Trying to live a life of integrity

on the elusivity of truth

2011-04-08T04:45:00.001-04:00

sir galahad sought a clear, tangible,
and explicit goal, namely,
the holy grail.
the goal i seek, truth, knowledge,
answers to questions that have for so long
shredded the intellect in fire,
and ravaged the thought and comprehension,
on the contrary,
can never truly be known,
nor can one be certain that they have
ascended the everest of riddle,
nor completely exited plato's cave of delusio-strife.
moreover, academia is a poor judge
of intellectual rigor and brilliance.
take, for example, the case of ludwig wittgenstein.
here was a man of whom john maynard keynes said:
God has arrived, i saw him on the 5.15 train,
here was a man who blinded intellectuals
with his tractatus, who thrillamazed,
illuminated and hypno-struck
the philosophers with his insights and mind-surge.
had he died before 1928 his tractatus
would today be laureled
with jasper, crimson and magnificent bloom.
wittgenstein later renounced the work,
and declared it a slurred piece of drivel,
no more valuable than a junk-goat or an rust-ox.
if academia has been guilty of such
horrendous errors in the past,
if they have mistaken mind-mud
for a symphony of jasper before,
then they have surely done it other times.
i am certain that many of the philosophers,
heideggar, hegel, derrida,
no more obtained an illumino-vision of life,
or understood truth's shimmerado,
its streams of perplexica,
its rivers of sparklado and mesmerado
than your average dim-wit or fop,
and yet academia lauds these charlatans
as knights, paladins and crusaders.

or take, for example, the certainty
with which the educated class
once proclaimed in the existence of the ether.
although they believed this substance
to have been measured,
and its material to have permeated all of space,
they were wrong, drowning in the confusio-fen,
blinded by nature's complexica and anti-intuition.
it is clear that one cannot rely on scholarly consensus
for direction, wisdom and knowledge.

i have thus no way of confirming
my grasp of truth's radiant elixir,
no means of knowing if i have decisively
understood the nature of things,
and effectively banished falsehood's
lechers and lemurs from my circle.
i am in a battle therefore with illusions.
if i defeat one illusio-vex
i will never know if hallucination
strangles and paralyzes me,
or if i have actually conquered the bloke.
if i feel myself exiting from one of plato's cave,
i will not know if i have merely
entered another one more raving,
and populated with madness than before.

nevertheless, it must be conceded
that when i enter into a new subject,
when i scan its contents, study its tomes,
acquaint myself with its procedures and jargon
that i do sense a certain star-triumph
when i feel that i have mastered its lore,
and reached a satisfactory plateau.
although this is a mere subjective feeling,
which in no way can be demonstrated,
in spite of that, this feeling does have
a certain objective capacity to intoxicate the mind,
and render it mad with flight-joy.
there is something about diving deep into a new subject,
being confronted with all sorts of bewildering
images, concepts, ideas and terms,
understanding the subjects' most basic
precepts, axioms, principles and inferences,
then feeling that one has understood
the confusing barrage of puzzle,
and reasonably fit its pieces into a plausible scenario.

witness, for example, my affair with finnegans wake.
here is a book that embodies enigma,
here is a book for which mind-gnarls abound,
here is a book that consumes the intellect
in thistled jungles of confusion,
that wracks the breaking brain with the blinding
strife of nebula, the gray film of obscurity.
when i first read the book only a jumble of dust
radiated in my memory when i recalled what i read,
only a muddled array of blindness greeted me
when i attempted to order the madness.
but after much effort, much research,
i was able to uncover many indisputable facts
which banished the obscuro to the night-nothing.
although i cannot make sense of every word,
nor comment intelligently on each paragraph,
nor cohere a complete, all-encompassing theory
that makes all the scattermento uniform,
that arranges all the hodge-podge into a bright
cluster of radiant enlightenment,
i still am deeply satisfied of that which i have discovered,
i still am happy that i've unearthed many ores from
this convoluted mine of what was once thought
to be an impenetrable, illegible, bewildering miasma.

or take, for example, my study of the genome.
before i began, i had no inkling of what composed it,
how it operated, sustained itself, transmitted information,
provided the body with form and structure,
and preserved the being from the dragoned descent
into chaos' abysmal invasions of thunder.
but after much labor, much study,
i was eventually able a wealth of information,
a huge treasure trove of fact to procure.
although there is still much about the genome
that remains hidden not just to me but to everyone
behind nature's cloak of inscrutability,
and the unknown's humungous ocean of ignorance,
nevertheless, that which i have learned,
provides me with an undeniable surge of rainbow,
and an irrefutable splash of turquoise sparklado.

one can never be one hundred percent certain
that one has obtained truth's grail,
or rode on the back of minerva,
nevertheless, there is a clear, decisive,
and undeniable difference from being zero percent certain, totally naked before a subject's precepts,
and then spending a thousand hours on the riddle,
and thus being undeniably closer to the truth than before.

this will be my grail:
to always strive knowledge to obtain,
to ever seek truth's vaults to open,
to continually ascend the everest of learning,
to assiduously cultivate the sugars of wisdom.
i will never fully obtain my objective,
nor ever completely possess my disiderata,
nevertheless it is better to spar eternally with an undefeatable
leviathan, never winning, yet always improving,
than it is to defeat easy and clear opponents.

desire

2010-07-13T08:15:00.002-04:00

and now, dylan, i rage-wrestle
with the ambiguous pleasànto-spice of desire.
in the one valley hopes, dreams, goals,
wishes, the flourish of anticipation,
the flashing sun-shine of accomplishment
embellish life in looming cloud-awe,
and sugar it with joy-bliss and hymn-dance,
in the other valley, dylan, desire
can be that rage-lion that fangs the soul,
that cobra-serpent that shreds the mind,
all of one’s tranquillo kidnapped,
their former rainbow to dungeon consigned.
thus i am split, dylan, between diminishment
of self, bitter resignation to life’s saliva-blare,
an embrace of the cold and the impoverished
on the one moon,
and an all-out plunge into action,
full-throttled rage into the new,
a rampaging quest for experience,
on the other.

man, dylan, gallops forth naked
in his quest for fulfillment of soul,
he confronts the dragons of delusion
weaponless, defenseless and ignorant.
just as christopher columbus
sailed forth into the void-ocean
with a map that placed japan
in the location of north america,
or just as the voyager space-craft
has been propelled beyond
neptune and now drifts aimlessly
through pain-space and knife-night,
or just as those pre-champolion europeans
wandered through the egyptian
pyramids completely unable
to make sense of the heiroglyphs
glaring at them in the face,
so too does man wander through life,
barely cognizant of the forces against him,
scarcely aware of the magno-light
that animates the happiness,
nor knowledgeable of what courses
and what paths lead to that rush
of felicio-strike or that upheaval
of bliss-flow.

we, dylan, unlike the
nonreflective plentitudes,
are acutely sensitive to man’s plight,
his current asphixiation amongst snarl,
the iraqis’ present plunge in bile,
their wholesale relegation to weeds.
we, dylan, hear that banshee
of injustice crying, shrieking,
we listen to that tornado-romp
of the greed-lurches that trample,
and the war-pigs that now fume.
thus my present search for balance
between antartic resignation
and hot desire brazilian
is forever acidified with a sharp
concern for the world’s oppressed.
i pine when i learn that one fourth
of the homeless are veterans,
i weep jail-sweat when i hear
that the state executes the innocent,
their life-force extinguishing,
them to dreg-demons ostracizing.
how can we succumb to the religion
of the denial of desire
when the masses are choke-locked
in oppressive rust, dylan?
how can we banish desire from our temple
when it motivates us the enstrangled
and the venomized to liberate?
how can we honestly lay desire
on the altar of denial of self
when oil-dragons and wolf-men
are out there employing slave-labor,
always the concubine wanting,
always the whore-stain soliciting?

one desire that especially
afflicts me ad momentum, dylan,
is an intense yearning for women.
when i see this photo

i am angry with rage-foam
that beauty captivates me in such thrill-spasm,
i am hot with blood that
the allure and the entice
waylay, molest and drill me,
i am rebellious with curdling scorpion
that shine-glitter moves me,
that glamour-glitz compels me.
i would much prefer the spirit to inform me,
i would much rather that one’s
dedication to the poor and unfortunate
rile me with thrashing excitica, dylan,
that one’s emanation of altruism
truly smote me with scarlet,
and enwhirled me with mind-jazz,
not pulchrome’s strike to the eye,
or its arrestation of the senses.

as an anarcho-primitivist, dylan,
you are probably much less susceptible
to beauty’s toxicity of jail,
and its harmful captivation of mind
than my grenadiers, my soldiers and my buffalo.
your lifestyle and your sensibility
despises traditional conventions
of beauty and crimson face,
your affinity-group distrusts
the poison of the lipstick,
and scorns the cocain of gold,
yet i,
my interior ever insurgent with jaguar-wind,
my flock ever mutinous with daggerang,
am much more susceptible to the caress,
and much weaker before the gembrace
than you.

i also harbor a deep, ravenous
hunger, dylan, for truth.
i want to cram my memory
with philosophical arguments,
i want to know the themes
of the most famous philosophical debates,
i want ontology, aesthetics, and poetry
to resonate in my ken,
and animate amid my corpus,
i want each scene in finnegans wake
to be at a moment’s recall,
i want each of the world’s four
great cultures, the western,
the islamic, the hindu and the orient
to not be shades of ignorance,
but bright song-angels of familiarity,
i want each of the most creative films’
strata, substances, layers, contingencies,
echoes and contradictions to lie
fully in the range in my mind,
and euphoriate deep in my orchestra,
i want the origins of life
to no longer be specters that haunt
my quaking ignorance
and molest my trek through winter,
but a breadth of concepts and principals
that warm my dreams in blithe,
and symphonize my ear with wonder.

i am well aware, dylan, that since
the age of twenty-five the size
of my mental library has expanded enormously.
i have now not only heard rumors
of that bewildering leviathan
that mongrels its enemies in ruthlèssum,
but actually confronted its spike and its claws.
i have not only heard tales
of homer’s famous pulse and flow
but now actually swam amid his song,
and touched my lips to his blaze.
no longer are the ideas of abu nuwas
simply a sleeping book of the dead,
or a walking corpse to be avoided,
but i now wholly acquaint myself with his blitz,
and am fully aware of his firmament.
and yet i am just as blooded,
just as furious with wind-noise,
just as bellicose, just as omnivorous
for knowledge’s ambivalent elixir now
as i was five years ago.

what then am i to do, dylan?
i well know that budhism scorns desire,
considers it null,
renders it no more account than ants.
busiri as well, the author of the arab world’s
most memorized poem, the burda,
lamented his subjugation to desire’s burns,
and its impalement of coal and sulfur.
saint francis as well counseled us
to be humble, poor and chaste,
and yet did he not yearn
to evangelize in muslim-held lands?
did he not once fester alone and unwanted
at the gates of saint peter’s?
did he not desire poverty’s nails,
and hunger for destitution’s grime?

this then is a paradox, dylan,
just as the greek word pharmakon
is both a medicine and a poison,
so too is desire the source of both
wonder-bliss, cloud-roam and ferment,
as well as tarantula, bug-bears and fang.
i do not know if i will ever fully
find serenity so long as desire gnaws,
or its henchmen subterfumigate,
or its mercenaries demand their pay,
nevertheless i will find whatever comfort
i can find in my quest for felicio-lightning,
and my search for rose of mind,
desire ever simmering,
desire always in the foreground,
desire lurking, desire hunting.

nov 2007

all your political activities

2010-07-13T07:57:00.001-04:00

some say the most beautiful thing
upon the black earth is cavalry,
others that it is soldiers,
sill others navies,
but i say that it is love.

- Sappho, fragment 16

all your political
activities will lead to naught, dylan,
unless love informs you.
it is love that led mohatma ghandi
two hundred thirty miles to the sea to march
so as the ghastlo-oppressive salt-laws of the british to protest,
and their hate-bitter regime to confront.
it was love that inspired doctor king
thistled days in the birmingham jail to spend,
there languishing, there in furnace,
all for the sake of his people’s rights,
and their delecto-taste splendido of freedom.
it was love for the mexicans
that motivated thoreau civil disobedience
to commit, the state’s wrath-mind to rebuke,
always love guiding him, nourishing him,
always love the altar and the halo.
and it was love that led mother theresa
to leave her isolated convent
and plunge into the very arms of the poor,
their needs minding, bandaging, not hers,
their plight mitigating, limiting, not hers.

i of course applaud your efforts
frederick demilitirized to render,
ourselves the biological-weapons
capital of the world to discontinue,
my soul effuses falcon-flight
when i see you castigate the world-bank,
and throw slime-foam at their jails,
my being convulses in spasmo-joy
when i see you reading the iww web-site,
your concern on the working-man focused,
your mind on their grind and their sweat fixed.
yet at the same time i also
know that the road to soul-kill
is layered in dreams of philanthrophy,
and primrosed with visions of altruism.
for this reason, dylan, it is absolutely essential
that love must permeate all of your actions in joy-gold,
and wash each part of your being in psych-splendor.
love must be for you
what a debate interview with bill o’reilly is for noam chomsky,
what the victory of the presidency is to dennis kucinich,
what a stateless society is to emma goldman,
what laura de sade of carpentras was to francesco petrarcha,
what beatrice portinari was to dante allighieri,
in short, nothing less than that essence
that completely unifies the soul in flourish,
all of one senses in haloesque accord,
their whole being pulsing and flowing with felicia,
a bright jasmo-dolphin of brilliance
arising from the sea in unalloyed triumpho.

just as sappho said it two thousand
seven hundred years ago so must it be said again:
some say there is nothing more magno-blitheful,
nothing more rapt in fire-trance,
nothing more illuminating of awe-shine
than armies marching, conquering,
armed ships sailing in conquest,
swords and shields prominent and large,
others say that it is isaac newton absorbed
to the point of insanity in scientific research,
his seamless concentration kidnapped,
inquiry, investigation and experimentation devouring him,
himself for the laws of nature lusting,
still others say it is marcel proust,
his mind roaming into disparate
and unrelated fields, his curiosity
meeting no hindrance, no hurdle,
his joy for interpersonal analysis unparalleled,
his ability life to explore all-consuming,
these of course are certainly
bright profusions of the great manifest,
and wild symphonies of searing delecto,
but i say that the most beautiful thing
upon this bewildering earth
is when love permeates
and pervades your every move,
love your omni-radiant beacon,
love your pan-enlightening torch,
love your guide, love your agent.

this then is my great hope for you, dylan,
that your every political decision,
that your every whim and caprice,
that all your dreams, all your aspirations
will all be decided within the context of love.
thus i encourage you to persevere
in your political endeavors.
continue poverty’s wrangle to combat,
persist in your confrontation
with the maul of the oil-man,
the hate-strike of the sloth-merchant,
uplift those who are walmarted,
those auschwitzed by napalm,
free those slave-children in china working,
liberate those defenseless mind-cripples
who are to the electric-chair destined,
but only do this if and only if
love pervades all your estuaries,
all your harbors, all your mountains,
do this if and only if
the rainbow of love abounds in your valley,
and glowphoriates in your temple.

nov 2007

wood

2010-07-13T07:52:00.001-04:00

wood

what do i like about wood?
it solidness, its firmness, the fact that although some wood is as hard as concrete there is, in spite of its density, expanding, vigorous life-blood within it
its imitation of human history, strong, humble, simple and unassuming in the beginning of its life, yet megalo-glorious, beauteous, and magno-awesomo when it has completed its quest
the variety of its species, the texture of its bark, the giganticum astonishum of its height
its hidden foundation, its occult support, its unseen base, just as the spiritual medicine of love, charity and hope is invisible
its self-sufficiency, its individuality, requiring nothing more from the world than the rays of the sun and the fluid-spray of celestium
its indifference to man continuing to grow whether or not a murder is committed in its midst or a pagan sect is worshipping it
its explozja, its galacto-bloom, its flourish, the fact that the top of the tree is sometimes twenty to thirty times larger than the base
the richness of its fuel, the usefulness of its state, warming the human hand when succumbing to the tiger-wrath of conflagaration
its gradual conquest of plain, its tenacious resistance to erozja, to mudslide, and to avalanche
its courageousness when confronted with hurricanum, tornado, hail, blizzard, wind, and tempest
its mystical silence, its intractable aloofness, its unshakeable otherworldliness, its thoughts never to be penetrated by human silence
its poverty of nerves, never shrieking out in anguish when the chainsaw rends it in sections
the simplicity of its design, one base, several branches and leaves
its similarity to a river system, nature’s imprint recurring again and again throughout its domain
its smell, the intake of its perfumes and odors reminding man of the immense variabilitum of life’s manifestasha
its dazzlezza, its glitterebo, its reflectica, the sun’s radiant gems shimmering off its leaves in sparkling diamamazement
the uniformity of its color, associating green unequivocally with life, with flourish, with health, with stability, with calm, and nutrition
its shield of solitude, its protective aura, enclosing man in a corner, away from the hustle and bustle of urban chaotica
its oceanic hegemony, entire colonies of wood existing in utter contrast to the lifeless steel, concrete, brick, iron and asphalt of man’s cities
its triumphant collapse when death finally malaria-strikes it with undeniable belch
its resoluteness, its tenacity, its unflinching determinasha to resist the onslaught of flood, deluge, or inundazja
its aura pleasentica when planted next to building, or lining the street, or enhancing the home
its unreal, ineffable, and indescribale serenity untroubled by the stress of war, nor toxified by the bubonicum of tyranny, nor scurvy-blasted by the blight of economic earthquake
its analogous structure to that of a human being, we, as well, in need of strong roots, a firm trunk, and as many branches and leaves as possible

*

i hold a piece of wood in my arms
this wood, cream-smooth, ivoryesque, and heart-moving – how flame-stunning it is that it is my cousin
both the animal and the plant arose from single celled organisms
ninety percent of our dna is found in the enigmatic recesses of wood’s glory-thrall
how slowly life progressed into the freedom of movement!
i derive peace, comfort, serenica and robust relish from the magnificata of this wood
i kneel down in contemplation, invisible butterflies sky-dancing in haze, the majesticum of the wood’s essence invigorating me with nirvana
i feel the leaves’ sparkling reflection of helios’ emanasha enriching my spectrum with cognac blush
i am one with the one
the wood is in me, around me, its ebullient mesmer flowing through me
i inhale the fructo-spasm of wood
at once, i am cleansed of the aridity, the staleness, the lifelessum, and the stagnant stench of urbana
i succumb to an avalanche of green gems, the leaves and the bark unite to lull me into a hypno-glowing stupor
again, i have found refuge in the wood, my distant cousin, the regenerator of the earth, the foundation of life, the cleanser of toxin

apr 2003

majestium unparalleled

2010-07-13T07:43:00.000-04:00

majèstium unparalleled

cougar scat has been found in my neighborhood confirming the witness of a neighbor

how this event fills my heart with rave-blush, thrill-pulse and amazum

to think that i came so close to seeing a feline world renown for his predatory astuteness, his razor-fangs resistlesso, and his claws slicendo

how i wish it could have been
me who observed his stealth mesmerendo
me who saw his ferocity unchecked
me who set eyes upon his glorium extranormum
me who witnessed his majèstium unparalleled

and in that moment of vision, reckless, synapse-firing, and jumping, i would have gained a greater understanding of a beast
that completely shuns society
that categorically rejects improvement
that considers himself entirely sufficient
that heeds his impulses without anguish
that ecstatically exults in ambush
that eternally resides in the present
that guiltlessly stalks his prey

how i would have exploded in extra-miraculosity as i became closer to a predator
whose feverish instincts enable it to rapier-pierce his victim with mutilating gash!
whose freedom is only restricted when his strike-weapons fail to fuel his appetites carniverum!
whose contempt for society permits him to obey any urge that invades his being!

o that i for one month might be a cougar!!
at war with everything that crossed my path!
sleeping each night in a different location!
subject to no law save the fury of famine!
stalking my prey in hidden combustion!
unbound by relationships, by property, or by family!
depending on myself for all my resources!
requiring nothing more than my jaws of explozja!
and my claws of steel-wrath!

how contrary would this existence be to my present one!!

how i would exalt in newness, in variety and in diversity!
how i would appreciate the evolution of the human!
how i would travel to a galaxy newvellum!
how i would witness reality in a completely different light!
how i would understand the advantages of primitivity!
how i would increase my comprehension of my own species!

jun 3 2003

syriana, analysis, critique, interpretation

2010-03-15T05:24:00.004-04:00

syriana is a great film which portrays the oil politics of the middle east. it is one of the most difficult films i've ever seen but after watching it three times one can understand the meaning of almost every line and what is happening in each scene. the film is about a modern day mossadegh, the former president iran who was overthrown in a cia inspired coup in 1953, living in a fictional emirate in the persian gulf though it is doubtlessly the uae who wants to modernize his country, and commits the grievous sin of awarding a contract to the chinese. he also wants to remove american military bases from his country. he is then gunned down by a cia missile, following this some suicide bombers take down an oil tanker stationed near-by. the film also dwells on the oil companies control over american politics and the government's inability to force the oil companies to respect the rule of law. the film's difficulty lies in the vast amount of characters each one vivid and real as well as in the dialogue which is most likely written in often vague and obscure english. the film's difficulty in no way detracts from its quality, quite the opposite its the film's complexity which forces the audience to think and respect it. rather than focus on plot summary or theme analysis for now i'll just deal with the characters.

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bennett holiday quite possibly gets more screen time than any other character. it is unusually bizarre to figure out why the director devotes so much time to this attorney that is defending connex against a government probe. bennet is not nearly as corrupted as the oil men or the cia agents. he is deeply confused about what he is doing with his life and has serious doubts about whether or not he has chosen the proper course of conduct. he is clearly uncomfortable working for connex yet he doesn't have the strength to give up his job and live a more authentic life. he represents the figure that is being pulled into the swamp of corruption but still has time to free himself, all the oil men, on the other hand, are beyond redemption. his father perhaps has lost his job and is forced to live with him. on one occasion his father says he looks "like shit" symbolizing that his father is not pleased with the work his son is doing then while walking away gives him the finger. to give an example of how confused bennett is: he actually takes his job seriously. a true lawyer for connex/exxon would understand that there is no way the government could win and would hardly put as much effort into his job as bennett does. bennett is seen, after all, in a huge warehouse pouring over documents from the year 1994. bennett demonstrates one act that points to his consummation with corruption. he tells jimmy pope, the ceo of connex, "look, we have evidence that dalton committed fraud, but the justice department wants more. we have to provide the illusion of due diligence." (all quotes are paraphrases) on the other hand he does demonstrate a moment of courage when he confronts the oil man of the year, lee janis, and says, yes, we have evidence that dalton committed fraud but we also uncovered a secret deal of an iranian oil pipeline benefiting the lead lawyer in the connex-killen merger. just as bennett says this his superior, sydney hewett rebukes him for his insolence and tells him to shut up. lee janis then confronts sydney hewett and asks him: "do you have something you want to tell me," which is code word for: "are you going to challenge my authority to do whatever i want." and of course the answer is no. bennett clearly understands how corruption, power and oil function in washington. while riding in a car with the justice department official the official tells him that "you could be implicated in covering up your client's corruption," to which bennett responds: "yes, dalton defrauded the people of kazakhstan money to which they were entitled," but dalton is a low-ranking employee that can be easily scapegoated. bennett of course does not have the courage to imply that the more powerful figures lee janis and jimmy pope are also guilty. the justice official doesn't believe him and says daniel daulton is not enough, in other words, he doesn't believe daulton acted alone, and presses bennett to implicate more powerful officials. bennett here reveals his true knowledge of how washington works. he threatens the government that if you press forward they will fight back, they will pressure you, your wife, your boss, your boss's wife, etc. we don't know what form that pressure will take but it is enough to scare the government. to give an example from real life exxon was initially penalized 5 billion dollars for the exxon valdez debacle but appealed to the supreme court and was able to reduce the punitive damages to 500 million. we also learn that bennett's firm is corrupt itself. in a conference meeting with connex/exxon he says that offering gifts to foreign officials is illegal to which jimmy pope says: "is it? i have personally seen a bill from your firm of 30 million for services rendered to the king of saudi arabia." sydney hewitt, bennett's associate, does not deny this and says merely that his firm, whitting-sloan is not under investigation. in another scene bennett is portrayed much more positively. although he doesn't speak clearly he is confronting daniel daulton with his corruption. after daulton's speech he is thoroughly disgusted, however he doesn't challenge or talk back to daulton. bennett is not an admirable figure he is merely less bad than everyone else. however he is not beyond hope and may one day give up his cushy job and struggle to do something more meaningful.

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standing in direct contrast to bennett holiday is his associate sydney hewitt. unlike bennett sydney is much more relaxed. bennett is trying however poorly to do the right thing with his life, he puts effort into his job whereas sydney could care less and is just piggybacking off the oil companies success giving them legal advice. he is smug, self-assured, confident and ridiculous though not as ridiculous as his superior, dean whitting.

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dean whitting is the most comical and absurd character in the whole film. his manners are fake, his english is artificial, most of his phrases are pathetic cliches which are rarely used in everyday speech. he even attempts to quote from the bible but it is obviously a misquote since he says "as they say in the bible there are many burning cities in europe," since the word europe according to biblegateway.com is not even in the bible. his most notable characteristic is that he sleeps next to a drawer of guns and has hired a security agency to alert him of any movement near his home, obviously a person who believes and probably rightly that his enemies are out to get him. his job is the owner of a law firm and apparently a highly successful one since it is able to receive a gift of 30 million dollars from the saudi government. it seems that he made his living by giving legal advice to oil companies. he also has some sort of connection to the cia since he tells bob that he worked in beirut in the 80s and apparently lost a lot of "friends" there though it is difficult to imagine how a spy could have real friends with the natives of the country that he is infiltrating. it is him that is specifically worried about bob spilling state secrets so although he owns a law firm he still works for the cia.

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brian woodword is a partner in a derivative trading firm in geneva and specializes in the analysis of oil. he is shallow and superficial but not excessively. when john d rockerfeller appears on the television he shows a keen interest in the man. his facial expressions are usually bland and plain and he sports a john kennedyesque, 1950's toothpaste ad smile. he admires wealth, decorum and appearances. after the unexpected drowning of his six year old son the audience naturally feels more sympathy with him, however the decisions he makes after his son's death are not positive. he barely mourns the lost of his son. he shows up to work the next day, only slightly phased. the camera focuses on him in his hotel room and he does not appear to be suffering excessively. at the funeral his wife cries painfully but he is barely affected. he is aware that he got the job as emir nassir's economic advisor because of the death of his son. after the emir informs him of the big deal he says something along the lines of "great, 70 million dollars for one son." on the positive side, in his later talks with the emir he is able to speak the truth bluntly without mincing words. i see no evidence that he deliberately used his son's death to get close to the emir. the emir chose him voluntarily but what is true is that his wife accuses him of profiting off his son's death. i personally see that as an unfair statement and while that may have been excessively harsh it is troubling that after he curses at her "f*** you," and she threatens to return to the us, he makes no effort to persuade her to remain. he would much rather ride in the car with prince nassir than with his wife. he is more attracted to wealth and power than his family. he is eventually seriously wounded by the missile that killed nassir symbolizing that if you're attracted to oil then you will be bruised and wounded, for he even told the emir once that the fight for oil is a fight to the death and apparently he somewhat took part in that fight and was wounded in the process.

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the younger prince mishal al zubayd is extremely materialistic and shallow. he is willing to play the role of the puppet king and do the bidding of the americans. his anecdote of his birthday present where he received a horse and the increase of his mutual fund on the same day clearly demonstrates how superficial he is. the suit he wears while being yelled at by dean whitting is striking for its materialism. and while his brother is petitioning his father to be king he can think of nothing better to do with his time than to play pool by himself. the most important scene which sums up the younger prince is that dean whitting in a rather drunken rage asks him to tell him what he wants and he says nothing. moreover, to think that a prince would tolerate such abusive language from a mere high-class american lawyer shows how powerless he really is. perhaps the scene that epitomizes the prince more than any other is where he is seen at the connex (exxon) award ceremony while his elder brother is being shot down, which firmly solidifies his role as the puppet king.

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the elder prince nassir is the film's strongest and most decisive figure. he has a phd from georgetown, speaks perfect english, posses deep penetrating furious eyes and is extremely charismatic. he also is almost always seen standing, walking around, working or giving a speech. one must keep in mind however that if he succeeded in his coup that he would have had to kill his brother yet that action is much less severe when one realizes that he was killing his brother to save his country. he wants to modernize his country as did ataturk, mossedeg, faisal or his namesake nasir of egypt. he wants to give women the right to vote, set up an independent judiciary, a parliament and the people love him. he manages to secure the support of 9 of 11 generals in his quest for the thrown yet unfortunately on his drive to the palace one of his entourage cellphones the cia informing them which car he's in and he is killed.

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the prince's father is nothing more than an old man who lacks the courage to stand up for his country's right to self determination. he is unwilling to oppose the americans. he also has a weakness for material luxury. he freely admits he loves europe and europe in muslim eyes symbolizes decadence, atheism and materialism. in most scenes he plays a small part but in the one scene where he is front and center he is not addressing the army or parliament but merely inviting some bankers and other european elites to a party in spain, welcoming the guests in a beautifully pronounced classical arabic (i wish all arabs spoke that way). he seems more of an entertainer or a salesman than a king. he even gives up his throne before his death which is unusual for rulers, most stay on the throne right up until end. doubtlessly he chooses his younger son to be king since he knows that his elder son will be gunned down by the americans.

choosing george clooney for bob the cia agent i think was a mistake. when we see clooney we automatically think that he's a good guy but it took me quite a while to figure out that bob is a cold-blooded thug. he is commissioned to kill prince nassir in beirut and fails. bob does somewhat redeem himself before the film is over when ironically he is killed trying to save the man, prince nasir, that he was formerly hired to kill. however this change of heart only came after his employer, the cia, turned against him. bob did not have a spiritual awakening from within and realized the immorality of his actions, he was merely trying to get revenge against his former employer. he has a 20 year old son at princeton but does not have a strong relationship with him. his son calls him a professional liar and is only interested in his father to the extent that he can use him, ie, get a car from him. in a scene towards the end with dean whitting, dean says that all your life you've been used and probably didn't know why. to which bob merely says: "i didn't need to know," in other words he had no principles and was a cheap mercenary. bob also has a bad habit of writing memos and we do not know exactly what this means but it is probably a code word for meaning that he opens his mouth too much and says thing that he should not. in his "audition" for a better job he refuses to do what he is told, namely say that iran is well on its way to being liberated from the ayatollahs, talks back to the security advisor (probably condolezza rice) and loses his chance for a better job. not only does he attempt to kill prince nassir he also plainly threatens dean whitting with death if anything should happen to him. in the scene that i had the most trouble understanding apparently the cia was worried that bob might release some state secrets. he finds out from a consultant that it is dean whitting specifically who is worried that he will reveal secrets. bob then stalks his house at night and the two later meet in a diner where he threatens him with death if anything should happen to him albeit with classic george clooney friendliness.

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the two cia beaurocrats, fred and the elder blond woman are virtually the same personage. they are remarkable for their positive aura in spite of the crimes they commit. the blond woman is in her late 40s and she appears quite motherly and sympathetic. she seems like someone you could easily be very good friends with and the audience can not help but be bewildered by the fact that she is a professional criminal although a state sponsored one. when she tells bob that prince nassir is a bad man because he's purchasing weapons that can be used against the united states it is difficult to know what she's thinking. does she truly believe that this is a bad guy? can she not see that he is simply trying to lead his country along an independent course? it's hard to know. she does show a little bit of shock and discomfort when her boss gives her the order to betray bob. however in spite of her shock she does her job and keeps her mouth shut. she uses the phrase "stay on message," which means adhere to american myths and ideology. doubtlessly since she uses the phrase she's good at staying on message herself, in other words she's an obedient servant, brainwashed and a drone. fred as well looks like someone you would meet a family reunion. he is even seen with his wife and kids in his plain suburban home when bob shows up to demand why he is being investigated. when he gives the order to kill prince nassir he considers it a job well done and seems to harbor few doubts about what he's doing. he too is a bit shocked when given the order to betray bob but of course he keeps his mouth shut.

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in contrast to fred and the blonde is their boss. while fred and the blonde are dutiful servants, their boss on the other hand seems much more certain about what he's doing. he seems to be a man of choice who knows full well the implications of his actions. he is more hardened. we only get to see him in action in one scene where he instructs his employees to betray bob but that scene is enough to inform us what sort of man he is.

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jimmy pope and lee janis are the oil men. they are virtually the same character but lee janis only appears in two scenes. jimmy is the film's most repugnant character. dean whitting is merely absurd and comical, prince mishal is just a shallow, materialistic puppet prince, but jimmy is actually vicious, mean, angry, stupid and proud. he admits that he does not even know what an emir is. he sees no shame in being a part of the committee to liberate iran, which is actually a committee to illegally overthrow a sovereign government. iran may be ruled by oppressive ayatollahs but jimmy is only interested in overthrowing them so that he can get his hands on iran's oil. he is proud of thwarting the chinese economy by restricting its access to oil. he enjoys hunting, a symbol for his insensitivity to the life of other beings. he remarks in a hunting expedition with bennett holiday that his success is attributed to hard work and luck, an absurd, shallow cliche and quite mysteriously and for no reason he freely admits that he has ruined his grandchildren, how we are not told. in the first scene that we see jimmy he is angry because a rival oil company won a contract to explore kazakhstan's oil, a clear demonstration of his greed. jimmy also bluntly tells us how many men his company has killed. while talking to bennett he tells him to tread very carefully: "if you dig down 6 feet you'll find 3 bodies, dig down 12 feet and you'll find 40 more," and he sees nothing wrong with this. in my opinion the actor that played jimmy did the best job, not because the other actors acted imperfectly but because jimmy's character was the hardest to portray correctly. lee janis merely reinforces the pride of the oil men. at his award ceremony, itself an event demonstrating pride since when you reward yourself you're basically saying "i'm awesome," he says that connex employees are the "finest in the world." it is also quite comical how seriously janis takes the award and how much emotion he displays in receiving it.

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daniel daulton is a less powerful oil man. he is more ridiculous and stupid than he is vicious. it could very well be that he actually believes the absurd farce he spouts. he has probably convinced himself that he is leading a respectful life, whereas jimmy pope seems more aware of his vice and simply ignores it. he is actually forced to justify his behavior on one occasion when bennett holiday confronts him and he says basically that if we follow the law then china and russia will benefit and it cannot be denied that he at least in part has some sort of point, however he still states this philosophy in a hopelessly idiotic manner. he says that when the government prosecutes certain business practices as corruption that they are simply interfering in market efficiency quoting milton friedman who won a nobel prize as if that is proof of the statement's correctness, obviously daulton is blissfully unaware that friedman first tested out his economic theories on the people of chile after the pinochet government crushed the popularly elected allende in a coup which ultimately killed 1500 of its own citizens, sent another 200,000 into exile and whose economic practices (starting in 73) can easily be summed up with following graph

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daulton is also seen on television testifying before congress about the merits of donating cash to politicians using all the standard cliches: "cash is speech," "i have a sovereign, inalienable, constitutional right to lobby my government," "you cannot limit my access to congress merely because it's effective." he most likely believes this. he too is part of the committee to liberate iran and again sees nothing wrong with overthrowing a sovereign government so as to gain access to its resources. daulton is the unfortunate scapegoat in this whole affair. several illegal practices are committed and daulton because he is less powerful has to pay for them. brian woodward is also wounded by this fight for oil but through other means.

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the pakistani oil worker represents the victim of the film. early in the film he is laid off his jobs due to the connex killen merger and although the work is doubtlessly dangerous and unpleasant he nevertheless prefers working to being unemployed and is saddened when he is out of a job. he is instructed that his visa through that company will expire in two weeks but he chooses to stay in the emirates illegally rather than return to pakistan, hardly a suprising decision. he struggles to find a job and in one scene he approaches a wealthy local and in a less than fluent arabic asks for basically an internship since he offers to work for free. he is told that if you want work in this country then learn arabic so he leaves dejected. also interesting is the fact that apparently he works with his father though it is not 100% clear that one of the others is his father since mulsims often call strangers their father, their brother, their uncle, or their mother. but if it is his father it is a clear sign of the boy's lack of guidance in his life. one rather heartbreaking scene comes when we see the europeans enjoying themselves at a party sponsored by the king of the emirates all of their kids playing in a beautiful pool whereas the pakistani boys are wondering around in the desert where there is virtually nothing except some electrical wires. also troubling is the horrible living conditions of the workers. qatar and the emirates according to the imf ranks 3rd and 8th in terms of per capita wealth yet they have no interest in treating their workers with any dignity. the workers live in aluminum shacks 10 to 15 to one room, and one television. eventually the two boys end up at an islamic school, where the imam quite subtly persuades them to destroy an oil tanker in a suicide mission using the missile that he stole from bob in the film's beginning.

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the imaam is portrayed as devious and cunning. he has a devilish smile, is persuasive and as we saw in the first scene of the movie where he steals the missile that bob sells his lust for violence and weapons nearly distorts him into some sort of animal. it should be noted that the imam barely makes an effort to persuade the boys to become suicide bombers and most likely the boys did it on their own free will with little or no coercion. they are seen watching a video where another suicide bomber gives his farewell address and the only other instance where they need persuasion was when the imaam says to them "this is a small group but in this small group is an even smaller group of a young muslims dedicated to carrying out the true faith."

all in all a rather remarkable film.

Finnegans Wake chapter 4

2009-09-14T18:53:00.001-04:00

In explaining chapter 4 I do not have the time here to prove my reasons for the identity of all the characters. That would take a lot of time. I just wanted to write this up for a facebook group that is currently working on that chapter. If you would like to join that group can be found here:

facebook group

I'll worry about justifying all my theories when I get down to writing my book on the Wake, so for the moment you'll just have to trust me though there are doubtless mistakes in this reading.

The first paragraph concerns three speculations concerning why something happened, what that is is not clear but the building of HCE's grave in the later paragraphs is a likely candidate. The first theory is rather obscure but one clause in the sentence: "it may be ... those lililiths undeveiled which hat undone him," Izzy is often identified with Lillith later in the book. "And knew not the watchful treachers at his wake," mostly likely refers to HCE's three sons, though the evidence is not conclusive. The second theory is also obscure but allusions to Izzy, Shaun and Shem are made though not in what capacity since the verbs reglimm and presaw are not clear: "It may be ... that he reglimmed? presaw? ... Ysit [Izzy] shamed [Shem] and shone [Shaun]."

The third theory is very difficult to explain to a beginner. In short what the sentence is saying is that he prayed that his wordwounder, the Cad who is the combination of his sons, Shem and Shaun, or perhaps wordwounder is just Shem, might unfold (grow up to be) the first of a distinguished dynasty, the main idea of the sentence shifts and discusses that his most besetting of ideas was the formation of a prison that would jail the Cad thereby eliminating him from all classes and masses. The first part of the sentence mostly concerns clues that the subject is HCE. King Billy (William III of Orange) on a "white horse" and Finglas mill where William had his headquarters at the battle of the Boyne are three solid clues that it is indeed HCE: "It may be ... that with his deepseeing insight ... within his patriarchal shamanah, broadsteyne ... He Conscious of Enemies, a kingbilly whitehorsed in a Finglas mill, prayed." We then return to what HCE is praying about. The evidence that the wordwounder is his son, the Cad, is rather overwhelming. Angels and devils, sheep and goats and pigs are all symbols for the Cad, plus wordwounder is a reasonable description of Shem. The Cad is associated with pigs because Spigott, the man who tried to incrinimate Parnell with a forged letter, his name looks like pig. Moreover, the fact that he is praying that this wordwounder would develop his dynasty further leads us to suspect that it is his son he is praying for: "and bred with unfeigned charity that his wordwounder (an engles [angel] to the teeth who ... would go anyold where in the weeping world on his mottled belly [snake, devil, an allusion to the Genesis passage] (the rab, [Irish for pig] ...) ... might ... unfold into the first of a distinguished dynasty of his posteriors, blackfaced connemaras [sheep] not of the fold but elder children of his household." The sentence then shifts and discusses HCE's most besetting idea. Mountjoy is a prison as well as Castle of Ham which even housed Napoleon III who is an unequivocal symbol for HCE's sons, Ham as well being the son of Noah that corresponds to Shaun (in the museyroom Lipoleum is the three sons since there were three Napoleons and Wellington is HCE): "his most besetting of ideas ... being the formation ... where ... the Mountain of Joy receives ... Ham's cribcracking yeggs, thereby at last eliminating from all classes and masses ...: sigarius (sic!) vindicat urbes terrorum (sicker!): and so ... the obedience of the citizens elp the ealth of the ole." It is not completely clear that one can fairly say HCE will thereby eliminate "him," since him does not appear in the phrase, the problem is that the sentence ends with a quote by Augustine whose significance I don't understand, as well as the Dublin motto: the obedience of the citizens is the city's happiness whose meaning I also do not fully understand.

The text then moves on from theory and concerns the real action which is the building of HCE's grave and his subsequent escape: "Now gode. Let us leave theories there and return to here's here." The most important aspect of the following sentence is that we realize that it is HCE's three sons, often called Tom, Dick or Harry but also refer to Noah's three sons, Shem, Ham and Japhet that are making his grave: "The teak coffin ... was to turn in later ... near the porpus [corpus] ... Any number of conservative public bodies ... before voting themselves and himself, town, port and garrison [Tom, Dick and Harry] by a fit and proper resolution ... made him ... their present of a protem [temporary] grave in Moyelta of the best Lough Neagh pattern." I realize that town, port and garrison are rather different from Tom, Dick and Harry but in reviewing the entire Wake virtually any two one syllable names, followed by a third multiple syllable name refers to Tom, Dick and Harry. Also important is that underneath Lough Neagh was a mythical city which seems to explain the following sentence.

The sentence beginning with "It was in a fairly" I don't understand.

When I first read this next passage I thought it was HCE building the grave even though that did not make sense. I now favor an ambiguous interpretation which says that it is the Cad digging the grave and HCE blasting out of the grave at the same time. I have counted nine clues that point to the Cad digging the grave and five clues that suggest that HCE is blasting out of the grave. First the HCE clues: Adam, the masterbuilder, Sygstryggs, a variation of the 11th century Danish king, Thor, and Abraham who purchased the cave of Machpelah for a family tomb are all strong HCE figures. The cad figures include: Patrick, Cassivellaunus, a British chief who resisted Caesar since the Cad is identified with resisting foreign invasion, Saint Thomas à Becket because he was killed by a king, Saint Laurence O'Toole because King Dermot married his sister and the word occaecatus which means made blind in Latin refers to Shem. The other clues are harder to understand, three refers to the Cad, "Sygstryggs to nine," is 6 to 9, numbers which are mirror images of each other and have nothing to do with the sexual position, are a reference to Izzy who often talks to her mirror image in the book. Lastly the Cad is identified with tree and stone because treestone looks like tristan. "Blaetther begins to fail" refers to trees since Blaetther is leaves in German, and the stone slab refers to tree and stone. Another possible interpretation is that it is only one person who is doing the action it's just that many characters in the wake share characteristics from two sigla.

Our masterbuilder, the Cad/HCE, openly damned and blasted this underground heaven (the city underneath Lough Neagh), exploded from a T.N.T bombingpost and fused into tripupcables. The Cad/HCE afterwards neared it and lined it with bricks and mortar thus encouraging public councils to present to him a stone slab with the motto written: "We have done ours gohellt with you, Heer Herewhippit, overgiven it, skidoo!"

This wastohavebeen underground heaven, [the city underneath Lough Neagh] ... (its architecht, Mgr Peurelachasse, having been obcaecated [blind, Shem] lest he should petrifake [Patrick] suchanevver while the contractors Messrs T. A. Birkett [Thomas à Beckett] and L. O. Tuohalls [Laurence O'Toole] were made invulnerably venerable) ... our misterbilder, [masterbuilder] Castlevillainous, [Cassivellaunus] openly damned and blasted ... exploded from a reinvented T.N.T. bombingpost ... to sternbooard out of his aerial thorpeto, [thor] ... and fused into tripupcables, [three] ... and playing down from the conning tower into the ground battery fuseboxes, all differing as clocks from keys ... some saying ... it was Sygstryggs [Sitric, six] to nine, [6 9]... He afterwards whaanever his blaetther [TREE leaves] began to fail [fall] off him ... and, stoop by stoop, he neared it ... carefully lined the ferroconcrete result with rotproof bricks and mortar ... so encouraging ... additional useful councils public ... to present unto him ... a STONE slab with the usual Mac Pelah [Abraham] address of velediction, a very fairworded instance of falsemeaning ADAMelegy: We have done ours gohellt with you, Heer Herewhippit, overgiven it, skidoo!

Just as Egyptian pharoahs were buried with all sort of objects so too would HCE be buried with all kinds of bric au brac so that he could live out the rest of the days of his life: "Show coffins, winding sheets, goodbuy bierchepes, cinerary urns, liealoud blasses ... any kind of inhumationary bric au brac ... would ... naturally follow ... enabling that roundtheworlder wandelingswight [wight: man] ... to live all safeathomely the ... days of his life ... whaling away the whole of the while ... embalmed, of grand age."

HCE then bolts out of his grave though it is not clear why he is called Blueblitz. One possibility is that he is often linked with Thor, blitz meaning lightning in German: "Blueblitzbolted from there, knowing the hingeworms [worms entering coffins at the hinges] ... buried burrowing in Gehinnon, [Hell, Gehenna] to proliferate through all his Unterwealth [Underworld] ... and revisit our Uppercrust Sideria." The remainder of the sentence which seems to be an adjective clause describing Sideria I do not understand.

In the next sentence there is a parenthetical phrase that is very difficult to grasp: (for Breedabrooda [Shem] had at length presuaded him to have himself to be as septuply buried as the murdered Cian [Cad] in Finntown). Breedabrooda is a Hungarian king that came to power after murdering his brother which would link him to Shem since Cain murdered his brother. The Cian character, not to be confused with Cain, is an Irish king that could change into a pig at will which would link him to the Cad. That would suggest that Shem persuaded the Cad to have himself buried in place of HCE for the whole sentence reads: "The other spring offensive on the heights of Abraham may have come about all quite by accidence, Foughtarundser [our father, HCE] (for Breedabrooda [Shem] had at length presuaded him to have himself to be as septuply buried as the murdered Cian [Cad] in Finntown), had not been three monads [minutes] in his watery grave ... when portrifaction [putrefication] ... began to ramp, ramp, ramp." However that interpretation seems rather unsatisfactory, it suggests that Shem is trying to help HCE by deceiving the Cad and it never happens in the wake that Shem helps HCE. That is the only meaning I can get from the sentence. Also problematic is that HCE bolted out of his grave in the last paragraph, not that the Wake's narrative thread is always logical.

The next three sentences I can also not translate. Hoodenwinkle is probably HCE due to hat, since Finn MacCool means white hat and also because Tim Finnegan is a man of hod. Patrizien is probably Shaun because of Patrick. And Shem is druiven because it means grapes in Dutch, the subjects are clear but the verbs and objects attached to them are not: "A hoodenwinkle [Dutch hatshop, Hod] gave the signal and a blessing paper freed the flood. Why did the patrizien [Shaun] make him scares with his gruntens? Because the druiven [Dutch grapes Shem] were muskating at the door."

The next sentence fits into two halfs. The first half concerns the identity of the two warring camps. It seems to be the Cad and HCE. The Cad is often identified with the new, the south and Ireland. HCE is often identified with Scandinavia, Russia, England and consequently Northern Ireland, here Ulster: "From both Celtiberian camps (granting at the onset for the sake of argument that men on the two sides in New South Ireland [Cad] and Vetera [old] Uladh [Ulster])[HCE] ... each, of course, on the purely doffensive ... were drawn toowards their Bellona's Black Bottom." [perhaps Izzy] I have no evidence that Bellona refers to Izzy. Bellona is a Roman war goddess which Izzy is never associated with to my knowledge, nor is she ever associated with black or bottom or even BBB but that is the most logical candidate. However the word their is used and both the Cad and HCE possess something in common, Izzy.

The second half of the sentence tells why the person suggests the appearance of the "old wugger" the reason being he had been feeding off the flesh of his own misplaced fat, ie, hump during his hibernation or his incarceration: "the person garrotted [a weapon like a chain] may have suggested ... the first old wugger [Earwicker] of himself in the flesh ... for there had circulated freely fairly among his opposition the feeling that in so hibernating Massa Ewacka, [Earwicker] who ... had been known ... to get outside his own length of rainbow trout and ... devour his threescoreten [90] of roach per lifeday ... was ... all this time of totality secretly and by suckage feeding on his own misplaced fat."

The paragraph beginning with Ladies did not disdain I have no explanation for.

All in all these paragraphs are pretty tough going for the Wake but they do eventually yield enjoyment if you work at them.

Butt and Taff, Finnegans Wake analysis

2009-09-14T18:49:00.002-04:00

To see this in Google Docs go here

Butt and Taff

The Identities of Butt, Taff
and the Russian General

I have read through the Butt and Taff narrative and used the allusions so as to pinpoint to which sigla each character belongs. Many believe that Buckley is a Cain character and the Russian General is an Abel character. My research however shows that Buckley is primarily Cad and secondarily he seems to show traits equally from Abel as from Cain. Taff is primarily HCE and secondarily Abel. The Russian General is primarily HCE. His secondary identity is problematic since he exhibits more Cain characteristics than Abel. Most likely I have misinterpreted the symbols and further research will eventually show him to be Abel. Each character has aspects of all the sigla but ultimately they embody one sigla more than its opposite.
Let me say a few words on the art of interpreting symbols. First there are many allusions which I cannot yet attach to any sigla. For examples there are allusions to the Bakerloo London underground, the Tuileries in Paris, Swift's Yahoos, none of these I see any relation to any of the sigla. All of these have been ignored. Then there are allusions which definitely are associated with certain sigla but they cannot be attached to any of the three characters. For instance on line 341.05 it reads: "Buckily buckily, blodestained boyne!" That could be mean that Buckley was a victim of the Battle of the Boyne (Cad) or that he perpetrated the Battle of the Boyne (HCE). Those allusions as well I have ignored.
These observations should be taken with a grain of salt as I don't understand the Wake's symbols fully.

There is a table at google docs which is much easier to see, here it doesn't work.

Butt Taff General
abel 10 2 2
cad 31 2 7
cain 12 3
hce 14 13 32
Abel
france 2
mookst 1
ondt 3
patrick 1
pope 2 1 2
shaun 2
Cain
berkely/nihilism 2
cain 1 1
ear/eye 1
gracehoper 1 1
heresy 2 1
japanese 3
rebellion 1
shem 1
Cad
ant/gracehoper 1
brown/nolan 2
cad 2 1
communism 1
fw enjoyed 1
goat/sheep 1
horus 1
jonathan swift 2
kersse/tailor 2 1
napoleon 1
new ireland 1
ondt/gracehoper
peter/paul 2 2
piggott/anti parnell/hesitency 4
resistance to invasion 1
shinn fein 1
son 1
st stephen 1
stephen deadalus 1
three soldiers 6
tristan, tree/stone 2 2
E sigla
adam 1
against 3 soldiers 1
bartholomew vanhomrigh 1
buddha 1
cromwell 1 1
czar 3
duke of wellington 1 1
earwicker 1 1 1
fascism 1
father 1
finn maccool 1 1
fish 1
HCE 1 2
hump 2 1
humpty dumpty 3
invaders 1 2
jesus 1
jove 1
king 2 1 6
king mark 2
mohammed 1
pederastry 2
pierce o'reilley 1
protestant ireland 2
ragnarokr 2
resurrection 2
sailor 1
sechseläuten 1
seven items of clothing 1
strongbow 1
viking 1 1

Butt/Buckley

Abel sigla

France
Because Saint Patrick came from France this characteristic is usually associated with the Abel sigla. This is made most explicit in chapter 3.3.
351.14 François Achille Bazaine: French Army Marshal, best known for his surrender of Metz (1870), his courtmartial and death sentence, which was replaced by twenty years in prison, and his escape to Madrid where he died. Butt simply blurts out: "Banzaine!"
351.16 Butt says: "Paddy Bonhamme he vives! Encore!" petit bonhomme il vit encore: man in the street still lives ('Jacques Bonhomme' personifies France).

Ondt
338.17 Taff says to Butt: "Conscribe him tillusk, unt."
340.33 Taff says to Butt "your ant's folly."
343.20 Butt says nixnixundnix, the home of the Ondt.

Patrick
346.22 Taff says Patrick my son in Irish to Butt. Irish Páid a mhic: Pat, my son. "And don't live out the sad of tearfs, piddyawhick!"

Pope
The Mookse is associated with the Pope though I am not certain that the Pope is also not an E sigla character which would make sense as the Pope represents the status quo.
339.01 Butt uses the fisher's ring which is the pope's ring of investiture: "as that flashermind's rays [ring] and his lipponease longuewedge wambles."
345.02 Butt mingles his Hail Mary's and Gospels: "I immingled my Irmenial hairmaierians ammongled his Gospolis," this allusion could plausibly be associated with the Pope but it is iffy.

Shaun
343.14 Butt put his coat over his shoulders to look more like the jauntlyman
350.11 Butt has a mailbag: "with sunflawered beautonhole pulled up point blanck by mailbag."

Cain sigla

Berkely/Nihilism
341.12 Butt wines for tar water. Berkely saw tar water as a panacea
346.32 Butt "is a niallist [nihilist] of the ninth homestages."

Cain
354.04 Cain said: 'My transgression is greater than pardon.' Butt at the exact moment where he describes shooting the Russian General was "pulling alast stark daniel with alest doog at doorak while too greater than pardon."

Heresy
350.29 Butt was "feeding and sleeping on the huguenottes."
350.31 Butt "had been ... raiding revolations over the allbegeneses," The Albigensians were 13th century Spanish heretics.

Japanese
Berkely in Book 4 is associated with things Japanese. Because Berkely is a definite Cain sigla these allusions are categorized under Cain.
339.01 "as his (Butt's) lipponease (Japanese) longuewedge wambles."
351.14 Butt simply blurts out: "Banzaine!" Bonzai
351.20 While describing the halcyon days Butt says: "It was buckoo bonzer, beleeme." [believe me] Bonze: Japanese Buddhist priest

Gracehoper
338.35 Butt "switches on his gorsecopper's fling weitoheito [whitehot] langthorn."

Shem
344.31 Butt swears by son of shem, arram: "But, meac Coolp, Arram of Eirzerum."

Cad sigla

Brown/Nolan
351.35 "send us (Butt and others) victorias nowells and brownings, dumm, sneak and curry."
352.16 Perhaps Brown/Nolan is associated with Butt but we can not be sure. in describing Taff it says that "he senses that they have given bron a nuhlan." They could be giving someone else a brown a nolan but Butt is a likely candidate.

Cad
343.11 Taff calls butt "Myles-na-Coppaleen," a man who shot the hunchback Danny Mann in Boucicault's The Colleen Bawn, since hunchbacks are associated with the E sigla this makes him a cad.
350.33 Butt says: "like we chantied on Sunda schoon, every warson wearrier KADDIES a komnate in his schnapsack."

Communism
343.08 Taff calls butt a "comeylad."

Ear/Eye
351.25 ear/eye. Butt "could always take good care of himself, eyedulls or earwakers."

Finnegans Wake (enjoyed it)
351.02 Butt says: "and all the fun I had in that fanagan's week." Because Butt enjoyed the wake of Tim Finnegan that implies caddish behavior.

goat/sheep
350.23 goat/sheep. "their lambstoels in my (Butt's) kiddeneys and my ramsbutter in their sassenacher ribs."

Jonathan Swift
Jonathan Swift's nickname was the Dane, the Irish pronunciation of dean which is an E sigla characteristic. But because of his vehement opposition to England and the establishment he is primarily associated with the Cad.
347.28 Desires Stella and Vanessa. Butt was: "Gidding up me anti vanillas and getting off the stissas me aunties."
347.29 Butt was "swiping a johnny dann sweept."

Kersse/tailor
343.02 Taff says to Butt: "you collier carsst on him (general)."
352.25 Taff says to Butt: "you were shutter reshottus," a reference to Carlyle's Sartor Resartus."

Napoleon
350.33 Napoleon: 'Every French soldier carries a marshal's baton in his knapsack.' Butt says: "like we chantied on Sunda schoon, every warson wearrier kaddies a komnate in his schnapsack."

New Ireland
348.16 Butt mentions the people of New Ireland: "i give thee ... the arrest of the whole inhibitance of Neuilands."

Piggott/antiparnellites/hesitency
338.09 Taff says to Butt: "What see, buttywalch?" a reference to the antiparnellite archbishop of Dublin, Billy Walsh.
349.03 Taff says to Butt: "mind your p's and q's if you pigotts."
350.12 "the hissindensity buck [thus] far of his (butt's) melovelance tells how when he was fast marking his first lord for cremation."
350.17 Butt says "I Pack pickets, [Piggott] pioghs and kughs to be palseyputred."

rebellion
350.22 Butt says: "I had my billyfell of duckish delights the whole pukny time on rawmeots and julianneswith," This could be a possible Cad sigla since the two lovers rebelled against the existing order but it is iffy.

resistance to invasion
346.19 Taff says to Butt: "you are on for versingrhetorish," Vercingetorix resisted Caesar's invasion of Gaul.
344.25 Buckley "hears amid the shieldfails awail of the bitteraccents."

Son
346.22 Taff says Patrick my son in Irish to Butt. Páid a mhic means Pat, my son in Irish. "And don't live out the sad [sod] of tearfs, [turf] piddyawhick!"

Stephen Deadalus
348.21 Butt says that he and the three soldiers went to Clongowes Wood College, the school in Portrat: "Clongowes Wood College."

Three Soldiers or the number three
348.03 Butt is described as "in his difficoltous tresdobremient," tres means three in Spanish.
348.10 Butt says his boyars are fusiliers: "I now with platoonic leave recoil in ... me misenary post for all them old boyars ... I dring to them, bycorn spirits fuselaiding," the three soldiers are referred to as Welsh fusiliers in chapter 1.2.
348.18 Butt says the three soldiers were "Meould attashees the currgans ... Cedric said Gormleyson and Danno O'Dunnochoo and Conno O'Cannochar." Cedric or Sitric Silkenbeard, of Leinster, son of Gormfhlaith (his mother), led the Danes at the Battle of Clontarf. Domhnall O Donnchadha (O'Donoghue), of Munster, fought on the Irish side at the Battle of Clontarf. Ruaidhri O Conchobhair (Roderick O'Connor), of Connacht, was the last high king of Ireland. There are many contradictions however with these names. Sitric Silkenbeard is an E sigla, Domhnall is a Cad sigla and Roderick O'Connor is an E sigla.
351.07 Butt's fellows were "praddies three and prettish too," the conjunction of three and two refers to three soldiers and two temptresses.
351.26 Butt "did not care three tanker's hoots, ('sham! hem! or chaffit!)"
351.35 "send us (Butt and others) victorias nowells and brownings, dumm, [Tom] sneak [Dick] and curry." [Harry]

Tristan, tree/stone
346.34 King Anguish was the father of Isolde. Here Butt is seen as a challenger to him. "lest he (butt) should challenge himself, beygoad, till angush." [anguish]
348.22 While describing his attachees at clongowes Butt says: "with those khakireinettes, our miladies in their toileries, the twum plumyumnietcies, Vjeras Vjenaskayas, of old Djadja Uncken (uncle) who was a great mark," the words Uncle and mark in such close proximity make this a reference to King Mark and Butt his nephew.

E sigla

Duke of Wellington
351.34 Butt swears by General Blücher who fought against Napoleon at Waterloo: "respectables soeurs assistershood ... they would never ... let me down. Not on your bludger [Blücher] life, touters!"

Earwicker
351.25 Butt "could always take good care of himself, eyedulls or earwakers."

Finn MacCool
344.28 Butt says "no lie is this," a quote from the Youthful Exploits of Finn by Comyn.

HCE (initials)
353.08 Butt is "making a bashman's haloday out of the Euphorious HagiohygieCynicism of his die and be diademmed."

Invaders
352.27 Butt "miraculises into the Dann Deafir," Danny Deever is a ballad about a British soldier hanged for murder in India.

Jesus
343.05 Taff says butt retreated along the stations of the cross

Jove
351.35 jove. Butt swears by him: "And, by Jova, I never went wrong nor let him doom."

King
346.32 Butt "is a niallist of the ninth homestages," Niall of the Nine Hostage, an Irish king.
352.12 Butt says: "Thistake it's meest! And after meath the dulwich," Louis XIV said the state if me.

Mohammed
353.06 Butt momentarily scoffs: "maomant scoffin," here Mohammed resembles the Italian operatic translation Maometto.

Protestant/British ireland
339.01 Butt says "ulster to victory."
347.07 Butt was in the Royal Irish Militia: "higheye [I] was in the Reilly Oirish Krzerszonese Milesia, since the word Royal is used this links it to British dominated Ireland.

The Bell of Sechseläuten
344.27 "my (Butt's) bill it forsooks allegiance." The bell of Sechseläuten is a reference to the burial of winter where each year a symbolic effigy of winter is officially burned. This is a plausible symbol for the passing of the elder generation embodied in the E sigla.

Viking
348.14 Swaran: Norse leader defeated by Fingal. Butt says I "give thee our greatly swooren."

Izzy sigla

Heliotrope
350.11 Heliotrope originally meant any sunflower. Butt has a "sunflawered beautonhole."

P & Q
349.03 Taff says to Butt: "mind your p's and q's if you pigotts," since the p's and q's are the possession of Butt this allusion has been assigned to Butt.
350.17 Butt says: "I Pack pickets, pioghs and kughs to be palseyputred."

Oval sigla

Rainbow
351.05 Provençal arc-de-sedo: rainbow. Butt says: "Arcdesedo! Renborumba! [rainbow] Then were the hellscyown days."

Other important allusions

British
343.09 Taff calls Butt "perfedes albionias," Albion meaning England.

a brother
347.29 While describing the time and place of the shooting Butt was: "Gidding up me anti vanillas and getting off the stissas me aunties. Boxerising and coxerusing." Box and Cox were unwitting brothers that let the same room, the landlord each day would remove their belongings. One worked at night the other worked at day. They were also both betrothed to the same woman.

brother and son at the same time
341.17 Butt says: "my pife for his cgar!" in Portrait: "Simon says of his father: 'We were more like brothers than father and son. I'Il never forget the first day he caught me smoking... I was standing... with some maneens... we had pipes... the next day... he said, try one of these cigars'

Hell/Devil
343.04 Taff says Butt had been gambling on "cerberating." [cerberus]

Ireland
I'm pretty sure the Cad is Irish but I haven't confirmed this yet.
338.36 Butt is "fed up the grain oils of Aerin"
344.06 Taff calls Butt "a papist."
344.31 Butt swears by Ireland, Arram of Eirzerum. "But, meac Coolp, Arram of Eirzerum.
347.04 Butt says "after a power of skirmishes," Ghazi Power, an Irish journalist used the phrase a power of skirmishes.
351.06 "our fellows, the loyal leibsters, [Leinster] and we (Butt and friends) was the redugout rawrecruitioners."

Oscar Wilde
345.13 Butt quotes Wilde's de Profundis: "I met with whom it was too late." Wilde to Douglas in De Profundis: 'but I met you either too late or too soon'
350.10 Butt uses "a gisture expansive of Mr Lhugewhite Cadderpollard." Lady Colin Campbell said Oscar Wilde was like a great white caterpillar.
350.11 Wilde wore a flower in buttonhole at his first trial as Butt has a "sunflawered beautonhole."
350.12 Wilde was tried at Oldbally Court as Butt has "a sunflawered beautonhole pulled up point blanck by mailbag mundaynism at Oldbally Court."
350.14 Wife of his bottom is a possible allusions to sodomy and enter his behind is a definite allusion to sodomy: "the whyfe of his (Butt's) bothem was the very lad's [last] thing to elter [enter] his mehind."
350.17 Butt says: "With askormiles' [Oscar] eskermillas. I had my billyfell of duckish delights."

Peter/Paul
350.17 Butt says: "I Pack pickets, pioghs and kughs to be palseyputred." [paul/petered]
351.14 Butt cries out: "S. Pivorandbowl!"

The Royal Divorce
This symbol should be associated with the Cad since it concerns Napoleon's divorce from Josephine and his marriage to Louise but I'm not yet familiar with it enough to equate definitely with the Cad.
348.14 Butt gives Taff "our royal divorce."

Wolf
351.36 Butt says: "risky wark rasky wolk, at the head of the wake," the person at the head of the wake would be a cad character. Russian russkii volk: Russian wolf.

Taff

Abel sigla

Mookst
339.35 Taff was "born into the monkst of the vatercan"

Pope
345.24 Taff offers Butt to drink of this cup: Trink off this scup." an allusion to mass: "and be bladdy orafferteed!" communion: Butt then "takecups the communion of sense at the hands of the foregiver of trosstpassers."

Cad sigla

brothers
341.09 "Trovatarovitch! [troubadour] I trumble!" Verdi's opera. 'Il Trovator! Io fermo!'': 'the troubadour! I rage!' In Verdi's opera il Conte di Luna's rival for his lover is also his brother.
343.20 Butt says to Taff: "Never you brother me for I scout [doubt] it."
344.08 Taff is "giving his scimmianised twinge." (Butt)

Horus
346.35 Butt says to Taff: "Horrasure, toff!"

Kersse/Tailor
339.18 Bulgarian terziya: tailor. Taff is described as: "all Perssiasterssias shookatnaratatattar at his waggonhorchers."

Rebellion
346.28 Taff says "free bond men lay lurkin on," James Larkin, Irish labor leader. Labor activists represent a challenge to the current status quo, hence rebellion.

E sigla

Buddha
338.13 Butt says to Taff: "but da," as if he's trying to get his attention.

Cromwell
353.33 Taff has "wools gatherings all over cromlin."

Duke of Wellington
338.09 Taff says "All was flashing and krashning blurty [bloody] moriartsky [murder] blutcherudd?" [Blücher]

Earwicker/Persse O'Reilley
340.35 Taff says: "my farst [fist] is near to hear [EAR] and my sackend [WICKER CHAIR] is meet to sedon while my whole's a peer's aureolies." [PIERCE O'REILLEY]

Father
338.10 Butt appears to be calling Taff father by saying: "but dada."

Fish
345.24 Taff tells Butt to "drink of this scup." Scup means fish.

Hump
339.02 Norwedgian pukkel: hump. Butt says to Taff: "Sehyoh narar, pokehole sann!" Sann could be interpreted as son but the Japanese sann as a term of respect is stronger.
352.20 Taff has a lumpy hump.

Invader
346.27 Taff says: "Shinfine deed [dead] in the myrtle of the bog." Because Shinn Fein is mentioned as dead this allusion can be classified as a characteristic of invasion.
339.26 Butt gives taff "allasundery [Alexander] the bumfit of the doped"

King
340.27 Taff sees Saint Patrick visiting Izzy: "he sees Bishop Ribboncake ... going forth on his visitations of mirrage [Izzy] or Miss Horizon." Because Taff is concerned about this, this makes him a King Mark figure.

Sailor
338.09 Russian moriak: sailor. Taff says "All was flashing and krashning blurty moriartsky blutcherudd?"

Strongbow
Strongbow was the first Anglo-Norman to invade Ireland. He could be classified as an invader but since he is referred so often he gets his own category.
343.04 Taff gambles on his tomb: "I'll gogemble on strangbones tomb."

other

Bear
Each sigla seems to be associated with a certain animal. I'm pretty sure that the fox is an E sigla, and Bear is a cad but not certain.
342.35 bear, he takes "takes the dipperend (big dipper, big bear) direction" and orients himself towards the constellations where the big bear lies, saggitarius and draco: "orients by way of Sagittarius towards Draco on the Lour"

Guiness
345.22 Taff had been lavishing "words of silent power [which] ... have resulted in a momstchance ministring of another guidness."

Oscar Wilde
352.20 Taff has a lumpy hump off homosodalism (homosexuality)

Osiris
Osiris is both an Abel sigla since he was killed by his brother and an E sigla since he returned to life.
345.19 Words of silent power is a Book of the Dead reference. Taff had been lavishing "words of silent power." Since the hero of the book of the dead, Ani, is called so often throughout Osiris-Ani this allusion can be safely categorized as an Osiris reference.

Russian General

Abel sigla

Pope
349.18 The Russian general appears in "the figure of a fellowchap in the wohly ghast, POPEy O'Donoshough, the jesuneral of the russuates."
349.25 In the italicized portions describing the General: "It is for the castomercies mudwake surveice. The victar," victar is close to vicar, ie, Vicar of Christ, Pope.

Cain sigla

Cain
338.17 Jubal and Tubal were Cain's descendents. Taff says the General was "in his jubalant tubalence."

Gracehoper
338.18 Taff says: "Conscribe him (general) tillusk, unt, in his jubalant tubalence, the groundsapper."

Cad sigla

ant/grasshopper
343.23 One of the two says: "Of all the quirasses and all the qwehrmin in the tragedoes of those antiants their grandoper, that soun of a gunnong, (the general) with his sabaothsopolettes."

St Stephen
340.34 "ye (Butt's) post is goang ... on his (general's) Mujiksy's Zaravence, (czar) the Riss, the Ross, the sur (czar) of all Russers." This is a variation of what kids would say while collecting candy on Saint Stephen's day going door to door: "the Wren, the Wren, the king of all the birds."

Tristan, tree/stone
350.02 tree/stone: the general "touched upon the tree of living ... in the place of the stones." However this allusion could be assigned to the cause of his death since it seems that his touching of the tree causes his death.
349.22 The Russian general "wears the latchet of jan of nepomuk." Jan of Nepomuk: Czech patron saint of Bohemia, whose tongue alone had not decayed when tomb was opened in 1719, 330 years after being drowned in the Vltava river for refusing to disclose to Wenceslas IV the secrets of the king's wife's confession. Because he is killed by a King this makes him a tristan figure.

E sigla

Adam
350.02 The general "touched upon the tree of living."

against three soldiers
340.22 The russian general "conforted [confronted/comforted] samp, tramp and marchint."

Bartholomew Vanhomrigh
353.05 Bartholomew Vanhomrigh: father of Esther (Swift's Vanessa), Lord-Mayor of Dublin. "his (general's) boortholomas vadnhammaggs."

Cromwell
343.31 Butt says: "the reverend and allaverred cromlecks, and when I heard his (the general) lewdbrogue."

Czar
339.06 Butt says of the general: "Bog carsse [czar] and dam neat, sar, gam cant!" which probably means because and damn it, sir, he can't!
340.34 "ye (Butt's) post is goang ... on his (general's) Mujiksy's Zaravence, (czar) the Riss, the Ross, the sur (czar) of all Russers."
344.33 Butt says: "I looked upon the Saur of all the Haurousians."

Earwicker
339.14 After the description of the seven items of clothing Butt notes: "Here weeks hire pulchers!"

Fascism
344.22 Butt says: "I got inoccupation of a full new of his old basemiddelism, in ackshan, ... by the veereyed lights of the stormtrooping (Nazi stormtroopers) clouds."

Finn MacCool
344.36 Comyn: The Youthful Exploits of Fionn: 'there was fear with her the sons of Morna for him.' Butt says: "there was fear on me the sons of Nuad for him." (general)

HCE (initials)
339.29 ECH. Butt says: A bear (general) raigning in his heavenspawn consomation robes. ... Erminia's Capecloaked Hoodoodman!
352.33 HCE. Butt in describing the Russian General says: "He'll umbozzle no more graves ... His Cumbulent Embulence."

Hump
344.35 French bosse: hump. Butt "rueckenased the fates (face) of a bosser."

Humpty Dumpty
343.23 Butt says: "Of all the quirasses and all the qwehrmin in the tragedoes of those antiants their grandoper, that soun of a gunnong, (the general) with his sabaothsopolettes." The first part is a variation of and all the King's horse and all the King's men.
353.21 Butt "didn't give to one humpenny dump touching those slavic generals."
352.15 Butt says: "I shuttm, (general) missus, like a wide sleever! Hump to dump!"

King
344.16 The general puts down his pants like nebuchadnezzar.
344.27 Butt "caught the pfierce tsmell of his (general's) aurals, orankastank, a suphead setrapped, like Peder the Greste."
344.33 Butt says: "I looked upon the Saur [Saul] of all the Haurousians."
344.35 Irish God-King Nuad. Butt says: "there was fear on me the sons of Nuad for him." (general)
349.21 The Son of Heaven: Chinese emperor. The Russian general: "wears the star of the son of heaven."
349.21 Michael Palaeologus: Byzantine emperor. The Russian general wears the cross of him

King Mark of Cornwall
351.22 Butt "didn't give to one humpenny dump touching those slavic generals of tana kornwall."
340.22 "he (general) devoured the lilies of the field." This quote from the gospel of Mathew usually refers to Izzy and since he devoured them this reference alludes more to King Mark than it does to Tristan.

Pederastry
344.27 Butt "caught the pfierce tsmell of his (general's) aurals, ... like PEDER the GrESTe."
349.33 "He (the general) boundles alltogotter his manucupes with his pedarrests.

Persse O'Reilley
352.10 Butt in talking of the General says "percy rally got me."

Ragnarokr
Ragnarokr is death of the gods in Norse Mythology. Since the E sigla sometimes refers to Zeus and Jove this is a plausible E sigla allusion.
339.10 "With all his (the general) cannoball wappents. In his raglanrock and his malakoiffed bulbsbyg."
353.21 Butt in describing how he raised his weapon against the general says: "With my how on armer and hits leg an arrow cockshock rockrogn."

Resurrection
344.33 Armenian Haroutioun: resurrection. Butt says: "I looked upon the Saur of all the Haurousians."
349.18 Popey O'Donoshough: chieftain supposedly living in a palace under Lake of Killarney, supposed to emerge annually if good harvests were on the way. The Russian General appears in "the figure of a fellowchap in the wohly ghast, Popey O'Donoshough, the jesuneral of the russuates."

Russian
(many other russian allusions were ignored since it was so obvious that he is russian)
339.12 Prince Menshikov, a Russian, inept superior of General Todleben who fought at Crimea. one item of clothing is: "scarlett manchokuffs."
344.27 Peter the Great. Butt "caught the pfierce tsmell of his (general's) aurals, orankastank, a suphead setrapped, like Peder the Greste."

seven items of clothing
339.10 The General wears "all his (general) cannoball WAPPENTS. In his raglanrock and his malakoiffed BULBSBYG and his varnashed ROSCIANS and his cardigans BLOUSEJAGGED and his scarlett MANCHOKUFFS and his treecoloured CAMIFLAG and his perikopendolous GAELSTORMS."

Viking
343.31 Ragnar Lodbrok: Viking chief. Butt says: "when i heard his lewdbrogue." (Lodbrok) (the general's)

Other

Bear
339.29 Bear. Butt says: "A bear (general) raigning in his heavenspawn consomation robes."
352.02 Latin ursus: bear. he is described as the "urssian general."

British
352.05 "his (general's) brichashert offensive."

peter/paul
344.27 Butt "caught the pfierce tsmell of his (general's) aurals ... like Peder the Greste, altiPALtar."
349.23 The Russian General "wears the puffpuff and pompom of peter and paul."

Percy Wyndham Lewis
I have not yet identified Lewis with any of the sigla but I suspect he is both Cain because he once had a very close relationship with Joyce and betrayed him and also the E sigla since his name is Percy.
352.11 Lewis wrote "the enemy." Butt says "the enemay (general) the Percy rally got me."
352.14 Butt says: "before he (general) could tell pullyirragun to parrylewis, I shuttm."

Roman Catholic
344.15 The Russian General "attempts like a rudeman cathargic."

amani's shaif nafsu اماني شايف نفسه

2009-03-17T20:54:00.000-04:00

اللي شايف نفسه
he who looks at himself
بكرا انسيه نفسو
tommorrow forgets himself
لو قابلته او سمعت حسه
if i met or heard from him now
مش ح ارد عليه
i would not answer him
اللي عاشها عليا
he who depends on me
صبره بس شويا
i have just a bit of patience for him
نويهالو ع اللي عمل
i'm going to do something to him
و فيا بكرا انا ح اوريه
and tommorrow i will get back at him
ح اسيبه يعيش
i will let him live
وبرده ح اعيش وبعده عامله انا حسابه
and i will live and survive and still he does it and i take it into account
عشان في ناس
because there are people
كده ما بتجيش
like that that are cruel
غير لما يا قلبي يتسابوا
otherwise when my heart leaves him
هو كده لو عاجبه
he is such if i like him
وان ماكنش ده عاجبه
and such if i don't like him
لو ح يجي ح اقله اللي عاجبه
and if he comes i will tell him what he wants
مش ح اقرب ليه
i will not get near him
اصلي مش محتاجة
because i don't need him
من هواه ولا حاجة
and i don't need any of his love
هو لسه شاف يا قلبي حاجة
he still doesn't understand what i need
من اللي ح اعمله فيه
he will see what i'll do to him

2008-11-16T10:58:00.023-05:00

yesterday, lisa, i saw you by chance,
and in seeing you i was reminded of the
painful emotions that our aborted
attempt at marriage aroused.
in seeing you i was reminded
at how elusive love is,
how it evades man and woman,
how it is the crysto-peak
that we always see and read about
but never scale, never climb,
how kindred it is to the planet venus,
a planet which we humans
due to its extreme toxicity
will never land on, explore and cultivate.

i often imagined us, sweet lisa,
experiencing marital bliss,
the two of us eating all our meals together,
watching movies ensemble,
visiting exotic locales,
learning of strange and paradoxical truths.
i often dreamed of making
your extraordinarily happy,
myself being the embodiment of goodness,
your doctor on twenty-four call,
attending to all of your spirit-wounds,
nourishing all of your rashes of darkness.
i often envisioned of how joy-blessed
you would be when you became a mother,
how naturally you would take to the role,
how fulfilled, how inundated with blissado
you would be raising our children,
tending to them, meeting their needs.

i was extremely bitter, sweet lisa,
that it was religion that came between us.
for the last eight years i have striven
to make God the center-piece of my life,
God my inspiration,
God the celesto-father as supreme creator,
God the spirit we should all turn to,
God the law we must all obey.
nevertheless i realize that this world is imperfect,
that man uses God his own agenda to propagate,
that man is confused and conflicted
regarding the afterlife, heaven and earth, etc.
i understand that religion divides people,
that religion is intertwined with paradox,
that religion is, has been and always will be
the source of anxo-dread, knife-doubt and cut-despair.
i was deeply harassed with serpent
that you judged me based on my beliefs
not on my actions,
that i was deemed unsuitable
because of my intellectual decisions,
that you ignored my ardent love of the poor,
my present quest iraqi refugees to assist
left you numb and indifferent.

in spite of all the bitterness, sweet lisa,
i am thankful that we at least some love shared.
i never told you this
but for three years i was love's prisoner,
for three years i was uncontrollably
in love with a girl who ignored me,
who spilled acid on my declarations,
who spit venom on my poetry,
who exiled me to the ghetto-swamp,
and forced me to sleep with the death-lion.
i went to endless lengths
to see that she euphoriated jasmine,
that she received the bliss-balm,
and exulted night and day in felicia,
yet she only responded with a deluge of cut-throat,
she only answered my love with serpo-bite,
so when on the third day of our fledgling
relationship, sweet lisa, you responded to all fifteen
of my text messages within five minutes
i absolutely euphoriated in crysto-joy,
i categorically effulged paradisium,
the indigo swan danced for me,
the budding humming-bird flew for me,
and all my mud-misery vanished into knife-night.
although two weeks later
when you began to pull away
after you learned that my religious views
made marriage between us impossible,
and the love between us dissipated,
i nevertheless and deeply thankful
that for once in my life my emotions
were respected, that my deep need for love
was recognized, that my profound hunger
for love was returned, reflected and reciprocated.
i am deeply indebted to you, sweet lisa,
for giving me a tiny glimpse
of what love's shinning jasmine might be like,
of what shape amour's ravishing heart-thrash might take.
i was thrilled in immensica that
at last i actually experienced a small fraction
of love's unbelievable engulfment of the senses,
and its undeniable ability to cure, heal and transform.

i have no idea of how your future will unfold, sweet lisa,
nevertheless i pray that it will abound in symphony of mind,
that it will be free from mind-blight and soul-attack,
that you will eventually experience love
in all its storm of ecstasy,
that love will coat you in an immense cloud
of jasper and radiafy all your nights with lightning.
i pray that you will not be left alone,
that you will marry and start a family
that daily sugars you with joy,
and hourly fulfills and nurtures you,
i pray that religion will continue
to be a source of comfort,
that your beliefs will enwhirl you
in a shade of turquoise and mind-bliss.

2008-09-27T22:44:00.003-04:00

at the five senses, sweet lisa, i looked deep
into your eyes yet when you turned
to look at me i was forced to turn away.
i could not sustain the avalanche of light,
nor withstand its flood of diamond.
for i saw in your eyes
a reflection immensican of niagara,
an image brilliàntican of the grand canyon,
i saw a geyser of diamond,
a whirlwind of quartz, bronze and sun,
i saw a femme blessed with hallelujum,
her hair as black as coal.
and although i wish that statement
could remain unqualified
it must also be said, sweet lisa,
at the same time
a sharp and shredded anxiety
gut me, waylaid me,
turned my blood to freeze-ice,
for i also saw in those eyes my future.
i was painfully reminded, lisa gold-glorious,
that sometime soon i must
undergo the painful process of halving
my individuality, compromising all my desires,
my wants ever restricted by veto.
eventually i will no longer be free,
never telling anyone where i go,
able to spend my time
according to my whims and my desires,
shortly i will no longer
be only mindful of my felicia,
my worries, my anxo-dread, my night-fears,
but quite possibly another's hopes
laced in star, her dreams embodied in crystal,
her wishes forged in sweet joyum.
it was this dread thought, lisa hypnotican,
that caused me to shutter, freeze and fold,
this thought that painfully forced my eyes
away from your bright aura crystalèzzan,
your stunning glare fabuleesiman,
and into the slice-scarred night-pain of anxiety,
there my mind enghastled with cobra.

when i was young and irreligious, sweet lisa,
lustful, angry, always the breasts wanting,
ever desiring the flesh-feast to engage,
knowing no law but myself,
i could look at women without one iota
of mixed emotion,
i only saw in them what they could do for me,
i only saw the flooded ecstatica of orgàsmo,
i only saw the imminent plunge
into the volcanica of embrace,
i only saw kissèzza, the sweet taste
of the cheeks, the emotional flood-tide
of the lips, the hair and the eyes,
but now, lisa delectolicious, those days
are gone, and they have been gone
for eight long years.
when i look into your eyes, therefore,
it is impossible for me
to experience unalloyed joy,
since i know that any future between us
will be fraught with difficulty,
constant effort requiring,
always the responsibility exercising.
i know that our mutual paths
will not be ones of pure delight,
ourselves the elixir drinking,
but instead will need sacrifice,
compromise, a continuous
appeal to the patience,
a progressive mapping of our souls.
we arise from our mother's loins, sweet lisa,
as individuals, ourselves lost in the night-forest,
barely cognizant of what spiritual spice
most efficiently secures the happiness.
we thus anxiously search for our second halves,
they who will complete us in rose,
just as a symphony cannot play without
the strings, the cello or the piano,
or just as movies from the twenties
are scarcely interesting since one cannot
hear their words,
so too is man, lisa platmolicious,
painfully incomplete, halved,
himself desperate and hungry
for his soul to be magnified,
thus when you looked into my eyes
last night, lisa sublime, i looked away
not only because i was hypno-struck
with a beautèzza royalesque,
flooding of turquoise cascade,
but also because i feared that
i might be seeing my destiny
glaring at me in the face,
i recoiled in serpent afraid
that our future will not bloom
of endless and infinite fuchsia
nor will it manifest continuously
of strawberries, ivory and magnolia,
but instead may even crash in din,
become profligate with noise,
everywhere the nostriled alligator
of confusion stalking us.

if we were malicious and unchaste, sweet lisa,
wholly selfish,
ourselves the smut-cobra worshipping
in no wise of the other thinking,
concerned only with our own
taste of the forbidden regions,
i of course would have looked at you
with no small avalanche of joy.
i would have been thinking only
of my imminent taste of the delecto-breasts,
my approaching entrance into the feminine storm,
my looming pillage of your temple,
sanctuary, coffin, and treasure,
not for one instant thinking of your
feelings, longings or desires.
that, thank God, was not the case.
instead i looked at you contemplating
if the two of us match well enough
for an entire lifetime,
i wondered if the two of us could
forever sail across the ocean of life
together on a small, precarious bark,
never the sharks of discontent ourselves demising.

love, sweet lisa, is not easy.
on the contrary it quite often
turns into a bland friendship,
if not even a bullish and thuggish hatred.
i had long begged God to bless me
with a woman in whom there was no doubt
as to the success of our future,
not one hint that collapse lay on horiza,
or that wreck-storms gathered in the distance.
instead i have been struck with dilemma:
drawn to a woman
that vaguely understands my language,
has never been to my country,
and if you could gain full access to my mind,
it would still seem strangely akin
to hieroglyphs, or advanced calculus.

nevertheless, sweet lisa,
i pray this will not prove to be
an inescapable labyrinth
nor an endless tyranny of fog.
for i truly believe that one's ability
to feel love depends more on the interior
than on the exterior object
that inspires the person.
i will strive to keep in mind,
endlessly God in prayer soliciting,
that you are a haloed individual,
worthy of the utmost respect,
replete with needs, yearnings, hopes,
visions, tastes,
that you strive your best
this life with wisdom and prudence to lead,
that you too wrestle with demons,
that you too struggle, are incomplete,
imperfect, hungry more of life
to sense, explore, discover and live,
that you too desire grasp of the rainbow,
that you too yearn to exist in the
company of angels, and hear the splendid
dance of beethoven and shostakovich.
so long as i keep this thought in mind,
sweet lisa, i believe the rude snarl
of the warlock and the man-goat
will fail our union to shred and scythe.
with this thought, dear lisa,
will i gun those harpies lusting
for us to tear out our eyes,
and smite those anthro-ants
that yearn for us to submit
to the irrationality of rhino-hatred.

written about 5 days before the rejection.

2008-09-15T17:46:00.003-04:00

you have asked, sweet lisa,
to know why i like you,
why you enflame me in scarlet,
and rob my treasury of reason.
you want to know the source
of these lava-storms, this explo-bliss,
this passionate mind-flight into etheria,
so i will tell you in the only
language i feel comfortable using:

know firstly, lisa dulcèzza,
that it is your extreme beauty
that has most riled my stasis into earthquake,
your niagrum that has caused
nearly all my soldiers to desert their posts,
your helenèska that utterly caused
my numerous interior warring factions
to pacify themselves and become friends.
i had long known of beauty's vodkanized grip,
sweet lisa, had long been aware
of its ability to affamish the victim,
pillage all of his sleep,
then leave him derelicted in a waste-desert,
there to transmogrify and atrophy,
for i had been one who often haunted
the webs folds, recesses, caverns, locales,
dens, forums, chambers and mazes,
and there i sought love,
there i petitioned venus to heal me,
there i begged aphrodizjum
to strip me of my ice,
and deliver me from the freeze-jail,
and i had always been so amazed
that a profile of a woman
whose artistic tastes, concern for
human rights and politics resembled
mine but was abandoned by helen's
surmazing transblessing of the face,
was so much less able to render me
mad with mind-fire,
crimson with rage-blood,
and bellicose with storm-iron.
i deeply resented the fact
that it was pulchrome that whiskified me,
davincium that electro-split my soul,
and the sistine that shredded my heart,
for i ever an ardent student of the mind,
wanted the intellect to be that bright spasmo,
the written word to subdue and nullify me,
and the book to morph me into a lion,
but instead once again it has been beauty
that has gunned me, choked me with serpent,
myself surrounded by the howling coyote.
once more am i beauty's slave,
once more does she compel me into siberia,
there the mammoths of irrationality my master,
there the gnawing of the bone.

it is also true, sweet lisa,
that i by all means loathe
those beautiful women
seduced by hollywoods' cheap glamour,
self-absorbed, narcissized,
their eyes ever inward looking.
you on the contrary, lisa rainboweska,
are one of those rare jordanian women
possessed of a master's degree,
in love with science, study,
genetics, biology, facts,
reality's convoluted maze-twists,
life's hodge-podge of contradiction.
you thus respect hard work,
you bow before duty's altar,
you heed obligation's call
whereas others dance to the wine-song
and thrill-quake amid the orgy.
thus, sweet lisa, you are a sun-blessed
admixture of beauty and intellect,
in the one valley the shine-glitter
hovers above you,
the silvo-angels obey you,
macro-gold enlusters and embellishes you,
in the other valley it is duty,
concentration, focus, reading,
industry, intelligence and wisdom
that govern your steps,
and pilots your ships and planes.
on the one moon, lisa thrillèzza,
one can see in you michelangelo's pieta,
the majestic fabulo of angel falls,
the unrivaled mind-twist of
the sydney opera-house,
on the other moon,
you harbor a deep love for truth,
you consume yourself in science.
dna, rna, nucleotides,
chromosomes, proteins,
resonate in your ken,
dispatch through your mail service,
their vocabulary all throughout
the chambers of your mind echoing.

the most necessary component of beauty,
lisa pyrocantha, however is the aura.
on paper one can reflect the pyramids of giza,
they can arise in an euphony of cloud,
they can recall canyons, mountain-chains,
the snow-capped majestica of the himalayas,
all the stars in the galaxy within them,
yet in person they can be
a discordant gong of tin,
all sorts of rust around their edges,
themselves akin to the hyena.
your aura, lisa rozalea, in reversemento,
is a bright symphony of emerald,
a wild concerto of hummingbirds,
from it radiate stars, comets, tornados,
hurriflames, tsunamis, macro-swelters.
when i see you i see not simply
a thirty one year old woman,
endowed with a master's degree,
her hair as black as a moonless night
her skin as bright as gold-bliss and diamond,
i also see kind emoceans,
i see peace and salaam burgeoning,
i see charity echoing,
i see maternity pulsating,
i see thanksgiving radiating,
i see loveliness emerging from the deep,
i see good-will shimmerating
in a brilliant delecto-bath of joyum,
i see gratitude showering gold
upon the humble peasant,
i see the tranquility of the swan
floating on a placid pond,
no fear molesting him with knife.

it must also be said, lisa endazzlìca,
that you appear to me as extremely vulnerable,
that is to say, possessed of painful emotions,
numerous spiritual predators encircling you.
to be bound to someone who is self-sufficient,
in no need of complement, solid,
is certainly much less fulfilling than
they who are eternally hounded by the human tornado,
warlocked by spiritual bludgeon.
to be one's twenty-four hour doctor
has long been a dream of mine, lisa rosèska,
to be responsible for their deliverance
from excrusho, cut and gnaw,
to rescue them from the wart-men,
herself once slithered with mental oil,
spiritually badgered, all sorts
of mucused goat-dogs harassing her,
but now fully radiant and surreal,
now wholly illuminating the pain-vale.
that then is what i envision for you,
lisa splashed with fire,
no more entrenched in interminable night,
nor suffocated by customs and standards,
but instead halofied with felicia,
macro-brilliant with cheer and star,
yourself eagerly embracing the world.

2008-09-08T19:58:00.003-04:00

mona is the same woman as lisa. her real name was mona but in the poems i called her lisa.

this wednesday, Lord, i will meet mona
for the first time in public.
the two of us have been extremely patient,
careful to not rush love's illumino-wave of excitica,
nor grab at its fountain-splash hastily,
ourselves calm before macro-felicia's monsoon.

it also true that by no means
does love's supra-awesome thrill-dance
sweep me into wine-clouds and celesto-song,
nor has its unparalleled transfiguration
from a dull edge, or a blunted spear
into a fantastic jaguar-man racing,
or a surging supernova exploding, occurred,
myself rendered completed incapable of reason,
all contrary voices dismissing.

i must keep in mind
that love cannot be hurried,
that sometimes it takes time
for its maco-joy to be cultivated,
and its violent passion-surge to awake,
that love eludes man and woman,
myriads baffled as to its grasp,
itself barely more tangible than the rainbow,
often kindred to illusion or ineffeba.

2008-06-21T12:01:00.002-04:00

i've decided now that the most noblest thing i can do is go to syria and try to help out with the iraq refugee crisis. i just inherited a lot of money so i'm not obligated to stay in maryland anymore. i inherited it a couple of months ago and have been planning my trip since then. i am trying to join the peace corps, they have an operation in jordan, if they reject my application it's no big deal because then i'll just go to syria. i've been studying arabic for 15 months, sometimes 30 hours a week, all of it self-taught. there is only arab public speaker whose speeches are translated regularly into english and broadcast on youtube, hassan nasrallah. now when i listen to his speeches i can understand 70% of the words (i literally go through and count, since i have the arabic text). when i read the text i can understand about 95% of the words.

i've also been debating with these atheists online. i've learned more in 3 days debating with them than i did two years thinking about it by myself. they force me to come up with new ideas. it took me a while to really hone my technique figuring out which arguments work and which don't. this debating is extremely addictive. if you so much as read one paragraph written by an atheist in a forum and you have the opportunity to respond to it, it's practically impossible to resist disputing something that seems outrageous to you. once you start debating you can be sucked in to anywhere from 4 hours to, well, i was once on there for 26 hours with maybe 3 or 4 two hour breaks.

i did try to cut and paste the whole debate and edit out all the useless material but it takes too long. if you want to read it you can do so here,

http://richarddawkins.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=48492

even though i think you need to register before you can look at the thread which of course no one is going to do.
here's the most successful thread i started.

evidence that the earth is finely tuned
by kylefoley76 on Fri Jun 20, 2008 5:33 am
for the last 400,000 years the amount of carbon parts per million has vascillated between 280 and 180. now we're at 380, thanks to our astonishing brilliance. scientists are telling us that if gets above a certain tipping point, a chain reaction might occur, in other words if it goes up to 500, it has to go up to 600, and then it might even climb to a thousand making the earth inhospitable to all complex life forms, though basic life of course will remain. the same goes of course if you reduce the amount of carbon way below 180ppm. there have been 5 major mass extinctions during the history of our planet, so this type of thing is not exactly impossible.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mass_extinction

ok let's put this in perspective. say you have a house 1km long 1km wide and 1km high. and within the house lies a 2cm cube without which no one can live in the house, and it vascillates in size, but it can get as high as 30cm (the amount of carbon during the late triassic was 3000ppm) now if that cube so much as increases to 4 or 5 cm in a short period of time the whole house becomes uninhabitable. that's pretty bizarre. you sort of need an intelligent force to set this complex system up. not to mention we're just talking about carbon, we haven't even mentioned other green house gases, nor have we even mentioned the sun which is another complex system, on which the earth relies.

alright so let me just preempt a few misconceptions. i don't believe the creator is omnipotent, nor do i believe the bible is the word of the creator. i also believe dna mutates to fine tune species but an intelligent immaterial force is tinkering with it.

let me also just preempt the anthropic principle which is the only satisfactory answer to this dilemma. guess what, it doesn't matter how many planets you have, if you have a random universe a complex system will never arise beyond just superficial patterns. consider these thought experiments:

1. you have a bicycle floating through space but it is separated into 6 parts, well guess what, that tire is never going to link up to that frame, and the screws will never screw the tires on.

2. say you have a billion monkies, typing on a typewriter for a billion years. they're never going to get anything more than maybe 20 words of coherent thought. they could go on forever, they're never going to get anywhere.

i challenge you atheists to come up with one plausible thought experiment that shows how a complex system could arise from random parts without a designer.

ted hughes, the lake

2008-05-16T20:19:00.002-04:00

i saw someone's been reading my blog interested in an analysis of ted hughes' the lake. please introduce yourself and discuss ted hughes with me. i'd love to talk about him. they've been logging in consistently over the last few days, so i think they'll be back. it's difficult to tell where they're from from because it seems as though the computer gets its ip through a wide variety of locations, it's highly unlikely that someone in buffalo and in wisconsin is researching the lake at the same time.

someone from blacksburg has also been reading my blog. it's probably not laura. i doubt she really cares about me. she would probably prefer to not even think about me.

darren aronofsky's the fountain, critique, review, analysis

2007-12-29T16:18:00.000-05:00

the fountain! man’s quest for eternity, to vanquish death in shreds, to surmount limitation, demolish barriers of ice and freeze, his refusal to introspect, find salvation from within, the courageous dive into the interior’s jungles, his dogged determination to become God’s equal, rejecting arrogantly law, convention, mourning, contrition and the kneel, his single-minded obsession with an object, to place all of one’s flame-joy, all of one’s silvo-mirth in an outward, external source, these then are the issues discussed in darren aronofsky’s great film, the fountain!
we see the film’s protagonist, tom creo, and his female counterpart, izzy, in three time periods: conquistador spain, for the tree of life hungering, commissioned by the queen to obtain its mind-awe, himself quick to maim, slaughter and soul-pierce, a contemporary scientist, vaguely working slavishly on expanding a monkey’s intelligence as well as ruthlessly seeking a cure for death’s howl, then finally in the extremely distant future, completely isolated, dressed in religious garb, the lotus position performing, at last connecting with some external force that subsumes him in meditative ecstasy.
aronofsky brilliantly confronts the spectator with a disturbing enigma, namely, is tom creo someone to be emulated, looked up to, a hero of superlative soul-jazz and mind-cosmos, his whole being irradiating platmo-wisdom and bliss-thrash? or should we be repulsed by this miserable knight, entirely consumed in a futile and foolish quest for an external object that will leave him no closer to the macrocosm or the key to all knowledge and philosophy than before? compelling arguments resonate on each side. in the one valley, ancient, medieval, oriental, islamic and modern wisdom routinely disparage lusting for an external object to resolve the self. we are regularly taught that it is the interior in which one finds the answers to life’s most perplexing pains and its upheaval of acid-foam, it is inward introspection, constant study, debate, questioning that lead to those shinning answers which remove so much web, snarl and blade in our life – not vacant objects which only leave one hungry after their fuel is spent. in the other valley, it is also hardly disputed that energy, passion, striving, determined pursuit of the elixir are also lively shoots of mind-gold, ever embellishing he who possesses them with flash-glow.
in any film that focuses on suffering, the insatiable riddle, man’s aloneness and bewilderment, God, although hidden, is certainly prominent, see seventh seal, for example, or la dolce vita. since this film’s chief concern and mega-theme is death’s splurge of demise, then God is only further front and center than normally. in the fountain the cosmos is bewildering, rough, slow to yield its mysteries of halo, indifferent when man collapses in atrocity or paroxysms in blasphemy of wolf-shriek, baffling in that man makes progress, earns manna and shines one minute, but just as easily suffers collapso-fracas and swine-guts the next, such as when tom successfully diminishes a monkey’s tumor, only to find his wife harvested by death the following day. it is in this context of labyrinth and silence that tom seeks to transcend the universe’s embrace of claw through the discovery of some elixir.
significant progress is made between the conquistador and the scientist. the conquistador is quick to maul his enemies with blade. he lives by the sword, grim cancellation of remorse and feeling. his is a world of killed or be killed, omnipresent tarantula of soldier, opponents always prowling, always plotting, always the knife sharpening and gunpowder accumulating. the conquistador, for instance, readily considers consigning the inquisitor to hades’ belch and fume, his retinue scabs a host of mayan warriors in their quest for the tree of life’s megalo-splendòra, his soldiers mutiny and he reacts by exploding in a spasmo of violence against the ring-leaders’ smog and finally, in order to ultimately reap the tree of life’s manna he must kill the mayan spiritual leader and all his dance of blood. the scientist by contrast is surrounded by a world of peace, prospero-beauty, a huge jungle of technology, instruments, info-wealth, computers and medicine. he also lives in the comforts of a soft home, away from the ravenous fume of steamed labor, insulated from sweat and the spider.
the spectator cannot help but be scandalized by this hero’s arrogant attempt to mock God and triumph in the process. in the medieval legends only the pristine of soul, the pure in heart and mind, ever prayer performing, ever towards piety’s rose turned, could ultimately reap the holy grail’s splendifero and yet tom creo is anything but pure, both as a conquistador and as scientist. he shockingly proclaims:

death is a disease,
its wrath-menace can be repulsed,
its horror-foam can be denied,
there is a cure for it,
and my grenadiers and my mercenaries
will wrest its elusive soul-stuff from the void,
i will capitalize on its bonanza,
i will uncover its tsunami of silver.

ironically it is the desire to triumph over death that is the real disease and no one suffers from its wrath of acid more than tom himself. he hankers on the edge of nilhum, he borders the edge of sanity, he stands at the threshold of reason, one step in the wrong direction could lead him right into the jaws of the rhino of schizum there to weep, thrash, convulse and delude. he also would never even consider the fact that he is wrong, an ability which is the very cornerstone for the acquisition of any philosophic, scientific or artistic truth. critique to him is anathema, the harsh word an alien, the stern rebuke an insect to be trampled upon. while it’s true that rarely is he contradicted, such as when his men mutiny, or when his colleagues are amazed at his refusal to mourn, nevertheless it is apparent this his swampish occupation of fallacy is the last thing on his mind.
izzy’s cancer is more spiritual than emotional. she is an extension of tom’s being, not a character in and of herself. she represents salvation, transcendental knowledge, freedom from pain and liberation from the scab-wound. she represents the tumultuous, chaotic, unpredictable realm of the emotions, a world which tom creo wants no part of whatsoever, precisely because it is territory which requires contrition, humility, compromise and submission to the whims and caprices of fate. he of course loathes these restrictions, wants to escape the cosmos’ ineluctable bludgeon, he wants to triumph over its silence and reap its mysteries’ in ever fountainous concerto, he hungers for its cascade of immortality and its white-water-rapids of eternity. it is no surprise then that izzy’s life eclipses into the night-forest, since tom’s emotional life is so blatantly lacking. he is that ice-berg floating across the artic wastes, he is that ice-man found lonely and abandoned in the austrian alps, five thousand years in a mausoleum of snow buried, he is an odd combination of the statues at easter island and Isaac Newton who spent years feverishly writing some 3,000 pages on biblical criticism.
how fervently does man’s lust for immortality consume us! even the monk, devoutly to the rule of saint francis bound, ever prayers uttering, all of earth’s pleasures renouncing, silk and lingerie a scourge – even he succumbs to this intoxicating vodka that is eternal life! thus tom can in part be forgiven for his ravenous bellow and howl. it could just as easily be us who are electro-shocked with obsession, hungering for the tree of life, or jail-sweating ice-tears that life's mysteries are not more close.
how strong is tom’s semblance to the athlete! for in order for the athlete to be successful he must be obsessed! he must crave the falconesque external object! he must devote all his energies, resources and bullion towards obtaining that which his soul demands! he must despise leisure, loathe entertainment, see lethargy, sloth and the hammock as those beetles of iron that threaten to invade our esophagus and churn us to shreds from the inside! and yet knowledge of greek in this case can prove extremely useful, for the greek word from which athlete comes, athlios, means both athlete and miserable. this is primarily why the film, although it ends positively is not entirely a comedy. tom is miserable. he sleeps poorly, he muddles through the Mexican jungle despairing of the fruitfulness of his quest, he passionately refuses to accept his wife’s death, superceding the bounds of what normal men would attempt by some threefold. he spurns the balms of the funeral ritual, pours acid on its soothing affects.
we are told that spain in the 16th century is in bondage. an inquisitor has branded the queen a heretic and has taken over much of her territory. for the queen tells the conquistador:

spain is in bondage,
she is threatened by the inquisitor,
she succumbs to the blade and the shackle,
the hyena’s laugh everywhere mocks her,
the hate-gun and the necro-canon aim upon her.

and yet we could just as easily replace spain with the word tom. for it is tom who is in serpo-bondage to this insane quest for immortality, it is tom who threatens to lose all emotional value, to neglect his wife and her inherent jasmo-balm, to have his mind self-eclipsed inside his own ego. it is his pride and obstinate refusal to seek the consolations of contemplation, resignation, quietism, humility, tranquility, and love that bind him to this yukon of unremittant agony, ceaseless work and blood-sweat labor. ironically one's quest to relieve one's country from the death-shackle instead of resulting in freedom conspires to the achieve the exact opposite, namely, the schizotic jail of delusion.
when we hear that assassination of the inquisitor, the most prominent symbol of God on earth, however worm-corrupted a man he may be, would subsequently bring the whole battalion of europe’s talons upon spain we are reminded that we live in a world of limits, that ours is not a destiny of consumption with impunity, all our silken desires and honeyed whims gratified, complete treasure at our command. this is precisely what tom refuses to submit to. he hungers for the megalo-grasp of power! he yearns for its pleasànto spice, its rave-blush and its whiskum! he does not merely desire a contented, contemplative existence, one of routine and schedule – asymetrical! he embarks boldly on a seemingly quixotic quest for none other than triumph over that reaper who never fails to harvest us in furnace!
how fresh with sun-dance is this film’s most pregnant scene, precisely, the queen’s commission of tom to find the tree of life! no where are aronofsky’s powers more monumental than here! here eve’s seduction is ingeniously recreated in fervent blood! here mesmero-glory as a woman once more leads man into flametice and shrill-shriek! one can even assert that the monk is a sort of satan but that is not one hundred percent obvious. in the modern scenes woman was merely an extension of man, in this scene man serves as the agent to complete female desire. it is the woman that longs freedom from bondage to obtain, it is woman that is assaulted, woman that is cornered by a hostile and ruthlo-wrecklo force, woman that hungers falcon-glory to sense and enwhirl in. dispossessed of the requisite masculine strength to embody her aspirations, she turns to tom creo to complete them. vodkan beauty assists her in her enterprise. at first she is concealed behind some veil, her flash-eye not yet used tom to seduce. tom at first wavers, is skeptical. then the queen asserts herself completely, all her feminine force using, her whole swamp, lace, waters, rivers and estuaries employing, delightful reminders of her succulence in the fore. thus tom concedes. and it is in that final moment that the queen’s face most resembles death, herself pale, teetering on collapse, inebriated with chardonnayed lust, herself affamished and destitute. and the logic is quite simple for it is in that moment tom assents to this quest which ultimately will lead to not only death and subsequent cancellation amongst worm but also an existence shark-tormented by a turbulent obsession to conquer the unconquerable, resolve the irresolvable.
what a deluge of patent spasmo grips us as we watch this film! and why? precisely because it is enigmatic! we only dimly sense at first glance what this film is about. we of course know that it is some search for that fabled elixir brilliantican, namely, eternal life, but as to why it flip-flops from past to present to future, or how the three characters are related, or even what the future character is doing and yet that is precisely what makes the film so intriguing! how dull is it to watch a film where each line from the actors mouths' is easily predicted! what dust-drudgery to watch a film more or less similar to five other films we have already seen! not so with the fountain! in reversemento! this film plunges into the mad territory of obscurity! it courageously challenges the spectator’s acumen! it rivets us, bugs us, torments us, ourselves all the while convulsing, spitting and gleeful with schizotic blithe-beauty, storm-joyed that metaphysical truths are within our grasp!
the film’s capital thesis of course is the quest for immortality yet a very significant subthesis concerns man’s loathsome swine-snout of pride, his over-arching, fallacious confidence in his own thrust, sway and bulge. i have already pointed out tom’s infamous statement: death is a disease and i intend to find a cure, yet added to this is tom's single-minded surge into accomplishment. no where is this more apparent than in his attempts to play God as he struggles a monkey's mind to expand, it to the concerto and symphony sensitive, it words, emotions and ideas incorporating, pervading. in our secular age where man's flash-wit seems to bring us inventions of sheer fabulosa with each decade, each one more jasmo-splendid than the one before it is easy to see why prayer has melted in sand, its balm rarely solicited by our actors, those who teach us how to behave and circumvent. yet prayer is precisely what tom creo needs. his ceaseless striving, his interminable lusting and boundless energy for research, study, experimentation and bloom should and ought to be tempered by prayer. if anyone could utilize its pax and its rose it is tom.
thankfully in the distant future tom does find the contemplative blithe-water of religion. we do not know if he died and was later reincarnated centuries thence or if he somehow found that cure that stymied death's bludgeoned and has been living all these 300 or even 3000 years. this is perhaps the film's only flaw, that tom's future self is so underdeveloped. we desperately yearn to know more about this future man, what quakes his heart in battalion, what lionizes his mind in curiosity, what dreams thrash him in a scarlet of storm, his floods, his sprees, his insatiable wrestle with dilemma. yet aronofsky alas does not tell us.
feminism has only been around since the 1790's and even then it languished considerably until britain yielded woman the suffrage. western literature at the moment suffers a considerable dearth of faustian, female characters who, like hamlet, truly contemplate all of life's mysteries, enigmas, cosmic bafflement and trance. at the moment they are still mostly just appendages to the male or the spark that awakens masculine initiative in etna. perhaps in one hundred or two hundred years we will see impressive female characters dragon-wrestling with the same fight-demons that tom so courageously wrestled with in the fountain. but even within the film we see a striking progression in woman, in the 16th century she is a mere seducer, wood thrown on the masculine fire, goading tom into the hate-sweat of the mexican jungle on a fool's quest for immortality. in the 21st century a gray-hair is actively researching with tom, nearly as knowledgeable about science's strange combustion as he is. she provides the desperately needed yin to tom's convulsive yang. she counsels him the sun-bliss of patience, the sparrow-song of acceptance and humility's plain grace – all of which he grinds in the infernal sewer of demolition.
with what flaming obsidian the complete absence of any form of technology in the future scenes shock us! although there is clearly one voice in our culture that lauds introspective cultivation of God-truth, there is also the shameless, capitalistic propaganda which bombards us with the fallacy that it is the tool wherein salvation lies, the tool that teleports us to work, the tool that provides us with food, sustenance and shelter from rain-pelt, and it is the tool that all of us, hook, line and sinker, are passionately addicted to each morning when we log in to view our email, some of us six times a day. yet tom's acquisition of salvation is accomplished not through any tools whatsoever, except the bubble that teleports him to the nebula, but a tree and religious exercises. how counterintuitive a statement! how overflowing in wisdom and insight! what a tour de force of surprise and awe-gold! thus the central fallacy which causes so much of tom's cobra-pain in the beginning, namely, his reliance on an external object for salvation, is reaffirmed as he finds redemption through acceptance of death's scourge and extinguishment as well as tai chi's perennial cure to soulitus.
lastly there is the subject of tom's name. on the hand creo is spanish for i believe (amy biancolli) but on the other hand thomas was that infamous disciple who refused to believe christ had risen until he literally touched his hand to his stigmata and encountered his resurrected shine-life in person. my best explanation for this paradox is that tom begins life a fervent and passionate doubter. he doubts death will yield the paradise of topaz that reportedly awaits the person, he doubts the accepted wisdom of quiet contemplation upon one's sins will lead to awe-striking heaven. towards the end of his interminable life he finally relinquishes this fallacy, just as the man who refuses to give up his guns which we can only pry from his dead fingers. thus belief transcends him, belief coating him in an armor of brilliance, belief his balm, belief his transcendence.
thus we return to the present enigma broached in the first paragraphs of this essay: what then are we to make of tom? history is littered with examples of ingenious men whom society scolded as fallacious, phantom-possessed, their mind wholly transfixed in serpent, only to later have them vindicated afterwards. einstein was branded a madman from 1905 to 1919 until an experiment laureled him in superlative. gallileo insisted aristotle's theory of gravitation was a chimera of smoke, the church only accepting this thesis after years of stubborn refusal. is it we then who are schizo-fraught with rust-error just as einstein's detractors were, is it we who are absorbed in mind-mucus whereas tom has found that blooded energy that leads him into ever more bizarre flame-regions, each one more galaxo-shinning than the one before? perhaps obtaining life's surultimate panacea requires not a pure soul but instead an apparent mad-man, hyped with the most outrageous jazz, stripped of scruples, willing to sacrifice family, decorum, law, soul, convention, all for the sake of the untying of that famed gordian's knot whose resolution would enable the man conquest of asia, alexander being the one who eventually accomplished this feat of tsunami-thrill.
before stating my own personal flawed conclusion it is incumbent on me to issue this caveat: mine is done from a religious perspective, mine is one that values the cream of contemplation, that sings amid introspection's gold-surge, that harnesses fresh dance while performing rituals of obedience, sacrifice and compassion. indeed titanic striving and krakatoan energy are attributes to be admired, his scientific obsession with mind-expansion perfectly laudable. as i am a paradoxical admixture of monkish prayer and walt whitmanesque enthusiasm, i cannot help but be transfixed when i see this mad-man refusing to mourn his wife's death, or unable to swim amid the funeral's soothing rituals. i cannot help but enflood with rave-crystal when i see him strike down the enemies of hopelessness in the mexican jungle or take up the queen's commission with mad delecto. yet at the same time i cannot condone his refusal to introspect, his arrogant throwing down of the gauntlet against God vowing to wrest from Him one of existence's most critical snares. nor can i fondly recall his willingness to sacrifice love, emotion, the heart and the flourish of the senses for the sake of this ravenous desire to approach deity. in spite of all his seductive glitter of profusion he cannot make me renounce my deep love for patience, my overarching devotion to humility and sacrifice. this character mocks God's commandment: man proposes, God disposes. he pours bile on the notion that the lily-dolphin is seen by the meek, and the bronze peacock experienced by the contrite. he castigates those who believe that your time is not God's time, that one day in the eyes of man is equal to a thousand in the eyes of the Lord.

Why God won't reveal himself to you

2007-07-04T08:35:00.000-04:00

about a week ago a person posted in myspace a question wondering why God will not reveal himself. here are his exact words:

someone else:

My way of looking at things is that people don't know anything. They think they do, they may believe they do but they can't KNOW. Even if god talks to you, you don't know it's god till you die, it could be anything untill then. anyway... say there is a god, i'm asking him to prove himself to me. I'm not asking for a miracle or money or fame or anything, i'm just asking him to move this guitar pick on my desk. He doesn't even have to move it far, just move it a bit. Not change it into gold, or make me a brilliant guitar player, just nudge it a little. Why doesn't he do it? If he did that, i would 'know' there is a god, or at least something answering when i ask for a god to move my guitar pick.

my response follows:

if, beloved, you are wondering why
God will not reveal himself to you,
then first know that this life
in all forms resounds in difficulty.
the obstacles and bars you confront,
have been confronted by a multitude.
the lechers and the phantoms you witness
have tormented man for centuries.
God apparently has little interest
in creating a paradiso on earth,
or decreeing life’s freedom from pain.
God wills that before you immerse yourself
in celestium’s preponderant honey,
and experience its wild surge-bliss,
that you would first struggle through
this reality’s numerous mind-nails,
and overcome its profligate homo-lizards.
God conceived life with dilemma in mind,
he constructed reality so that glollure,
discovery, triumph and contest would abound,
he assembled existence so that the enigma
would absorb us with energy,
or so that the riddle hypnotican
would flash, tumult and vexplode.
if God were to reveal himself to all,
religion would resemble elementary mathematics,
a loathsome field of certainty,
replete with no mystery, no surprise,
so simple and so logical that we almost
despise its facility and its superficiality.
elementary mathematics inspires no reverence,
it consumes us with not a shred of awe.
if all were to know God, experience him,
he would menace in less mystery,
more would discuss him, analyze him,
he would loom in less majestica,
he would shine in less versaillum.

there must be an ultimate of ultimates,
one thing must surge in promino
above all other manifestations and entities.
one inherent and complete reality
must circumvent all else,
it must preclude all and exclude all,
it must consume all and surmount all,
it must outshine each subsequent light-source,
it must consume every lesser inferior.

you operate under the assumption
that God answers all prayers,
that He is eager benevolence to spread,
life’s flash-beam to unveil,
and the embodied virtue to proliferate.
you mistakenly believe that God
abhors the lechers of evil,
struggles nightly to diminish them,
and enflames when they arise and prosper.
on the contrary God maintains a balance.
He wills that improvement surges,
but does not rebut the slither of regress.
He allows for both the possibility
of a dazzling manufacture of paradiso,
as well as a plummet in gehenna’s stench.

now harvest these parables’ silver:
before hillary conquered everest
the mountain effulged mysto-wonder,
it loomed in gigantica and in splendora.
all looked to it in reverence and supra-awe.
it was the acme of acmes,
the mountain of mountains,
its conquest a nemesis and an impossibility.
many had attempted the scale
but rather obtain the shine-crown,
they instead vanquished in death-ice.
but after hillary’s famous climb,
and the subsequent myriad successes,
it now radiates less might.
although it is still the highest mountain,
it nevertheless is subject to man,
it can be tamed, mastered,
no longer does awe accompany its mention.

know also that the stars to the ancient egyptians,
since they had no clue as to their nature,
were much more wild and bizarre.
they held them in much tighter bondage,
they mystified them with more intensica,
during their night-time trek through the desert
they basked in a hallucinatory cosmos,
flash-wonder everywhere around them.

the eclipse moreover also abounded in anxiety.
they did not understand its consequences,
they panicked in nails and in razors,
the imaginary hydra roamed,
the ubiquitous nightmare predominated.
modern science has effaced this aura.
we now know the nature of the stars,
we fully understand the eclipse’s enigmàtica.
no longer are they bathed in flash-gold,
no more does it inspire anxo-dread.

it could very well be that
medieval scholars resisted the bible’s
translation into the vernacular
not only because they feared the public
would earn freedom’s wings,
less obedient to the priest and the church,
their own interpretations conducting and heeding,
their own conclusions configuring and drawing,
but it could also be that the clergy then knew
that the bible would irradiate less cloud-blithe,
that it would sing a less miràculo-glorious song,
that it would quickly pale into dust.
they knew less mind-effort and soul-struggle
would then be required to reach its truths,
and incorporate its sagacity and its themes.

we humans admire most what we least understand.
it is modern physics that captivates us in stupor,
because it shines in such bizzarrum,
not the unspectacular theorems of algebra.
it is those works of fictions
fraught with riddle and conundrum,
that inspire mysto-awe and strike-wonder,
not those books whose thoughts we anticipate.

do we not call stupid that which
we completely understand,
leaves no room for doubt,
and challenges in no wise our philosophy?
do we not call surmazing
that which rises above our acumen,
evades our deduction and surmises,
questioning all our suppositions and axioms?

how fascinating then is life!
how cloud-rapt in sparklado and beguilemento!
how hallucinatory with mind-dance and shine-awe!
we do not whence it comes,
nor whither it is directed,
we do not how it arose in splendora,
nor why it ultimately wilts in sahara.
its animation and its spontaneity is a riddle,
its metamorphosis evades explanation,
this is the source of its plethora of beauty,
this is the origin of its niagrum and its davincia.

so too then with God.
we know so little about him.
we do not how he conducts his miracles,
nor why he refuses his powers to use.
we barely understand the necessity of evil,
nor do we grasp his permission of numerous religions.
very few can claim to have experienced him,
very few interact, converse and negotiate with him.
he is the mystery of mysteries.
his is the manglo-riddle ultimo,
his is the enigma stunparalleled.
where other phenomena pale and dim,
God blinds and stupifies.
where other objects emit grayness,
God categorically baffles and intoxicates.

most likely, beloved, these words
have provided you with little consolation.
to what end mystery and star-awe
if you continue to languish in the maul-pit?
for what purpose alluring enigma
if you grunge through the desolo-swamp?
once more i reiterate that life
certainly does not resemble paradiso,
existence in no wise mirrors eldorado.
before you can know shangrila’s blissado,
you must first struggle through the tundra.
before balm, rose-bud and coconut,
you must know thorn, thistle and thrash.
we are perfectly willing to accept
the structure of reality so long as
our person dashes in rainbow,
and our rivers flow of gold.
we never angrily question God
when we luckily receive bonanza,
or when we inexplicably obtain millions,
yet when He bars our feast of delecto-pie,
and hampers our cruise in the ocean,
we foment, freeze and burn,
immaterial banshees howling,
the thunderclap loud and obnoxious.

why must God first serve you
before you serve him?
why must the Almighty answer your demands,
before you bask in obedience and service,
and fully incorporate piety’s rainbow?
are you not aware that the attendance
of church is known as a service?
do you not know that God calls us
to sacrifice, to abhor the flesh,
to deny the combustion of lust,
and to wholly immerse ourselves in aid?
would it not set a precedent negativo
if your relationship to the almighty
began with his service to you?
would he not be abetting your habit
of continually making demands?
would he not be encouraging
your predilection to wail and lament?
did saint benedict complain
when he was poisoned by his own brethren
since he irradiated too much piety,
and demanded of them holier to be?
did not job say the Lord hath given
and the Lord hath taken away,
may his halo-grace be praised and sanctified,
and his mysto-wonder ever be worshipped and revered?
did doctor king say when he was hit
in the head with a brick in chicago:
“cursed be this life’s ash!
it is an abomination, a sound-fury,
the platform for a clown and a rogue.”?
did he not say in reality:
“i have been hit on the head
so many times that it no longer matters.”?
if you thank God for the crysto-roses,
why do you not praise him for the slice-thorns?
if you exult in your victories and triumphs,
why do you not realize the necessity
of your defeats, rebuffs and collapses?
are the two not contingent on each other?
are they not as kindred as night is to day?

God answers to no man.
He is subject to none,
He is unmoved by the threat and the whip,
the manipulation fails him to influence.
He operates and enacts under his discretion,
He is the leader, the general and the umpire.
He determines when the adversary outflanks,
and in what manner the athlete magno-triumphs.
His wisdom decrees the blueprint,
and His intelligence designs the foundation.
He is the one that estimates and executes,
He is the one that wields the scepter,
all his decisions arising from his fountain,
his sagacity the world inundating.

almost all relationships with God
begin on his initiative and his design.
thus you must exercise supreme patience,
years could go by before God reveals himself.
ghandi struggled some 27 years
freedom from the british to obtain,
king labored for eleven years,
numerous necro-threats receiving,
countless assaults enduring,
before his people voting rights won.
mohammed, the Lord’s mercy embalm him,
labored some twenty-seven years,
the idols ironèskan to smash,
and his people God’s benevolence
fully and wholly to introduce.
american women, the oppressed half of humanity,
struggle some 50 years the suffrage to win.

you must cheerfully exult in life’s challenges,
you must openly embrace the hurdle,
the heat-sweat of effort enjoying,
the abundance of wasteland acknowledging.
you must become the celesto-warrior,
no amount of drudgery phasing you,
nor any sum of spike discouraging you.
you must see yourself as the knight
challenging the night-domain of your interior,
or the shine-paladin at war
with your own rogue-demons and maul-serpents.
you must steadfastly acknowledge
that God only heeds demands
when the individual shockingly
abominates all the viper’s manifestations,
and scourges those phenomena of blood.
you must confess that your demand
in fact drabs of gray-drizzle and mud,
lest you truly embellish it with splendora,
and coat it with sistinum niagran.

ask yourself:
have you truly made an effort
God’s attention to obtain?
has not your demand been bathed
in not one cent of ritual?
have you not rendered it
any wise especial or extra-holy?
how is your demand substantially
more important than the prayer
of the mother whose child suffers from malaria,
or the aspiring songstress beauto-graceful,
eager and ambitious for fame-gold?
why should the Lord heed you,
rather than tend to the paralyzed?
what makes you thrill-shine and surge-beam?
what essence within you attracts and bedazzles?
how are you exceptional, extradifferent?
you well know that life by necessity
must simmer in some drab and some webs,
that some hate-scourge must proliferate,
that the occasional spear must fly,
so why then should the Lord
promote you into the bless-halls of silverado,
rather than one afflicted with strike-menace,
or one languishing in the ghetto-tundra’s blitz?
do you not know that one side of the balance
can not seriously outweigh the other?
are you not aware that on the chess board of life
the white pieces must more or less equal the black?
so why then should you be promoted from pawn to bishop,
rather than someone more flush with patience?
or someone who effulges more kindness,
more gentleness, more vibrant azalea?

several God-worshippers claim
that you yourself are to blame.
it is due to your lack of faith,
it is your void of confidence and belief,
it is the nails in your soul,
and the mud in your mind,
that causes this cancer of atheism.
this line of reasoning, beloved, i reject.
i too once mired in atheism’s ink-swamp,
i too have known shadow-doubt and hideo-skeptica.
God once left me to languish
in life’s fen of confusion.
i have existed amid that junk-bog
of illusional phantom and scourge.
this is not your fault, beloved,
it is rather a necessary element of life.
not everyone can experience the mind-rose,
not omnia can know splendora of soul,
not all can taste ambrosio-truth,
delecto-wisdom and sagacious merlot.
in God’s army some are generals,
others are lieutenants and still others
mere privates, grunts and foot-soldiers.
it has always been thus
and most likely will continue thus.
thank God for what you do have,
rather than pine in swords for your poverty.
reap spasmo-fun from your existing gifts,
do not afflict yourself due to your void.
focus on your beauto-clouds and ivory,
not on your blade-maul and rampant sharks.

still others propose that even if God
did answer your demands,
still would the warlock consume you,
still would the viper rule you,
yourself continuing to persist in denial.
this also i doubt and implode.
the Lord’s power is immense, glostonishing,
nothing compares to its aurora,
it bewilders all and confounds all,
its instigates blindness and rupture,
it vacates all sanity and balance.
one’s walls collapse,
one’s pyramids crumble,
and everywhere the mercenary attacks them.
when God revealed himself to me,
there was not one shred of doubt,
my whole being convulsed and absorbed,
i was hypno-struck and soul-quaked.
barely could i function and move,
hardly could i reason properly.
my day immediately turned to night,
my sun quickly eclipsed,
and my dreams now became reality.
i can only counsel you with this parable:
does the father yield to the crying babe,
do parents acquiesce before the demanding child?
would you not rather give to the obedient,
than to he who foments and lavaifies?
is it not instinctual to deny the spoiled
and laud and laurel the chaste?
would johnson have yielded to king,
if the latter threatened and knived?
was it not easier for the former
to reward, bestow and enlavish,
since king exhibited so much righteousness?
thus, beloved, clothe yourself in prayer,
put on the helmet of obedience,
pearl yourself in the immaculata of selflessness,
paint yourself with the brush of compassion,
let patience resound in your orchestra,
let genuflection be your altar and chalice.

this is how you should pray:
Lord, i have not yet known your sistine grace,
nor have i experienced your compassion.
i have yet to feel your balm and your blessado,
i do not even know if your miraculo-bliss
indeed influences all of reality’s corners,
nor if you in fact govern life’s race.
nevertheless i have heard so often,
that nothing surmazing precludes effort,
and that the grasp of magno-treasure requires sweat,
that i will therefore set myself apart from the world,
i will wholly immerse myself in benevolence,
i will eagerly assist the handicapped,
i will enthusiastically advocate for the voiceless,
the homeless will witness my rainbow,
the blind will receive my enflashica.
i will remove myself from all toxicity,
no moral blemish will corrupt me,
nor will any hate-vomit eject from me.
daily i will supplicate you, Lord,
to enter into my life in rapture,
and to purge every vestige of selfishness.
i well know that unless you fully reveal to me
the true extent of your cosmos majestican,
and unequivocally demonstrate your mysto-awe
that i will never ascend to a platmo-splendid plain.
thus since once can never experience holiness,
save by encountering your crysto-mirth,
i will therefore at least avoid the rat-ditch.
i may not be able to experience complete selflessness,
but i can abhor the greed-lechers and the cobra-gluttons.
i cannot completely enhalo the suffering,
but i can deny my poiso-lusts and my hate-thorns.
often i will supplicate you, Lord,
to inundate my life in benevolence,
yet discouragement’s mold will void,
as well as the bleak oil of despair,
when this fails to occur in jasmo-splash,
for i know that patience flourishes in rose,
and that tenacity abounds in amber.

egyptian heiroglyphs

2007-02-24T13:24:00.000-05:00

zoom! brillianto-stars! it exists! an easy path to egypt’s hieroglyphs is at hand! soon i will be symphonizing amid that exotic dance and song, soon i will be learning those fabled heiroglyphs of mysteria shangrilahen, so inexplicably radiant in their aurora and their tornado! the only way to learn an ancient language is to have the original language and attached to each foreign word of bizzarrum must be the english word itself! and sadly this ingenius method, stellared of the most pristine silver, the publisher of foreign language books completely fails to integrate into his cosmos! but zesto-bloom! flash-gold! the same revelation that occurred to winthrop sargeant, the great transmitter of the bhagavad gita to the english speaker and the same birth of bronze that befell the publ... has also occurred to ... now are the mysteries of the heiroglyphs soon to be unraveled! now will i soon be intermixing myself amid the great pyramid and the sphinx. now will the obelisk dance in my mind. now when i descend into the tomb of some great pharoah will i not meet mind-shadow but soul-sun! now when i walk amid the ruins of thebes will bewildermento not cascade in my fields but mind-flight, idea-jump and absorption! now when my mind wanders back into the past just as it wanders into my own country’s past and hears “in order to form a more perfect union,” or “four score and seven years ago,” or “inalienable rights,” rather than wander back into the egypt 2500 bc and be met with blank, nihlum and tabula rasa instead surging ideas will overwhelm me, crisp, tangible concepts will resound from the harp and the bassoon. egypt will no longer be permanetly cloaked in dusk, nor will it remain a loud gong of intelligibility, (specters! forms!) instead its most delicious treasure will flame-whirl, its wild azalea of stravinskium will dance. i will shine the bright white light of my intellect upon ...’s book and thus will the stark rainbow of understanding effulge from the other side. i will dive into the crystal and the pool of sparrows, i will swim through the feathers of the peacock, i will metamorphize amid the wonder of bloom!

2007-02-23T22:11:00.000-05:00

my chaste love for segolene royal

2007-02-22T00:16:00.000-05:00

Ségolène Royal : intervention lors du débat participatif de Grenoble
envoyé par segolene-video.org & segolene.tv

my love for segolene royal is
completely and entirely pure.
i see in segolene all that is best in woman,
all that coalesces and symphonizes,
she represents the feminine’s
most haloèskan traits.
she is the nurturer, the shield and the blanket.
my love for her is unlike
the husband’s for his wife.
the wife guards the husband
from petty shred-demons,
she is a coequal complement
to his large fortress,
she stands at his side
as they both confront the alien.
the husband as well guards her
from the python of rust-menace,
and blocks the foment of enmity.
he embraces her in majesto-blithe,
envelopes her in wonder-cheer and dazzle.
to compare my love for segolene
to the son’s love for his mother also fails.
the child is weaponless against stark demons,
the infant is wholly ill-equipped
in his walk through the night-gorge,
yet his mother gives him the milk,
the manna and the soul-flow necessary,
she cloaks him in warmth and sun.

yet segolene, though i am not
a citizen of the country she may
one day in fact lead, nevertheless
if i were french undoubtedly
i would see her as the last
bastion of defense against nazi-howls,
as the foremost authority
in benevolently wielding the scepter.
surely if one were to stand trial
innocent of the charges against them,
the prosecution serpo-lusting for incarceration,
then they would want segolene to be the judge.
certainly if we were attacked
by anthropomorphic blood-hounds,
hijackers of airplanes and dregs,
then we would want segolene
to administer the reaction.
she shines of the bright light of idealism,
she compassionately nurtures the spirit,
she effuses halo-mirth and health.
segolene is always smiling,
segolene is impervious to machete-fear.
although disease of mind undoubtedly
spreads its cancer through this earth,
segolene remains untouched by its acid,
she is teflon to the torturers and the brigands.
she shapes idea of rose in her mind,
and transmits them to the audience.
without doubt then when the parliament
hands her the new laws
will her brightness of soul
distinguish the swamp from the paradise,
determine the mildew from the bloom,
and guide france into reawakening.

i feel no desire to possess segolene
because i know that i would rob
the world of a bounteous mind-bloom,
and be a thief to those in need of her warmth.
she must be the resource to all,
her deep bloom must azaleafy an entire country.
her numerous canyons and rivers
must nourish an entire city,
and i am certain of the profundity of her ocean,
and the uncontainable fields in her interior.

anna nicole smith - obit

2007-02-13T00:13:00.001-05:00

i'm not sure i should have written this poem. i don't know if anna nicole deserves mentioning. some of the ideas i might later deny but for now it stands.

it is with pity, sweet anna nichole,
that i learn of your passing.
in seducing you yourself were seduced,
in harming you yourself were harmed.
i see you as victim of the lie,
wholly malicized by the sex-phantom.
in digging for gold, sweet anna nichole,
you only uncovered a tomb of maggots,
in questing for silver you instead
confronted the soul-sword and the mind-knife.
but you were no active agent in this errand.
you were mugged by mammon’s club,
beaten and bruised by his greed-fists.
aware of your potent power
to captivate, thrill and mystify
you used your assets gold to acquire.
this tactic instead lead to the grave,
an admission into the catacombs’ hate-night.
it was the allure that seduced you,
not you seducing the millionaire,
it was glitter that enpotioned your mind,
not you that bewitched the playboy.

myself being a member of the hard gender,
one for whom the volcano of the loins
foment, enspasm and jolt,
one for whom the iron of penetration
becomes a luxury and a boon,
i of course became partly seduced
by the allure you effulged.
i fought and continue to fight
the eye-lust that you propagate,
and the chardonnay vision you disperse.
but you in the other valley
were unaware of the burden
that being a seducer entails.
rather than wholly understanding
your charms, your flash and your shine,
instead you became an instrument
of the venomous sprite of sensuality.
while that sprite employed you
he gradually encancered your mind,
and slowly decayed your reason.

i empathize that love never enshimmered you,
i lament that venus never transblessed you.
thus mammon enslaved you,
hijacked your will and your reason,
yourself prey to the lash and the shriek.
you will seduce no more,
and now the seducers that presently
ransack, subterfumigate and belie
have been chilled with frost,
until amnnesia returns them to their delusion.

2007-02-13T00:13:00.000-05:00

i thank you, rachel, for initiating
the young-adult prayer-group.
there sunshine of soul,
there radiance of worship,
there contemplation of the supreme bonum.
i enjoy the intermixture with my peers,
i delight in interacting with their plenty.
it is the Lord that uplifts,
the Lord that enshimmerates,
and the Lord that begoniafies and enrosifies,
nevertheless this request i feel compelled to make:
do not condone the attendance of the sports-bar.

as i entered the sports-bar
a deep nausea flowed into me,
an animated mucus coated me.
when i crossed that threshold
into the methane that is the coarse mind
of the sports-bar i regurgitated.
there i saw selfishness, egotism,
i witnessed the oil of materialism,
i encountered the wombat of spite.
you must know, rachel, that as i
met those night-rats conspiring,
and saw their plethora of soul-noise,
i felt a wave of swamp consume me,
and the mongreled stallion hunt me.
i cannot endure the sports-bar’s bludgeon.
there heat-lust and fight-prick,
there benzened adultery and betrayal,
there silence, there the fight, there the snake.
its irreligiosity permeates and invades,
its consumption in enmity abounds,
its allegiance to the specter roams.

josh wolf, hero

2007-02-12T14:21:00.000-05:00

full article

AMY GOODMAN: We return to the federal correctional institution in Dublin, California, to the interview with jailed journalist Josh Wolf. He has spent the most amount of time in jail for protecting his sources than any journalist in history, almost six months. I asked him to describe what his time has been like in prison.

JOSH WOLF: Yeah, it's getting very close to six months. I’ve probably read about sixty books. I’ve written some 300-400 letters in response to things that have come in to me. I’ve written hundreds of pages in my journal, wrote numerous blog entries, played a lot of dominoes, exercised, ate and slept, and that's basically all that one can do inside of a prison environment. I’ve socialized with the inmates, gotten a better understanding of the justice system, made some good friends and acquaintances.

AMY GOODMAN: Who is imprisoned along with you?

JOSH WOLF: Well, for one thing, Greg Anderson, who's also in contempt for -- regarding the BALCO case. He's there.

AMY GOODMAN: Explain who Greg Anderson is.

JOSH WOLF: Greg Anderson is Barry Bonds's trainer, who has refused to testify in the grand jury that's investigating whether or not Barry Bonds lied under oath in the grand jury. So he's there in the unit. There's a number of drug dealers, felons with guns, illegal immigrants --that's one of the most frightening things is, a lot of the people there have done nothing more than cross an imaginary line, and that's their crime, and they're often given three, four, five years before being deported, which is just unbelievable.

AMY GOODMAN: Have you been able to interview them?

JOSH WOLF: I’ve spoken to them at length. I recently wrote something about my understanding of their situation, which I believe is on my blog right now.

AMY GOODMAN: And how is your -- how are the guards, how is the prison treating you?

JOSH WOLF: With a level of professionality that I did not expect, not just in terms of myself, who is clearly here for a different sort of situation than other people, but also in terms of just all of the prisoners that are here. I was kind of quite surprised that there is this, you know, professional courtesy given towards the inmates, but I’ve been told that that's one of the major differences between the federal and state systems of incarceration.

Videographer Becomes Longest-Jailed Journalist in US History

2007-02-08T11:05:00.000-05:00

article

a California videographer has become the longest-incarcerated journalist in US history. Josh Wolf has been jailed since August 1st. It’s his second time in prison over his refusal to hand over video of a 2005 protest. In San Francisco, dozens of supporters rallied outside City Hall Tuesday to call for Wolf’s release. Today is Wolf’s 169th day in jail.

Police Arrest Public Housing Activists in New Orleans

2007-02-01T12:35:00.000-05:00

public housing activists arrested in new orleans

New Orleans police raided the Saint Bernard housing project this morning where activists had been occupying a building to prevent government plans to demolish it. Two people were arrested. Last summer, federal housing officials announced plans to demolish four large public housing developments even though tens of thousands of low-income New Orleans residents remain displaced. The move sparked one of the most intense struggles in New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Just before the program we received a call from one of the two activists arrested this morning. Jamie “Bork” Loughner spoke to us from Orleans Parish Prison. She described what happened.

New Orleans activist Jamie “Bork” Loughner, speaking from Orleans Parish Prison.
Well the battle over the future of public housing in New Orleans recently took an unexpected turn. A few days ago the Housing Authority of New Orleans sent a letter to one of the lead lawyers for the residents asking him to stop speaking to the media and to remove statements he made that appear in several online videos. The letter accused attorney Bill Quigley of making “prejudicial extrajudicial statements to the press and others.” The New Orleans Housing Authority also threatened to haul Quigley in front of the state’s Bar Association’s disciplinary board if he did not agree to stop discussing the case.

Bill Quigley joins me now from New Orleans. He is a law professor at Loyola University. We invited the New Orleans Housing Authority on the program. They did not respond to our request.

Bill Quigley. Law professor at Loyola University in New Orleans, also the director of the Law Clinic and Gillis Long Poverty Law Center at Loyola University.

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AMY GOODMAN: Before the program, we received a call from one of the two people arrested this morning. “Bork” Loughner spoke with us from the Orleans Parish Prison. She described what happened.

JAMIE “BORK” LOUGHNER: Last night at 2:30 in the morning, MayDay NOLA, which had been in the middle of a 17-day occupation of the New Day Community Center, with permission of the leaseholders, had been raided by SWAT team members at gunpoint. It was quite scary.

We were there because we believed in the fact that people who lived in these public homes -- St. Bernard Project and CJ Pete and the others -- deserve to come back. There’s thousands of families that have been displaced, almost 5,000 units that are scheduled for demolishment, and we believe firmly that they shouldn't be demolished, that people should be allowed to return home to New Orleans to their communities. We believe that these are internally displaced people here in the United States and that everything should be done to get them home.

The public housing development is in good shape. It was solid concrete walls. Even though it was flooded, it was architecturally sound, according to MIT architects. And there's no reason for HANO to decide to hassle people who are just trying to reopen public housing in and even have them arrested, when they should be concentrating on getting housing back for families that need it.

AMY GOODMAN: Jamie “Bork” Loughner, speaking from the Orleans Parish Prison. She was arrested this morning.

Well, the battle over the future of public housing in New Orleans recently took an unexpected turn. A few days ago, the Housing Authority of New Orleans sent a letter to one of the lead lawyers for the residents, asking him to stop speaking to the media and to remove statements he made that appeared on several online videos. The letter accused attorney Bill Quigley of making “prejudicial extrajudicial statements to the press and others.” The New Orleans Housing Authority also threatened to haul Quigley in front of the state’s Bar Association’s disciplinary board if he doesn’t agree to stop discussing the case.

Bill Quigley joins us now from New Orleans, a law professor at Loyola University. We invited the New Orleans Housing Authority on the program; they didn’t respond to our request. Bill Quigley, what is happening in New Orleans?

BILL QUIGLEY: Well, thank you for helping explain what's going on in New Orleans, but we are really engaged in a fight for the soul and spirit of our community. The public housing struggle is part of the overall struggle in the city to see that there is room in the new New Orleans for renters, for working-class people, for the elderly and for the disabled. We have significant racial overtones to who is being excluded from the city and very significant economic overtones in terms of who is been excluded from the city.

And the public housing struggle is about 4,500 affordable apartments that the federal government, HUD, is trying to demolish to make way for many fewer apartments that would be pitched to a different audience altogether. The people in charge in the federal government, in cooperation with some private developers in the areas, have actually seen Katrina as an opportunity to get rid of the lowest-income people in the community and to, in a sense, start over without the participation of people who used to live here, who could go back into their apartments on very short notice, and that the raid this morning and the charges that have been filed against residents who went back in to clean their own homes, the threats against myself and Tracey Washington, the civil rights lawyers who are working with the residents, just shows that this is really a pitched battle for who gets to come back to New Orleans and who is going to participate in the rebuilding.

pornography and harm

2007-01-30T21:40:00.000-05:00

some posit that pornography is harmless, that no one is hurt by it, no deadly toxins are transmitted and neither does it in truth violate the conjugal oath. it is merely something a lonely man engages in order to placate his libidinous wolves and master the sexual cougars struggling to overwhelm him. if consenting adults wish to exhibit their sexual prowess before a camera then that is their prerogative, their right and their choice. yet those who act as such in reality violate their own temple, smut all their immaculate altars with dung and incorporate the menacing harpy within them.
those who succor to its fruits weaken their defenses against adultery’s paratroopers and leave themselves vulnerable to women of prey. is it not true that when we view a naked woman we say to ourselves subconsciously that we wish to be with her, tasting her, exploring with her all of sex’s yield of adrenaline. so is it not obvious that when the authentic confronts us we will more easily succumb to its rush of poison and plummet into its hydrochloric bath? should we not rather continually struggle to build more and more resistance to temptation, always the mongrel dispelling, always the hard embracing, always the soft despising? should we not cultivate a deep love for the rough trek through the wilderness rather than be lead by the nose into the mosquito-fen of sensuality?
pornography is adultery in the fourth degree, visiting exotic dance clubs the third, flirting, giggling and becoming friendly with an actual member of the opposite sex second. the more we indulge in these bridges to adultery, particularly second degree adultery, the greater our chances become to outright exile from our home, cruel castigation by our wife and wholesale confrontation with the ogres of isolation. these minor forms of adultery should be shunned and feared as if they were not alluring enticements of pure jasper, creamy, soothing and relaxing, but outright vampires of larceny hungry to banish us to the ghetto-tundra. few of us condone flirting, particularly the more virulent form. we certainly do not praise flirting the guns, taking them out of the cabinet, pointing them at our friends, putting a single bullet in the chamber, rolling it then shooting it at ourselves or others. so why then would we praise pornography which in effect is a form of flirting with adultery’s perennial acid?
our lusts will always be with us, they will always smite us with blade, the vultures of sexual temptation will forever prey upon us. our polygamous instinct is strong, rough, coiling. all animals shun the narrowness of monogamy and whilst we were beasts in the field, scavenging for our next meal, each day sleeping in a different location, we as well often shared our essential minerals with a variety persons. we must acknowledge this harsh reality and seek to expunge its vice rather than hunger to accommodate it, just as the man who is destined to forever sleep with a knife in his bed strives to enjoy rather than seeks to never let it cut him. God has enabled us the family’s blithe to know, its efficacy in banishing the mephisto-blast of chaos and it is that bliss and that panacea that we should always strive harvest, not attempt to please both our polygamous and monogamous urges. so if while wandering the internet’s realms, or while roaming the grocery store’s aisles or even if we should chance upon the intimate apparel section in an emporium and witness a femme deliciously dressed and you feel the blood within you viper-pulse and tornado-rage, see it not as a curse but as an opportunity to strengthen yourself against adultery’s regiments, see yourself as needing regular exercise and that enticing model not as a strike-demon hungering for your demise but merely as a dumbbell that needs lifting.
practicing fidelity and abstinence is hard not easy. our natural urges push us into the weeds of adultery, the male hungers always greater and wider his seed to spread. he is ravenous, insatiable, choleric. yet if one truly masters these urges, and kneels before the altar of monogamy, undoubtedly he will experience the halo-blossom of trust’s jacinth. the faithful couple loves one another, respects one another, glows and luster surround and envelope them. they routinely plunge into stark jasmine, quaking and surging, they regularly feast of the cake of newness.
although relativism has lately experienced a sensational popularity and words such as “evil” and “sin” have recently been labeled naive and old-fashioned this trend will not continue for long, indeed it may have already faded. be that as it may the predi-lection to ridicule manichaeism, that world-view that sees reality as a struggle be-tween good and evil remains strong. nonetheless we should strive to abrogate harm whenever and wherever its hydra arises. thus when we resist pornography and feel the adders slithering around us we should accept that discomfort as necessary towards conquering evil’s obnoxum. we should view that pain as the opponent’s sword clashing against our armor, brutish and rough yet necessary if we are ever to know tranquillata’s spice.
the publisher of pornography cannot help but be a selfish man. his fascination for sex leads him into the swamps of indifference to another’s emosha. he is an ogre, salivating, raw, blemished. even if he were to devote one hundred pages to peripheral matters and only five pages to a sexy model, disrobed, unchaste, her hunger for fornicata limpid and apparent, we would still brandish him as undesirable to society, a callous goat. for he has violated one of our culture’s most prominent taboos, namely, to maintain a deep reverance for sex, to not talk about it in callous terms, to not seek to debase it, to hallow it with gold and platinum.
any hint that intercourse spirals us into mad winds of pleasanto-gush rings an alarm in our flame that it is not they who fascino-thrill us, nor their soul that grips us in mesmer, rather it is simply the friction of the loins in general irregardless of whomever our complement may be. if it is monogamy that we are interested in then we would never for one second even consider publishing glolluring photos of our wife since we cleave to her with an acute spasmo, sharply jealous, in constant dread that someone else might seduce her. for five percent of our thoughts to concern the wilds of intimata, hot flesh against cold flesh, kissezza a balm of incomparable flux, is normal, yet when one yields to these yearning, nails beneath them, serpents slithering in their chamber and purchases pornographic literature and places it in an area where our medallion might see it, we would immediately recoil, for we would then fear that they might act on those noxio-yearnings, abandon us and delight in another’s emeralds.
we respect members of the opposite sex that shun promiscuity’s enticements. for we know that if we were to enter a relationship with them our feelings would concern them in absoluto. while bound to them we are confident that our dormant dragons of jealousy will never awaken, that the castles we construct with them will endure, that the fruit of our primitive behavior will mature into clear-thinking engineers, complex philosophers, incorruptible politicians and mental howitzers. on this non-promiscuous, responsible bulwark we can lavish countless hopes, can envision solid futures, emerald magnolias and blush. to explore their laptop computer and find several downloaded images of libidinous, disrobed femmes is to then wonder just how ravenous their sexual bison are and if they have or ever will act on that polygamous instinct which their pornography so unashamedly glorifies.
consider also when you view a naked woman that although one side of you may reproach her, another side of you categorically encourages her boldness. one voice has condemned her as trash and worthless yet your instincts tidal-push you towards her, your loins erupt and cascade at the sight of her and if she were to enter your room you would not hesitate to indulge in fornicata’s poiso-snares, raw, ruthless and horrential. you must act on your principles, allow the reason to suppress your sexual mercenaries hungering for bloat and shun these women who unashamedly cause the hormones to mutiny and threaten the happiness of homes.
to profit on one’s own nudity could be a more exacerbating transgression than adultery. it only depends on how long, to what extent and how successfully one reaped gold from the sale of their sacrado, just as with adultery we must ask was it merely a momentary lapse of willpower through which they suffered razors of shame or did one’s indulgence in its barbitura endure for weeks and months. irregardless the model’s morals are just as convoluted as the consumer. she sees her beautèzza, her flash and her pulchrome as a means for profit. she also communicates explicitly her sensitivity to sensuality’s jubilo. as she is being photographed posing provocatively she is thinking of sex, hungering for sex, contemplating its texture, its odor and its perfumes.
the man who binds himself to a lust-model cannot help but feel that his rose is wilted. he is sleeping with someone who has violated one of mankind’s most sacred taboos: nakedness. to defy this taboo requires a soul bent on the ravenous satisfaction of the appetites, a mind in love with their own ego, ever disdainful of the other, always hungering for their acquisition. they must be wild, untamable, individual, reckless. a man bound to them lives in constant fear that she will deny her oath and maneuver once more through the erratic terrain of single life.
those who possess something that few have seen automatically reel amongst char-donnay clouds. there is no pride in owning a common soft-drink, reading a bestsel-ling novel, yet those americans who are able to decipher sanskrit’s entangled maze or even purchase facsimiles of medieval manuscripts if not the ancient texts themselves undeniably leapt into splendo-glory when holding the relics in their hands. the model who has shared her nudity with the public no longer has any shine-treasure to share with her lover. he will feel robbed, his fortress ransacked, his jewels embezzled.
what then is dignity? we often say that a sex-worker has compromised her dignity but when tested we cannot define exactly what we mean. dignity is closely linked to self-respect. he who respects himself does not engage in actions that cause his inte-rior angels to recoil, nor does he allow people to employ him maliciously. on the contrary, he is the captain of his own ship and bravely confronts the exterior on his terms not on someone else’s. dignity invests us with a healthy love of self which then repels whatever acid-lechers lust for us to betray this interior admiration to the rat-dogs.
one common retort we hear from playboy models is that God created us nude, thus shame should disintegrate into the cumulo-clouds. asymmetrical, God made glo-rio-sacred that which we can only see after much trial, sweat-effort and burn. the common fails to cause our stars to supernova, nor do our rivers gush in maximo when we witness a painting of sophmorish quality yet when the mona lisa caresses our eyes with silvo-thrall or when sistine beatica enshimmers our aura in mind-dance we are immediately smitten with thrash. thus, nudity should be guarded, cherished, preserved, relegated to the special, a flash of great import.
pornography is a full-fledged evasion of the spiritual realm. friendship, love, de-votion, commitment, ideas, the flashing bloom of compassion, the elation of the heart amidst word, to twinkle with sun-bliss during conversation, philosophy, knowing a person’s most intimate secrets, refusing to quake in rhino-anger, concerned with another’s trek through the splinter-maze – this is the spiritual life. since pornography ignores this blithe it would be bountiful to remind the reader just how lush the immaterial realm is. the world of ideas is large, vast, resourceful, blossoming in dignity. it is endlessly various, manifold, providing countless hours and days for contemplation, analysis, rigor and study. there is always something to learn, new realms lie hidden between covers in the library, new dramas lay somewhere in the annals of the cinema if only one would devote the effort needed to uncovering their bullion. so long as one is atune with the spirit, ideas eternally frolicking in his wit, orbs of wonder floating before his eyes, he need not fear the swamps of boredom, nor the harpies of mental lethargy, instead armed with his vast reservoir of thought and a fellow companion more or less equal to him the two can thus travel across the oceans of concern, microcosms, symphonies, rivulets, elections, legislation all the while joy’s flow-gush receiving and sparklado’s rave seeing. pornography ignores this blithe in completicum and instead focuses on the extremely finite realm of the senses which provide but an ephemeral escape from pain and no salvation whatsoever from man’s most relentless dilemmas.
the man of lust is only at peace when his lusts are being gratified. moreover when his lusts suddenly vexplode and he is compelled to placate them he then snarls and swine-bellows, demon-driven to pacify whatever engines presently combust in their system. theirs is a painful quest, vexing, never at peace until they have indulged their desire which sometimes may even require breach of the law. consider then how difficult a life would be since our society rests on a foundation of reconciling individual needs with communal ones. to always hunger your appetite to feed, your lusts to quench, your rhino to assuage, it is impossible. pornography only amplifies this agitation, making lust a larger staple to one’s existence. it exacerbates spirit-wounds rather than heals them, it spreads contagion rather than diminishing it, for as we watch pornography our hunger for the genuine grows, our need for the authentic magnifies. admittedly there are some consumers of pornography who realize that it is only fantasy, that real women are unlike those portrayed in sex films. at the time those same men also occasionally say to themselves: “and yet how much i wish that real women would meet all my desires, that they were sexually ravenous, that they would hop to my every desire.” thus they live in contradiction, unable to conform to reality’s roughness, always the sweet path wanting, always the lazy road to pleasura desiring, the hard road of effort despising.
the man in love, on the other hand, is in a constant state of rainboweskan peace. the snow-capped himalayas shine in his imagination, wordsworth’s host of daffodils brilliate in his spectrum, sistine beatica pulsates in his galaxies and amberesque rivers wash his interior with chablis. all actions are embellished with burgundy cloud, his labor is no longer tedious, his half-hour commute ceases to entwist his nerves. his flame is not simply an instrument that effortlessly assists him in feasting on or-gasmo’s coconut, rather she is a pulsing light that has washed his soul of all loneli-ness’ corrosion and grunge, she has transmorphed his scape from a demolished city into a hub where countless goods are transacted, traded and exchanged.
pornography and devotion are mutually exclusive. devotion concerns com-promise, sacrificing one’s initiative, acting in concert with another, suppressing a fraction of one’s individuality so that the two may flourish. to submit to the boar of one’s lust for pleasura outside the bond even in part cannot help but create jangling discord. we must fight these razoreskan yearnings, no matter how painful, all for the sake of our flame’s felicia. to fan the acidic flames of our lusts is only to invite dread, toxica, snarling rhinos and corrosion. pornography, which is nothing more than the glorifier of promiscuity, will resurrect those bulls which matrimonia should have euthanized, it will cause our hormones to quake and our libido to snarl.
to focus on sex’s jubilo is to sound alarms, alert brigades and emit polluted energy. promiscuous sex is the very sword that slashes the family’s bloom in sunder. if it is conjugal cominglement that interests us then we need only express our enthusi-astica for it in the bedchamber, feverish abandon captivating us, ecstatic blood racing through our veins. love for our wife need not be advertised to the world. if in a su-perb act of coarseness we were to purchase a small figurine of a man and a woman copulating and place it on our desk whoever saw it would immediately recognize that it is not our wives who thrill us with verve but simply the friction of the flesh in whatever form it greets us.
we should rely more on our instincts. would we not instinctively recoil if we were to see a photograph of a swimsuit model in a church and would we not be ut-terly scandalized if the model were naked? automatically we would sense that trans-gression’s vipers have infiltrated the sanctum. it is only because a lusty woman, con-scious of her body’s fire, eager for nonconjugal sex, threatens the blithe of the family. that model, enflamed, simmering, wants to corrupt the husband with her minerals and thus endanger the pax that permeates that home’s aura. but it is not so much what the model desires but what nail-adders and hydroxo-snakes raced through whomever placed her there. we lament that someone in our midst in such blatant disregard for everyone else heeded their basic drives and succumbed to acidic yearning.
woman is far more deserving of respect than man realizes. in fact in many key areas they surpass us. as children, fragile, precarious, uncertain of the exterior’s true thorns, it is our mothers we run to when our soul bleeds, it is they whose soft voice comforts us and reassures us that, though we may have witnessed harm’s fangs for the first time, mental prosperity does indeed bloom in copia, its nutrients abounding in her springs. as adults it is women who pulchrify an office with radia, women who work well with customers, pacifying their stress-whips and engendering their nobility. yet men disrespect them by ignoring their spiritual sun-blithe and fixating on how woman’s sexual potions might serve their libidinous bison. if it is sex that interests him in no wise does anything subsurface the woman’s flesh concern him. he does not care what phantoms of fear ransack her fields, nor what bliss-hopes and fanso-dreams flash in her clouds, nor what tastes in beautezza, color or sculpture she has, he only cares that she can groan and sigh under the oppression of passion’s boar as he galvanizes her and that her face grips him in glow while doing so. do not vultures scar us if so-called friends visit us, eat some of our food and after only a half hour vanish into etheria? do we not recoil into splinter when people employ our assistance for exams yet in no way confederate their states with ours, exploring mutual preferences? thus the ultimate snare to the femme’s pax comes when we pilfer from the fruit-trees in her vale and utterly ignore her mind’s unique texture. this is precisely what both the producer and the consumer of pornography does: he disregards her spirit and uses her body either for profit or for overwhelming the drag-ons of his libido. when his flood-waters recede and balance is restored he no longer thinks of whomever pleased his erectica.
it is impossible to look at a half-nude woman, smiling, rainbows encircling her, jubilant over her sex’s magnum and not want her delectica. how then do we resolve this quandary layered with demise? hideo-demons inevitably will consume us and we will have no choice but to appease our lust-dogs while fantasizing that we have bathed ourselves in her labian nectar. the instinct for procreation is strong, gar-gantuan, rough, biting, concrètican, robust, durable, countless men have met destruc-toclysm due to its onslaught, innumerable politicians have been ruined by its sharks. we cannot ignore sex’s dominion. it is omnivorous. we must vexult in the process therefore. we must not torture ourselves for immersing ourselves in a swimsuit model’s waters yet we must not attempt to justify the act either. we must be ever conscious of polygamy’s blaze-hounds and never adopt the mentality of wanting as much throbbing sex as possible. solitary enpleasurement of the senses therefore must be tinged with pain. one side of us must despise what we are doing, lamenting that we are children of desire and that the libido’s rhinos commandeer us to such an extent yet the other side of us cannot help but pine for whoever inspires us and long for her jolt-kiss and her pleasènto-caress.
how hard is it then for women to suppress the urge to dress sexually and arouse a man’s toxins? i can only speculate and use a smattering of journals, interviews and observations to gauge an answer. some celebrity women such as politicians or journalists are constrained by society to draw no attention whatsoever to their carnal nature. but as for entertainers is not the number of them who have publicly expressed a longing for modesty extremely close to zero? some will resist extremely provocative poses yet all indulge in at least causing some masculine embers to sim-mer. a beauty contest among eighteen year-olds often requires the contestants to dress in swimsuits. reportedly some of them, still at that age where sex repels rather than attracts, idealistic, demanding that a woman’s shine-quartz should concern none of those aspects which recall fornicata’s pulse, protest the requirement but then, yielding to their desire for bullion and glow-fame or perhaps recognizing that the male’s propensity for carnum will only increase as they mature and seeing that elder women have surrendered to this fact, subsequently adhere to the rules, vexulting in being drooled over.
but what should anger women about not only pornography but even swimsuit magazines is that when a femme poses as such, her eyes aglow with porphyry, her smile raptolicious, is that she in essence is affirming the masculine life as well as en-couraging its nostriled laziness. she is saying in truth that at the moment she has nothing to criticize regarding masculine life, that despite all our slither-vices, our snot-coarseness, our smugness, our inability to listen, emote and deny sports’ mind-less hum-drum, she wants to reward us with irresistible voluptuo. women complain of masculine oafishness, our rudeness, our single-minded obsession with sex, our complacency, our chauvinism, our heartlessness in constanto. the only she can do then is to deny us the trophy of the loins or resist showering us with delicious eye-candy until we reform our mores and polish our manners. there is a play by aristo-phanes, lysestrata, where a woman encourages her gender to sex-strike until the men cease fighting the pelopennesian war. a similar strike might yield shine of soul in to-day’s world. married women are in a different situation yet if single women could foreswear the jubilo of orgasmo and models the begonia of exposure they might very well send a message to the dark gender that their warped view of the oppressed sex urgently needs reformation.
such a strike will never occur and masculine nobility will only increase as it has been, i.e. gradually. just as with sanctions where all countries attempt to cease a war between two nations by refusing to sell them arms yet the pact disintegrates as some poor rogue-land realizing the flux of bonanza to be won and subsequently sells the belligerents with a deluge of homicidal metal, so too those women long since scorned and ignored will at last see their opportunity for masculine plutonium and will capitalize on the strike. moreover, how much easier it is to simply cope with in-justice’s barbwire rather than to attempt to eradicate it!
irregardless any man who honestly loves a woman and wishes to bind himself to her in angeleskan matrimonia will brush up his behavior, polish the furniture of his soul, whiten the temples in his mind during courtship. after the knot is tied, however, complacency, like a beast of snarl, like a flow of rust, will set in and his wife will forever think nostalgically on the glory-times when her husband donned the armor of the paladin and spotlessly comported himself without reproach.
it is the sad fact that our sexual appetites must continually be restrained, especially if we belong to the oppressed gender, not only because of the danger of single-motherhood, a claw which modern contraception has removed, but also because males tend to harass those who once yielded to their pikes and their torches. yet males must also curb their sexual lions and enchain their libidinous bulldogs even if they are not married since once a propensity for the plunge in orgasmo’s rapturo is developed it can only be removed through the laceration of the flesh. thus whenever we feel our blood flow at the sight of a delicious woman, rather than pursue their juice we instead must strike nails into our soul and deny it whatever succulence it craves, regardless of the spikes and the claws assailing us.
with pornography then we also must jail our wolves lusting for feed as much as possible since it is those same wolves which will eventually lead us into adultery’s acid-snares if we yield to them and by extension the tundra of loneliness and siberium of isolation. have we not all at one time or another while indulging in porn’s creams been smitten with irrationality and called a familiar member of the opposite sex on the telephone and attempted to arrange an assignation with them? or have we not ever suddenly been invaded by libido-dragons coercing us into the consumption of erotic merchandise and subsequently relinquished the desire and replaced it with a lava-hunger for the real thing?
fidelity requires countless sacrifice. when the ring is placed on the finger our individuality is happily and voluntarily compromised and thenceforth rather than pondering what we desire solely, what minerals we wish to immerse ourselves in, what strategies we wish to employ so as to obtain socratica’s grail, we instead must consult our medallion before a decision is concluded. if we are lovers of books then we must diminish that love and become lovers of movies since the latter can be enjoyed in the presence of one’s treasure. if certain directors illuminate our shadows yet cause the wolves in our medallions soul to awaken then we must reserve learning from them only when our complement’s absence is required. if one of our hobbies causes our gem’s mind to be corroded with dust-boredom then that interest will have to be curtailed. yet it is our libido-snakes above all that require oppression, for nothing slashphyxiates our flames more so than indulgence in another’s raw galvum. whenever we see a delicious member of the opposite gender we must permit the razors within us to sear for it is better to be pestered by dogs, even bitten, than be exiled from your family and confront a cougar in the wilderness. when a delecto-femme or a shine-man smiles at us we should frown for it is better to pricked with needles every hour of the day then to have cutthroats stab you in the abdomen and rob you of your possessions.
contrary to what women might think, having conferred with brethren even of the most immoral flare, when we see a woman on an online dating sight who expresses interest in nothing more than the sheathing of the sword into the scabbard, we immediately recoil. women might think that given our inexhaustible appetite for la-bia that we would not hesitate to contact her. in reversemento, we recoil for such a woman’s soul undoubtedly must be infested with worms, she must have no self-respect, must wrestle day and night with self-loathing and her mouth must be full of acidic saliva. similarly when we call up some telephone chat line late at night, lone-liness molesting us, endarkened, enshadowed and gloomed with fog and we listen to the recorded introductions of a host of women, those who actually spew out a fume of sexual omnivorum, although at first our hormones combust, eventually we are frightened, certain that whoever is in the thrall of such sexual slavery undoubtedly must be a child of the mosquito-fen. nevertheless, although aghast and frightened on the one hand at how whorish the woman must be, on the other hand our blood races and our hearts thump anticipating the peach-delicious friction of the flesh.
sex is not dirty per se, it is forsooth quite beautiful, yet in order to shine rainbow it must be free from the spikes of infidelity, it must be embellished with the halo of devotion. so long as it is intimately intertwined with the vine of love does sex then bloom of rose and sparkle of amber. as soon as it becomes the object of saliva-lust does its shine pale and its lustre reflect grime. thus when one fixates on sex’s volcanica rather than love’s halo we immediately sense their deficient love for the spirit and their inability to revel in intimacy’s lilica and label them dirty. every relationship requires certain ingredients: the flash-flow of ideas, the rainboweska of laughter, the pax of the soul, conversasha must water each other’s gardens. if we were to compare the elements in a relationship to the courses in a meal we would quickly apportion sexual prowess a small fraction, kindness, jubilo, curiosity, enthu-siasm, fidelity and devotion all earning much more immediate attention. if we see that the steak of sex occupies the largest section of one’s plate we are aghast since a bond with that person would obviously squirm in rats, sex being their chief economic import not the flash of our mind, the spark of our ideas or the temple of our interests.
one should have no dealings whatsoever with these inhabitants of perpetual slime. one should not support their conspiracy against haloeskan romantica, nor further their cause to make a full fledged mockery of matrimonia, nor buttress their soldiers who daily attack the bonds of wedlock. these anthro-vultures should be isolated, cornered, shunned, their products thrown to the pyre. we should not be attracted to the corrosion of soul they propagate but disgusted and saddened for here are people who have become so disoriented by mephisto’s henchman that they have sacrificed their entire self-worth for the sake of mammon’s ephemeral medicine.
pornography heaps scorn upon the virtuous life. marriage’s immaculate ivory is repeatedly stained with mud, the characters lie, cheat, rob, steal, commit larceny, slander, regurgitate profanity, rape, abduct and stab. porn trounces upon all of soci-ety’s taboos, it mocks every institution that we have fought with gall and mortar to preserve and found. emotions (the female’s in particular) are continually ridiculed. nowhere will you find in any film that conspires to degrade sex’s luster a man who sincerely respects a woman’s thrilluminata and is willing to slave night and day to be worthy of it.
hollywood often portrays the intimata pan-beautiful of lovers yet in order to do so our instincts require them to embellish ambiento with glow-light, to not obsess completely on the loins and so on. they focus on the heirs of venus as a whole, moreover we are familiar with their particular story and see them thus as victims of a horrential fate who have at last overcome mental battery or social octopi. they focus on the characters’ mutual joyum, their interwoven rhodadendra of spirit whereas porn uses the characters solely as objects, cares not one cent for their soul’s unique terrain or its verdant fields and immediately strives to satiate its lust for fric-tion of the loins, everything else, life, drama, surge and fountain is relegated to the claw-abysm.
pornographers consider themselves outlaws. the sex-worker knows that she is shunned and will be disrespected if she reveals her identity. all the more reason to despise this industry and to strive one’s utmost to avoid its contagious noxio-spirit. pornographers understand that they are threatening the bliss of the family, that they are mocking love’s hyacinth. pornographers comprehend the extent of their transgression yet revel in it nevertheless since they are simply one’s for whom the loathing of the law is so natural, so easy so simple. they boast at their shun of mores and delight in their outcast status.
at present, march 2005, they are striving to become mainstream. they are hungering for alliances with telephone companies and reputable car merchants. they are trying to invade every hotel room in america with their mental petroleum. they want internet search-engines to categorize their ashes. they want sex-actresses to earn rolls in mainstream films. they want their rebellious magazines to be shelved in clean bookstores their covers bright and radiant. when a sports broadcaster confesses that he wants the game to end soon so that he can go home and watch adult movies (an actual event) the sex-merchants rave in jubilo. when respectable actresses endorse this toxic practice and even confess to finding comfort in its outlandish ridicule of aphrodite they exultate spasmo.
pornography warps reality. when we first confront pornography’s lies we im-mediately reject them. over time however, seeing how prominent its corrosion is in life, how blithefully people dismiss it as harmless, albeit shameful fun, learning that leading feminine magazines rarely groan of its toxins, we then assume that perhaps recreational sex and libidinous women are much more preponderant than originally predicted. making no effort to resist its allures we begin to mock pure love. eventu-ally we yield fully to the boar of our lusts and embark on a campaign to sleep with as many women as possible. our appetites consume us, they give us no respite. we think often of sex and even consider using prostitutes to satisfy our grizzlies. then when the conjugal knot is tied and shortly after the glow of love fades, we sense our hydras pulling us towards a strange women and due to a lifetime of seeking endlessly to satiate our lusts rather than restrain them, we easily fall victim to adultery’s snares and our personal life is irreparably hydroxo-hexed.
consider the harm that will result if this contagion does obtain a small corner in every video joint, if it does procure a location in every book store. what will be the extent of its romp if they are allowed to advertise more ubiquitously in television? what will happen if comedians regularly endorse its venom? what if the entertainment industry which as of year 2006 is controlled by 85% men covertly endorses an occasional use of pornography? what if pornography even begins to advertise itself in the public square in promino? surely men will begin to become more and more captured by its myths. just as advertising has shown that indeed its cheap gimmicks do have affect so too will porn’s ravenous acidic slowly deteriorate the male’s love for devotion and love. porn most likely will not convert men into insatiable dog’s vacant of all decency and ethics, for today’s male does consume abundant amounts of pornography and they are not decidedly different, nevertheless there is a slow erosion of the sacred and a gradual amelioration of the profane whose ultimate form we have yet to witness. who knows what the intergender dance will looked like centuries now? who knows of its flax and its mineral?
what then of these unrealistic romance novels that satisfy the feminine hunger of perfect men, shinning, gentlemanly, free of vice and trusting. can there be any harm in these fantastic productions. most likely not. these are simply a product of the female fantasy that men would harbor a love for devotion, that the mongreled lust-boar would suddenly morph into an immaculate love-lion, that the smutted chief would repent of his grime and embrace the halo of devotion. just as pornography fulfills the masculine fantasy of willing, available and libidinous women, so too does the romance novel complement the feminine fantasy of the dirt-man turned clean, no longer always his loins obeying rather only to his heart adhering.
does the sex symbol play any positive role in our society? there are of course a host of them, each expressing a different form of sexual gusto. some celebrate a more promiscuous form of carnal discourse, others a more restrained genre, there are even a few teenagers who have gained attention and occasionally pose in their underwear before the camera. is this a practice that should be condemned, derided and viperized? should actresses or pop-singers who regularly exult in the steam of sex be branded as the standard-bearers of a gradual march into social chaos? sex symbols differ from porn-stars in several key aspects. one, they are not coerced by males or circumstance to submit to acts contrary to their nature. two, they express an occult strata of the feminine psyche that does in fact fester and tumult. three, they enjoy whatever image they have crafted with estrogen and rather than grudgingly perform their labors they actually engage them with pride. the feminine sex symbol is a sort of rebel. she denies the social ideal of devoted mother and dutiful spouse and instead uses her power for the acquisition of wealth and luxo-bath outside the marriage bond. masculine rebellion is regularly portrayed in art, such as faust’s wrestle with demons or milton’s satanic obsession for corruption. it usually concerns the quandary of personal glory at the expense of communal cooperation. feminine rebellion in the other vally often concerns the abrogation of the thesis that the employ of the entice and sexiness rarely leads to felicia’s rainbow. the sex symbol does not play any positive role yet she is utterly impossible to suppress. women will always be deluded into thinking that they can use their appearance or their sexiness for the acquisition of spiritual bullion. did not one of our nation’s first sex symbols, marylin monroe, categorically fail to find felicia amid matrimonia’s halo, both of her two marriages lasting less than a year, eventually succumbing to suicide? did not madonna as well vainly slash through a string of partners, her heart in the grip of alligators, her mind in the thrall of sulfur? and as to our current sex symbols whose names have not yet been rendered lofty enough by history to grace these pages, are not their personal lives walking car accidents, one recently jilted a week before her third wedding, another marrying and divorcing within fifty-five hours and then coercing a man to marry her a few months later, still another beaten and abused after only four months of courtship with a man? sirens will always be with us. their toxic beautèzza will always haunt our dreams with cyanide and whenever we look upon them our blood will always rage in anger. it is up to the individual to determine whether he will continue to hear their song if or he will close his eyes to their seductive snares.
men are paradoxical. one might think that given their ravenous hunger for sexual cream that they might use a more positive word for the woman that freely dives into the bed’s jacuzzi of flesh, rather than one of the most mangled epithets: slut. but men are also deeply possessive. they want the best of both worlds. they want to be king, regal, explosive, large and swaying. they want the women that succumb to their broad shoulders to limit their libidinous prowess to them alone. the selfish masculine dream of being a jungle chieftain catered to by innumerable wives that restrict themselves to him alone prevails in quantity titanican.
some claim that soft-core porn is forsooth beautiful and thus undeserving of the tainted connotations of pornography and therefore should be labeled as erotica. in fact at this very moment playboy has amassed a large book of some of their photos of the last fifty years and it now occupies the art section of our most respectable booksellers. in truth it will never ascend to a lofty art form. it is true that some of the masterpieces of the renaissance were attacked by the inquisition. further, the painted pin-ups of the late forties were seen as subversive and a piranha. will then our age’s playboy models be lauded two centuries from hence as masterpieces? will our sex-films undergo a reexamination and proclaimed exercises in brilliance? primo, even today if we were to hang the dejeuner sur l’herbe in our living room or even use it as screen-saver it would certainly serve as an indication of the connois-seur’s world-view and disdain for the celesto-heavens. how then does manet differ from the small-time publishers of soft-core today? manet was expressing the spirit of his times. he had seen a new strain of hedoneesmo, lethargy and moral decay in his society and thus held the mirror up to society as if to say: “this, o paris, is what you have become and are becoming. this is your new face: corroded, world-weary and diminished. this is the newest low you have now descended to.” the addicts to voluptuo, on the other hand, are not making artistic statements, they have nothing to change, they are only satiating their own wanton splurge in cantalopium. hugh hefner is not concerned with expressing his philosophic outlook he only is concerned with his own consumption of the female.

true art never indulges in mendacity’s explosion of cancer.

the dejeuner sur l’herbe in its time did pose a threat to french mores and spectators were justified in their outrage. however the spume of invective was tainted with the acid of hypocrisy. rather than attacking the painting they should have been attacking the monsoon of hedoneesmo and dissipation that was gradually ameliorating. lament reality not the messenger. the dejeuner sur l’herbe was a sympton of lust-waves not a cause. manet was right to not shield his eyes from the truth and the art-critics of his times should have been lamenting the reality not the mirror.
pornography conflicts with one of the most lauded of human virtues: philan-thropy, selflessness. our sexuality, combined with our charm, is a narcotic titanican. in us lies the power to render another human being flush with arcadian comet-zest. our loins and our aura, if we use them properly, can provide someone with a life-time of felicia. at the same time, our regenerative splurge or soil (to the female relevant) can also render ourselves tidal-struck with emotional chardonnay. much like the pleasant acquisition of capital, stocks, estates and bonds, we must ask ourselves are we going to employ this bonanza of blithe for our own interests or are we going to selfishly horde it for our mind-flights, soul-spasms and intoxication.
we have yet to see the full consequences of internet porn. presently the sex-industry reports profits as high twelve billion, a figure higher than the profits of baseball and football combined. on a positive note, strip clubs cannot produce a profit in cities of less than three hundred thousands people, orgies are a rare phenomenon, teenagers are forbidden to see porn, teenage virginity might actually be rising, religious books are selling in higher numbers though it may simply be that the baby-boomers are fearing their grave, the words “slut” and “whore,” still carry a strong connotation, promiscuity is still a vice, the viewing of pornographic movies is often done entirely in private, profanity is still banned on tv and nudity is generally censored. but what if these numbers were to increase in twenty years? what if the number of strip clubs per capita doubled? what if the percentage of men who confessed an addiction to pornography jumped from twenty percent to thirty-five? what if the playing of a porn film in the background of a party becomes not simply a rare experience but a common one?
man has encountered moral crises before. apparently during world war one the prostitution business in america was dealt a serious blow and more seriously re-stricted, after the napoleanic wars the english grew tired of permissiveness and ush-ered in the victorian era, the iranians became alienated by the moral laxity of the 70’s and instituted a severe regimen, the wahabis brought moral probity to saudi in the early 1800s, hitler had a penchant for strict moral decorum, as did ceasar augustus, the soviets and the communists as well used their huge police force to seriously punish an open display of the loins. rarely is it the case, as with all addictions, that one acknowledges their sickness while they are still mildly healthy and vows to sober up. it usually requires a grave crisis. only when a significant number of people have been harmed by porn will society finally see the snare-webs around us and struggle to banish them.
we must continually remind ourselves of pornography’s snares, toxo-wounds, fiend-scars, shadow-traps, the malice it propagates, the lechery it promotes and the hideo-uglo henchman it supports. we must remember that while we were enslaved to its glollures that we were hopeless, despondent, that we saw nothing in our future but continual lust, unhappiness, each day freedom seeking, each moment liberation wanting, each instant a purer life desiring, one more blooming, more illuminating. we must assiduously recall that we were in a prison, slave to behaviors we loathed, seeking through the image of crime, or the ephemeral spout of orgasm a momentary solace and niagran surge. it is that furnace, stained with leech-feces, that we must never return to, that forever must shock and electro-ravish lest with cunning pseudo-reasoning we persuade ourselves that indeed the pornographic lifestyle was much more oceanic, tropical and paradisical than it really is.
undoubtedly there is an aspect of pornography that sweeps us into a fountaineskan flame of adrenaline but we must never forget those bulldozers of tobacco that assail us after the honeymoon has corroded. it is like a shinning castle that resupplies our soldiers and waters our boxers when we stand outside and gaze its turrets yet when we enter we quickly succumb to the thorn-whip, or it is kindred to the artistic tomb – engemmed and enstoned with macro-bulbs on the exterior but replete with vermin, bones, broken jaws and corpses on the interior, or it is aligned with the sexually abusive priest or preacher, seemingly harmless and immaculate from behind the pulpit yet inside his quarters he is a wolf hungering for fang, a bull desiring stampede or a kamikaze aiming for implosion. it is the specters and the snarlo-beasts that haunt us after orgasmo has erupted that we must focus on. it is those saliva-beast of negative yield whose image should ever haunt us, persecute us and gnaw us. would we drink from a bottle of acid even if its intake did in fact produce two hours of hypnotica perfectican? would we sleep with a mafia boss even if he did grant us a week vacation in paris and an avalanche of the dollar?
for those unconvinced of pornography’s diabolica, sipping martini’s in a swank restuarant, uncommitted to family’s blossomo, intensely individualistic, dishonesty the forks they eat their dinner with, loyalty the distant asian language they cannot speak, the affects are much slower, subtle and elusive. theirs is a slow disintegration of spirit, theirs is a gradual slide into the chaotica of the rat-race, theirs is a barely noticeable encroachment of grey. yet we who know full well the lions inside of the diamond house of pornography, this phenomena is one layered with stark ruses, stone obstacles and bezerk. for us it is the beautiful woman we cannot have, she who ransacks our dreams with hydrolic dissatisfaction and pesters us at work, in our car, in the shower and in our bed. the lust-hounds, those who make no effort to exile porn from their country, they can have that shine-woman yet their house wilts into the swamp and their car rusts and malfuctions, but we who have denied the delicious femme are harrowed and molested with ants when we seek momentary solace in her arms.
how then might we win a debate with one of our ancestors who lived in an age where there was near universal agreement that sex was dirty, a pariah, a guilty pleasure, should only be used as a means of copulation and, according to saint augustine, only the missionary position was acceptable, indeed a high proportion of muslims still cling to this view. several religious leaders have recently conceded that the conjugal consummation of the flesh forsooth radiates halos. are our religious leaders correct or have even they too been seduced by the rapid pornification of our culture? certainly the sexual revolution has incubated several myths which are quickly gaining currency, the benefits or pornography among them, yet this new idea that marital sex proliferates blissado may be correct.
analogy: as with food, religion, fame and alcohol, sex has a dark side. the snarlo-beast of incest has seen myriads of daughters mammoth-ravished by their brute fathers, countless marriages have wilted into weeds thanks to a man’s propensity for extra-marital sex, the young man’s obsession with labia has produced countless, directionless bastards, weaponless in a hostile world and enforced prostitution is a death-bane that lurks in our reality’s shadows. thus in man’s infancy there separated between man and healthy sexual celebration a night-forest, replete with ghouls, lava-orcs and shades. we humans could not discover true sexual miracula save with slogging through that perilous night-forest where inevitably some would succumb to the viper, linda lovelace forced to perform in deep throat, hugh hefner slipping into an obscene narcissism advocating unabashed, selfish hedonism, larry flynt hating the woman’s spirit, fixated solely on her pink, myriads of other sex-actresses ruining their personal lives with their performance before the camera. this bridge of the chasm could only be accomplished through the removal of the gag rule which can be conveniently dated in america with the publication of kinsey’s sexual behavior in the human male – nor is it any accident that that trooper into the dungeon of sexual expe-rience met a ghoul-grim end, enslaved to the senses, all his conversation concerning sex’s bulge, indulging proudly in masochism, sticking objects into his uretha, if not suspending himself from the ceiling by his testacles.
a similar analogy can be found in alcohol. for europeans the discovery of alcholica’s blithe happened long ago in our prehistory yet with our ability to observe the indigenous folk of this continent’s exposure to it it could very well be that our initial exposure was similar. like the native american some undoubtedly grew addicted to the point of death, lost their reason and were forever haunted by chimera. over a period of perhaps twenty generations we finally learned to tame our love for the grape. what other way was there for one of the world war one armies to conquer a trench other than march across no man’s land and hope against hope that a significant fraction survived the bombslaught? what other way is there to develop tolerance to a bliss-poison than to have a majority consume it and wrestle with its affects?
we discover these blithe-toxins by accident. mankind does not deliberately unearth addictive substances that while fatal to some, are slightly rapto-euphoric to others. that first agriculturalist who chanced upon the euphoria of fermented grapes had no idea it would lead to such cobreskan circumstances whose remedy would require a constitutional amendment which in turn spawned a predilection for the gun, the crime-band and the knife-boss. just as alcohol ambigious bliss-poison has been discovered and never consigned to the void, so too has the porn-genie been let out of the bottle, and although it undoubtedly strikes, waylays and tornadofies, it is too enticing to ever been banished to amnesia.
the muslims chose not to meander through the piranha-infested waters towards the shore of healthy alcoholic freedom. just as penguins’ only means of testing the safety of waters is to stand in line on the edge of an iceberg and bump into each other until one falls in, so too the muslims reason that the few who attempt to brave these acidic waters, (shark-fang! claws!) end their journey too emmaciated, too enslaved to chaotica, their minds bonked with too much bizzarrum to be worth the effort.
in order to maintain a deep hatred of pornography it is easiest to think of its consequences, just as to maintain a hatred of vice one need only think of hell’s infer-nal sewage. part of pornography’s allure is that each image of a glolluring femme, naked in her shine, her smile a beam, is stripped of its asp-horror and its thorns. what if next to the depiction of a seductive flash-princess one could also see a representation of the fens one will soon visit if he obeys the laws of that photo’s legislature? or what if while viewing a pornographic film one could see the trolls living in these actors houses, or the extent of their cruelty, or the sewage of their callousness? would we be able to be seduced by deep throat if we also knew that linda lovelace was forced to submit to the vilemento and that her relationship with her gremlin of a man was turbulent with razors? if we know that a certain porn actress is the victim of incest, boorish abuse and tarantula does that not detract from our enjoyment of viewing her sexual favors?
viewing pornography and not ascribing to its values is like going to church and disbelieving its creed. man loathes the schism. the schism razors, cobracizes, kinks his blood. is it not much more raptolicious to watch a pornographic film and say to one’s self: “i need that in my life and tomorrow i will attempt to procure its pie,” rather than: “i shouldn’t be doing this and when i get married i will stop or i will try to stop as soon as possible.”? just as a house divided against itself cannot stand, so too will the man eventually bar the schism and either embrace pornography’s lies or he will admit he is a problem and forever seek to exile its cancer from its interior.
sowing wild oats is a popular cliche yet it advocates a flawed, lazy ethic. its logic runs as follows: yield to your lusts, become intimate with them, know their texture, their yield and their harvest, indulge fully in all their amusements and stratagems. live a life devoted to satisfying your lusts, lingerie models viewing, one-night stands having, in three month relationships focused on sex engaging. eventually you will weary of this dissolute lifestyle, will understand that its emphemera is valueless thus will you begin to long for matrimony’s certain foundation and its armored defense against sadness. this strategy’s problem lies in one’s inevitable enjoyment of an occasional romp through sensuality and will recall with fondness his glory-days of promiscuity, when a swift plunge in fellatio heightened the serum pulsing through him in such rioting splurge. he will forever flashback to those moments in the lust-bed when he truly rapt himself in fornication’s jubilo. he will then look on his wife, wander about his house, see its decay, the void, the snarling vacancy, will think that somewhere out in las vegas or in a strip club in los angeles there is true happiness and a more vibrant absorption of entertainment. he will loathe his present bondage to one woman, one building, one job, each day the same conversations having, each morning the same routine performing. the specters will haunt his dreams, fungus will seemingly appear on his wife’s lips, his six year old daughter’s complaints will nauseate him and then suddenly the cute secretary that once annoyed him will now loom in jumbo in his sexual imagination and his flirtations will become more pronounced in the office. we should not expunge our lusts from our interior by indulging them and discovering their true superficiality, that is sowing our wild oates, but instead should make no concessions to them, should hate them, should see them as the hydroxic cobra, the saliva-hound, the fanged succubus.
think of pornography’s lies. the pornographer would have you believe that the come-hither smile of the naked model is real, that she truly values your mysteries and your minerals, that she will comfort you in times of agonizing club-defeat and will radiafy your health with devotion and sunshine care. in reality, since the pornographer and the stripper aim for silver, she employs her sparklo-smile solely your dollars to gain, your emotions nil, your dreams mute and will then move on to the next lust-sloth once your cash has been taken. another lie that the soft-core pornographer propagates is that the photograph of the naked femme stares only at you, that her bliss-treasures are only for you to enjoy, that she is your prize, your moon, your ocean and your lighthouse, that you have worked hard, purified yourself of metallic habits, have rendered yourself clean and fit for responsibility. is it healthy to engage any entertainment that builds its foundation on the lie? does it truly have your interests at heart? or is it much more likely that it wants only your capital, your finance and your silver?
sometimes it will simply be one glolluring image in particular that hijacks all of one’s tranquillata. as this is happening think not of how much you would love to em-brace her but how much your life-companion would be upset if she learned that you are vulnerable to sensuality’s bliss-poison and cyanide-blithe. see her not as a home-run but a foul ball replete with asps, buzzards and shock. try to look beyond that which gemtices you, your blood flowing in swift verve, your veins smitten in ago-nium, and see her for what she truly is: someone who would love you for a couple of months and then, when you are firmly in the grip of her mysto-spell, thinking of her ceaselessly, dreaming of her crysto-bulbs and her bronze petunias, leave you aban-doned in the frozen tundra, bleeding, the piranhha your new father, the asp your latest friend. do not focus on the beam in her eye or the glitter in her smile but the fact that she is essentially a selfish, shallow person, disinterested in commitment, unconcerned with the plight of others, addicted to parties, a despot to the arts. remind yourself that flux in her river or immersion in her ocean is tantamount to adultery and that you will severely burn yourself if you indulge in her opium. see her smile as a harm not as a good. there have been several films where a married man truly is confronted with a possibility of soiling himself with adultery’s grime and when we see the woman unbuttoning her shirt or hiking up her dress, especially if we view the film in the presence of our wives, one country on our planet is clearly plasma-aroused but a neighboring country is equally incensed with noise, despising the immoral knife-femme. yet when we ourselves see such a seducto-princess on the computer screen or in a magazine a wave of irrationality consumes us, we forget these compunctions and we yield fully to the viper. instead we should recall the anger we felt in the company of our emotional supports, our flames, and instead of subsequently manipulating our life-source into volcanica should look askance at the irresponsible sex-vixen, despise her conspiracy with the fiend and avoid her.
one might even find comfort in apostrophizing to the lust-dame as follows: you do not value me, i am nothing to you, you are sadistic, viper-cruel, a hound. you despise the virtues, you hunger for the fête, you have no interest in commitment, charity, love and honesty. you are not willing to suffer the siberia that waiting years for a responsible man requires. you want money, power and fame. your life is one of self-centeredness, your ego maddening, your arrogance combustible. if we were bound your selfishness would deprive my fountains of water, cancel my loans to my lenders and stuff the ballot box in my elections. you would be a sponge, sucking the fountain-joy out of me, slowly depleting my oxygen-supply. in posing nude, sur-rounded by salivating men, you mistake their felicia for true approval, you allow their warped minds to boost your ego. you take the easy route to a shallow, superficial admiration rather than labor intensely for true commendation of sunshine work. the men in plus who admire you are themselves useless and will quickly ignore you when a new lightning-beauty crosses their path. you have placed an item on your resume which will forever molest you, you have signed a contract with the lust-sloth that you will continually regret. the men and women of light will only accept you after grueling repentance and sweat-labor. in deriving a maxo-rush of pleasentica from an image of your crime or to give money to he who distributes it would be to endorse this inhabitance of night thus cutting myself with your madness.
item: the most important person in anyone’s life is their mother. and while it’s true that the deepest love extant in humankind is a mother for her child, infants as well clings to their mothers with a shocking intensity. for them all things converge in their mother, in her all things yield, around her the dazzlo-sparkling firmament rises and opens. their mother is the source of all delight, the fountain of unbound hope, the sun of everlasting shine. it is she who comforts them when their flowers wilt and she who affirms them when their impulses unearth minerals of virtue.
point: a stepfather can be a deeply disturbing figure. children are more attached to their true fathers, those who rescued their mothers from spinsterhood’s slate, those who spend hours at the office for the sake of their comfort, their revelry and their dreams. they admire his placid emoceans, his dedication to sobriety, his refusal to yield to the dragons of irrationality and ever seek to emulate him whether he be an engineer of airplanes, a manager of construction workers or a physician devoted to medicine. yet when the marital bond declines into rats, acid-fights abounding, each parent replacing their fingers with claws and a divorce is transacted, the child cannot help but fear the new adult male who will govern his existence. gone is the shared blood, the shared traits. no more is there intimate love and respect. no more is there certain trust between father and son. the child deeply resents this man since his love for them will inevitably be less and he will often seek whenever and wherever possible to selfishly isolate their mother from them.
derivative of the two items: when that black day thus arrives, layered with worms and cutthroats, the bandit profligate and wanton, and the kid’s friends open the maga-zine where their mother has posed in her nude and he instinctively senses that in real-ity she is enamored of promiscuity and exults in her image as a temptress, his heart melts, his soul divides and his mind becomes turbulent with confusion. he now knows that the stepfather is not distant beyond horizon but may even be knocking on the front door. he now knows that his parents’ marriage rests not on a granite foun-dation but on a bundle of sticks or even quicksand. moreover the taunts and the in-sults from his friends who are of an age which is much more unrestrained in their cri-tique, are unequivocally acidic as he hears such wounding words as “slut,” and “whore,” applied to a person who once was the unrivaled superlative and the pristine angela. now he is torn with confusing emotions for which he has no one to rely on for resolution. does he distance himself from the most important person in his life and risk his emotional health, leaving him susceptible to the shadow’s disease? does he deny his knowledge and never mention it to his mother and endure months of awkward shame, silence, the mother instinctually sensing his shame, regret, confu-sion and despair? does he lash out and chastise her, an event of painful confrontation, gray shadows, racing wolves and bile? he does not know and even after his decision has been made he cannot and will never know if he behaved correctly. indeed, sadly, minotaurs snarling in force, gladiators fighting in dismay, rather than delustre his precious image of the one woman he admires most, he may instead choose to blame himself and turn his anger inward rather than outward, his wounds more torrid, his searings more slicing.
he also views his father in a diminished light. he sees a man severly compromised, a flawed man, one who in a photographic lineup of men of equal attractiveness, moral shine and job performance instead of being the most radiant and charismatic instead is blurred and muggy. no longer is this a triumphant man, a man of resource, industry, integrity, honor and ivory dignity but instead is a failed man, lifeless, pliable, indecisive, hesitant. he is not one who has won a celesto-woman but one who has settle for an abandoned piece of pie, a currency of a country no longer extant, a relic from a fashion movement no longer in style. even worse is his uncontrollable instinct to even suspect his own paternity. he sees the color of his hair and the color of his eyes and rather than attribute their differing color to the mysteries of nature he instead uses it to confirm his suspicion that his true father used her mother for a few months of pleasentica than abandoned her to the rakes and the lizards. if the child is female some additional pains assualt her. her once clear worldview of the governance of one’s sexuality has become clouded. this may be the first adult emotion the child experiences because he is now forced to make a decision on his own. or he sees his parents in a compromised light.
there is a masculine conspiracy to get women to be more sexual, to serve men more often, to not be so resistant to our desires. an even deadlier cabal is the attempt to make men even more slaves to their libido. magazines regularly tout surveys which claim that women are much more ravenous than they really are, clouding men in the illusion that they spiral at the sound of our sexual advances, spasmo-jump at our phallus and plunge eagerly and willingly into the pleasure-jacuzzi. indeed in all pornopgraphic films is the woman ever portrayed as she really is but instead routinely consents to the cock and joyfully enflames at the friction of the flesh, she no courting needing, nor any promises of devotion requiring.
there is also a feminine strategy as well for men to be more like women, ie, more sensitive, listen more, less sexually promiscuous, more on the embrace focusing, more to the shine-caress receptive and i say strategy because it is open and there is no shame in propagating it. this tactic, should it become more prevalent, would enhalo society with bright rain-bow, there would be less thistled suffering, less splintered languish, more azalea would blossom, more rainbows would form. the female instinctually lauds commitment, she is more responsible, more resonant in her ability to support, nourish and uplift.
one common pornographic arguments runs: why is there so much snarl and bellow? why all the knife-words? why the banishment to the igloo? it is just sex. and yet this is precisely the corrosion that pornography encourages: it profanes sex, diminishes its sacred aura to the point where one no longer witnesses its mystery and its flame. this is the harm that a copious consumption of pornography causes: no longer does one view it as an especial treasure, relegated to the most lauded chambers possible, but instead one sees it as a humdrum activity, ensugared with not one ounce of blessado, perfectly encapsulated in the adjective “just.” the men of devotion in the other valley would never describe sex as “just,” but instead flaming and striking of the most pristine topaz, an entity before which one bows, pauses, worships, refrains and solmenifies.
we humans respect the incomprehensible, the untouchable, the distant, the uncontrollable. the president radiates a much more intense eminence than the congressman precisely because he is less accessible. calculus quakes in a much more loftier lumino than algebra due to its highly evasive complexity. cheap, hollywood, prefabricated, abc-123 films rarely occupy any of our thoughts after their witness, yet those films whose meaning elude us and who tantalize us with their riddle at times rob us of somnium. pornography thus turns sex into a commodity, enabling the individual to engage its spasmo whenever and wherever he pleases. it cheapens it, reduces its distant such that he who defrauds himself with its menace no longer reveres sex’s beautopia but instead equates it with the mild ecstatica one feels after riding a rollercoaster.
and yet in spite of the photograph’s and the moving picture’s ability to merchandize sex, the omni-mysterious intragender dance has proven remarkably evasive of man’s greedy hands. one common reaction sensitive men feel is that while although they have consumed a plethora of pornographic material they then long for something much more rose-sublime, much more rapt in taihitia, much more arresting of the senses and it is that semi-insane sensasha which the dollar cannot acquire and it is that they revere, that they worship, that they believe will transcend them.
the life of the fête, endless getting and spending, always beer drinking, always fun indulging, like pornography, cheapens sex as well. i once witnessed a poster that listed ten reasons for why beer radiates more jubilo than the soft gender. this of course is an erroneous claim, flush with the most obscene delusion. women are the gate through which men enter into the hawaiian cosmos of love, surreal in its blissado, spasmodic in its white-water-rapid rush, uncompromising in its tsunami of emocean. yet since beer is so intimately intertwined with the self and so completely alien to sacrifice, it is only fitting that it bars one from love’s rainbow. pornogra-phy as well betrays the individual, pushes him inward upon the self to the point where he neglects his own wife and family for the sake of erectica’s prominent bulge.
pornographers erroneously believe that they have an innate right to express themselves sexually. if they want to spray the love with feces than that is their right, if they wish to smear sex with charcoal, hydroxide and dung than that is their right. and yet is not there such an offense called disturbance of the peace? does anyone have the right to defecate in public, if not in the middle of a wedding? we humans instinctually use the taboo to protect that which is most necessary to our survival, that which embellishes our existence with the most euphonious jazz. can anyone stand up in a church service and shout numerous opposing religious beliefs? would it be permissible to wake someone at 4am, knock on their door and attempt to sell them some junk? so too with pornography the urge to violate this taboo should be seriously relegated, always sex’s luster protecting, always love’s jasmine encouraging, always its flame and its zest enkindling.
obscenity is not speech. obscenity mauls, it overturns, it degrades, it infiltrates the blood with soil, it cancers the garden with disease. obscenity denies the sacred, it hideo-romps the precious, it disrespects beautezza, trophy and gemerald. obscenity mocks mankind, it pours acids on all traditions and laughs at the sensitive. speech in the other valley is an honest endeavor towards greater truth, higher understanding and yield of mind. obscenity has no reverence for the truth, its sole aim is harm, the adder, the breeding of the cobra. obscenity is a weapon employed for the shatter of the mental crystal, it in no way seeks to improve, embellish or rhodadendrify.
pornographers have an agenda. they want promiscuity to be more widely accepted. they want their smut-filth to be legitimate. they want their jaded annoya to be tolerated if not lauded. presently they are lobbying/bribing congress. they want more freedom to advertise, greater access to our eyes, they want their products to flourish, plentify and abundify. we humans must always devote resources towards restraining, barring and jailing them irregardless of our inability to permanently gag them. love’s crystalezza is worth fighting for, the jacinth of the kiss is worthy of the employ of the police. while it’s true that copious amounts of our taxes should be spent fighting heroin and disease, love and the arts are that which encloud us with chrysanthemum. demolishing the infrastructure on which drugs roam stabilizes the foundation of our temple, but dematerializing pornography shines the pediment of our temple with lustre.
it is almost certainly true that the physique of a playmate accounts for only half of her becoming a centerfold, the other half lies in her intelligence and philosophy, for there is a striking difference between the fashion model and the playmate. she must be stupid, obedient, happy to consent to masculine desire, loving of fun, absent of melancholia. the playboy in no way is able to adroitly maneuver through depression’s fens. he is completely soft, selfish, in no way appreciative of existence’s most challenging conundrums. thus it is no surprise that his choice in women should be one’s that in no wise grieve him. they are cardboard, like himself, equipped with no depth, only surface, facile, rarely an uncontrollable tempest harassing them, infrequent their rage, their havoc and their fume. in reality beautiful women are extraordinarily difficult to manage. the comely femme knows her pulchrome coerces and manipulates and she routinely employs it to her advantage. she has no illusions as to the male’s clandestine motives and she will make them walk through the most elaborate mazes before she yields to the romp of the phallus.
whenever a naked woman is posted on the internet and men are asked to share their thoughts concerning her they never fail to employ profanity. they do not respect her, they immediately succumb to their most immature fantasies. when courting a woman men instinctively comport themselves nobly. they want the prized gem, they long for a chardonnay embrace, they anticipate the delecto-kiss and hunger for the womp. they understand that if they are ever to obtain from woman the effervescent adreno-plunge than they must conform to her wishes as much as possible, this includes a re-frain from any hint that sex rises in more superlative than love. yet as soon as the woman shows that she is eager and hungry for orgàsmo men dismiss this diplomatic language and indulge their love for bragadocchio. this instructs us at how foreign pornography is to poetry, at the vast disconnect between halo-reverence and smut.

elizabeth catleet's sharecropper

2007-01-25T18:28:00.000-05:00

much of elizabeth catlett's other work is not that good, but the sharecropper stands out in splendid visual euphony.

exxonsecrets.org

2007-01-09T06:15:00.000-05:00

exxon secrets

segolene royal for prime minister of france

2007-01-08T09:33:00.000-05:00

i first heard about segolene on the to the point about three months ago. today i decided to look her up on youtube and i am now pleased to say that she is absolutely charming! she won the nomination for the socialist party and the country will decide in april if she will become prime minister. she's ahead in the polls 53 to 51. her aura is absolutely phenomenal. she has a very strong beam in her eye and a natural contagious smile. i know we should focus on her policies, but she's a socialist, so she must be fine, plus one can see in her aura that she has goodness in her heart.

Ségolène Royal : voeux aux français
envoyé par segolene-video.org & segolene.tv

Bush mocks a woman he executed

2007-01-07T10:10:00.000-05:00

the following article is taken from wikipedia. bear in mind as you read this that tucker carlson who reported the story is a pro-establishment republican.

Karla Faye Tucker Brown (November 18, 1959–February 3, 1998) was convicted of murder in 1984 and sentenced to death. The case entered the U.S. and international news because she had become a born-again Christian while in prison and George W. Bush, then governor of Texas, had to decide on her request for clemency, which he ultimately denied. Tucker became the first woman to be executed in Texas since the American Civil War. Under Texas law, each death penalty case has one chance to be reprieved by a governor without the recommendation of the Board of Pardons and Paroles. The board must recommend the second reprieve in order for it to be granted. All 18 members of the Board of Pardons and Paroles are appointed by the governor (Clark, 2000). Before Tucker was executed, there were pleas for clemency from Waly Bacre Ndiaye, the United Nations commissioner on summary and arbitrary executions, the World Council of Churches, Pope John Paul II, and Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi, among other world figures. Unusual pleas came from conservative American political figures such as Newt Gingrich and Pat Robertson, interceding on her behalf. Tucker did not ask for a pardon, only commutation of her death sentence to life in prison. Huntsville Prison's warden testified that she was a model prisoner and that, after 14 years on death row, she likely had been reformed. Despite these pleas, Bush signed her death warrant. In 1999, during the 2000 Republican Presidential primary race, conservative commentator Tucker Carlson interviewed Bush for Talk Magazine (September 1999, p. 106). Excerpt from this interview is quoted below:
In the weeks before the execution, Bush says, a number of protesters came to Austin to demand clemency for Karla Faye Tucker. "Did you meet with any of them?" I ask. Bush whips around and stares at me. "No, I didn't meet with any of them," he snaps, as though I've just asked the dumbest, most offensive question ever posed. "I didn't meet with Larry King either when he came down for it. I watched his interview with Tucker, though. He asked her real difficult questions like, 'What would you say to Governor Bush?'" "What was her answer?" I wonder. "'Please,'" Bush whimpers, his lips pursed in mock desperation, "'don't kill me.'" I must look shocked — ridiculing the pleas of a condemned prisoner who has since been executed seems odd and cruel — because he immediately stops smirking.
Bush denied that he had intended to make light of the issue.

carla gombar

2007-01-07T03:25:00.000-05:00

carla gombar

carla is about 38 years old and lives in, i think Germany but maybe Switzerland. she sells her paintings for about a 1000 dollars which i think it is a bit underpriced. 3000 might be more appropiate, then again i've resolved myself to only buy prints.

cheers for christine's engagement

2007-01-05T21:38:00.000-05:00

christine's blog

her fiancè's blog

it is with deep joy, christine,
that i learn of your engagement.
i had often checked into your blog,
knowing that you love’s thrill-shine wanted,
and amour’s comet-flash desired.
i knew that you were pious,
always before God genuflecting,
always light-prays uttering.
i knew that you were patient, humble
and resolute in your quest.
i knew that goodness effused
from your soul in rainboweskan blithe,
and irradiated a dazzlo-precious beam.
i knew that rosèskan honesty,
and diamondesque chastity
were strong pillars supporting your temple.
i knew that loneliness’ swords
often pierced and wounded you,
that you hungered for love’s sun-glow,
and longed for its astromazement of mind.
i knew that your struggle had been a long one,
that often turbulo-wind your mind harassed,
and the incessant shout tumulted your ears.

it was no surprise then when i learned
that at last love coated you in hyacinth,
and its bloom-flow finally abounded in your garden.
i have read your beloved’s blog,
i have studied him, analyzed him,
and have concluded that he
is disciplined, standard, strong,
stuffed with the stuff that is clean,
and stuffed with the stuff that is fervant,
a moon-dweller as soon as a helios-dweller,
a lover of God as soon as a vibrant deacon unshakeable,
firm in his love for the Celesto-king,
wholesome in his worship and song,
a flourish of symphony resounding from his mind.
he too adheres to the rigor and the law,
he too prospers amid God’s bounty,
he too witnesses the sacred,
and overflows in sparkle for virtue.

i have no doubt that you two
will flourish amid love’s elixir,
that you two will eventually witness
the embodiment of felicia’s mind-gold,
and the manifestation of extradifferent soul-bliss
that you two will bask amid God’s
dulcet embrace shangrilahan,
and receive his boon and balm.

in all things let the Lord’s will be done,
let Him guide you through the thistle-swamp,
let Him suffice to sustain and uplift you,
let Him be your north-star and sexton,
let Him call you to the altar of truth,
and remove you from the fen of fallacy.
let Him propel you into the shimmerado of compassion,
and block you from the hate-snares of envy.

i pray that you will continue
in your resilient cultivation of God-truth,
that you will continue to allow love
to nile-flow in your soul’s river-basins,
and niagra-cascade in resonant concerto,
that you will continue in your immersion
in the Lord’s fountainous discipline,
that church’s glow will persist,
and the hymn’s comet will fly.

amr diab's nour el ein

2007-01-04T22:09:00.000-05:00

there is already a good english translation of amr diab's nour el ein located here but for those who are just starting to learn arabic this following translation defines every word, done by myself:

Habibi (my love) ya nour (glow) el ein, (eyes)
Ya saakin (dwell) khayali. (in my fantasies)
Aashek (lover) bakali (?) sneen, (for years)
Wala (none) gheyraak (else) fi bali.(attend to)

Agmaal (?) eyoun (eyes) fil koon, (?)
Ana shoftaha.(have seen)
Allah aleik allah,_
Alla sihraha. (magic)

Eyounaak (eyes) ma-ayaa, (with me)
Eyounaak kifayaa. (enough)
Tinawar (light up) layali. (nights)

Albaak (heart) nadally (called) we kaal, (said)
Bet-hebenee. (loved me)
Allah aleik allah,_
Tamentenee. (you have reassured me)

Ma-aak (with you) el bidaya, (the beginning)
We koul el hekaya. (the story)
Ma-aak lil nahaya. (the end)

the monk's reply

2007-01-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

i think i'm going to try to join the third order of saint francis. i'm not sure if they're really monks but they do live by a rule. they can get married and have jobs as well.

Thank you, Kyle. I will pass on your eloquently stated message to our
prior, Father Gerald (Jerry) Dvorak. He may challenge you on the
temporary nature of your intent, however, everything's temporary until
commitments are made. Along those lines, religious life gives one ample
opportunity to explore and experience before major commitments are asked
of us. It sounds to me that a visit to Hopkins may be of use if you are
discerning a vocation (to Carmel).

2007-01-01T01:19:00.000-05:00

i just discovered rc gorman and i think he might be one of my top five favorite arists. diego riverra, picasso and basquiat are my other favorites. cowboyindian.com has a copious collection of him, about 70 images. he also never paints men, only women.

Rudolph Carl Gorman (July 26, 1931 - November 3, 2005) was a Native American artist of the Navajo nation. Referred to as "the Picasso of American art" by the New York Times, his paintings are primarily of Native American women and characterized by fluid forms and vibrant colors, though he also worked in sculpture, ceramics, and stone lithography. He was also an avid lover of cuisine, authoring four cookbooks, (with accompanying drawings) called Nudes and Food. His famous friends and collectors of his work included Elizabeth Taylor, Danny DeVito, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Barry Goldwater, Gregory Peck, Erma Bombeck, Lee Marvin, Jackie Onassis and even fellow artist Andy Warhol, who silk-screened a portrait of Gorman that hung in his bathroom. Gorman was born in Chinle, Arizona. His mother was Adele Katherine Brown, and his father, Carl Gorman, was a noted Navajo painter and teacher who later become a code talker during World War II. Gorman grew up in a traditional Navajo Hogan and began drawing at age 3. While tending sheep in Canyon de Chelly with his aunts, he used to draw on the rocks, sand, and mud, and made sculptures with the clay, with his earliest subjects including Mickey Mouse and Shirley Temple. Harvard University recognized him for "notable contributions to American art and Native American culture" in 1986, and Mayor Dianne Feinstein of San Francisco declared March 19 to be "Gorman Day". [not my writing]

simon silva

2006-12-30T05:11:00.000-05:00

at the moment simon silva in quotes only reveals about 17,000 google hits, but in my mind that should soon change. he could quite possibly become as gifted an artist as diego riverra. i like it when artists idealize the peasant. he has a good website and seems quite young. at first glance one might easily dismiss his art as cheap pop art, requiring little effort or originality to create, so easy to understand as to not even be worth notice. however (flash-dance! sun-orbs!) on closer inspection one sees that his colors, shapes, emotions, angles and lights are original and innovative. it does not matter that he portrays an over-idealized vision of the peasant since it is new and heretofore unknown.

simon silva

letter to a monk

2006-12-28T17:01:00.000-05:00

dear beloved son of God,

for five years i have known the Lord’s balm,
five years i have interacted with his majestica,
five years ivory-sun,
five years mesmer-flow,
five years a boon of mind-dance.
each year i have increased in worship,
each year more delecto-fervant immersion in ritual.

two months ago i met a carmelite monk.
i then learned that one can indeed
bathe himself in the jacuzzi of worship,
and acquaint himself with the Lord’s bounty,
as well as labor in the steam of reality,
and contribute to society’s cultivation of mirth.

i ardently believe that i am destined
to suck of marriage’s halluco-juice,
and to experience its wave of chrysanthemum,
love an aegis and a shield,
nevertheless,
it is my crimson dream,
and my yellowstone goal
to temporarily join a brotherhood of monks.

i want to access more spiritual truth,
want to intensify my love for God,
more illumino of soul and mind,
more a pious surge of enlightenmento.
i want to see the radiant hymn,
want to witness the embodiement of prayer.

perhaps through temporary membership
in your brotherhood might this occur.
perhaps your fraternity could enheat
my desire for goodness and sacrosancto.
through the exercise of your rituals,
and the devoted obedience to your practice,
the epiphany of dream-prayer would manifest,
and the flash-flow of holiness would abound.

outside God there is no salvation,
without his grace life drabs,
null his hand reality is blocked,
absent his love only the scorpion.

allow me to momentarily enter your brotherhood,
all the while working, laboring,
simultaneously to society contributing,
your spiritual discipline an armor,
your religious exercise a rainbow.

i pray you will consider my request, beloved.
i pray for your further cultivation of
spiritual, immaterial and enthused blithe.
i pray that you will not only hear rumors
of the Lord’s miraculo-grace,
but will encounter His eldorado as well,
that you will not only read of his boon,
but deliciously suck of its fruit,
in all things His will, not yours, be done.

2006-12-28T15:19:00.000-05:00

for nine weeks, Lord, i have
been so consumed in sanskrit
that i have failed to pray,
my mind Yourself into the void-swamp pushing,
my soul by knowledge hijacked,
prayer no longer a flourish of cedar.

i pray to reenter this deep rose of intimacy,
on Your grace constantly reflecting,
in your bosom subsisting in shine,
the saints’ lives a hypno-rush of inspiration,
saint francis looming before me in gold.

richard kimbo

2006-12-25T17:17:00.000-05:00

richard kimbo apparently is not very popular. he only has about five paintings posted on the web and he does not have a personal page. his paintings in my opinion are highly underpriced, he seems to only be asking for 200 dollars when i believe they are wel worth two or five thousand.

2006-12-24T19:55:00.000-05:00

Tsukioka Yoshitoshi (1839 - 1892) was the last great master . His career spanned two eras - the last years of the old feudal Japan, and the first years of the new modern Japan. Like many Japanese, while interested in the new things from the rest of the world, over time he became increasingly concerned with the loss of many outstanding things from the traditional Japan, among them the traditional woodblock print. By the end of his career, Yoshitoshi was in an almost single-handed struggle against time and technology. As he worked on in the old manner, Japan was adopting the mass reproduction methods of the West, like photography and lithography. Nonetheless, in a Japan that was turning away from its own past, he almost single-handedly managed to push the traditional Japanese woodblock print to a new level, before it effectively died with him. [not my writing]

2006-12-12T02:07:00.000-05:00

and now, sweet reader, i have been betrayed by host.
beelzebub has entirely hijacked his soul.
he has become slave to the night-demons,
his only thoughts mental cyanide concerning,
the lecher-beast everywhere around him.
he no longer knows me, no longer empathizes with me,
at my sight he sees the viper,
on my lips he only sees the maggots.
violence is now his brother,
and lion-rage is his sister.
he has become fully enveloped in mind-mutilation,
pillage of soul now commonplace,
myself now forced to rely on the kindness of others for shelter.

i will rely on my faith in God.
not once did i complain,
not once did the serpent within me uncoil,
not once mind-spit, not once soul-splinter.
this spiraling wind-tumult will fade,
the porcupine will recede.
the scorpion will cease to give issue.

God's love and abounding mercy will prevail,
his will supreme, not mine.

2006-12-11T02:29:00.000-05:00

once more, sweet mother, i encourage you
to visit me for christmas.
this would be a sweet boon to my mind,
a ripe gold-flow for my soul,
my heart awakened into lilac.
i encourage you always the spirit to cultivate,
always friendships, always relationships,
always the crackle of conversation,
always the resonance of word.
let us see each other this winter season,
let us once more interact, converse,
debate, analyze, partake, share.
let us witness art ensemble,
nature's deep refulgence encountering,
the sky's thrilluminata receiving and incorporating.

if you would indulge this wish,
silve-streams seeing,
mind-mirth the scape azaleafying,
a flourish of mockingbirds into rainbows morphing,
then surely ivory castles more prominently would arise,
more soul-sugar would predominate,
and at last the lion of enlightenment would be seen,
heisenberg's uncertainty principle no longer an enigma.

do not retreat into the shadows of silence,
nor permit sloth to revamp and integrate
his hooks, jars and coal within you.
nor allow the enveloping swamp to amazon you,
nor the rusted iron to spread and plentify.

keep your mind on the sun focused,
your soul in accord with the rose,
your cheer abounding and radiating,
sheer thrall always the symbol of felicity,
frolica ever wave-splashing and rapid-rushing.

2006-12-07T03:52:00.000-05:00

i encourage you, sweet mother, to visit me

during your winter break.

it has been some time since you set eyes

on your child,

some time since the two of us have witnessed

the same spasmo ensemble,

seen the same rockets flare,

heard the same music combust.

it has been some time since together

the risen dolphin sparkldan has greeted us,

some time since the heart-thumping surge

has been felt, touched and experienced.

i encourage you this winter me to visit.

myself a balm from your presence obtained,

yourself a boon from my cheer received.

let not sloth consume you,

nor let complacency entrap you in weeds,

do not succumb to isolation's lizards,

nor permit the violent hate-wretch to paralyze you.

you must break these bonds

that convince you of the spirit's dust,

and persuade you of family's duldrom.

we must strive more manna to cultivate,

more mind-beam to proliferate,

more moon, more sun, more silk.

ever the rapt adventure,

ever the moon-smoked haze,

ever the garden replete with turbulo,

ever the eye-freedom frolicking in fountain,

ever the zoom of the heart

and the blitz of the mind,

ever the soul-dance, ever the flight-cheer.

john nieto

2006-11-07T19:58:00.000-05:00

John Nieto is widely regarded as one of the most accomplished and exciting contemporary artists in the United States. An innovative interpreter of his native southwest, Nieto’s dramatic compositions and bold use of color translate classic American themes into unmistakably modern images that somehow escape the boundaries of time.

While Nieto maintains that his art “is the result of an emotional involvement with my subject matter rather than a cerebral one”, his powerful evocative paintings reveal a seamless blend if instinct and keen intelligence. His deft handling of Western motifs-including Native American tribal representatives, warriors, and ceremonial dancers, as well as legendary frontiersman or indigenous wildlife- demonstrates why these icons still loom large in the national consciousness. Wielding his brush with precision and control, Nieto invests each figure with a mesmerizing presence. [not my writing]

ted hughes, criticism, analysis, notes, recklings, uncollected (1960-1967)

2006-11-07T18:09:00.000-05:00

uncollected (1963 – 66)

a fable
[a vision of a future city designed for the spirit]

lines to a newborn babe
your cries flash anuigsh and gutter.. the amazement of the baby [that real-izes] the lust of the worm that begins and ends in the earth.. a gallery of grisly ancestors waits in the schoolroom.. you will find a world tossed into shape like a hatful of twisted lots [about twice as much follows]

dully gumption’s college courses
[the first three sections are subpar]
4. humanities
[a smattering of history – caesar, christ and napoleon mentioned, also sonia rising from the mississippi]

my uncle’s wound
[his uncle’s fight at normandy]

the road to easington
are there answers at the roads end?.. ahead is the north sea.. the road goes bowing its head into the labour, it knows, it has its master.. it carries the news in its teeth.. people are the road’s parasites.. the road is not interested in them

sunday evening
[a forest scene, him in it]
the sparrow whets his weapon.. the poplars, .. tree by tree they menace each other.. the sparrow curses.. the sycamores are venturing to grow.. i have only to turn my head and the leaves crash.. then they lean their torn vast airless masks toward me.. the sparrow snaps all his affairs shut.. i stand among puddles.. these bouqets nobody know how to accept

poem to robert graves perhaps
[the first half might a description of the moon, the second half is an apos-trophe to graves]
tommorrow the world will be black, hurring you on into old age. so why be disturbed.. why lie awake trying to focus that thing’s helpless indiffer-ence.. and you head in stone silence

on westminster bridge
[a very dreary, dirty poem on the thames]
key words and phrases: filthy, carrion, not a beautiful spectacle, o neces-sary sewer, disgorging diseases, mud in a cupful, dragging the coutnry down, the lamentable press toward atlantis, bladder, condoms, decompos-ing, dead lion, deliquescing, blowflies, nightly, dark, agony

after lorca
[a very scattered poem of 13 separate thoughts]
1. clock asking when it will be morning
2. sun complaining of noon’s hurt
3. river crying
4. a reed growing out of his ear
5. paper yellowing
6. carbon becoming diamond
7. him running on a river of mirrors
8. shadows rising
9. a voice rustling the dead
10. wiping the glass of stone
11. wiping the stone of flesh
12. God being tickled
13. God holding a song

era of giant lizards
[four seperate subjects have verbs in this poem: a stick, an insect a toad and a cry]

small hours
[a clock, a creak, chairs and a floor personified]

bad news good
[a violent crow poem, a lady possessed by crow, plucks an eye, sees her crow-boding kill, regards her eyehole excavations]

dice
1. torture chamber [hopelessness, closing]
2. eclipse of moon-man [blaze, shadow]
3. fiesta [military, limpness]
4. state of atalanta [madness, crude imagery]
5. propoises at brighton [blackness, darkness]
6. guiness [alcohol, narcissism
7. durst [primal times, fire, the fire-father]
8. upper code [shooting africans, i become whiter]

o white elite lotus
[ghost, like a squid, uterus, revelation, killer whale, you were alive]
key phrases: bomb, rage, dead, revenge, steel, predator, funeral, uterus, mother of the Gods, vulcanism of blood, killer, death-ray, alive, aban-doned, weapons

carol
[man has destroyed nature, the virgin mary wept, man is worth saving, pride destroyed man, the atom intervens of man to God, God decides to make the atom man’s bride]

warm moors
[a lark climbs to the sun, the sky goes blank]

folk lore
[a voice awakens the dead]

gibraltar
[a portrait of the remnant of a fallen empire, compares to an ape on its last legs]

birdsong
[this poem does not really fit in with hughe’s general tone]
love is a little bird
love is fine falcon soaring
love becomes a cruel leopard and its voice rips through the locks
love becomes a nightly owl all the night it dooms in your ear
then love is a madonna, deep the river of her peace
but love like a circus returns
and love is a careful stretcher for an angel newly fallen
and love is a tourniquet
o love is a song from the lifer’s cell, by day it is breaking the stone
till love becomes a crow upon a desolation

plum blossom
[the plum tree has battled, it is a veteran, it utters love, nothing will protect the cathedral from the plum

the last migration
[a new meaner God replaces the old dead God. a long narrative poem about how this new God uncreates everything and returns everything to nothing]

the burning of the brothel
[the reverend bladderwack visits a brothel. drinks much alcohol. gives a sermon. solicits the whores. the brothel catches fire. the firemen comes. a drizzle arrives. bladderwrack completely consumed in fire]

recklings (1966)

on the slope
[a flower or plant finally dying after 80 years being consumed by a mountain]

water
[the resilience of water existing at every form of topography on earth, clever syntactical structure]

fishing at dawn
[a demoralizing personal poem. blood exhaled, roundheads, girls, hags, a maggot in his head]

dully gumption’s addendum
[a great poem about how a snake enseeds itself in a mother and gives brith to a maggot which then implants itself into the minds of grammarians during the time of cromwell. the grammarians then corrupt several more englishmen with their sterile ideas]

guiness
[same as the one found in the uncollected poems]

flanders
[inextricably imprisoned in their fallacy, unable to think outside the box]

keats
[night in nature, h sensitive to a nightingale]

beech tree
[personification of a beach tree. compared to an angel, twisitng muscular upwards. blind with God. a soldier in a frozen coat]

toll
these are the aged.. these are the children.. these are the suburbs
key words: sadness, deaths in rinds, inherited by flies, without voice, without diminution

memory
[the anxious thoughts of a bird]
mother, mother what am i?.. if i stop my heart and hold my breath.. daring the no-man quiet of my no-being.. a nose of ginger spider weaves its hairs toward me. claws trickle onto my palm.. nose wavering to investigate me

heatwave
the desert has entered the flea’s belly.. the building tremble with breath.. the main thing is the silence.. bodies drift in the river.. the walker’s bones melt in the coughing of great cats

fallen eve
[her misery after the fall]

the toughest
[the tenacity of an eye to persist after the earth forces it]
1 - the eye was a masterful horseman.. he reined.. he spurred.. the earth drove the eye quirming into the skull.. the eye reappeared.. the ears ranged far off.. the laughter threatened to close its teeth on the sjull and the mouth chewed lumps of sun
[an incoherent philosophical musing]
2 – to be sober in sober company.. after huge weepings and vanishing of islands.. leading a ghost of query

thaw
[mania, prayer, fever, personification of the almighty, vacancy, desolation, aguish, lost, confusion]
the universe thickens to numbness.. the almighty’s crept into snowdrops.. the star-litter is all that’s left

plum-blossom
1 – [the buds full of stones.. the blossoms full of love
2 –[a baboon shows its arse]
3 – inside the head of a cat.. is God’s head.. and under that my own head.. and under that the head of a cat

public bar tv
[a great poem of some men existing in some sort of wasteland watching tv in a public bar]

as woman’s weeping
[the cycle of birth and death]
after the evaporation of souls comes .. a secret laughter.. death is not failure and cease but clean back to a fresh start.. the the birth, enters .. as woman’s weeping a secret laughter

trees
[night, alienated and scared amid nature]
i whispered to the holly.. there was a rustle of answer.. i plucked a spiny leaf. nothing protested..

a colonial
[a tourist asks where the british museum is. a bit obscure. critical of him. perhaps too machine-like is the tourist, being unable to enjoy the all]

don giovanni
[a great critique. very original language. original tone. rebukes don giovannie and his philandering, perhaps a self-critique, since hughes himself cheated]

a match
[another rebuke of an adulterer]
you start, threatened by your own tears.. your foraging through everything unhuman or humann to savour and own the dimensions of woman

small events
[perhaps a man dies, ted receives a parcel, highly obscure]

to be a girl’s diary
[not clear as to what happens but a few words yield a general impression]
cumbling – in a saleroom, where the dust is of eyes and heart – dung – to be an heirloom spoon, blackening – forgetful – fleeting – walked by spiders – nightfall

stealing trout on a may morning
[a long poem of him trout fishing at 5am in the morning]
1. description of him in his car at 5am
2. description of nature in terms of matrimony
3. the sheep are angry with him
4. approaches the river
5. his placement of his boots in the river
6. walking up river
7. encountering rapids
8. a trout sees him

humanities
[a confused portrait of human history]
when caesar clamped mankind in his money-mould.. the first romantic raging at the first formalist.. napoleon in st petersburg.. blue-black sonia rising from the mississipp

tutorial
[his painful audience with a stuffy scholar]
his humour is mediaeval. what are all those tomes?.. he is fat.. his mind is an electric mantis plucking the heads and legs off words.. i am thin but i can hardly move my bulk.. this scholar.. advancing into the depths like a harbour.. his words twitch and rustle.. i listen with bleak eyeholes

poltergeist
[too obscure]

last lines
[perhaps near death, blood effusing from him, he is a vampire feeding on his son]

the lake
[the lakes as consumer, eater, harshness of nature, nature as monster]
the lake sucks and slobbers the stones.. it ruffles in its wallow, or lies sunning, digesting old senseless bicycles

unknown soldier
[a soldier drunk on courage given the command to cross no man’s land. generally the army confused and in disarray.]

2006-11-03T15:30:00.000-05:00

[i forgot to post this a while ago]

nov 3

i’ve pretty much mastered the four temptations that were challenging me. the black girl, traniece, i simply do not see her regularly. the bartender in her mid 40’s she toned the flirting down and i also have not been seeing her much lately. the girl at the democratic party, well, i decided i had done enough for my the party so i guess i won’t be going back there. lastly, the married mexican, she also hasn’t been working much lately but even if she were i think i would be able to handle her. one is most vulnerable to temptation in the first moments of the encounter. if a lull sets in after the initial strike one can usually man their senses and begin to conquer the temptation. such has been the case with the mexican. about seven days have passed since i felt anything for her so when i see her again i most likely will remain cold towards her.
i continue to go out often and try to meet new people. i restrict myself to places where i know i will find women with goodness and altruism in their heart. i go to about 3 or 4 church services a week. dates really are not important since one can tell if one loves someone with nothing more than a five minute conversation. bars to me are useless and hateful. i would meet nothing but selfish women there. bookstores are ok but i really want to meet someone who truly volunteers and cares for others. i am going to do a little political activism soon.

l. david eveningthunder

2006-11-02T03:27:00.000-05:00

i sort of regret putting the artist on my blog, but he'll do for now.

L. David Eveningthunder spent his early childhood on the Shoshone-Bannock Reservation in Fort Hall, Idaho. The spiritual guidance he received from his father and grandfather, both medicine people, helped him maintain his identity even after he became orphaned at a young age and was taken away from his people.
David's first pencils were given to him by his uncles, all gifted artists who never became known by the public. He feels that he owes his success to them. David now resides in Alabama, and is active in the Pow Wow circuit. He is best known for his portrayals of dancers, most of whom he knows personally. [not my writing]

complaints

2006-11-01T20:21:00.000-05:00

do not complain.
your ever constant prayer must be:
thy will, Lord, not mine be done,
it is your wisdom that irradiates blissado,
not my limited, human intellect.
it is your love unfathomable, Lord,
that decrees the shape and the shine,
not my frailties and shortcomings.
whatever obstacles you set before me
i will accept them unquestioningly.
through all swamps and deluges
i will sing your praises and your beatitudes.
amid all saharum and antarticum
your halo-grace and miraculo-wonder
will comfort, fortify and uplift me.

do not complain.
do not lament, wail and sulfurize.
let not your soul know combustion.
is it not true that when you behave thus,
you are in fact saying:
i neither understand nor accept
your will for me, Lord.
i am not content with my lot in life,
my flash-roses and flare-orbs are insufficient?
does not the complaint entail
that you are upset with the hurdles you confront
enraged with their height and breadth,
fuming, fomenting and hydrochloric?

always remember that just as some
men are born great, some men become great,
and some men have greatness thrust upon them,
so too are some born with the yoke,
some men become enyoked,
and some have the yoke thrust upon them.
the Lord cannot decree the same amount
of delecto-pleasure and whip-pain for all.
in life some accident must prevail,
some snarling lightning-hazard must occur.
it cannot be that life unfolds in a pattern,
that progress and regress equally expand,
that each receives the same strike-womp,
and all harness coequal star-blithe.
the unexpected renders life beautiful,
the unanticipated enflourishes us with cloud-wonder.
it is mystery that unleashes the awe-surge,
enigma that motivates the engine,
and it is dilemma that propels humans to enact.

undoubtedly many will say:
yes, i agree that some junk-spit must foment,
that some vesuvia must vexplode,
i understand the necessity
of the black pieces on the chess-board of life,
but i do not understand
why the sulfur-storm so violently propels,
nor do i comprehend the necessity
of the superiority of malignum’s shade-claws.
why does the hurricane uproot
so decisively, so categorically and so wholly?
why tsunami, why soul-quake, why nazi-tumult?
when katrina blighted new orleans,
why could not only five hundred have died,
rather than the fifteen hundred
that eventually corroded in worms?
when the tsunami belched its omnivorum
on the indonesian coast,
why two hundred thousand dead?
why not fifty thousand or half that?
why did the africans endure two hundred
years of american bondage,
why not one hundred or none at all?

this reasoning as well radiates fallacy.
you are willing to accept pain-thorn,
but only that which does not challenge you.
you want pain to resemble the doctor’s appointment.
you know the when and the where of its occurrence.
you are able to prepare for it, envision it,
you have felt its wasp-sting before,
it will in no wise lash you with spike,
nor will it seriously uproot and enthrall you.
if you were an athlete you would easily allow
for some propensity and skill in your opponent.
you can tolerate being behind in the game,
but not entirely trounced and desperate.
a challenge is fine, if not welcome,
but a wholesale route and frenzy-fire
represents an irresoluble dilemma.

i do admit, beloved, that perhaps one
in a million have confronted a rage-dragon,
that does gouge the soul too hideo-violently,
and does wrench the individual too heart-slashingly,
that they have suffered a hurricane
that seems too wasp-harsh to withstand,
and too megalo-striko to bear and receive.
nelson mandela twenty seven years
of unjust pain-jail suuffered,
he endured years of deprivation,
years of mind-crash and furnace.
and many more nameless a similar
fate of barbs have suffered.
yet we do not know indeed if they are real.
God, the author of all things,
the creator splendido and overwhelmo,
His manufacture of the bizarre an enigma,
could manipulate such as puppets,
true phantom-humans us to frighten,
themselves shades life mirroring,
not actually sensing and lamenting,
yet only scamming us into more anxiety,
life a more looming nightmare
at their sight than it in fact is.
ourselves not having created the universe,
we thus are unable to know all its parameters,
nor probe its full layers,
its myriad chambers a mysto-riddle.
anything is possible,
your limited human science
only partially the universe can decipher,
your narrow reasoning and analysis
sees only one side of the moon.
you also have no way of knowing
the compensation such jobs
might immediately receive in the afterlife,
their souls showered with honey endlèssan,
their minds harboring jasmo-blithe eldoradan.

when you complain you contradict your faith.
should not your regular refrain be:
whatever ghastlum i confront,
whichever shade-demons i encounter, Lord,
i will accept them unquestioningly,
i will wrestle with them silently,
thy will not mine be done,
your wisdom astral and shinning,
my intelligence faltering and webbed?
should not your constant adage be:
through all nail-storm i will praise you,
amid all siberia i will enflower you,
it is i who proposes,
and your grace unfathomable who disposes.
it is i who strives and aims,
you who decides, implements and blocks?
although i can barely penetrate your wisdom,
although i hardly have unraveled your knots,
i will nevertheless fully submit to your will,
all crosses accepting and receiving,
to your decrees fully compliant.

when you complain that you loathe
the callousness of life and reality,
and abhor this earth’s mud,
the nefarians your halo-peace disturbing,
are you not one more step closer
to renouncing God and faith,
absurdity to be your only truth,
righteousness no longer your son?
is it not illogical to say:
cursed be this life’s ash,
may it envelope in chlorine and methane,
yet i love God completely and entirely?
is it in reality much more natural to say
this life corrodes in worms,
it burgeons in acid and hate-slime,
its lilica is too few and far between,
thus my faith is now a dream,
my worship of the creator pales,
my moon now eclipses my sun.

thus when you complain you are
one step closer towards embracing
atheism’s horrential pluto,
and allying yourself to the hopeless mold.

as the maledictions spume forth,
the tyrants of infidelity approach,
and the killers of pessimism arise.

be strong, unflinching, resilient.
let no concession to the fiend by transacted,
let no alliance with night be completed.
complaint is the weapon of the enemy,
gradually it wilts the resolve,
slowly it dust-fades the optimism.
it gives succor to the defeatists,
and provides sanctuary to the alarmists.

always remember that life by no means
eternally brilliates luxo-dance,
and that celebrasha is a rarity and especial.
recall that by the sweat of our brow
do we eat our food and sustenance,
and labor amidst fields of heat.
let not those promising paradiso hoodwink you,
nor those promising a fail-proof elixir
lead you into the night-ditch and the blade-forest.
instead armor yourself with the shield of persistence,
bathe yourself in the lavender of determination,
withstand all lashes silently,
tolerate all mind-shrapnel with glee-joy.
for there is an arcadia for those who are patient,
there is a mind-wonder for the faithful and vigilant,
be surging, brilliating and robust.

michael chiago

2006-11-01T19:54:00.000-05:00

Michael Chiago is one of very few Southern Arizona Indian painters to achieve national recognition. His background includes a stint as an Indian fancy dancer that included performing at the 1964 New York World’s Fair, barber school, and study in commercial art at Maricopa Community College. A popular poster artist for Indian Art shows including O’odham Tash in Casa Grande, Arizona, and the Heard Museum, Phoenix, he was also commissioned to illustrate a children’s book Singing Down the Rain (Moreillon 1997), about Tohono O’odham desert culture. Chiago’s watercolor and acrylic paintings illustrate O’odham daily life and ceremonies that, in contrast to those of the Pueblo and Navajo, are relatively unknown outside of the immediate region of Southern Arizona. [not my writing]

tony abeyta

2006-10-29T17:14:00.000-05:00

tammy garcia

2006-10-23T04:32:00.000-04:00

silvia plath, notes, analysis, criticism

2006-10-15T00:04:00.000-04:00

the following poems were written in the final year of her life

little fugue
[short sentences, a few apostrophes to a man, the i is used. musings on a yew tree, mixed with some other mad thoughts]
i like black statement .. he felt for his food. his fingers has the noses of weasels.. he could hear beethoven.. yew.. i envy the big noises, the yew hedge of the grosse fuge.. such a dark funnel, my father. i see your voice black and leafy, as in my childhood.. yew.. the yew my christ, then.. they color my sleep, red, mottled, like cut necks.. i was seven, i knew nothing.. you had one leg, and a prussian mind.. i am lame in the memory. i remember a blue eye.. these are my fingers, this my baby

an appearance
[love, madness, mostly lesbian love]
such blue currents in the veins of my loved one!.. from her lips ampersands and percent signs exit like kisses.. what am i to make of these contradictions?.. is this love then, this red material issuing from the steel needle that flies so blindingly?.. the stars are flashing like terrible numerals.

crossing the water
[a coherent poem, all thoughts concern boating and crossing the water]
where do the black trees go that drink here?.. a little light is filtering from the water flowers. their leaves do not wish us to hurry.. cold worlds shake from the oar.

among the narcissi
[animation of flowers, percy an octogenarian nurses his hardships]
percy bows .. among the narcissi. he is recuperating from something on the lung. the narcissi too are bowing to some big thing.. percy nurses the hardship of his stitches.. they bow and stand: they suffer such attacks! the octogenarian loves the little flocks.. the narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.

pheasant
[good description of a pheasant, has a kingliness, rare, a sin to kill it]
you said you would kill it this morning. do not kill it. it startles me still.. it is something to own a pheasant, or just to be visited at all.. it is simply in its element. that gives it a kingliness, a right.. is it its rareness then? .. a dozen would be worth having.. it unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, settles in the elm and is easy.

elm
1. [fear] it is what you fear. i do not fear it: i have been there
2. [sea, dissatisfaction, madness] is it the sea you hear in me.. or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
3. [elusivity of love, night] love is a shadow.. all night i shall gallop thus impetuosly
4. [poison, harm] or shall i bring you the sound of poisons? this is rain now
5. [suffering] i have suffered the atrocity of sunsets
6. [breaking up] now i break up in pieces that fly about like clubs
7. [mercilessness, moon] the moon also is merciless.. or perhaps i have caught her
8. [neurosis] i let her go. i let her go.. how you bad dreams possess and endow me
9. [crying] i am inhabited by a cry
10. [madness, fear] i am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
11. [speculation, love] are those the faces of love
12. [speculation, murder] what is this, this face so murderous
13. [acid, petrification, isolation, killing]

the rabbit catcher
[harmed by nature, she traveling towards a destination, death awaited him. she had a painful relationship with either death or him.]
the wind gagging my mouth.. the sea blinding me.. i tasted the malignity of the gorse.. they were extravagant, like torture.. the paths narrowed into the hollow.. the glassy light was a clear wall, the thickets quiet.. i felt hands round a tea mug.. how they awaited him, those little deaths!.. and we too had a relationship, tight wires between us.. the constriction killing me also.

event
[night, two lovers and a baby by cliffs, frustrated]
that chalk cliff in whose rift we lie.. the child in the white crib revolves and sighs.. then there are the stars.. i cannot see your eyes.. where apple bloom ices the night.. love cannot come here.. my limbs also have left me.. the dark is melting

apprehensions
[pessimism, madness, anxiety]
there is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself.. angels swim in it.. the sun dissolves on this wall.. is there no way out of the mind?.. in this world, there is only a sourness.. a red fist.. two gray, papery bags, this is what i am made of, this and a terror of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietàs.. cold blanks approach us. they move in a hurry.

berck-plage
[this could be the story of the suicide or the death of the father of the bride, it is not clear who dies in this poem]
1 [by the beach, a masculine figure]
this is the sea then.. the sun.. sherbers.. travel the air.. a sandy damper kills the vibrations.. the lines of the eye.. boomerang.. is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses? is any wonder he affects a black cassock? here he comes now.. the sea.. creeps away
2 [still by the sea, a priest, a dead foot]
this black boot has no mercy for anybody. why should it, it is the hearse of a dead foot, the high, dead, toeless foot of this priest.. obscene bikinis hide in the dunes.. behind the concrete bunkers two lovers unstick themselves. o white sea crockery
3 [in a hotel room, an old man is vanishing]
on the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.. why should i walk beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?.. this is the side of a mn: his red ribs, the nerves bursting like trees and this is the surgeon.. on a striped mattress in one room. an old man is vanishing. there is no help in his weeping wife.
4 [perhaps in a hospital room, perhaps the man dies]
how superior he is now.. the nurses are no longer so beautiful.. this is what it is to be complete. it is horrible. is he wearing pajamas or an evening suite. the long coffin of soap-colored oak.
5 [aftermath of the death]
the gray ski lowers, the hills run fold upon fold far off.. in the parlor of the stone house one curtain is flickering.. this is the tongue of the dead man.. the elate pallors of flying iris. they are flying off into nothing.. the empty benches look over stones.. it is so beautiful up here.
6 [funeral, priest, widow, perhaps a bride and a wedding]
the voice of the priest.. meets the corpse at the gate.. the widow and three daughters enfolds her face.. and the bride flowers expend a freshness.. and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
7 [more of the funeral]
i am dark-suited and still.. the priest is a vessel.. following the coffin.. the children smell the melt of a shoe-blacking.. the sky pours into the hole.. there is no hope

the other
[the first of two poems regarding plath’s learning of ted’s, her husband’s adultery, not all that much pain expressed, detached]
blue lightning assumes the burden of his parts. the police love you, you confess everything.. is it for this the air motes depart? open your handbag. what is that bad smell? it is your knitting, busily hooking itself.. i have your head on my wall. navel cords.. shriek from my belly. o sick one, the fornication circle a womb of marble.. sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.. you smile. no it is not fatal.

words heard by accident over phone
[the most important aspect is her lack of emotion, she learns of ted’s adultery]
o mud, mud, how fluid.. speak, speak.. who is it.. it is he who has achieved these syllables. what are these words.. now the room is a hiss. the instrument withdraws its tentacle.

poppies in july
[a slightly angry apostrophe to the poppies, madness]
little poppies.. you flicker. i cannot touch you.. and it exhausts me to watch you flickering like that.. there are fumes that i cannot touch.. your liquors seep to me

burning the letters
[dealing with the anger of infidelity]
i made a fire, being tires of old letter.. what did they know that i didn’t.. i am not subtle love.. i was tired of cardboard cartons.. or a dog pack holding in its hate.. this fire.. is merciless.. and here is an end to the writing.. dumb fish.. riding my artic between this wish and that wish. so i poke at the carbon birds.. they console me.. only they have nothing to say to anybody.. i flake up papers.. i fat them out.. a name wilts at my foot.. warm rain greases my hair.. my veins glow like trees.. a red burst and a cry goes on dyeing the air, telling the particles of the clouds.. what immortality is.

for a fatherless son
[no anger, no misery]
you will be aware of an absence.. but right now you are dumb. and i love your stupidity.. i look in and find no face but my own.. one day you may touch what’s wrong.

a birthday present
what is this, behind this veil.. i am sure it is unique., i am sure it is just what i want.. “is this the one i am to appear for?.. is this the one for the annunciation?.. i think it wants me.. i do not want much of a present anyway, this year.. it would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.. can you not see i do not mind what it is.. i do not mind if it is small. do not be mean, i am ready for enormity.. i know why you will not give it to me, you are terrified the world will go up in a shriek.. do not be afraid, it is not so. i will only take it and go aside quietly.. if you only know how the veils were killing my days.. sweetly i breathe in filling my veins with invisibles.. you are silver-suited for the occasion.. must you stamp each piece in purple, must you kill what you can? there is this one thing i want today and only you can give it to me.. if i were death i would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.. there would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday

the detective
[death, likes, killing, deceits, an empty house, one of death and deception, the vaporization of several body parts]
what was she doing when it blew in over the seven hills.. that is the valley of death.. in her garden the lies were shaking out their moist silks and the eyes of the killer moving sluglike.. this is the smell of years burning, here in the kitchen, these are the deceits.. and this is a man.. there is the smell of polish, there are plush carpets.. there is the sunlight, playing its blades.. did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife?.. this is a case without a body. the body does not come into it at all. it is a case of vaporization.. the breats next.. there were two children. but their bones showed, and the moon smiled. then the dry wood, the gates, the brown motherly furrows, the whole estate.

the courage of shutting-up
[first a discussion of records, then cutting out tongues, then eyes]
there are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage.. the disks revolve, they ask to be heard.. loaded as they are, with accounts of bastardies.. the snakes, the babies, the tits on mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls. the surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.. so the disks of the brain revolve.. then there is that antique billhook, the tongue, indefatigable, purple. must it be cut out?.. and the noise it flays from the air.. but how about the eyes.. the face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.. do not worry about the eyes

the bee meeting
[confusion, fear, people sinister, mysterious, unsure of their actions or motives]
who are these people at the bridge to meet me? they are the villagers .. the agent for bees.. i have no protection.. i am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?.. now i am milkweed silk. which is the rector now, is it that man in black? which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?.. is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string? no, no it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible... they are making me one of them.. is it the hawthorn that smells so sick? the barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.. it is the surgeon i am waiting for.. is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone i know? i cannot run, i am rooted.. the mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything. here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.. the villagers are hunting the queen.. the new virgins dream of a duel they will win inevitably.. the villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.. i am exhausted.. i am the magician’s girl who does not flinch. the villagers are untying their disguises.

the arrival of the bee box
[she order s box, imagines little romans to be in it]
i ordered this, this clean wood box.. i would say it was the coffin of a midget.. the box is locked, it is dangerous.. i put my eye to the grid, it is dark.. it is the noise that appalls me most all,.. it is like a roman mob.. i lay my ear to furious latin. i am not caesar. i have simply ordered a box of maniacs.. i wonder how hungry they are. i wonder if they would forget me if i just undid the locks.. they might ignore me immediately.. tomorrow i will set them free

stings
[the handling of combs]
i hand the combs. the man in white smiles.. the throats of our wrists brave lilies. he and i have a thousand clean cells between us, .. with excessive love i enameled it thinking sweetness, sweetness. brood cells terrify me.

[speculation as to a queen in the combs]
is there any queen at all in it? if there is she is old..

[her and the women who scurry]
i stand in a column of women. i am no drudge though for years i have eaten dust.. will they hate me these women who only scurry?

[working on her honey machine]
here is my honey machine, it will work without thinking..

[the third person watching her]
a third person is watching. now he is gone.. here is his slipper, here is another.. he was sweet, the sweat of his efforts a rain. the bees found him out, molding onto his lips like lies

[the queen riding in the sky]
a queen. where has she been.. now she is flying more terrible than she ever was, red scar in the sky

the swarm
[a mixture of napoleon traveling to russia and a man tending to bees]

wintering
[the room she has never been in, more bees]
i have my honey, six jars of it.. at the heart of the house.. this is the room i have never been in.. it is they who own me.. this is the time of hanging on for the bees.. tate and lyle keeps them going.. it is tate and lyle they live on.. now they ball in a mass.. the bees are all women.. winter is for women- the woman, still at her knitting.. will the hive survive, will the gladiolas? .. the bees are flying.

a secret
[a one way conversation with a policeman in which she acknowledges that he possesses a secret. a baby and her parents. cars in place de la concorde]

the applicant
[she speaks to a man and offers him to marry a doll]

daddy
[a bitter apostrophe to her dead german father who villagers hate, nazi. she thinks she’s a jew]

medusa
[lots of sea imagery, she may think she’s a squid or a fish and she’s addressing a parasitic sea creature]
words use associated with sea: sea 2x, water2x, keel, atlantic, barnacled

you house your unnerving head.. your stooges.. pushing by like hearts.. dragging their jesus hair.. my mind winds to you.. keeping itself.. in a state of miraculous repair.. you are always there, tremulous breath at the end of my line.. i didn’t call you.. nevertheless you steam to me over the sea, a placenta paralyzing the kicking lovers.. i could draw no breath.. who you think you are? a communion wafer? blueberry mary? i shall take no bite of your body.. ghastly vatican.. off, off, eely tentacle.

a jailer
[an abusive relationship. the man beats her]
i have been drugged and raped. seven hours knocked out.. i spread to the beaks of birds.. he has been burning me with cigarettes.. the fever trickles and stiffens in my hair. my ribs show.. [much more follows]

lesbos

[addresses her lesbian lover]
i, love am a pathological liar, and my child – look at her.. kicking to disappear – why she is schizophrenic.. you can’t stand her, the bastard’s a girl. you have blown tubes.. you say i should drown my girl.. you could eat him. he’s a boy.. you have one baby. i have two.. there’s a stink of fat and babycrap.. floats our heads.. i call you orphan, orphan. you are ill. the sun gives you ulcers..

[her husband]
the impotent husband slumps out for a coffee. i try to keep him in.. he lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill.

[recalls a romantic night]
that night the moon dragged its blood bag, sick animal over the harbor lights.. the scale sheen on the sand scared me to death. we kept picking up handfuls, loving it.

[more address to her lesbian lover]
now i am silent, hate up to my neck.. i am packing the babies. i am packing the sick cats. o vase of acid, it is love you are full of. you know who you hate.. every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher. you are exhausted. you peer from the door, sad hag.

stopped dead
[death, confusion, dislocation, irritation, violence, hostile to life, obesity]
here we are, hung out over the dead drop uncle.. and you out cold beside me in your chair.. is that spain down there?.. what sort of a scenery is it? it isn’t england, it isn’t france, it isn’t ireland. it’s violent. we’re here on a visit, with a goddam baby screaming off somewhere. there always a bloody baby in the air.. you are sunk in your seven chins

fever 103
[smoke, choking, radiation, killing]
the tongues of hell are dull.. incapable of licking clean the tendon.. love, the low smokes roll from me like isadora’s scarves.. smokes.. they will not rise but trundle round the globe choking the aged and the meek.. radiation turned it white and killed it in an hour.. like hiroshima ash and eating in. the sin. the sin.

[you hurt me]
i am too pure for you or anyone. your body hurts me as the world hurts God..

[hallucinations, delusions, her head a moon, herself a camellia, a virgin]

amnesiac
[a decrepit, dying man on a sick bed]

lyonnesse
[the forsaken lyonesses, forsaken by a man who had gilt over his eyes, many wars, his mind was a tabula rasa]

cut
[apostrophes to a little pilgrim, humunculus and kamikaze man]

by candlelight
[a more tender love poem than usual with her lover at night]

the tour
[she introduces her aunt to her home]

ariel
[a strong mystical poem, a statement of who she is at the end, she is the arrow]
the furrow splits and passes.. berries cast dark hooks.. black blood, shadows. something else hauls me through air.. i unpeel – dead hands.. i foam to wheat.. i am the arrow .. at one with the drive into the red eye

poppies in october
[questions her identity, confusion]
even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage.. a love gift utterly unasked for.. what am i that these late mouths should cry open in a forest of frost

nick and the candlestick
[imagines herself to be a miner in a cave with her lover]

purdah
[a great surreal poem, imagines herself to gleam like a mirror, the moon to be her cousin, she belongs to her lover]

lady lazarus
1 - she claims she dies and rises from death every ten years
2 – [apostrophe to herr doktor] i am your opus .. the pure gold baby that melts to a shriek.. you poke and stir. flesh, bone, there is nothing there..
3 – [threatens god and satan]

the couriers
the word of a snail.. do not accept it.. acid in tin.. do not accept it.. gold with the sun? lies.. frost.. an immaculate cauldron talking to itself.. a disturbance in mirrors, the sea shattering..

getting there
[one of my favorites. imagines herself to be on a boxcar with other corpses, perhaps on her way to russia in world war ii]

the night dances
1 – a smile fell in the grass. irretrievable!.. i shall not sit emptied of beauties.. cold folds of ego, the calla..
2 – [comets]
3 – [lamps/planets falling on her]

gulliver
[paralysis, hatred. apostrophe to a gulliver-like person, the spider men have caught him. they hate him]

thalidomide
[this poem is roughly divided into seven separate thoughts:]
1. apostrophe to the moon
2. protection from shadow
3. buds, faces that shove, knuckles (no verbs)
4. night, construction
5. a love of two eyes
6. spit
7. fruits revolve, glass cracks, the image flees and aborts

letter in november
[description of the artic, happily strolling her property, loves the corpses]

death & co.
[her lover, their babies, a few observations, possession, children, masturbation, death]

years
[darkness, paralysis, alienation, boredom, desire, death, mercilessness]
they enter as animals from the outer space of holly.. o God, i am not like you.. eternity bores me, i never wanted it. what i love is the piston in motion – my soul dies before it.. and you, great stasis – what is so great in that!.. the blood berries are themselves, they are very still..

the fearful
[cowardice, dissemblance, fakeness, hatred of children, death-wish]
this man makes a pseudonym and crawls behind it like a worm. this woman on the telephone says she is a man, not a woman. the mask increases, eats the worm.. she hates the thought of a baby.. she would rather be dead than fat.. hearing the fierce mask magnify.. where there is only him and him.

mary’s song
[vaguely alludes to the holocaust, she walks in the ashes of the holocaust]

winter trees
[apostrophe to the trees, free of abortions and bitchery, they seed effortlessly, admiration of nature]

brasilia
1 – [the brazilians, the superpeople]
2 – [her baby chewing on her thumb]
3 – [pleads the cannibals to leave one mirror safe]

childless woman
1 – the womb rattles.. the moon discharges
2 – [landscape, roads, roses, ivory]
3 – [she utters blood, spins mirrors]
4 – and my forest, my funeral.. this gleaming with the mouths of corpses

eavesdropper
[an apostrophe to an eavesdropper]
your brother will trim my hedges! they darken your house.. to bleed, if it comes to that. stain.. urinous.. a sin.. bush-stink.. your body one long nicotine-finger on which i .. burn.. let me roost in you!.. let them start the queer alchemy that melts the skin.. [that is the first half of the poem]

sheep in fog
[9 disconnected thoughts, sadness, disappointment, rust, blackness, heart-melt, threats, fatherlessness]
1. hills step off.. people .. regard me sadly.. the train leaves.. o horse .. of rust.. dolorous bells – morning has been blackening.. my bones hold.. fields melt my heart. they threaten to let me through heaven fatherless

the munich mannequines
[sterility, aimlessness, nakes and bald mannequines in the morgue without mind. snow darkness, absence of people, domesticity, confection, germans sleeping, silence]

[the following ten poems were written in the final two weeks of her life]

totem
[key words used: killing, useless, beauty, dawn, blood, no mercy, butcher’s guillotine, aborted, Christ, snake, cobra, loneliness, blood-hot, blood-flush, mad, death]
1 – [the engine killing a track]
2 – [merciless farmers with blood on their minds]
3 – [eating an aborted hare]
4 – [people who were important]
5 – [the world is blood-hot without terminus]
6 – [the spider says he is mad]
7 – [flies buzzing]

child
[apostrophe to her child, longing for something more beautiful than what is real]
your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. i want to fill it with color and ducks, the zoo of the new whose names you meditate

paralytic
1 – [speculates if life will continue]
2 – [the night brings things]
3 – [photos of her wife visit her as she lies on her couch]
4 – [she smiles, wants fall from her]

gigolo
[a surreal, inflated image of herself. the smiles of women gulp at her bulk, she mills a litter of breast, her mouth is of christ, her gold joints roll out a carpet, she’ll never grow old, she glitters, she leans over a pool]

mystic
the air is a mill of hooks.. drunk as lies whose kiss stings unbearably in the fetid wombs of black air.. i remember the dead smell of sun.. once one has seen God, what is the remedy? once one has been used what is the remedy.. [provides a few solutions] is there no great love, only tenderness? does the sea remember the walker upon it?

kindness
[an apostrophe to dame kindness]
kindness glides about my house. dame kindness, she is so nice! the blue and red jewels of her rings smoke.. sugar can cure everything, so kindness says ..

words
[8 separate images]
[key words: tears, water, mirror, rocks, skull, weedy, dry, indefatigable, stars]
1. axes
2. echoes traveling
3. the sap wells like tears
4. the rocks that drops and turns
5. a white skull.. years later i encounter it on the rough
6. words dry and riderless
7. the indefatigable hoof-taps
8. fix stars govern life

contusion
color floods to the spot.. the sea sucks obsessively, the doom mark crawls down the wall

balloons
1 – [the soul-animals living with them]
2 – straw mats, white walls and these traveling globes of thin air
3 – [the little brother making his balloon, biting]

edge
[a portrait of a dead woman]
the woman is perfected, her dead body wears the smile of accomplishment.. her bare feet seem to be saying: we have come so far, it is over

allan houser

2006-10-14T01:02:00.000-04:00

codex borbonicus

2006-10-08T01:27:00.000-04:00

The Borbonicus is housed in what was formerly the Bourbon Palace and is today the Bibliothèque de l'Assemblée nationale française in Paris. It was painted on paper made from agave plants and probably was sent to Spain during the 16th century.

Scholars believe that this codex was made in celebration of the New Fire Ceremony in the year 2-Reed (equivalent to the year 1507), which is depicted on leaf 34 (item 17e). Topics represented include a record of the Aztec Sacred Year of 260 days with information for divination by the priests, the count of years in the 52-year cycle, and the count of the 18 veintenas and the ceremonies associated with them.

The first 20 pages of the Borbonicus are a divinatory almanac containing a full count of the 260 days in the sacred calendar cycle. Each page portrays a trecena, the divine influences on the trecena, and the 13 days within it. Predictions about persons born during each trecena could be read from these pages; notations in Spanish were made to describe these natal influences. The day names are translated in the surrounding smaller squares. Leaves 3-4, 10, and 16 are from this count of days.

The principal gods having influence over each trecena are shown in the large illustrated inset at the upper left of each page. The smaller squares that surround the inset contain the dates of the 13 days in that trecena, as well as information about which deities further influence each of the days.

the importance of a divine encounter

2006-10-07T18:31:00.000-04:00

know, beloved, that if you would
at all cultivate spiritual blithe,
that if you would in any way
experience religious sundance,
yourself enamored of prayer,
often the church attending,
frequently before the altar kneeling,
then the divine encounter categorically
and undeniably is an essential element.
you must experience God’s majestica,
you must encounter his flash of surprise,
his miracles must be seen not heard,
his beauto-dance must be felt not read about.
from that moment onwards, beloved,
your walk with God will glostonish and endazzle,
rapt sparklo-angels seeing,
the divine sustenance consuming.
thenceforth the hymn can be sung
with conviction, soul-gush and flow,
rather than simply the words repeating,
or merely the motions performing.
thenceforth the lightning-sermons resound in symphony,
rather than clash in a dissonant gong.
one gazes at religious symbols
not as objects bizarre and riddled,
but as reminders of all of one’s courage,
all their rainbow of mind,
all their fountain of soul.

absent the divine encounter
the performance of prayer wilts,
the singing of the light-hymn fades.
one reads religious texts confounded,
they ponder these questions in shadow.
as they kneel down before God,
they do not fully understand
the height and breadth of their act,
they do not receive the pomegranate of divinity,
nor do they sense the wave-crash of wonder.
they are not themselves to blame.
one must receive God’s bounty,
one must be hypno-struck by his halo and miraculo,
a surging flood must consume them.
while it is true that one can supplicate
God this niagra-grace to receive,
and one can beg his omnipotence
the celesto-shine’s beam to see,
it is also true that i know of very few
instances of this delecto occurring.

our forefathers referred to the divine
encounter as being born again,
certainly an apt and appropriate phrase.
since once one witnesses
the indisputable puissance of the Lord,
once one knows the extent of his dominion,
the cloud-bloom and mangum that resides in him,
then one’s entire life transforms,
instead of maroon they now see crimson,
instead of olive they now see green,
where there was once purple, there is blue,
where once bronze, there is gold.
one’s interactions mutate entirely,
their voice becomes embellished with trumpet,
their eyes see occult gems.
compassion effuses in prepondera,
charity ennobles and absorbs them.
they reorient their global position.
no longer endless getting and spending,
no longer the frenzy of the self,
nor materialism, nor consumerism, nor pornography,
but sympathy, dove-peace and swan-serenity,
honesty and sacrifice converge,
prosperity of soul increases.

much hard work remains however.
no longer can one feed the self’s boar
with no wasp of conscience whatsoever,
nor can one stuff the rhino of his appetite,
heedless of halo and of angelica.
now he must devote his resources
towards serving the supreme treasure.
he must sweat and pine for God,
he must build the temple of honesty,
he must deny the pleasento-caress of the self.
many are called but few are chosen.
many hear God calling them,
but wilt back into the tyranny of the ego.
many witness his splendo-bliss and surge
but sloth’s jungle proves too ubiquitous.
you must work hard their snarl to avoid,
you must spend much time in the sauna of prayer,
so as your angry vultures to sleigh.
keep to the straight and narrow path.
wide is the entrance to malice,
and broad is the road to hiròshum,
yet small is the trail to life’s splendìfero,
and narrow is the gate to the beatitudes,
only a select few find it.
thus when one day you experience the divine,
and fully incorporate its rigor and law,
strive your utmost pious to be,
immerse yourself completely in God’s rainbow,
intimate yourself entirely with his song.
where others kneel and worship,
join in their cultivation of devotion.
where others sing and praise,
unite with them in the production of benevolence.
if a sermon’s radiance should shine,
by all means,
reflect its gemerald and its diamo-bliss,
incorporate its flare and its melody.
countless authors have sensed the celestial,
myriad writers have felt the omnipresence.
thus evaluate their symphony of ideas,
reflect on their spiral of advice.
you must also employ prayer’s mineral.
do not simply kneel down for a minute,
nor should you merely repeat a few sentences,
but spend five, ten, or fifteen minutes
amid His grace and His splendifero.
prayer is a means to an end,
not an end in itself,
the goal of course being
greater serenica, more enduring tranquillity,
the decapitation of interior grizzly,
the denazification of one’s soul,
the harvest of more compassionate wave.
the ideal amount is forty-five minutes,
thereafter the returns diminish,
if not detract from fighting injustice.

there are two forms of divine encounters,
the first and much more common
occurs wherein the individual
experiences a sudden flood of emocean,
a heretofore unknown jolt of feeling
completely capsizes all their ships,
several of their buildings collapse,
their entire legislature disbands.
as their former philosophical foundation
now lies in ruins and cinder.
they thus reevaluate their entire worldview.
a profound sense of sin,
its contingencies, its snarl and its blades,
causes a poignant guilt within them.
a surging love for the divine governs.
they eagerly plunge into service of neighbor,
they enthusiastically attend the religious worship.
the organ, once a gong of clamor,
formally a hodge-podge of noise,
now resounds in stravinskian magnum.
this is known as the epiphany,
it is a surging manifestation of realization,
a womping strike of wisdom.
yet there is a drawback to this tsunami.
long after its wave-crash and hypno-strike of truth,
with no intervening encounter with deity,
one begins the validity of the experience to doubt.
one wonders that perhaps insanity ensnared them,
or that they journeyed to lands of error.
they are in grave danger of losing faith,
again with snot-drunkards consorting,
life unfolding in absurdity.

the second form of divine encounter,
which is much more rare,
occurs when the child of God
witnesses miracles and coincidences
that can only be accomplished
by some cosmic, invisible supremacy.
this is how i enveloped myself
in the church’s silvo-shine humungo.
for roughly a six week period
a hurriflame of miracle besieged me.
and since then i have often seen
the Lord actively intervene in my life.
thus it is much more difficult
the Lord’s halo-blithe to deny,
embracing the daggers of the garbage-orgy,
the slime of lies spewing.
it is nearly impossible to explain away
the rapture of mind one has seen,
or dismiss this efflux of spirit.

there are false conversions.
some desperately wish themselves
in the unparalleled scarlet of holiness to immerse,
they want access to this ageless wisdom,
they want their lives to emanate beauto-blithe.
the sacred aura of religion entices them,
the looming splendora of the church beguiles them.
they are impressed with its freedom from harm,
they sing amid its flow-gush of compassion.
yet when they kneel down in prayer
they cannot convince themselves
of their action’s reality.
they are not wholly persuaded
that they are being heard,
that immaterial arms are embracing them,
that glow-stars above them shine.
quickly the glollure of worship dust-fades,
the sermon soon becomes hate-noise,
the niagra-hymn soon becomes a clonk.

as far as why God does not directly
intervene in everyone’s lives,
and irrevocably demonstrate his shine-awe,
it can only be surmised that this life, beloved,
was not meant to continually emanate mirth,
nor was it predesigned sparklado to secrete.
God conceived life with drama in mind,
he created reality so that dilemma,
enigma and conflict would surge-prosper,
he constructed life so that the conundrum
would often rattle us with fracas,
or so that the comet-dashing mind-maul
would bewail, divide and roar.
if all unquestionably worshipped the Lord,
then whence drama, whence triumph, whence victory?
if all wholeheartedly embraced the good,
then life would persist in superficial ease.
did not world war one arguably spawn
the three greatest literary works
of the twenty-first century, ulysses,
in search of lost time, and the magic mountain?
did not the napoleonic wars produce
one of the greatest moments in english poetry,
namely, wordsworth, cooleridge,
byron, keats and shelly?
did not the roman civil wars
create rome’s greatest poets, virgil and horace?
did not american popular music
somewhat resound during that
prolonged mud-slog known as the vietnam war,
and arguably corrode into trash thereafter?
was not the greatest german work, faust,
written in a time of upheaval and mind-quake?
and was not the author of the only english epic,
john milton, a survivor civil wars?
so just as conflict causes the individual
more deeply to think and to reflect,
and the plethora of conundrum them
more poignantly to contemplate,
so too is it more fulfilling, more satisfying,
numerous obstacles to remove,
than it is to quietly swim with the current,
or to persist without confronting the specter,
no blooded orcs attacking one,
nor any spiritual gangrene threatening.
just as on a chess board some pieces
dash, blaze and circumvent,
whereas others are shackled with impotence,
so too in life God blesses some with
a natural immersion in halo,
others he confronts with bars countlèsso,
still others perhaps are inextricably hate-cursed,
their lives a ruthless conspiracy with the bandit.
ours is not to question his wisdom,
ours is not to understand his stratagem,
ours is only to walk through swamp-fog,
always the halo-faith maintaining,
forever at the immaculo-altar praying.

the divine encounter,
star-shinning, turquoise emanating,
a song-bird on one’s shoulder resting,
a flash-falcon before one flying,
the divine encounter,
flooded with a bonanza of rigor,
overblissed with a religious pomegranate,
enmiracled with clarity and focus,
the divine encounter,
surging of sistine beatica,
all of one’s anxo-doubts removed,
one’s self eager for worship,
the divine encounter,
a delicious bask in certainty,
the revelation of a new realm,
one’s whole worldview transformed,
this then beloved is what must occur
before you can cultivate religious rigor,
this must you confront before
the prayer becomes a meaningful exercise,
only this can fully buttress your faith,
your flanks decidedly strengthened,
the mongrels of vice seriously setback.

i am continually amazed
that no one informed me of this
during the several occasions
when proselytizers attempted to convert me.
as a student at the university,
truth’s bewildermento researching,
literature’s beguilemento enjoying,
zealots approached me biweekly.
they waylaid my philosophical bulwark,
they challenged my views and my suppositions.
never did they state that the Almighty
had enrosified their existence in supra-bliss,
nor did they mention their encounter with the celestial.
instead they often asked if i believed the bible,
if i adhered to christian doctrine.
they wanted to know my views on creation,
whence it arose from the nothing-chasm,
whither it journeyed into the void-abyss.
i would deny the bible’s validity,
if not pour acid on christian views.
they would defend it with archeological evidence,
would point to the numerous prophecies
found in the old testament
that manifested in triumph in the new testament,
but never did anyone ever say:
i! my life now enlustered with soul-blossom,
i! my mind now focused on joy-love,
i have experienced the foundation of truth,
he has rescued me from greed-sloth and slime-sewage,
he has enhaloed me with chastity and fidelity.
the rapturemento of prayer now captivates me,
the silverado of compassion now possesses me.
once a man did recount his experience with epiphany,
that while driving a motorcycle
through america’s numerous mountains,
he suddenly dedicated himself to God,
inexplicably a spirit captured him.
i had also known of saint augustine’s
somewhat bizarre meeting with the divine:
how he had wrestled with the boar of the flesh,
ever struggling its demands to tame,
constantly attempting its behemoth to slaughter,
and yet all his efforts corroded in mildew,
him a grime-slave to the appetites leaving.
then finally while carrying the epistles of paul,
some time in the year 386,
in the town of cassiciacum, near milan,
hearing some children singing, namely,
to immerse one’s self in reading,
to enbalm one’s self in the word,
obeying such, turning to a random page,
he read romans 13:13:
let us in tranquillata abide,
let us serenica cultivate,
not in frenzied innebriation,
nor in excessive lust-sex and fornication,
nor in fight-maul and rabid jealousy,
rather let us enluster ourselves in Christ,
and immerse ourselves in his halo,
the flesh’s dominion renouncing,
its hideo-manglo abhorring and exiling.
i had also known of martin luther’s decision
to devote himself to a monastery,
if saint anne would rescue him from a lightning-storm.
but these three anecdotes seemed rare,
they did not represent overwhelming evidence,
nor did they threaten my philosophical fortress.
they were simply aberrations and phantoms,
their receptors deluded and mind-morphed.

the best evidence of God’s bounty
lies not in saint aquinas’ five proofs,
nor does it lie in some philosophical maxim,
even if one were persuaded by such,
their faith would still be vulnerable,
they would not be hypno-struck with love,
nor would compassion’s panacea soothe them,
on the contrary it is personal testimony
of the divine encounter
that most astounds, most enflames and most amazes.
it is the divine encounter
that awakens one to bonum’s surge-blithe,
and enlightens them with enthusiastic aim.
absent the divine encounter,
one’s mind during prayer wanders,
one’s conviction during song flags.
the divine encounter is a necessity,
it is the sina que non of religious life,
it is the fuel that inspires the devout,
it is the food that invigorates the servant.

an open letter to mark foley

2006-10-07T18:30:00.000-04:00

know, beloved, that the public has
no right to cast stones at you.
as you well know all have sinned,
all have embraced the arms of satan,
all have kissed the devil’s cheek,
not one is exempt from sin’s slither.
the dragon that attacks and encircles you,
could easily prey upon them.
the nail-chasm in which you have fallen,
they too might one day explore and know.
the public adores being able to say
that i am holier than thou,
that i excel whereas you languish and eclipse.
they pride themselves in their freedom from maggots,
they exult in their liberation from the cobra,
yet little do they know that at any time,
the Lord can decree their enshacklement,
and can implement their bondage to flesh.
those who are now smug in their moral superiority,
and gleefully castigate your behavior,
foolishly fail to realize
the fragile precipice on which they rest.
in seeing your recent fall, beloved,
rather than joyfully brand you a fiend,
or quickly change my name in a panic,
instead i have taken time deeper to reflect,
to consider my own susceptibility to bludgeon,
and to recall the vulnerability of my own soul.
i am now reminded that any of us,
at any time can consume ourselves in the thorn-patch,
and can experience a prolonged night,
replete with flagrant mongrels,
shadow-moccasins our peace disintegrating.
this is the course all of us should take.
rather than regurgitate foaming ridicule,
or cruelly knife-jam the weak,
we instead should bow down in prayer,
begging the Lord to protect us from the viper,
our souls free from the possession of shade-demon.
we should remind ourselves
that that same man whose soul
is now fully encircled by the noose,
and whose bed is now fraught with spike,
could also be us.
we too could one day be snot-ridiculed,
we too may soon meet public inflammation.

we all know that the question of free will
will forever remain bathed in enigma,
and that its plethora of riddle resists resolution.
we do not know whence our actions arise,
nor do we know what force motivates us, inspires us.
we do not know whence talent originates,
nor why it mysteriously evades us.
nearly all admit that artists are mere vessels,
that they in fact do not create or sculpt,
but that some other force employs them, uses them.
why then will we not admit
that those who routinely perpetrate stab,
and continually vexplode in malice,
as well are vessels of mongreled strike-devils?
could it be because we humans adore
others to blame, demote and punish?
could it be that we exult in the noose,
the incarceration, the whip and mind-torture?
is it not so much more pleasèntican to say:
you are an abomination, animated vomit,
you recall the sewer-man’s groteskum,
you remind me of the anthro-bull’s slop,
i am immaculate, jacinthian and rosèskan,
whereas you are fecal, corrosive and rusted?
yes, beloved, is that so much more natural,
and pleasing to say than:
i too could one day meet your fate,
i too once nearly fell into such a nail-trap.
you remind me of the carnum’s battery,
you have retaught me of sin’s predominance.
you have reminded me of my vulnerability and my precariousness.
i will now bathe myself more intensely in prayer,
i will more ardently pursue the shine-halo?

you well know, beloved, that you did not
wake up one day and say:
i’m going to ruin my career,
i’m going to court approbation and castigation,
i will plunge myself in ethenol’s porcupines,
i will recklessly flirt with teenage male pages,
i will foolishly approach the pain-chasm.
instead some profligate force captured you,
your volition slowly fragmented,
your worldview gradually reflected gray.
you began to see absurdity instead of meaning,
blackened iron and rusted steel,
rather than rhodadendra and sun-beam.
you became baffled by your spiritual incarceration,
you were clueless as to the defeat of the lust-sloth.
time and again you supplicated the Lord
to release you from the hex and the spear,
yet routinely He left you to slither in the swamp.

have not all of us experienced a similar dilemma?
have we all not known such bludgeon?
our separation from you is only in degree.
we have all encountered the indomitable pus-ogre,
we have all confronted the salivating hate-boar,
yet in your case it simply refused to grant you truce,
it cruelly summoned its henchman to attack you.
in our case luckily it did not decree our enslavement,
it inexplicably decided others to molest.

you would do yourself wrong
to too violently commit self-scourge,
and to condemn yourself with a blooded sword.
if you would know the rainbow of redemption,
all of your resources devoted toward the good,
all of your carbines and engines working for benefit,
then you must first know that all have sinned,
that not one fully enlusters himself in perfectica,
that not one completely emanates rainbow.
realize that although the Lord
suffers his servants to be wounded,
he does not fully abandon them in the snarlo-ditch.
there is still hope for the witness of spiritual taihiti,
not yet has the sight of eldorado been vanquished.
your continual preoccupation with your own error,
will only inhibit your liberation from inferno.
you must be strong, vigilant and focused,
no abnormal self-stab must be transacted.
no irrational self-flagellation must be indulged.
you must not become the janus,
that roman deity that looks both back in the past,
and forward into the future.
you must fully recognize that the Lord forgives you,
that he loves, cherishes and is fond of you,
that all of your previous flesh-crimes have been forgotten.
thus you must fully concentrate on horiza,
see the numerous sparrows there flying,
and dedicate yourself wholeheartedly to redemption,
the fruits of love spreading,
countless harms reducing.

i pray then that you will be liberated,
that these shadow-monsters will grant you an armistice,
that the majesto-Lord will grant you asylum.
i pray that you will soon know swan-peace,
that alcohol’s flood will recede,
and that the flesh’s insatiability will diminish.
i pray that you will eventually overcome
these crimson demons that presently swashbuckle,
and that momentarily conspire and defraud,
will soon abate, wilt and falter.
i pray that your past will not continue to hinder,
that the shadow-monsters of memory will not harass,
and that self-scourge will not abound and predominate.
i pray that you will soon see silk caribou,
witness the golden angela,
everywhere arcadia’s paradise surrounding you.

mario urteaga

2006-10-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

joan miro

2006-10-05T01:31:00.000-04:00

cultivating a deep respect for women

2006-10-05T01:30:00.000-04:00

if you would cultivate a deep respect
for woman you must first resolve
to do them no harm.
as a male you must acknowledge
that you can divorce intimacy from sex,
that you can penetrate someone you hate,
that sometimes the hard gender
sees this most sacred and most special acts
as a means of humiliation, degradation.
this immense capability, namely,
to engage sex’s spasmo at will,
and to divorce it from intimacy and emocean,
it is that power you must deny and abhor.
the most crucial and most all-encompassing maxim
you must first embrace, beloved,
is the abandonment of your rigid
masculine notions of sexuality.
you must realize that the male’s lust
for labia is rooted in these two essential
biological facts: one that the male,
fervent, sweating and heinous,
can reproduce each day, sometimes twice,
three or even four times.
his goal is the impregnation of as many
women as possible,
his goal is to spread his progeny
as far and as wide as he is able,
his goal is the efflux of his genes,
the cultivation of his offspring,
and the stoutification of his heirs.
the primitive prehistoric male
was intensely competitive,
lived in small tribes of a few families,
was a hunter, a fisherman, a gatherer,
a collector, a scout and a spy,
he lived life on the edge,
unstable, precarious, wayward,
thus he ruthlessly sought to secure
his ephemeral imprint on the world
through the growth of his seed.
the modern male has learned to tame
this competitive and selfish urge,
yet the atavistic instinct towards polygamy
is strong, robust and iron.
modernity has made some headway
in our cultivation of monogamy,
one man for each woman,
half the species equally
paired with the other half,
nevertheless our selfish,
competitive genes are with us,
gnawing us, burning us, biting us.

the second biological fact, beloved,
that you must accept,
if you are ever to cultivate
a deep respect for woman,
their flowers watering and pruning,
their gardens and fields blossoming,
is that they must keep their children
once they arise from the womb’s gold,
and must nurse them with honey and mesmer.
the woman is instinctually attached
to her young and her fruits,
she clings to them, feeds them,
she protects them from the wolves and the jaguars,
she shields them from frost and famine,
the rabided dogs do not enter her sphere,
nor does the bison romp in her presence.

thus, beloved, the woman can only
reproduce once a year,
she therefore wants to make certain
that that man with whom she couples
rises in strong plenty,
abounds in starks sunshine,
and phosphoresces of liquid gold.
she wants the best possible man available,
she wants that one child
to be invested with as much wave as possible,
she wants it to be the tsunami and the bulwark,
a rich mind-gold of euphoria,
a deep shade of crimson.
woman therefore is extremely discriminating.
she chooses her flame wisely,
she selects her ivory carefully.
whereas the male will impregnate
any woman with a delectable body,
or sometimes any being with ovaries,
the female on the other continent
must make certain that the male
is responsible, will provide for her,
will remain bright in her system,
after the egg has incubated.

recall, beloved, that single motherhood
is a fragile state of affairs.
it is a state of work frenetico,
activity ceaselèsso and noise.
it is a wasteland without love,
a garden without seed,
and a fountain without water.
therefore, beloved, know that woman
has little interest in sex without commitment,
that she disdains mechanistic coitus,
and loathes interpenetration sans meaning.

some, beloved, would believe that the
birth control pill has changed all this,
that she is now ravenous and gluttonous,
that she now plunges in the phallus,
and eagerly fellates the male,
but woman, at heart, is deeply monogamous.
the hedonist and the polygynous
want to believe that woman is just as
hungry for the flux of the loins
as is that species without ova.
they want to appease their heated lusts,
they want to feed their gluttony,
thus they pour acid on traditional
mores of feminine behavior.
beware their fallacious doctrine, beloved,
do the hard thing and not the easy thing,
extinguish your fires and your rockets,
smother your embers and your cinder,
and the reward will bloom in begonia,
the jasmine limpid and radiant,
cherished crystals obtaining.

when you first witness woman, beloved,
if you are like the majority of men,
your polygynous instincts will immediately splurge,
your loins will quickly foment,
and erectica will waylay you.
you must abhor these thoughts.
these are the thoughts that will annihilate
your deep respect for woman,
and wrench your enterprise in oil.
you will then begin to fantasize,
you will imagine engaging amorous combustion,
will see yourself embracing, hugging.
try instead to picture yourself talking,
the two of you visiting parks,
reading similar books,
eating at romantic restaurants.

visualize the two of you conversing,
exploring the nebula of ideas,
researching the corruption of politics,
philosophy’s phantoms analyzing,
poetry’s bewildermento enjoying.
this will ultimately entreasure your relationship,
when at last its ambrosio is supped.
this will becloud your spectrum with whiteness,
when the serum-thrill is finally felt.

know that if you would cultivate
a deep respect for woman,
you must read their online weblogs,
you must acquaint yourself with their thoughts,
you must research their textures and their planets.
you must know what euphoriates them,
what enthrills, enflames and enfires them,
how they react to the invisible dragon,
and how they govern amid mind-tumult and soul-storm.
thus, just as the foreigner begins to adopt
his new country’s assumptions and views,
and just as we slowly agree with the aims
of whatever propaganda inundates us,
so too by continually reading these women,
will you defend them, sympathize with them,
your mind cheering for them as they struggle.

you must see woman, beloved as coequal,
you must see them as equal contributors,
equal manufactors of spirit,
equal cultivators of soul-blossom.
as you march into future’s obscurity
with whatever woman you eventually cleave to,
she will be just as effective at comandeering
the mysto-jungle, the night-forest and the shadow-kingdom,
she will be equivalent in research and innovation,
she will parallel you ingenuity and creativity.
thus you must hear her song at its inception,
listen to her symphony during its perfomance.
you must not shun her suppositions and assumptions,
nor must you cancel her plans and ideas.

see woman, beloved, not as a servant,
nor as one to heed your every whim,
but as a being integral and whole,
she too vibrant celesto-dreams having,
she too the bright flash-grail wanting.
thus make your requests lightly,
impose on her your will with restraint.

always remember, beloved,
as your relationship with woman grows,
plentifies, pulchrifies and jubilates,
that she too wants to experience
life’s greatest felicia,
wishes to taste is ambrosia fabulosan,
and see the spiritual embodiment of the taj mahal.
thus assist her in her quest, beloved.
enable her these rings of saturn to see,
empower her religious chardonnay to taste.
employ your masculine perspective,
utilize your talent in math,
the rawness and the granite of your testosterone,
her the sun-shine of mind-cheer to sense,
its delecto-mirth ever a companion.

men for centuries used the threat of violence
to maintain their grip on power.
in the fields of africa,
ages and ages ago,
when the woman wanted right to turn,
and the man left to stray,
the latter used the threat of violence
his decision and his wish to implement.
when woman a century ago
strove the right to vote to obtain,
asserting her worthiness amid sunshine,
proclaiming her assessment of stature,
men used the jail to oppress her,
the policeman’s cuffs restrained her.
it is this state of affairs you must despise,
this nature and these facts an anathema.
be courageous! think outside the box!
liberate yourself from the shackles of dogma!
give to woman equal say in decision-making,
grant her the right to affirm,
warrant her evaluations and estimations.

know that at his present moment, beloved,
two-thousand-six, it is still very much a man’s world.
men still control the majority of capital,
they have a firm grip on the legislature,
the police force foments masculinity,
and managerial positions recognize the male.
if you truly would cultivate a deep respect
for woman, beloved, and fully experience with her
the emotional epitome of the great pyramids,
and the symphonies majestican of beethoven,
then you must aid her this reality to master,
you must permit her more power, more roam,
the capability of decision and decree.
you must warrant her the scepter to hold,
and the crowns brightness to wear.

at present there is a masculine conspiracy
to reduce woman to a sexual servant.
sadly a minority of women
have contributed to their own demise,
and assisted in their descent to rats.
thankfully there are also some noble men,
one’s who bar the profligacy of hedonism,
and refuse the taste of sexual merlot,
that want to uplift woman,
pulchrify them with cryto-flash and jade,
embellish them with respect and dignity.
you must combat and restrain this conspiracy,
you must loathe the men that abet it,
and hate their cabals and subterfuge.

basquiat

2006-10-03T21:10:00.000-04:00

basquiat is one of the more formidible artists on here. picasso has 38 million goggle hits, van gogh 24 million, warhol 14 million and basquiat 1 million. warhol's numbers might be inflated due to his famous quote. i personally think basquiat is much better than warhol. they also made a film about him.