google is evil, I tell you.  Evil and unbalanced.   I wish it would go away.

Ever wonder how the Xangagods do administration?

Can they read your Protected Postings?  You know, the romantically intimate ones you maintain with your special cyber-squeeze?

Do their standard accounts (like John, Marc, Janet, etc.) have superpowers?  Or do they have a SuperXangaGod account that can glide over your pages undetected like a stealth aircraft flying over your house?

Do they do remote admin over the internet?  If so, given that the standard user login uses http:// (passwords in the ‘clear’) and not https:// (secure http—passwords are encrypted), aren’t their admin passwords sniffable (capturable) at the ISP? 

What if I hacked a Xangagod password?  What, o what, might I see and be able to do?

If you delete something because it’s become embarrassing or personally compromising, do you think it’s really expunged forever?  Or is it just sitting out there on offline archived media—one (advertant or inadvertent) click away from being made public again?

Ever wonder… ?

So this 18 year-old David Ludwig creep apparently has (had) a blog on Xanga.  Clyde to 14 year-old Kara Beth Borden's Bonnie?  Kara had a Xanga site, too.  But it's been shut down by its "owner".

I suppose with about 12 million member blogs that it shouldn't be a surprise to find  scoundrels of every sort represented here.  Pedophile priests.  Child-stealing stalkers. Murderous moms.  Raving soon-to-be terrorists. 

And victims?  Those amongst us who are bound to become victims due, partially at least, to a trusting presence here?

I swear.  It's time to get radical.   Hence...

My blog will be going PROTECTED soon and you will need to SUBMIT for acceptance to read it. (Ain't this what all the coolest xangans are doing???)

Only the first 250,000 worthy applicants will be accepted.  Thereafter, I will become INVISIBLE to all the remaining unfortunates.

You know who the HATERS of NOTFORPROPHET are!  After I go protected, I will post a list of all my haters! (which, by coincidence, will turn out to be everyone except the first 250,000 to beg me for inclusion.)

Within a month of my blog going protected, it will be obligatory that those of you accepted also go protected-only on your own blogs AND ADMIT ONLY THOSE CONCURRENTLY ON MY MASTER PROTECTED LIST.  Any deviants will be dropped from the master list and added to the list of HATERS.

Once we are all PROTECTED together, I will unleash a scourge (scripted BLOG BOMB) upon Xanga that will destroy all blogs not in the fold.  This will ‘plow the highway', so to speak, allowing the CHOSEN to go UNPROTECTED once again to reinvent Xanga in my image and likeness.   ALL HAIL!

"ONCE YOU HAVE ACCESS TO MY PAGE AND THE PROTECTED POST, THE LIST OF THE HATERS, INCLUDING SOME OF THE BIGGER FEATURED CONTENT WRITERS, WHO HAVE SUPPORTED THE HATERS WILL BE REVEALED, INCLUDING THEIR ADDRESSES"

     -blackcat69

hahaha

I think Xanga needs a spanking.

Still my favorite Dreamland take on Autumn...

                                            a Japanese Maple.

5-minute stream-of-consciousness good-to-be-alive blog (cause Dreamland Cemetery is closing in 10 minutes and I don’t want to spend the night)

Yes it is.  Good to be alive, that is.  Even without any sex for ages.  Sex for the Ages?  Now there’s a notion for ya. 

I just ran 5.  Encountered a cute girl with a wagging pony-tail running the other way.   That’s my story.  Oh yes, she waved.  That’s my thrill for the day.

It’s getting dark out here already.  So much so that if I stare at the laptop monitor too long I’ll ruin my night vision.  Then I’ll be unable to see things sneaking up on me.  Don’t even try.

So this is about done.  Now I have to conjure up the internet via cellphone broadband and post. 

See: I, too, can write banal posts!  There’s hope for the least of you.  (No, I didn’t mean you specifically—him or her of course.

Ever wonder why no one else can fathom the mysterious depth and expanse of your most precious desires?  Me too.  That makes all of us.

It was another mild fall day here on the North Coast.  So warm—63 F.—that I could still run Dreamland in shorts and tee-shirt.  Supposedly we already had our first hard freeze here compelling the end of the growing season.  But the dandelions still look hardy—they don’t know it.  And the butterfly flitting around certainly doesn’t seem to know it.  And I’d like to pretend that spring is in the offing and that this late fall warmth is a prelude to a year without a winter.  And though I suspect otherwise, my heart embraces the hope.  I will always be the fool embracing such hopes.  Yet some day, some day....    I will not be disappointed.

Now, an unreachable storm, I have become.
Cast afar, constantly distancing, yet furious, nonetheless.

"It’s a good day to die."
I have known that since I was born.
Still, knowing the truth is different from knowing of it.
All is soon enough.

I have done much good.  Some harm.  But much good.
Yet still I seek to become more, unreachable though I am.
But what is my destiny? 
I’m destined for an odyssey.

A journey of thousands of  miles is merely my first step.
The world grows, odder, stranger, the more distant I become.
Might I lose my humanity along the way?
Morph into a form of intelligence unknown even to myself?

Corso said it best:

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then something would be possible -
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Well, he didn’t say exactly that.  But it's close enough.

I've been driven totally crazy.

"No he hasn't," says one voice.

"Of course he has," insists another.

I listen detachedly, dispassionately.  There are other voices, other opinions-not all discernible, some more frighteningly so than others.

"It's the hemoglobin."

"No, he's a human goblin."

Amazingly, this all has not impacted my ability to work.  Or appreciate beauty.   It has, however, impacted my desire to work and to embrace beauty. 

Beastly me.

Tender is the night that surrenders to great mystery.

She rings her bells as she dances about,

my bellarina glances at me and mimics a pout

as if to say “Why so serious today?”

i laugh.  “Be as weighty in your thoughts as you dare to ponder,”

i remind myself, “But when it comes to living in the world, be light as a feather.”

i laugh even more realizing that that , too, is mentation—still thinking.

still dancing, she flashes a smile, then eases me down upon a couch,

flings the bells, and plops atop—

“Release, release, accept the elation,” 

her eyes glisten with my captivation.

     (sighs oh-so whelmingly in my ear)

          (hovers with kisses—lips, tongues explored)

               (tingles of touches, growing ever more near)

                    (till naked, and clasping, just bodies adored)

Modern Moments of Romance

As we were enjoying a drink together last night in a local pub, the most gorgeous girl in the world whispered into my ear: "You know, I had a dream about you last night.”

“Really?”  Fascinated by the notion of being in her dreams, I turned to face her and stared into her sparkling, beckoning eyes.

”Yes.  And it was so strange.  You were defending me against aliens!”

“Defending you?  Of course!  Did I kill all of them?”

“No, I don’t know—I woke up in the midst of the battle.”

“Well,” I assured my drinking beauty, “you just continue that same dream tonight where you left it off. And I will either kill all of the aliens or die trying.  I’d die in your dreams for you!  That’s how much I really care.”