Two of my favorite neighbors here in the bloggerhood, Elaine and Stavros The WonderChicken, have recently placed dust covers on their old posts, put their living room lights on timers to discourage hackers and abandoned their respective blogs for vacations in their respective real worlds.
These unexpected hiatuses have precipitated a certain amount of musing on my part concerning my own blogging habits and motivations. I have come to realize, for instance, that most of the writing I do these days is here in this little pocket of cyberspace. This blog is well fed and growing plump while the poetry and stories that I consider my "real" work languish. I have never been the most disciplined writer (heck, I have never been the most disciplined anything!) and it is a sad fact that it is easier, and often more gratifying in the short term, to post a blog entry than it is to work on a story. Yet, this might be the wrong way to approach this issue. Blogging, for me, is a creative outlet and a satisfying mode of self expression as well as a potentially powerful means of communication.
This latter point was recently illustrated for me when, quite unexpectedly and several days after it was posted, my blog note regarding my 11th wedding anniversary provided a small amount of hope and/or inspiration for Jennifer Balderama over at Nonsense Verse and, through her, one or two others as well.
This, perhaps, is what blogging is all about and I don't think I will be stopping any time soon. I am, after all, quite capable of maintaining this blog and remaining true to my "real" work. This point was illustrated for me quite recently also when I finally arrived at a possible resolution for the tale of Jarny which has been so long simmering on the back burners of my mind. As with so many things, I think, it comes down to moderation. Both time and creative energy, apportioned between this blog and my art may be served wisely.
Saturday, August 31, 2002
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
Joan of Arc: a meditation
Imagine yourself as Joan of Arc -
Warrior of God,
Confidant of saints long dead -
In your final moments awaiting the spark
Which will ignite the flames
That will consume your flesh
And consign your ashes to history's bed.
Are you afraid young maid?
Is the name of Jesus on your lips
Spoken in fear
As now the flames suck air
And Death hovers near?
Or is such a concept unknown to you
Who can speak His name only in love?
Heretic.
Icon.
Madwoman.
Saint.
You wear all personae like a glove
Perfectly fitted to the ideologies
Of those who imagine you.
Can you guess, Dear Joan, that centuries hence
People will be speaking your name?
Did your voices tell you, sweet Michael or Ann,
That you would not die in flame
But be reborn?
Those who tried to murder you
Succeeded only in midwiving a legend;
Small minds cursed with yet smaller scorn,
They were, after all, but mortal men.
Darling Joan, blessed child,
You are a living myth -
An idea
Whose time has come
And come again.
- Richard Cody, 2002 -
I am not the first to be intrigued by the mystery and myth of Joan of Arc. For example: Mark Twain paid tribute to The Maid and her story in his Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc and Carl Dreyer, one of the first of many film makers to transcribe Joan's life and death to film, recreated her last days in his 1928 masterpiece, The Passion of Joan of Arc.
There can be little doubt that this young woman who lived and fought and was murdered by fire over 500 years ago has become a potent mythological figure - one who has transcended the facts of her life to enter the imaginations of people around the globe, adapting to each individual mode of perception while remaining true to the essence that made her what she was to begin with. This, of course, is the idea at the core of my poem above and one that has been masterfully explored by Alan Moore in his ongoing "comic book" treatise on magic and reality, Promethea.
Still, an important thing to keep in mind is that behind the myth, the legend, the history, is an actual person who lived a real life and died a real death. I attempted to accentuate this also in the piece above via the opening line in which I implore the reader to imagine themselves as Joan.
And what is it about Joan that draws me to her and her story, inspiring me to spill ink and typeface on the subject?
It is the mystery surrounding the forces that motivated this young peasant woman to take up arms and lead her country to liberty at a time when women simply did nothing of the sort (as a pacifist I cannot endorse violence as a solution but, being a product of her time, Joan had little choice. And, as her famous Letter to the English illustrates, violence was not her first choice). Was she in communication with a higher power as she claimed? Not being a Christian in any conventional sense I have trouble accepting that God really cared that the French expelled the English from their borders and crowned the Dauphin.
It is the amazing courage, insight and intelligence this young and uneducated woman displayed throughout her campaigns and subsequent trials at the hands of the English and their allies.
It is the fact that this single woman (young, uneducated and at a time when women didn't even think of possessing rights as must be reiterated) changed the course of history through the sheer force of her will, charisma and, perhaps, divine sanction.
It is the outrage I feel contemplating the grisly murder of this young woman on trumped up heresy charges. It is all of these things and more that have made Joan a part of my world. It is all of these things and more that have made her immortal.
Imagine yourself as Joan of Arc -
Warrior of God,
Confidant of saints long dead -
In your final moments awaiting the spark
Which will ignite the flames
That will consume your flesh
And consign your ashes to history's bed.
Are you afraid young maid?
Is the name of Jesus on your lips
Spoken in fear
As now the flames suck air
And Death hovers near?
Or is such a concept unknown to you
Who can speak His name only in love?
Heretic.
Icon.
Madwoman.
Saint.
You wear all personae like a glove
Perfectly fitted to the ideologies
Of those who imagine you.
Can you guess, Dear Joan, that centuries hence
People will be speaking your name?
Did your voices tell you, sweet Michael or Ann,
That you would not die in flame
But be reborn?
Those who tried to murder you
Succeeded only in midwiving a legend;
Small minds cursed with yet smaller scorn,
They were, after all, but mortal men.
Darling Joan, blessed child,
You are a living myth -
An idea
Whose time has come
And come again.
- Richard Cody, 2002 -
I am not the first to be intrigued by the mystery and myth of Joan of Arc. For example: Mark Twain paid tribute to The Maid and her story in his Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc and Carl Dreyer, one of the first of many film makers to transcribe Joan's life and death to film, recreated her last days in his 1928 masterpiece, The Passion of Joan of Arc.
There can be little doubt that this young woman who lived and fought and was murdered by fire over 500 years ago has become a potent mythological figure - one who has transcended the facts of her life to enter the imaginations of people around the globe, adapting to each individual mode of perception while remaining true to the essence that made her what she was to begin with. This, of course, is the idea at the core of my poem above and one that has been masterfully explored by Alan Moore in his ongoing "comic book" treatise on magic and reality, Promethea.
Still, an important thing to keep in mind is that behind the myth, the legend, the history, is an actual person who lived a real life and died a real death. I attempted to accentuate this also in the piece above via the opening line in which I implore the reader to imagine themselves as Joan.
And what is it about Joan that draws me to her and her story, inspiring me to spill ink and typeface on the subject?
It is the mystery surrounding the forces that motivated this young peasant woman to take up arms and lead her country to liberty at a time when women simply did nothing of the sort (as a pacifist I cannot endorse violence as a solution but, being a product of her time, Joan had little choice. And, as her famous Letter to the English illustrates, violence was not her first choice). Was she in communication with a higher power as she claimed? Not being a Christian in any conventional sense I have trouble accepting that God really cared that the French expelled the English from their borders and crowned the Dauphin.
It is the amazing courage, insight and intelligence this young and uneducated woman displayed throughout her campaigns and subsequent trials at the hands of the English and their allies.
It is the fact that this single woman (young, uneducated and at a time when women didn't even think of possessing rights as must be reiterated) changed the course of history through the sheer force of her will, charisma and, perhaps, divine sanction.
It is the outrage I feel contemplating the grisly murder of this young woman on trumped up heresy charges. It is all of these things and more that have made Joan a part of my world. It is all of these things and more that have made her immortal.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
I was just drifting off and actually beginning to think that George W. and his controllers and cronies really did have my best interests at heart when Kathy over at Brainspinning pointed me toward this article about James Bamford's Body of Evidence in which the author uncovers evidence of the plans concocted by the U.S. Government in the 60's to:
"kill innocent people and commit acts of terrorism in U.S. cities to create public support for a war against Cuba."
"Cuba?" you say. "Cuba is old news. Iraq is hot now!"
"Well", I answer, "simply substitue Iraq for Cuba in the quote above and see if you don't get a nasty chill down your spine. And, incidentally, Cuba is still current news."
Now, I hear you again. You're saying: "The U.S. Government killing it's own people? Richard, you are a paranoid in need of medication."
"Sure," I say, "events such as the 1992 siege at Ruby Ridge and the 1993 massacre of 82 Branch Davidian's in Waco - even the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment - aren't very good examples of the kind of unthinkable atrocity I am suggesting here. Those were just isolated incidents and nothing close to the scale of 9/11. Yes, you're right, I'm simply paranoid."
If only I was. Read what Barrie Zwicker at the Centre for Research on Globalisation has to say regarding my delusions - The Great Deception. Sleep tight, America, the hours are growing small.
Prescription of Painful Ends
Lucretius felt the change of the world in his time, the
great republic riding to the height
whence every road leads downward; Plato in his time
watched Athens
Dance down the path. The future is a misted landscape,
no man sees clearly, but at cyclic turns
there is a change felt in the rhythm of events, as when
an exhausted horse
Falters and recovers, then the rhythm of the running
hoofbeats is changed: he will run miles yet,
But he must fall: we have felt it again in our own life
time, slip, shift and speed-up
In the gallop of the world; and now perceive that, come
peace or war, the progress of Europe and America
Becomes a long process of deterioration - starred with
famous Byzantiums and Alexandrias,
Surely - but downward. One desires at such times
To gather the insights of the age summit against future
loss, against the narrowing of mind and the tyrants,
The pedants, the mystagogues, the barbarians: one
builds poems for treasuries, time-conscious poems:
Lucretius
Sings his great theory of natural origins and of wise
conduct; Plato smiling carves dreams, bright cells
Of incorruptible wax to hive the Greek honey.
Our own
time, much greater and far less fortunate,
Has acids for honey, and for fine dreams
The immense vulgarities of misapplied science and de-
caying Christianity: therefore one christens each
poem in dutiful
Hope of burning off at least the top layer of the time's
uncleaness, from the acid-bottles.
- Robinson Jeffers, 1939 -
"kill innocent people and commit acts of terrorism in U.S. cities to create public support for a war against Cuba."
"Cuba?" you say. "Cuba is old news. Iraq is hot now!"
"Well", I answer, "simply substitue Iraq for Cuba in the quote above and see if you don't get a nasty chill down your spine. And, incidentally, Cuba is still current news."
Now, I hear you again. You're saying: "The U.S. Government killing it's own people? Richard, you are a paranoid in need of medication."
"Sure," I say, "events such as the 1992 siege at Ruby Ridge and the 1993 massacre of 82 Branch Davidian's in Waco - even the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment - aren't very good examples of the kind of unthinkable atrocity I am suggesting here. Those were just isolated incidents and nothing close to the scale of 9/11. Yes, you're right, I'm simply paranoid."
If only I was. Read what Barrie Zwicker at the Centre for Research on Globalisation has to say regarding my delusions - The Great Deception. Sleep tight, America, the hours are growing small.
Prescription of Painful Ends
Lucretius felt the change of the world in his time, the
great republic riding to the height
whence every road leads downward; Plato in his time
watched Athens
Dance down the path. The future is a misted landscape,
no man sees clearly, but at cyclic turns
there is a change felt in the rhythm of events, as when
an exhausted horse
Falters and recovers, then the rhythm of the running
hoofbeats is changed: he will run miles yet,
But he must fall: we have felt it again in our own life
time, slip, shift and speed-up
In the gallop of the world; and now perceive that, come
peace or war, the progress of Europe and America
Becomes a long process of deterioration - starred with
famous Byzantiums and Alexandrias,
Surely - but downward. One desires at such times
To gather the insights of the age summit against future
loss, against the narrowing of mind and the tyrants,
The pedants, the mystagogues, the barbarians: one
builds poems for treasuries, time-conscious poems:
Lucretius
Sings his great theory of natural origins and of wise
conduct; Plato smiling carves dreams, bright cells
Of incorruptible wax to hive the Greek honey.
Our own
time, much greater and far less fortunate,
Has acids for honey, and for fine dreams
The immense vulgarities of misapplied science and de-
caying Christianity: therefore one christens each
poem in dutiful
Hope of burning off at least the top layer of the time's
uncleaness, from the acid-bottles.
- Robinson Jeffers, 1939 -
Tuesday, August 20, 2002
11 years ago today, Sarah and myself dressed up (not something I do often, preferring to feel rather than look good), grabbed my sister (known that day as �The Witness�) and headed to the San Jose court house where, between criminal hearings, a judge pronounced us man and wife. We had joined ourselves through a ritual of blood two years before and this trip to the halls of justice was made simply to ratify our union in the eyes of the law. Except for the law and my sister, nobody knew that we had tied the knot for many months. Why? That, perhaps, is another story. . .
This anniversary will, of course, be marked by the two of us. The real anniversary, however, is not until September 30 � the day of our first actual date, the first time we held our hands one in the other, the night on which our lips first touched (they have seldom been apart since). Can it really be 13 years gone? Almost. . .
But today is 11 and I find myself wondering if my old friend, Dan, recalls the bet we made some time before I met Sarah. I was a pessimistic, angst ridden and occasionally self-destructive young man who never imagined a world capable of producing the woman of my dreams. In fact, I wagered against it. Dan, old man, if you are reading this (and even if you�re not), I owe you $1.00 and I am glad to pay up.
Now a fragment from a dog eared notebook of mine from 11-13 years ago in which I mused upon the hopelessness of turning my meager talents to the task of describing in verse the woman I married:
I wonder if it is artistic excess or mere stupidity? Certainly my poetic license has done expired, null and void at my first attempt to describe, in dull and clumsy words, the essence of a woman whose beauty and life leave me breathless and speechless with tears in my eyes.
Sarah, beloved, will you marry me again?
This anniversary will, of course, be marked by the two of us. The real anniversary, however, is not until September 30 � the day of our first actual date, the first time we held our hands one in the other, the night on which our lips first touched (they have seldom been apart since). Can it really be 13 years gone? Almost. . .
But today is 11 and I find myself wondering if my old friend, Dan, recalls the bet we made some time before I met Sarah. I was a pessimistic, angst ridden and occasionally self-destructive young man who never imagined a world capable of producing the woman of my dreams. In fact, I wagered against it. Dan, old man, if you are reading this (and even if you�re not), I owe you $1.00 and I am glad to pay up.
Now a fragment from a dog eared notebook of mine from 11-13 years ago in which I mused upon the hopelessness of turning my meager talents to the task of describing in verse the woman I married:
I wonder if it is artistic excess or mere stupidity? Certainly my poetic license has done expired, null and void at my first attempt to describe, in dull and clumsy words, the essence of a woman whose beauty and life leave me breathless and speechless with tears in my eyes.
Sarah, beloved, will you marry me again?
Saturday, August 17, 2002
One more reason why The Bush Administration scares me much more than any threat of so called terrorism:
Ahscroft's call for Camps for American citizens.
Ahscroft's call for Camps for American citizens.
Friday, August 16, 2002
Green was the color of the world, it seemed.
After walking so long that day, our feet lifted by plush emerald grass, our heads sheltered by those strange frond like leaves, the rods and cones of our eyes grew attuned to the particular frequency of light that was green. It was not that other colors ceased to impress us, the reddish brown that was the bark of the Pallin Trees and the flashing indigo wings of the occasional ziggurat wisp, for instance, merely accentuated their respective innate greeness previously unguessed. Hours passed in this world of green as we made our way through the wood. Many miles had passed beneath our feet, and many Pallin leaves above our heads, when Val stopped and placed her hand on my shoulder.
"Water", she said, "do you hear it?"
As if in reply to her query there came to my ears the faint tinkle and splash of what must have been Mander Creek as it wound it's serpentine way through the Valley and toward it's tumultous and white capped rendevous with the River Vika.
"After all this green," laughed Val, "it sounds so silvery!"
I could think of no better word to describe the shimmering silver line that ran through my head and all of the verdant greenery that had filled it for so long. "Are we on time?" I wondered.
Val glanced at her wrist then peered up, as if to pierce the thatch of frondy leaves that had so long been our sky. "Don't know," she admitted. "Can't judge by the sun because I can't see it, and my watch stopped hours ago."
I glanced at her as she spoke then looked more closely. "Val," I whispered, "your clothes. . ."
She gazed down the length of herself and laughed a laugh as silvery as the voice of the distant creek. Her khaki shorts and black cotton sweatshirt had been replaced. . . no, not replaced. They had metamorphosed into a garment the likes of which I had never before seen or even imagined - a kind of blousy gown, faintly luminous it seemed, golden and lushly green in color and composed of some marvelous organic compound which consisted somehow of the grass and the trees and the sound of the creek splashing beyond the wood. The sensible sneakers on her feet had become some kind of leafy amber sandals, dimly glowing.
Even as I blinked and laughed myself before the vision she had become, she pointed a slender finger in my direction. Following the line of her gesture I discovered myself to be clad in similar magical style. My trousers and sweater were gone. A luminous foliage made itself my dress and a sudden exhilaration swelled in my breast and found voice through my lips.
"I think we're right on time!" I exclaimed, moving forward once more and passing a cluster of thick trunked Pallin Trees to see the house behind them.
"It's huge," whispered Val, at my side now and gripping my hand.
I gazed at the small building, surely no more than two rooms, constructed of wood and pale stone, and wondered what was beyond the oaken door and darkened window that faced us across the glade.
Sure the preceding is copyrighted, Richard Cody 2002, but if you read the piece through it is just as much yours as mine now. After all, it's in your head too. So you tell me - what happens next?
After walking so long that day, our feet lifted by plush emerald grass, our heads sheltered by those strange frond like leaves, the rods and cones of our eyes grew attuned to the particular frequency of light that was green. It was not that other colors ceased to impress us, the reddish brown that was the bark of the Pallin Trees and the flashing indigo wings of the occasional ziggurat wisp, for instance, merely accentuated their respective innate greeness previously unguessed. Hours passed in this world of green as we made our way through the wood. Many miles had passed beneath our feet, and many Pallin leaves above our heads, when Val stopped and placed her hand on my shoulder.
"Water", she said, "do you hear it?"
As if in reply to her query there came to my ears the faint tinkle and splash of what must have been Mander Creek as it wound it's serpentine way through the Valley and toward it's tumultous and white capped rendevous with the River Vika.
"After all this green," laughed Val, "it sounds so silvery!"
I could think of no better word to describe the shimmering silver line that ran through my head and all of the verdant greenery that had filled it for so long. "Are we on time?" I wondered.
Val glanced at her wrist then peered up, as if to pierce the thatch of frondy leaves that had so long been our sky. "Don't know," she admitted. "Can't judge by the sun because I can't see it, and my watch stopped hours ago."
I glanced at her as she spoke then looked more closely. "Val," I whispered, "your clothes. . ."
She gazed down the length of herself and laughed a laugh as silvery as the voice of the distant creek. Her khaki shorts and black cotton sweatshirt had been replaced. . . no, not replaced. They had metamorphosed into a garment the likes of which I had never before seen or even imagined - a kind of blousy gown, faintly luminous it seemed, golden and lushly green in color and composed of some marvelous organic compound which consisted somehow of the grass and the trees and the sound of the creek splashing beyond the wood. The sensible sneakers on her feet had become some kind of leafy amber sandals, dimly glowing.
Even as I blinked and laughed myself before the vision she had become, she pointed a slender finger in my direction. Following the line of her gesture I discovered myself to be clad in similar magical style. My trousers and sweater were gone. A luminous foliage made itself my dress and a sudden exhilaration swelled in my breast and found voice through my lips.
"I think we're right on time!" I exclaimed, moving forward once more and passing a cluster of thick trunked Pallin Trees to see the house behind them.
"It's huge," whispered Val, at my side now and gripping my hand.
I gazed at the small building, surely no more than two rooms, constructed of wood and pale stone, and wondered what was beyond the oaken door and darkened window that faced us across the glade.
Sure the preceding is copyrighted, Richard Cody 2002, but if you read the piece through it is just as much yours as mine now. After all, it's in your head too. So you tell me - what happens next?
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
Like a solid rock is not shaken by the wind, so the wise are not moved by praise or blame.
- The Dhammapada, chapter 6, verse 81, translated by John Richards -
The verse above is one of the most powerful in all of the Buddhist literature I have read thus far in my tiny life. I suppose I find it so because, as a writer and creative type in general, I am burdened by an ego the size of an overweight bull elephant. An ego this size is not a useful accessory for one who is interested in attaining oneness with the universe. The reams of rejection letters that poured in when I began submitting my work to prospective publishers helped to deflate the beast, as have my Zen/Buddhist studies and the growing realization that artistic expression itself is a means to wholeness and Universal accord. Certainly, the big E has diminished in size over the years (it was once the size of a sperm whale, after all!) but it remains hearty and hungry.
As evidence of this last point I offer my reactions to the votes I have recieved on this blog since adding the Bloghop voting apparatus below and to the left. In the couple of weeks or so since adding this feature I have garnered (to date) 15 votes - ranging from "love it" to "hate it". Yes, you guessed it. . . I have been pleased by the positive votes and unhappy with the negative. While it is true that these essentially meaningless votes (anonymous and with no means of indicating what the voter liked or disliked) neither ruined nor made my day, I was nonetheless surprised at the strength of the feeling roused in that quivering ego of mine. Somebody enjoyed my blog! How dare they say my blog sucks! And I thought I had conquered this particular ego trap through my review writing experiences at Amazon, where one's reviews are voted helpful or not according to the whims of on-line shoppers.
As I write these words (fresh from my head to this screen!) it occurs to me that I ought to be questioning my motives for placing the voting link on this blog in the first place. Was I merely seeking attention and/or approval of some kind? Very likely. Was it, perhaps, done according to some unconscious desire on my part to test myself, to see whether or not my big 'ol ego would react?
I don't know but I like the latter answer best.
- The Dhammapada, chapter 6, verse 81, translated by John Richards -
The verse above is one of the most powerful in all of the Buddhist literature I have read thus far in my tiny life. I suppose I find it so because, as a writer and creative type in general, I am burdened by an ego the size of an overweight bull elephant. An ego this size is not a useful accessory for one who is interested in attaining oneness with the universe. The reams of rejection letters that poured in when I began submitting my work to prospective publishers helped to deflate the beast, as have my Zen/Buddhist studies and the growing realization that artistic expression itself is a means to wholeness and Universal accord. Certainly, the big E has diminished in size over the years (it was once the size of a sperm whale, after all!) but it remains hearty and hungry.
As evidence of this last point I offer my reactions to the votes I have recieved on this blog since adding the Bloghop voting apparatus below and to the left. In the couple of weeks or so since adding this feature I have garnered (to date) 15 votes - ranging from "love it" to "hate it". Yes, you guessed it. . . I have been pleased by the positive votes and unhappy with the negative. While it is true that these essentially meaningless votes (anonymous and with no means of indicating what the voter liked or disliked) neither ruined nor made my day, I was nonetheless surprised at the strength of the feeling roused in that quivering ego of mine. Somebody enjoyed my blog! How dare they say my blog sucks! And I thought I had conquered this particular ego trap through my review writing experiences at Amazon, where one's reviews are voted helpful or not according to the whims of on-line shoppers.
As I write these words (fresh from my head to this screen!) it occurs to me that I ought to be questioning my motives for placing the voting link on this blog in the first place. Was I merely seeking attention and/or approval of some kind? Very likely. Was it, perhaps, done according to some unconscious desire on my part to test myself, to see whether or not my big 'ol ego would react?
I don't know but I like the latter answer best.
Sunday, August 11, 2002
Bumper sticker spotted on the San Francisco Bay Bridge:
You fuck with us
We fuck with you
God bless America
(obligatory image of the Stars and Stripes follows this succinct and reactionary tribal credo)
It is clear from our reaction to the events of 9/11 that the above referenced adhesive declaration is all too true if not completely accurate. It is clear from Bush Jr.'s policy regarding Iraq, for instance, that we will f**k with you regardless of what you have or have not done to us. In fact, we are very likely to f**k with you if we have something to gain by said f**king, oil markets for instance.
As for God blessing America. . .
I can only assume that George W. and the driver of the decorated vehicle (an unknown large pick-up truck, no gun rack visible but this is The Bay Area!) are worshipping Mars, Odin or some other jealous and vengeful God of War - most likely, given the Judeo-Christian leanings of this country, the Old Testament Yaweh.
As Sarah points out:
"While it seems to be a truism that people end up looking like their dogs, it seems equally true that their gods end up looking like them."
You fuck with us
We fuck with you
God bless America
(obligatory image of the Stars and Stripes follows this succinct and reactionary tribal credo)
It is clear from our reaction to the events of 9/11 that the above referenced adhesive declaration is all too true if not completely accurate. It is clear from Bush Jr.'s policy regarding Iraq, for instance, that we will f**k with you regardless of what you have or have not done to us. In fact, we are very likely to f**k with you if we have something to gain by said f**king, oil markets for instance.
As for God blessing America. . .
I can only assume that George W. and the driver of the decorated vehicle (an unknown large pick-up truck, no gun rack visible but this is The Bay Area!) are worshipping Mars, Odin or some other jealous and vengeful God of War - most likely, given the Judeo-Christian leanings of this country, the Old Testament Yaweh.
As Sarah points out:
"While it seems to be a truism that people end up looking like their dogs, it seems equally true that their gods end up looking like them."
Thursday, August 08, 2002
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
The following spam from my old friend ted@tytcorp.com was waiting for me when I opened my in box this evening:
I wanted to touch base with you...
are you still looking to find a Home-Based Business?
Look this over: replicapages.com
A few details:
- BUILD YOUR BUSINESS ON AUTOPILOT with our Online Lead Generation and Marketing System.
- WORLD WIDE business... in over 170 Countries.
- It's totally AUTOMATED AND CUSTOMIZED TO YOU.
- You'll never believe what it does.
- There's nothing like it on the net!
If you have e-mail, chances are you have already seen this message or one much like it. I find myself wondering what, if any, logic is behind that opening couplet. Do the authors of this come-on anticipate that a majority of their recipients, victims of short term memory loss or some form of brain damage all, will think that they actually know this person who "wanted to touch base with" them? Perhaps the spammers are not really trying to fool anyone and believe their message will be construed as an error, mistakenly sent to the wrong address or somehow misrouted in the highways and byways of cyberspace.
Could it be that this is actually an effective means of advertising due to the hoards of folks, especially those susceptible to spam messages, who might be tempted by the mention of a "Home-Based Business"?
I don't know and, despite the length of this post, I don't care.
Hmmm. . . reminds me of a song by World Entertainment War - what is the difference between apathy and ignorance?
I wanted to touch base with you...
are you still looking to find a Home-Based Business?
Look this over: replicapages.com
A few details:
- BUILD YOUR BUSINESS ON AUTOPILOT with our Online Lead Generation and Marketing System.
- WORLD WIDE business... in over 170 Countries.
- It's totally AUTOMATED AND CUSTOMIZED TO YOU.
- You'll never believe what it does.
- There's nothing like it on the net!
If you have e-mail, chances are you have already seen this message or one much like it. I find myself wondering what, if any, logic is behind that opening couplet. Do the authors of this come-on anticipate that a majority of their recipients, victims of short term memory loss or some form of brain damage all, will think that they actually know this person who "wanted to touch base with" them? Perhaps the spammers are not really trying to fool anyone and believe their message will be construed as an error, mistakenly sent to the wrong address or somehow misrouted in the highways and byways of cyberspace.
Could it be that this is actually an effective means of advertising due to the hoards of folks, especially those susceptible to spam messages, who might be tempted by the mention of a "Home-Based Business"?
I don't know and, despite the length of this post, I don't care.
Hmmm. . . reminds me of a song by World Entertainment War - what is the difference between apathy and ignorance?
Tuesday, August 06, 2002
"Evidence that people can communicate with each other using thought transference has emerged from ground-breaking research in Scotland, it was claimed last night."
- Science experiment picks up telepathic �signals�-
I know what you're thinking. . .
They may have broken some ground in Scotland, you say to yourself, but has not that territory been well travelled by people and groups such as J B Rhine and The CIA, as well as scores of pets and their owners?
Well, sure, but the cult of Science is an exacting one and requires much verification and reproducible results before it will allow new theories into it's cannon.
- Science experiment picks up telepathic �signals�-
I know what you're thinking. . .
They may have broken some ground in Scotland, you say to yourself, but has not that territory been well travelled by people and groups such as J B Rhine and The CIA, as well as scores of pets and their owners?
Well, sure, but the cult of Science is an exacting one and requires much verification and reproducible results before it will allow new theories into it's cannon.
Sunday, August 04, 2002
Today marks the six month anniversary of Notes From a Life in Progress and I would like to mark the date with a selection from the better late than never department. Digging into the filing cabinet, I pull forth this post from February 17, 2002 in which I erroneously reffered to the propietor of abuddhas (one of the first blogs I discovered and, perhaps, the first to link me) as Dr. Menlo when, in fact, the paradigm busting abuddhas is merely hosted by the paradigm shattering Dr. Menlo. Tony (sorry, Tony, I don't know your last name) is the man behind the curtain at abuddhas and I hereby stand corrected.
When I have the time I will actually edit that old post and change names accordingly.
When I have the time I will actually edit that old post and change names accordingly.
Saturday, August 03, 2002
The good news: Sarah's surgery occurred as planned and without incident (fortunately we saw a recent program on the History Channel featuring anesthesia horror stories after the operation). What's more, despite some residual pain in the left leg due to the severity of nerve damage, the microdiskectomy was successful.
The bad news: Because we were living in Florida and not paying California state taxes during the arbitrary period of time which the State of California reviews for wage and tax information ( which they use to calculate disability payments), Sarah is inelligible for California State disability insurance. Because eating and living indoors are pretty high on our list of basic needs, Sarah now finds herself in a position of cutting short her convalesence by at least a week and returning to work sooner than health, love, and doctor's orders would advise. This is particularly galling in light of the fact that for sixteen or more years before our ill conceived Florida detour, Sarah worked hard, paid her taxes and never once utilized the system of support we need now.
I hope you don't mind
the good news first
and the bad last.
It is simply my inclination
to save the worst
for the last.
The bad news: Because we were living in Florida and not paying California state taxes during the arbitrary period of time which the State of California reviews for wage and tax information ( which they use to calculate disability payments), Sarah is inelligible for California State disability insurance. Because eating and living indoors are pretty high on our list of basic needs, Sarah now finds herself in a position of cutting short her convalesence by at least a week and returning to work sooner than health, love, and doctor's orders would advise. This is particularly galling in light of the fact that for sixteen or more years before our ill conceived Florida detour, Sarah worked hard, paid her taxes and never once utilized the system of support we need now.
I hope you don't mind
the good news first
and the bad last.
It is simply my inclination
to save the worst
for the last.
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