Manunu yodo parp.
Talala spotz tril - talala manmon oma! Harn tarn ta, molanin molana pah.
Weligh ta harn ondoona, pontu-pontu Manunu. Wilkitz filtru dun. O-noono. . .
Manunu yodo parp.
Shiggy.
Shiggy.
Shiggy.
Tala frat zanda mop. O-noono miltrip harn tala.
Manunu yodo parp.
Saturday, October 05, 2002
Thursday, October 03, 2002
I sat down at the computer nearly two hours ago with at least half an intention to update this space. I had nothing particular in mind and ended up perusing other blogs. A few comment boxes got any good words out of me tonight.
Tom Shugart's, for instance. I just discovered his place, INSITEVIEW, recently when I found he had quoted me a short time back in regards to Elaine's call for a male version of BlogSisters. Currently, Tom is wondering why he is not surprised by recent developments in Bush Jr.'s war fantasies - namely his Rose Garden photo-op with key Democrats.
On a more intimate level, Phineas Narco (who has appeared here on previous occasions) takes us into his mind - a mind diagnosed as schizo-affective - on a "low capacity" day (sorry, can't find permalinks to specific posts at Livejournal).
Shelley, concise and right on target (unlike Lili), somehow starts with a hurricane and ends with Washington D.C. Unfortunately, the only wind in the capitol is the usual gales of hot air.
And Kathryn, who brings us The Hestia Chronicles, muses about sensory stimuli and visual arts.
Sometimes, it seems, blogging is more about the reading than the writing.
Tom Shugart's, for instance. I just discovered his place, INSITEVIEW, recently when I found he had quoted me a short time back in regards to Elaine's call for a male version of BlogSisters. Currently, Tom is wondering why he is not surprised by recent developments in Bush Jr.'s war fantasies - namely his Rose Garden photo-op with key Democrats.
On a more intimate level, Phineas Narco (who has appeared here on previous occasions) takes us into his mind - a mind diagnosed as schizo-affective - on a "low capacity" day (sorry, can't find permalinks to specific posts at Livejournal).
Shelley, concise and right on target (unlike Lili), somehow starts with a hurricane and ends with Washington D.C. Unfortunately, the only wind in the capitol is the usual gales of hot air.
And Kathryn, who brings us The Hestia Chronicles, muses about sensory stimuli and visual arts.
Sometimes, it seems, blogging is more about the reading than the writing.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
As I mentioned earlier, yesterday - 9/30/02 - marked the 13th anniversary of Sarah and myself. Not to be confused with our wedding anniversary, this is the significant date whereupon we first joined hands and lips. There are stories to tell about that day as well as the days which preceded and followed it, but they will not be told now (the novel way in which we two met has already been described here).
Instead, I offer for those who care to read it the poem I wrote for my beloved to mark the date:
September 30, 2002
13 years ago, give or take a day or two,
I gazed into the sky of your eyes
And wished aloud as lovers do:
I want to be yours,
I want you to be mine.
I can only hope the years between then and now
Have proved these words no idle line.
My blood,
My breath,
My spirit now and after death
Are yours to do with as you will.
Sarah, my heart, I want to be yours
And I want you to be mine still.
Instead, I offer for those who care to read it the poem I wrote for my beloved to mark the date:
September 30, 2002
13 years ago, give or take a day or two,
I gazed into the sky of your eyes
And wished aloud as lovers do:
I want to be yours,
I want you to be mine.
I can only hope the years between then and now
Have proved these words no idle line.
My blood,
My breath,
My spirit now and after death
Are yours to do with as you will.
Sarah, my heart, I want to be yours
And I want you to be mine still.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
It seems American citizens who happen to disagree with The Shrub Administration's bloodthirsty, imperialistic stance on Iraq are finding their names on a no fly list, causing them to be detained, delayed and generally harassed because they have exercised their constitutional right to dissent.
From the S.F. Chronicle article linked above:
"Federal law enforcement officials deny targeting dissidents. They suggested that the activists were stopped not because their names are on the list, but because their names resemble those of suspected criminals or terrorists."
And I suggest that Federal officials stop treating us like mental defectives, which they must certainly believe us to be if they expect anybody to buy their quoted reason for the detainments.
Consider, please, these two provisions of The Patriot Act, signed into law by our fearless leader on 10/26/91 (excerpted from this ACLU analysis of the act):
Give the Attorney General and the Secretary of State the power to designate domestic groups as terrorist organizations and deport any non-citizen who belongs to them.
Lead to large-scale investigations of American citizens for "intelligence" purposes
Sure, dissidents are not being targeted. And I'm not a blogger.
I think it's time to reach into the old Filing Cabinet and reference a post I made regarding this whole sorry affair back in the infancy of this blog:
2/11/02
Political (or some people prefer to call them conspiracy) theorists such as the late Mae Brussell and producer of For the Record and One Step Beyond (aired for the last 20 years on one of the greatest radio stations in the world - my world anyway - KFJC ), Dave Emory have seen the creeping fascism we have been witnessing in the wake of 9/11 coming a long way off. An excerpt from one of Mr. Emory's For The Record tape summaries:
"The 9/11/2001 attack can also be viewed as promoting the domestic political and police powers of the governing political interests. The fact that the 9/11 attacks have been followed by the passage of sweeping law enforcement and intelligence provisions which may be used to abridge the constitutional freedoms of American citizens and to stifle legitimate political dissent is not to be overlooked."
From the S.F. Chronicle article linked above:
"Federal law enforcement officials deny targeting dissidents. They suggested that the activists were stopped not because their names are on the list, but because their names resemble those of suspected criminals or terrorists."
And I suggest that Federal officials stop treating us like mental defectives, which they must certainly believe us to be if they expect anybody to buy their quoted reason for the detainments.
Consider, please, these two provisions of The Patriot Act, signed into law by our fearless leader on 10/26/91 (excerpted from this ACLU analysis of the act):
Give the Attorney General and the Secretary of State the power to designate domestic groups as terrorist organizations and deport any non-citizen who belongs to them.
Lead to large-scale investigations of American citizens for "intelligence" purposes
Sure, dissidents are not being targeted. And I'm not a blogger.
I think it's time to reach into the old Filing Cabinet and reference a post I made regarding this whole sorry affair back in the infancy of this blog:
2/11/02
Political (or some people prefer to call them conspiracy) theorists such as the late Mae Brussell and producer of For the Record and One Step Beyond (aired for the last 20 years on one of the greatest radio stations in the world - my world anyway - KFJC ), Dave Emory have seen the creeping fascism we have been witnessing in the wake of 9/11 coming a long way off. An excerpt from one of Mr. Emory's For The Record tape summaries:
"The 9/11/2001 attack can also be viewed as promoting the domestic political and police powers of the governing political interests. The fact that the 9/11 attacks have been followed by the passage of sweeping law enforcement and intelligence provisions which may be used to abridge the constitutional freedoms of American citizens and to stifle legitimate political dissent is not to be overlooked."
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
Error 503 is haunting my blog again.
Any other Blogger users out there being plagued by this troublesome spook?
Not to complain, mind you. Blogger is priceless, in my opinion. Ev and the rest at Pyra receive my best respect for bringing free web publishing to the people.
Now if I could only get the damn thing to work!
Any other Blogger users out there being plagued by this troublesome spook?
Not to complain, mind you. Blogger is priceless, in my opinion. Ev and the rest at Pyra receive my best respect for bringing free web publishing to the people.
Now if I could only get the damn thing to work!
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
�I hope you�re ready to be saved.�
A belligerent stranger once said this to me on a street corner in Northern California, not far from the hospital where I was born. He spoke the words with a straight face and a fire in his eyes that seemed all heat and no light.
My reply was a noncommittal and wide-eyed stare of surprise and bemusement. As is always the case in these situations, I have been plagued since by all the shining witticisms, stinging retorts and luminous jewels of wisdom I might have answered had I but conceived them at the time.
These are not worth recording.
His salvation did not interest me at the time and I am still not buying that particular brand. Salvation comes, for me, in small doses everyday.
The touch of your hand, my love.
The reading of a poem chipped from the heart of wonder.
The sight of sunshine in the afternoon,
carpeting the floor with golden light.
A belligerent stranger once said this to me on a street corner in Northern California, not far from the hospital where I was born. He spoke the words with a straight face and a fire in his eyes that seemed all heat and no light.
My reply was a noncommittal and wide-eyed stare of surprise and bemusement. As is always the case in these situations, I have been plagued since by all the shining witticisms, stinging retorts and luminous jewels of wisdom I might have answered had I but conceived them at the time.
These are not worth recording.
His salvation did not interest me at the time and I am still not buying that particular brand. Salvation comes, for me, in small doses everyday.
The touch of your hand, my love.
The reading of a poem chipped from the heart of wonder.
The sight of sunshine in the afternoon,
carpeting the floor with golden light.
Saturday, September 21, 2002
Undated journal entry, circa 1994:
Revelation comes when you least expect it, as illustrated by the following words.
I was in a hurry but getting nowhere, stuck in morning traffic and eager to get home because I was expected at work in a few short hours. A rising tide of irritation - caused by the traffic congestion which had brought me to a grid locked stop on the freeway - dampened my spirits and fouled my mood. I was, perhaps, cursing the traffic when I realized the utter silliness of my attitude. It was like a light being switched on in some dark corner of my mind, I can explain it no better than that. Quite suddenly I saw, as if for the first time, the beautiful blue sky above and around me. I became aware of the music on the radio, a favorite song poured like clear water from the speakers. This is it, I realized. This is my life right here and right now, the place where I am going does not matter until I get there! What does matter, what is completely relevant, is this moment - big blue sky, good music and myself, living and breathing.
I stopped cursing and was surprised to find a smile on my face. Let the traffic back up to infinity and beyond! I am alive and I am happy to be here.
I wonder if I was familiar with the term, satori, when I wrote the above. It seems I would have used the word if I had known it. Reading this now it strikes me as wilfully optimistic, especially the last few sentences. Also, it reminds me of a poem I wrote within a year or so of the above:
One Moment in the Thick of Traffic
Traffic is backed up for miles,
the car is overheating
in 90 degree weather
and
there�s not a damn thing
worth listening to
on the radio.
A butterfly
bobbing along on heat waves
above grid locked cars
brings a welcome
smile.
Both of these pieces are inspired by two real and separate events. I think I captured the experience best in the poem. The haiku and tanka influences that shaped this second piece are quite evident. The poem was published in 1996 - a small San Francisco based 'zine called The Typewriter. My name is actually on the cover. If I take that name, Richard Cody, and do a search on Google (not an uncommon activity for bloggers) I find that "I" make four appearances in the top ten results returned. It is strange to think of this presence I have created on-line. Words and ideas belonging to some past incarnation of myself haunt small pockets of cyberspace. Readers of the words I have written conjure ghosts of me through those words. I am rising now from the past before you, telling you about moments of lucid and jewel like clarity in cars.
Seems unlikely, doesn't it?
Revelation comes when you least expect it, as illustrated by the following words.
I was in a hurry but getting nowhere, stuck in morning traffic and eager to get home because I was expected at work in a few short hours. A rising tide of irritation - caused by the traffic congestion which had brought me to a grid locked stop on the freeway - dampened my spirits and fouled my mood. I was, perhaps, cursing the traffic when I realized the utter silliness of my attitude. It was like a light being switched on in some dark corner of my mind, I can explain it no better than that. Quite suddenly I saw, as if for the first time, the beautiful blue sky above and around me. I became aware of the music on the radio, a favorite song poured like clear water from the speakers. This is it, I realized. This is my life right here and right now, the place where I am going does not matter until I get there! What does matter, what is completely relevant, is this moment - big blue sky, good music and myself, living and breathing.
I stopped cursing and was surprised to find a smile on my face. Let the traffic back up to infinity and beyond! I am alive and I am happy to be here.
I wonder if I was familiar with the term, satori, when I wrote the above. It seems I would have used the word if I had known it. Reading this now it strikes me as wilfully optimistic, especially the last few sentences. Also, it reminds me of a poem I wrote within a year or so of the above:
One Moment in the Thick of Traffic
Traffic is backed up for miles,
the car is overheating
in 90 degree weather
and
there�s not a damn thing
worth listening to
on the radio.
A butterfly
bobbing along on heat waves
above grid locked cars
brings a welcome
smile.
Both of these pieces are inspired by two real and separate events. I think I captured the experience best in the poem. The haiku and tanka influences that shaped this second piece are quite evident. The poem was published in 1996 - a small San Francisco based 'zine called The Typewriter. My name is actually on the cover. If I take that name, Richard Cody, and do a search on Google (not an uncommon activity for bloggers) I find that "I" make four appearances in the top ten results returned. It is strange to think of this presence I have created on-line. Words and ideas belonging to some past incarnation of myself haunt small pockets of cyberspace. Readers of the words I have written conjure ghosts of me through those words. I am rising now from the past before you, telling you about moments of lucid and jewel like clarity in cars.
Seems unlikely, doesn't it?
Monday, September 16, 2002
I have endeavored to stay away from the completely mundane and prosaic in this blog but sometimes life is nothing but.
I worked today for the first time in three weeks. I am hoping this temporary assignment will work into something permanent, thereby ending the financial woes that have troubled Sarah and myself of late. I have not writ about these money worries in this space previously and I'm not going to do so now.
Instead, I'm going to bed.
I worked today for the first time in three weeks. I am hoping this temporary assignment will work into something permanent, thereby ending the financial woes that have troubled Sarah and myself of late. I have not writ about these money worries in this space previously and I'm not going to do so now.
Instead, I'm going to bed.
Saturday, September 14, 2002
Two Koans and a Pickle
A stone sitting in the middle of a path captured the attention of two passing monks.
�A stone in the road is a hazard,� observed one.
�We might have struck our feet upon it,� agreed the other.
At this moment a third monk approached from the opposite direction. �If you are thinking of moving that stone to avert mishap,� said he, �it will do no good.�
�How is that?� asked the two monks.
The third monk squatted down and gripped the stone. Standing, he tossed it over his shoulder into the tall grass beside the path. �That is how,� he stated.
***
A black cat pauses while entering an open door, straddling the threshold. Inside the cat is out and outside the cat is in. Where is the cat�s tail?
***
Dill.
A stone sitting in the middle of a path captured the attention of two passing monks.
�A stone in the road is a hazard,� observed one.
�We might have struck our feet upon it,� agreed the other.
At this moment a third monk approached from the opposite direction. �If you are thinking of moving that stone to avert mishap,� said he, �it will do no good.�
�How is that?� asked the two monks.
The third monk squatted down and gripped the stone. Standing, he tossed it over his shoulder into the tall grass beside the path. �That is how,� he stated.
***
A black cat pauses while entering an open door, straddling the threshold. Inside the cat is out and outside the cat is in. Where is the cat�s tail?
***
Dill.
Thursday, September 12, 2002
One of the perks of being unemployed (as I have been for the last three weeks but that is another story) is sleeping in. I was doing just that this morning when Sarah (in bonny Scotland at the moment) telephoned and woke me from a dream in which she featured. I typically enjoy a rich dream life and have often considered keeping a dream journal but have found myself too lazy to transcribe the artifacts of my sleeping mind. Certainly, dreams have influenced a good deal of my fiction and poetry but they have never been recorded in detail. Until Now.
I dreamed I was watching television on the set in our bedroom (the dream apartment was more-or-less true to it's "real" counterpart). The program I was watching was, apparently, some kind of a beauty contest as several healthy and glowing women were standing upon a stage wearing one piece bathing suits and beaming smiles. The camera panned across the line of women as somebody off screen asked them questions or made remarks to them (unfortunately, I don't recall what was said if I ever heard it at all). The camera stopped moving with the scene of the last woman in line receiving, in reply to whatever she had answered to the off screen speaker, a white frosted cake splat! in her smiling face. At this point I moved out of the bedroom into the kitchen where Sarah was busy with, most likely, some kind of food preparation. I had come to her so that I might relate the events of the show I had been watching in the bedroom ( a twist on a recurring theme in my dreams in which I dream that I am telling Sarah about a dream!). As I tried to speak, however, I found myself suddenly choking on a corndog. This was the first appearance in the dream of the corndog but, as is often the case in dreams, it did not seem strange that I was suddenly eating a corndog (despite its abrupt appearance and the fact that in "real" life I am a vegetarian). As I attempted to describe the beauty pageant I found my words stifled behind chunks of batter and meat.
That's it! Analyze away if that is your inclination.
An interesting sidenote regarding this dream. . . Visiting the Yahoo website for driving directions just prior to the writing of this blog, I found this story about a Miss America scandal featured on their main page.
I dreamed I was watching television on the set in our bedroom (the dream apartment was more-or-less true to it's "real" counterpart). The program I was watching was, apparently, some kind of a beauty contest as several healthy and glowing women were standing upon a stage wearing one piece bathing suits and beaming smiles. The camera panned across the line of women as somebody off screen asked them questions or made remarks to them (unfortunately, I don't recall what was said if I ever heard it at all). The camera stopped moving with the scene of the last woman in line receiving, in reply to whatever she had answered to the off screen speaker, a white frosted cake splat! in her smiling face. At this point I moved out of the bedroom into the kitchen where Sarah was busy with, most likely, some kind of food preparation. I had come to her so that I might relate the events of the show I had been watching in the bedroom ( a twist on a recurring theme in my dreams in which I dream that I am telling Sarah about a dream!). As I tried to speak, however, I found myself suddenly choking on a corndog. This was the first appearance in the dream of the corndog but, as is often the case in dreams, it did not seem strange that I was suddenly eating a corndog (despite its abrupt appearance and the fact that in "real" life I am a vegetarian). As I attempted to describe the beauty pageant I found my words stifled behind chunks of batter and meat.
That's it! Analyze away if that is your inclination.
An interesting sidenote regarding this dream. . . Visiting the Yahoo website for driving directions just prior to the writing of this blog, I found this story about a Miss America scandal featured on their main page.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
Mainstream media on 9/11 foreknowledge: the government knew airplane attacks were going to occur in the us by Russ Kick
As Mr. Kick points out:
". . .every one of these indicators comes from mainstream reporting. No �conspiracy theorists.� No �suspect� Websites or wild rumors. Just the ugly facts from some of the bastions of mainstream media: CBS, Newsweek, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Times of London, and NPR, as well as the State of Florida�s Website.
Still, it might as well be unsubstantiated rumor if the facts presented in the article linked above bring accountability to no one.
A moment of silence for the dead in the U.S. and Afghanistan and a never ending riot of voices railing for the truth.
As Mr. Kick points out:
". . .every one of these indicators comes from mainstream reporting. No �conspiracy theorists.� No �suspect� Websites or wild rumors. Just the ugly facts from some of the bastions of mainstream media: CBS, Newsweek, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Times of London, and NPR, as well as the State of Florida�s Website.
Still, it might as well be unsubstantiated rumor if the facts presented in the article linked above bring accountability to no one.
A moment of silence for the dead in the U.S. and Afghanistan and a never ending riot of voices railing for the truth.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Just in time for 9/11 - which our fearless leader here in the "land of the free" has decreed shall henceforth be known as Patriot Day, apparently in all seriousness and unaware of the confusion this will cause those who already celebrate Patriot's Day in April - I offer the following link round-up.
I don't know about you, my fellow Americans, but I certainly feel safer after 9/11 (er, I mean Patriot Day) now that many of my basic rights have been swept aside and the police given broad and invasive powers as evidenced by this list of some of the fundamental changes to Americans' legal rights by the Bush administration and the USA Patriot Act following the terror attacks.
Speaking of the attacks. . . As uncertainties abound in pinpointing the real enemy, just who, exactly, done it?
And why, since recent revelations reveal that one of the FBI's informants had a close relationship with two of the hijackers was it not prevented?
One thing is certain. George W., though typically impossible to understand due to his "unique vernacular", has been quite clear that he feels war is an acceptable solution for the affront to America and even any possible future affronts.
There are those who disagree with George W. but thier opinions are of little account to patriots such as our fearless leader. After all, what could a former UN arms inspector who states that Iraq is not a threat possibly know about the situation? Less, I'm sure, than the many Gulf War veterans who oppose an invasion and who have taken the time to compose a list stating Ten Reasons Why Many Gulf War Veterans Oppose Re-Invading Iraq.
Not surprisingly, number 8 on the veterans' list is a minor detail regarding the fact that Iraq received many of the weapons we are now living in fear of from. . . US! How did Iraq get its weapons? We sold them.
Happy 9/11 (uh, I mean Patriot Day) America!
I don't know about you, my fellow Americans, but I certainly feel safer after 9/11 (er, I mean Patriot Day) now that many of my basic rights have been swept aside and the police given broad and invasive powers as evidenced by this list of some of the fundamental changes to Americans' legal rights by the Bush administration and the USA Patriot Act following the terror attacks.
Speaking of the attacks. . . As uncertainties abound in pinpointing the real enemy, just who, exactly, done it?
And why, since recent revelations reveal that one of the FBI's informants had a close relationship with two of the hijackers was it not prevented?
One thing is certain. George W., though typically impossible to understand due to his "unique vernacular", has been quite clear that he feels war is an acceptable solution for the affront to America and even any possible future affronts.
There are those who disagree with George W. but thier opinions are of little account to patriots such as our fearless leader. After all, what could a former UN arms inspector who states that Iraq is not a threat possibly know about the situation? Less, I'm sure, than the many Gulf War veterans who oppose an invasion and who have taken the time to compose a list stating Ten Reasons Why Many Gulf War Veterans Oppose Re-Invading Iraq.
Not surprisingly, number 8 on the veterans' list is a minor detail regarding the fact that Iraq received many of the weapons we are now living in fear of from. . . US! How did Iraq get its weapons? We sold them.
Happy 9/11 (uh, I mean Patriot Day) America!
Monday, September 09, 2002
Due no doubt to the high levels of dopamine in my brain, I happen to believe in the possibility of meaningful coincidence. With that assertion I now offer for your perusal the following, edited and adapted for this space from an e-mail I sent to Sarah (currently in the UK on business):
I have recently been musing over a potential narrative (i.e. story) inspired by vignettes I wrote for my blog. For the last few days I have been working through the vague ideas and characters, attempting to get a clear picture in mind regarding the world, or "reality", in which the story will unfold. I had in mind a kind of magical-realist landscape dominated by trees and wonder. One notion I was considering for entrance to this "world" involved a tree or trees acting a portals.
Now consider these facts:
1.We saw a bit on the Travel Channel the other night featuring a pub in Australia(?) that was built in the trunk of a 5,000 year old tree.
2. Last night (9/7/02) I finally cleared the 3-D Jong board (a variation of electronic Mah Jong) I have been trying to complete for the last week and received for my efforts the following "prize" in the form of text which popped up when I cleared the board:
"Congratulations!! You've just one (sic) a vacation to Arbor, a world taken up by the Universe's largest tree. Explore the thousands of miles of branches. Meet the many denizens of the hollowed out trunks of the tree. Pick from its large variety of fresh fruits and nuts. Of course you'll be staying in a tree house with its own five star restaurant. Your room will have a gorgeous view of the Tree's most picturesque branches. Come during Arbor's fall season and see the Tree's leaves turn into beautiful autumn colors."
Could these strange tree references popping up in the "Objective" world be in response to my own thoughts about magical trees (ala Jacques Vallee's "referential database" universe model)? Is the universe trying to nudge me in the direction I was considering already? I don't know but each of the examples above did actually help me to see the way the narrative will begin and where it will take place (although I am still lacking a name!).
Meaningful? Coincidence? Meaningful Coincidence? Make of it what you will.
I have recently been musing over a potential narrative (i.e. story) inspired by vignettes I wrote for my blog. For the last few days I have been working through the vague ideas and characters, attempting to get a clear picture in mind regarding the world, or "reality", in which the story will unfold. I had in mind a kind of magical-realist landscape dominated by trees and wonder. One notion I was considering for entrance to this "world" involved a tree or trees acting a portals.
Now consider these facts:
1.We saw a bit on the Travel Channel the other night featuring a pub in Australia(?) that was built in the trunk of a 5,000 year old tree.
2. Last night (9/7/02) I finally cleared the 3-D Jong board (a variation of electronic Mah Jong) I have been trying to complete for the last week and received for my efforts the following "prize" in the form of text which popped up when I cleared the board:
"Congratulations!! You've just one (sic) a vacation to Arbor, a world taken up by the Universe's largest tree. Explore the thousands of miles of branches. Meet the many denizens of the hollowed out trunks of the tree. Pick from its large variety of fresh fruits and nuts. Of course you'll be staying in a tree house with its own five star restaurant. Your room will have a gorgeous view of the Tree's most picturesque branches. Come during Arbor's fall season and see the Tree's leaves turn into beautiful autumn colors."
Could these strange tree references popping up in the "Objective" world be in response to my own thoughts about magical trees (ala Jacques Vallee's "referential database" universe model)? Is the universe trying to nudge me in the direction I was considering already? I don't know but each of the examples above did actually help me to see the way the narrative will begin and where it will take place (although I am still lacking a name!).
Meaningful? Coincidence? Meaningful Coincidence? Make of it what you will.
Sunday, September 08, 2002
"Without chemicals, he points."
The third clue given by The Giant to Cooper and something of a mantra for me last night.
Without chemicals, he points
Certain chemical keys pose serious risks to the organic body which far outweigh any potential benefit to be gained by the utilization of the key in opening secret doors within the mind-spirit body. I will leave the exploration of certain remote Plateaus to those who choose to accept risks that I will not.
"Without chemicals, he points."
There also exist linguistic and aural keys. Words and sounds of power.
I am pointing now.
Om
The third clue given by The Giant to Cooper and something of a mantra for me last night.
Without chemicals, he points
Certain chemical keys pose serious risks to the organic body which far outweigh any potential benefit to be gained by the utilization of the key in opening secret doors within the mind-spirit body. I will leave the exploration of certain remote Plateaus to those who choose to accept risks that I will not.
"Without chemicals, he points."
There also exist linguistic and aural keys. Words and sounds of power.
I am pointing now.
Om
Friday, September 06, 2002
The voice mail "scene" (wherein yours truly was known by the nom de telephone, "Psycho Jack") through which I met Sarah and which I described briefly back in February is the subject of an article featured in the most recent edition of metroACTIVE, an on-line arts and entertainment guide from Northern Cailfornia's MetroNews.
The article - which may be read in its entirety here - consists of:
1. An interview with James Scianna (aka Phineas Narco) of The National Cynical Network and one of the guiding lights behind Midnight Voicejail, the radio program broadcast on KFJC which captures for all the world to hear a small portion of the aforementioned voice mail "scene".
2. A preview of Midnight Voicejail's new season opener which will be broadcast on 9/11 and will memorialize this now infamous date with just the right amounts of cynicism and irreverence.
3. A thumbnail sketch of the voice mail phenomenon which Midnight Voicejail commemorates.
I can't thank Mr. Narco enough for his efforts on Midnight Voicejail and for mailing me a selection of shows on disc recently. I do feel compelled to point out, however, that Midnight Voicejail (as mentioned above) captures only a certain group of participants involved with the voice mail "scene". There are a considerable number of folks who are not represented because their messages were not recorded for posterity and because they had little or no traffic with the people behind Midnight Voicejail. As I say, just a note on behalf of the unknown voicejailers.
Read the article, listen to some clips and/or tune in to KFJC for a better idea of what I am rambling on about here.
Yours Truly,
Psycho Jack
The article - which may be read in its entirety here - consists of:
1. An interview with James Scianna (aka Phineas Narco) of The National Cynical Network and one of the guiding lights behind Midnight Voicejail, the radio program broadcast on KFJC which captures for all the world to hear a small portion of the aforementioned voice mail "scene".
2. A preview of Midnight Voicejail's new season opener which will be broadcast on 9/11 and will memorialize this now infamous date with just the right amounts of cynicism and irreverence.
3. A thumbnail sketch of the voice mail phenomenon which Midnight Voicejail commemorates.
I can't thank Mr. Narco enough for his efforts on Midnight Voicejail and for mailing me a selection of shows on disc recently. I do feel compelled to point out, however, that Midnight Voicejail (as mentioned above) captures only a certain group of participants involved with the voice mail "scene". There are a considerable number of folks who are not represented because their messages were not recorded for posterity and because they had little or no traffic with the people behind Midnight Voicejail. As I say, just a note on behalf of the unknown voicejailers.
Read the article, listen to some clips and/or tune in to KFJC for a better idea of what I am rambling on about here.
Yours Truly,
Psycho Jack
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
A couple of comments from Jen and Elaine (welcome back, Elaine!) on my recent post regarding blogging vs. "real" writing have crystallized something I was groping for in that post when I said, and I quote myself: "Blogging, for me, is a creative outlet and a satisfying mode of self expression as well as a potentially powerful means of communication."
Jen writes, among other things: ". . .a blog is all of it: an exercise, a motivation, a distraction, a venue for "serious" work, a venue for play, a way to connect, to share the venom or the love."
Elaine succinctly adds : "I believe that writing begets more writing."
I agree with each of these comments completely. The notion that my efforts at this blog (meaning the material I type in here fresh from my head, not the poetry and whatnot that was created elsewhere and imported here) are less worthy than the stuff I type into a Word document or scrawl into a notebook is, perhaps, unnecessarily dichotomous thinking. Certainly, most of the direct to blog content of this space has not undergone the same critical processes I employ in what I earlier referred to as my "real" work. This, I suppose, is one reason why I might think less of my direct to blog product and find myself inclined to consider it separate from my other writing endeavors (which I do, incidentally, showcase here on a regular basis).
But, as Jen and Elaine so sagely point out, there need be no distinction between the two. The writing I do here might, for instance, be considered "priming the pump" if nothing else. Indeed, I have very recently (as if to illustrate Jen and Elaine's respective points) been musing upon the possibility of expanding upon some of that direct to blog content. I have found a couple of the impromptu vignettes I occasionally feature in this space (this one and, more recently, this one) occupying shadowy corners of my imagination and railing to be told more fully.
Perhaps, someday, if I can tear myself away from reading and writing blogs long enough, I will see them realized.
Jen writes, among other things: ". . .a blog is all of it: an exercise, a motivation, a distraction, a venue for "serious" work, a venue for play, a way to connect, to share the venom or the love."
Elaine succinctly adds : "I believe that writing begets more writing."
I agree with each of these comments completely. The notion that my efforts at this blog (meaning the material I type in here fresh from my head, not the poetry and whatnot that was created elsewhere and imported here) are less worthy than the stuff I type into a Word document or scrawl into a notebook is, perhaps, unnecessarily dichotomous thinking. Certainly, most of the direct to blog content of this space has not undergone the same critical processes I employ in what I earlier referred to as my "real" work. This, I suppose, is one reason why I might think less of my direct to blog product and find myself inclined to consider it separate from my other writing endeavors (which I do, incidentally, showcase here on a regular basis).
But, as Jen and Elaine so sagely point out, there need be no distinction between the two. The writing I do here might, for instance, be considered "priming the pump" if nothing else. Indeed, I have very recently (as if to illustrate Jen and Elaine's respective points) been musing upon the possibility of expanding upon some of that direct to blog content. I have found a couple of the impromptu vignettes I occasionally feature in this space (this one and, more recently, this one) occupying shadowy corners of my imagination and railing to be told more fully.
Perhaps, someday, if I can tear myself away from reading and writing blogs long enough, I will see them realized.
Saturday, August 31, 2002
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.
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.
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.
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