notforprophet

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

It’s my belief that the demise of Communism in the Soviet Union was due not to corruption, or excessive vodka drinking, or the disproportionate burden of the cost of the military on the economy, or the West’s active resistance to communist ideology, or the seductions of market capitalism, but due, rather, to the Soviet Union’s successful ventures into space.

Space is the great ideological chiller.  No structure of thought can stand up against it: the farther you go, the less you know.  And like the viral transformations borne upon biotic asteroids that have crashed throughout earth’s history into our atmosphere, making the experience of space an indulgent focus of one’s culture carries a life-changing payload.  The space capsule sent out carrying an astronaut into space is never the same one that returns.  It’s become a Trojan Horse, stallionized by the cosmic flow that pulses beyond this silent planet.  And the returning astronaut, with his forever altered unconsciousness, returns as a psychically seditious hero to the dispatching cultural constructs that launched him out and beyond.

“Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do…”

Now, China has joined the ‘Space Erase’ with its premier launch and return of its first next-generation her

These words yearn to escape the awful plight of sitting latent in my stale mind.  Once attached to robust imagery like ‘a summery garden picnic’ or ‘raucous fans in the stands’, they now huddle meagerly and impatiently together, detached for the most part from any thought at all.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop on a humorless Saturday morning, gazing out the storefront windows, and watching the wind and rain make mischief upon the luckless who are stuck commuting out of doors.  As the wind blows by, my words flutter with excitement believing that they, too, can take wing on a breeze and win release with a lift-off of new meaning.  But they’re fools, these words.  They are.  Their fluttering is creating a reverberation in my head that’s aggravating my post-hangover discomfort.

I know, I know, the little bastards think they’re cute in pretending to the occasional expression of semi-ballistic bliss that they deem some form of poetry.  But I’ll whip the asses of these little pretties, I will, before allowing them to cajole me again into a literary orgy where I end up playing the hapless harlequin before their queen and kingliness. 

Fucking good-for-nothing words.  I need sex, not merely more of the imaginative inspiration they alone get off on.  If I could, I swear I’d submit these words to a gross act of dominating bestiality to teach the nouns some proper respect and show the verbs what decisiveness is really about.  I’d take the words ‘good girl’ and make them spread, ‘open orifice’ would get a mouthful, and ‘tender bashfulness’ would be sadistically bashed into their first orgasmic flush.  Oh yeah, there wouldn’t be one damn virgin word left in my head when I’d get done.  Then, post-coital, they could all commingle together, clinging embarrassingly to the dark but unifying meaning that my mastery of them there infused.

And you know what?  I’d bet after the rawness I ripped through them healed a bit that they’d all come crawling back for more.  Oh yeah.  Little masochistic bits of alpahbet—they’ll become my good little bitches yet.  Just wait and see.

I was glad that I could please someone today: a young teenager named Becky who was waiting for her PC that was re-formatted and loaded with goodies by me and delivered this evening.  Now she can read her backlogged e-love letters and chat with her cuddly buddies online.

That PC delivery and setup shot all other use out of this evening, however.  Except for a retreating thereafter to a little lost coffee shop to play with a button that I occasionally press that says “Try Me.” 

Try Me : Well, I certainly should, more often and even with varying approaches, I’d quest.  Trying Me is undoubtedly less entertaining than much, if not all, else that tempestuously tosses itself at me as a diversion everyday.   In fact, Trying Me is practically no diversion at all, but rather an unconstrained yet focused effort to discern that single point of assemblage that channels the psychic disposition.   

First, set off upon a meditative musing, relax, relax, relax.  Let one’s immediate concerns flee like children finding glee in a Release from the Dungeon.*  Feel diffusively, in one’s vicinity, the vicarious swirl of energies spun from the inequilibriums of so many incompletely differentiated entities pulsing through life’s gauntlet (ecologic empathy).  And as you feel it, you realize that you are a part of it.  And you realize that the world ‘merely is’ energy and an attentiveness to its fluctuations is the construction we all call ‘time’.   Then, when the quiet ecstasy of this localized yet anchorless energetic collective has completely embraced you and you it,  surprise and confront its entire inertia (and yourself by inclusion therein) by decisively directing one’s psychic awareness with extreme splattering prejudice upon it.  This is accomplished by switching, with swift intent, one’s scattered perceptual ungatherings over into a vortex of voracious energetic assemblage, thus steering the convergence of temporal fluctuations into a simultaneity, and allowing the world as a singularity to brand its imprint upon one’s psyche qua  audacious collection screen . 

Word of advice: Don’t “Try Me.” unsupervised at home.   Instead, “Try You.”

* In the game Release the Dungeon, children divide evenly into two sides, one which hides and the other which seeks.  The seeking team’s goal is to capture all the hiders (by touch, not just sight) and bring them back to a ‘Dungeon’ or fairly large, designated line-in-the-dirt ‘box’ (picture, perhaps, one-third the end-zone of a football field) that one or more of the seekers is usually guarding.  When more hiders are captured, typically more seekers tend to stand guard about the Dungeon.  If all the hiders are captured, the seekers win and then take their turn becoming hiders.  However, captured and en-dungeoned hiders can be freed to flee back to hiding by any yet uncaptured hider who storms the Dungeon and crosses its boundaries without being touched.  Hence, the guards around the Dungeon act like goalies attempting to stop the penetrating attempts of hider-liberators while other seekers are out hunting for still-hiding hiders.  If the Dungeon gets successfully released (as often, when I played, it would ), the seekers’ supreme forces of organization fall prey to the rampaging mirthful havoc of hiders once again at-large.

Is Jayson Blair, just recently exposed for fraudulent reporting, plagiarism, and quote-invention as a New York Times reporter a singular anomaly, a solitary breach of the public’s trust?  Or would you be surprised to learn that 50% of  major media reporting harbors such ‘inaccuracies’?

Would you be shocked to learn that at least 2% and perhaps as much as 25% of certain genre of canonical masterpieces in the art museums of the world today are fakes?  In fact, the greatest art forger of all time, a contemporary, is/was so great that new forgers are forging his forged works of the Masters!

Learn more about Trolls, Hoaxes, Culture Jamming, Poetic Terrorism, Media Hacks, Frauds, Impostors, Spoofs, Counterfeits, Fakes, Pranks, Scams, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds    here !

Did you know that the philosophical underpinnings of the Matrix can be largely found in French postmodern sociologist Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation, where he argues that contemporary Western society is a culture of facades, replicas, counterfeit and imitation? (the Wachowskis--producers of the Matix and the Matrix Reloaded--encouraged Keanu Reeves to read this work.)

I would hope someday that the rantings of this blog could be so fucking inspirational!  So much to do...so little time.

It's referred to by some as "the stupid line," the line one crosses from taking a smart risk to taking a stupid risk. It's the difference between, say, learning to mountain climb with the proper gear or just setting out on your own. Or maybe choosing to leave your 10-year-old alone in a room with a lit fireplace, compared to leaving your one-year-old. The consequences of one choice are much different than the other.

—Agnes Bongers, "Risk Management," The Hamilton Spectator, May 6, 2003

And here I thought 'the stupid line' was walking up to a strange hot chick in a ritzy boutique and making a first acquaintance by by blurting out "You know, you look like you have a really hot pussy."  Yep, I once upon a time, did exactly that.  And the shocking thing was, a half hour later, she was accompanying me to my apartment.  Stupid is as stupid does.

Truth is, though, I think we all cross 'the stupid line' just by being born into this world.  Remaining in the state of unbirth poses no risks whatsoever.  But to cross into the thresholds of perception by consuming this exotic hallucinogen called 'Life', ah, baby, you ought to be expecting one helluva motherfucking risky trip. 

Driving drunk late at night down two lanes of the highway and directly over the broken middle lane lines because you think that they are arrows directing you to your bullseye home.  Now those are stupid lines.  Yep, I've done that too.

Still...  Learn or die.  Yet take no risk in dying, and you'll stay unborn forever and never learn.   It's cozy over there on the other side of unbirth, isn't it, all-smug and pre-preternatural?  Comfortably numb. 

But here's the dark secret: The 'unborn' are always trying life on by slipping into the corpses of the dead.  Yes, they are nature's true necromancers.  A no-risk feel-what-a-body-feels-like shot into deadliness.  Kind of like going to a 'used shoe' store and trying on all the shoes without any intent of buying any.  Yum, smell those stinky feet!

Not me.  I just bought a new pair of running shoes yesterday.  Love the pungently smart smell of their vinyl and rubber.  Reminds me of the first, naked Barbie doll I ever whiffed.   Yow!   Going to go running and tripping in the cemetery tomorrow.   Over the bodies of the dead.  And well beyond the imagination of the unborn. 

Life, the final frontier.

Rocks. I had a little rock in my right shoe the other day that was driving me crazy while running. I tried to keep it localized in the spare space at the tip of my toes, but it kept shifting around. “Don’t move!”, I said, “Stay still.” But the damn little bastard wouldn’t listen. Rocks are like that. They don’t listen, little fuckers. I had to stop running just to pull off my shoe and fling the thing. Oh, the trial of being me! But, rocks, yeah, well, they’re another thing…


How about that boulder that fell on that guy’s arm in the Canyonlands National Park, Utah? That boulder clearly was an awaiting assassin. And the climber would have died except he cut off his arm with a pocketknife (three blind mice, three blind, mice, see how they run, see how they run, they all ran after the farmer's wife, she cut off their tails with a carving knife, did you ever see such a sight in your life…). Actually, I think she must have stabbed them in the eyes and that’s why they were blind.


Then there’s this new pile of rocks that used to be called the Old Man of the Mountain in New Hampshire. Apparently, New Hampshire had thrived, but has now died, along with the collapsing demise of this landmarked, symbolic, monumental expression of an overhanging rock cliff that many once described as the Old Man.

Mister Rogers Destroys The Earth

Am I dreaming or did I really hear that voice? What voice? Listen:

*abandon the blog*

Did you hear it? Or am I the only one?

But...why...
Why stop? Though I'm sometimes given to romantic excess, I see a modification of that inclination and not wholesale cessation of communications as my solution. Yeah, sometimes my heart leaps and I blurt. The blurts can sometimes even be beautiful, alluring, and seductive--and especially self-so. But they are still blurts. But like any properly sensate and self-regulating organism, I learn from other's feedback. I learn, too, from disciplined self-analysis. In that sense, I've a tendency to be Jungian in disposition. And admire Jung for sleeping with a pistol under his pillow as his provision for the end-of-experiment should he have ever found himself deranged by his own analysis. So ceasing communication, for me, would be tantamount to invoking a "metaphorical Jungian pistol". But I here see no need for that--yet! Better it is for me now to heed the advice of Ernest Hemingway: "The great thing is to last and get your work done, and see and hear and understand and write when there is something that you know and not before and not too damn much afterwards."

So let's not contrive an anomalous pause or force unending spew, but merely write when there's something that we know! Hence, this.

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

The Iraqi populace reminds me of a wolf in spring that may exceedingly drepedate exploitable game but only after a prolonged winter of excruciating starvation. Wolves, under normal conditions of sustenance, never take more game than they need. But following a period of extensive deprivation, they will, in almost compensatory madness, engage in temporary over-predation.

Like a pendulum swinging from one extreme (fascist lockdown) to another (unbridled liberty), the Iraqi populace now is looting their land. Who can blame them? Most of these people feel they are only taking back what has so long been taken and withheld from them. If the Iraqi culture is basically amoral and corrupt, we can expect such looting to continue without self-regulation. However, if the culture, like a wolf, is essentially a moral entity exaggeratingly shaking off the stranglehold of near mortal oppression, we can expect a rapid peak of aberrant behavior, followed by a restoral of norms and civil sensibilities.

Wolves are noble animals liable to seeming temporary destructive insanity only upon rebound from the starkest of circumstances. I believe that we’ll find that the Iraqi people, too, are a noble people and that the immediate lawlessness there witnessed will melt away with a freely-evolving vision of rebuilding upon a new day.

One way to keep a finger on the evolving pulse of blogging is to check the occurrence of such terms as ‘blog’, ‘weblog’, and ‘blogger’ in the news regularly. Google News, which is a “news service compiled solely by computer algorithms without human intervention” is perfect for this in that it offers both a ‘sort by date’ and ‘sort by relevance’ presentation of inclusions from over 4,500 news sources worldwide.

Of course, such a perspective represents just what established news sources are thinking and saying about blogging at a given time, and not necessarily what bloggers mostly might actually be thinking and saying and doing themselves. Thus, perusing news reports of late about blogging, one could easily come away with the impression, if one had no previous conception, that blogs are all about war—that there are warblogs and anti-warblogs, with hardly any more varieties of flavor whatever.

Of course, the news media is deeply preoccupied, even ‘embedded’ in the current war effort, so it is no surprise to find it steering interpretations of all forms of emerging culture into a single reinforcing war spectacle. This doesn’t mean that the news’ representations are abjectly ‘wrong’—there are, indeed, subsets of blogs which could primarily be considered ‘warblogs’ and their dissident counterparts. But it does remind us that the temptation always exists, and the occasion sometimes occurs, for the news media to synergistically slant reports to coincide with its own generative interests and fascinations.

You and I, of course, know that such a characterization of blogging is woefully inadequate. In fact, I suggest, on the contrary, that the real strength and significance of blogs today, given the established media’s current passion with primatizing the spectacle of war, is to balance the ‘dark news’ of the battlefield with a rich portrayal of life in every form aside from that battlefield also. Not that the preponderance of blogs will necessarily embrace just the ‘light side’ of things or wholly ignore the impact of war. Nor should they. But that blogs generally, undriven by the need to hype a spectacle for purposes of securing a revenue stream, can now balance this driven media frenzy with individual, day-to-day, wide-ranging published portrayals of how precisely ‘Life goes on within you and without you.’

So it is Spring. And I am contributing to no war effort by writing this. But neither am I detracting from one. I’m merely gazing out my back window at my brown garden, waiting for the flowers to bloom so that I can more fully appreciate the miracle of rebirth. I’m also gazing up at the sky and wondering if there’s an asteroid out there on an impact course with earth that will someday make today’s ‘Shock and Awe’ seem comparatively ludicrous. Never forget: the Earth is a spaceship upon a cosmic odyssey. And we are collectively its –nauts and nuts, astro-nomically considered—and otherwise.

CNN—Washington: Two days after declaring that it would win any nuclear conflict with the U.S. thanks to Pyongyang's "army-first" political system, North Korea, indeed, proved apparently victorious by launching an undetected preemptive nuclear strike on the East Coast of the United States. Pointing to the fallout of “nuclear winter” that has beset and besieged the entire coastline and shutdown all activity in Washington D.C. for two days in a row, Kim Jong II declared that the dialectical alliance of ‘Old Man Winter’ with the communist vanguard is a testimony to superior, humane North Korean weapons technology that can instill “nuclear winter” without catastrophic detonations or any detectable radioactive waste. No word from Washington yet, though it has been reported that the President’s dog is peeing on the Lincoln Room carpet rather than venturing even a single treacherous step out into Pyongyang’s brave new fluffy world.

AP Wire News: In a stunning long-awaited conclusion, Saddam (Joe Camel) Billionaire revealed on primetime international television last night that he really doesn’t have “billions of dollars” or “tons of weapons of mass destruction” but that it was all a white lie that he—(and a TV news producer)—fomented just to see if the world would really love him for “who I am”—a Baghdad bookie—and not for what he purportedly “had” or “has”. French President Jacques Chirac, while initially pouting with sullen disbelief, rebounded quickly and smilingly to welcome Saddam into the Brotherhood of Nations. Furthermore, Chirac presented Saddam with token offerings of a cheque for $1 million dollars and a million gallons of VX nerve gas disguised as bottles of Perrier just so “he wouldn’t feel left out as a real world player” on account of his previously secretive, but now revealed, staturely-challenged celebrity status. Opportunistic offers of political marriage to Saddam are now pouring in to Fox TV (what do they have to do with this?), and even German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder is admitting that he has long harbored delusional fantasies of “going down” with Saddam “anywhere, anytime”.

‘War’ and ‘Antiwar’ are a duality. They are dueling banjos and feed upon each other. Some would claim the ‘antiwar rallies’ are a demonstration for peace. But that isn’t the case. Yes, the intentions of many participating are to promote peace, but the effect of such rallies is essentially political. And in such heightened times, with war as an extension of politics, and politics as a spokesman for war, ‘antiwar protests’ become as much instruments of political jockeying to thrash an ‘enemy’ amidst all the commotion as ‘antimatter’ is used to destroy matter, as ‘anti-missiles’ are used to counter missiles, as a ‘scratch’ is used to soothe an itch.

Yet, if the ‘itch’ is a mosquito bite, the ‘scratch’ is not a true solution but a complication. The commonly-envisioned ‘effective solution’ to a mosquito bite is to get rid of the mosquito that’s doing the biting—or not go out, but hide in one’s house hoping that the mosquito doesn’t get in. Saddam is such a mosquito—by his own militaristic self-definition. He’s a West Niles virus/anthrax/smallpox mosquito all rolled into one. Shall we, like ‘antiwar’ protesters, scratch the first bite in order to soothe the itch and hope the mosquito doesn’t bite again? Or shall we spray the mosquito out of existence? Or shall we send out more inspectors in the hope of eliminating the watering holes where the mosquitoes breed? Yeah, eliminating the breeding ponds—that really worked to prevent the epidemic of West Nile mosquitoes in the U.S. last year.

Beyond the duality of ‘war’ and ‘antiwar’ is Peace. But Peace is not a political protest used to serve special interests in a conflict that is hotly brewing, if not already raging. Peace is a singularity that emanates from within. Peace is a personal cleansing that transforms the world, soul by soul, with a heightened awareness of all as ‘Self’. There are some people who go about life unflinchingly and never get bit by a mosquito—even while others are getting ravaged by them. Perhaps these individuals are so cleansed within that mosquitoes intuitively sense that their blood is ‘bad food’ and avoid them? Or, perhaps, they have found a way of exhaling each breath into the world in a manner that doesn’t allow a mosquito to follow the carbon dioxide as a trail back to them? I’d like to know. I’d like to know that way of Peace and dispense with ‘scratching’ and anti-mosquito arsenals. But if I fail in this quest for Peace’s elixir, I suppose I’ll swat and spray and repel—and scratch afterwards, if necessary.

darkside valentine

more than a word, but less than a poem:
i don’t know what to say
I feel intimacy fleeting, losing its sway
suffocated with silence and non-response
or responses misunderstood
whatever was our friendship supposed to be?
to me that pattern's plain:
the talk, the openness,
the intimacy indulged (or overindulged?),
and then the fading away.
and never anyone’s to blame.
the pattern’s not with you
-(or the one before)-
it was a template born with me,
the cost of my psychic disposition.
my eyes get plucked out daily
as the charge for my read on humanity,
as the price of my seething in-touchfulness.
yet forever it seems am i born again anew,
in a morning of sunrises to see again
that the world has once more repeated itself
and i've lost another friend.

“This is 9-1-1, may I help you?”
“I need a bambulance.”
“Sir, did you say you need an ambulance?”
“Damn right I’m in a motherfucking phone booth and I need a bambulance.”
”Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Well, let me tell you. I was just driving down the road minding my own motherfuckin business when a terrorist jumped out right in front of my car and screamin and I hit em. This motherfuckin terrorist jumped out right in front of my car and I hit em and checked to see if he was dead. He was dead OK so I picked him up and put him in the back seat of my car and kept on driving. But the motherfuckin terrorist woke up and bit me in the neck. He bit me in the neck and started kicking and dented up my whole car and kicked me in the head. And I need a bambulance now!
“Sir, are you hurt?”
“Damn right I’m hurt. The motherfuckin terrorist bit me in the neck!”
“OK, sir, where are you situated?”
“I’m in a motherfuckin phone booth. I’m in a motherfuckin phone booth outside a Stop-n-Go.”
”Well sir, we don’t have any ambulances to dispatch at the moment. There’s been a general outbreak of terrorists leaping in front of cars, we’re completely swamped with calls, and no response units are currently available.”
“But I need a goddam bambulance—what am I gonna do?”
”Sir, we advise that you go into the Stop-n-Shop and purchase some duct tape and plastic sheeting. Or if they don’t have plastic sheeting, Saran Wrap.”
“Duck tape? I wasn’t bit by no motherfuckin duck—I was bit by a terrorist. What am I going to do with duck tape?”
”Sir, we are advising citizens under attack to wrap themselves in the plastic and seal it all up airtight with the duct tape.”
”Motherfuckin what? That’s a body bag! You want me to seal myself inside an airtight body bag? “
“That’s correct, sir.”
“What the motherfuckin for?”
“Sir, so that when we do finally respond and recover your body, our medics will be at no risk from handling your contaminated corpse.”
“That’s motherfuckin insane—just send the goddam bambulance!”

There are times when women leave my life en masse.  Not just this one, or that one.  But all the women with whom I’ve developed some form of relationship.  And all with amazing synchronicity.  It’s funny because I’m pretty sure that each one individually sees only herself ‘withdrawing’—each sees only her own diminishment of relationship with me.  But they don’t see what I see: each of them as  a 'self' but also as an aspect of femininity.  And, cosmically, all of them as the summation of femininity, perhaps Goddess herself, concomitantly soaring away upon a changed air current. 

At such moments, I am non-judgmental.  Though to me it collectively appears prima facie  as a fundamental shift in the dynamics of how I’m being treated,  I’m neither paranoid nor inclined to suspect a cosmic conspiracy.  Rather, I find myself in awe of such patterned synchronicity, and recognize, most importantly, that it is I  who have disappeared from the feminine radar just as certain as 'radio contact' was lost with the gliding spacecraft Columbia. 

I know I 'disappear' at times.  But unlike Columbia, I’m not disintegrating and crashing, but rather flying below the radar and just above the treetops—more like a Columbian drug runner skirting detection.  But this disappearance isn’t necessarily physical, or communicative, or social—but more precisely psychic .  I often soar and roar at psychic heights but there are times…there are times…. 

I’m looking down from just above the jungle’s 3^rd canopy upon a being—myself, in fact, who’s looking up at me.  I’m a flyby witnessing myself alone amidst endless wilderness, falling to earth without further loss of altitude.  But how could that be?  How could I possibly forge myself into such endless solitude given the gregarious life I lead?  And if this isn’t something I’ve electively chosen, why has the grip of descent thus embraced me?  Could it be by such forced maneuvering that Fate or the Fates protect me (from?...enemies?) ?

I can see the monkeys playing in the trees now.  And I hear them screeching primordially. Ah—they’re screeching at me!  Hey, I’m within their threshold of the liminal.  And their screeching tells me that unto Nature itself I yet relate, albeit mysteriously.  So I will hold my altitude (do I have a choice?)—until the grip of ascent re-embraces me.

Some say this is a ‘bird’s eye view’, but these are wolfen eyes that see the shifting of thresholds and the en masse mysterious distancing of the Feminine.

Fundamentally, by my held namesake alone—notforprophet—I am an Islamic heresy and worthy of having my throat slit so that the dogs in the gutter where I’ll be cast can drink of my gurgling blood.

After all, the ‘Prophet’ was Mohammed, and if I’m ‘not for’ the Prophet, then I must be against him! I must be the penultimate Infidel, the quintessential enemy to be brutally and tortuously butchered, whose possessions must be seized, whose women must be opportunized and defiled, whose pets must be barbecued alive and fed to hungry muslim babies. Let the Prophet declare:

"I will instill terror into the hearts of the unbelievers: smite ye above their necks and smite all their finger-tips off them. ...And slay them wherever ye catch them...."

--Mohammed, the Koran.

He shall smite my fingertips so that I can no longer blog? Oh shit! I’m not going to take that with deliberative grace. No, never!

In 624 AD (note how I even defile time by pegging it to the Christian calendar) , the Prophet announced the concept of the Jihad--the Islamic holy war. Targeting who? Well, who on the shifting sand dunes do you think? ...

“Moslem jurists would later declare that there are two worlds: the world of Islam--Dar al-Islam--and the non-Islamic world--Dar al-Harb. These two territorial spheres, explained the Moslem scholars, are in a state of perpetual war. According to some Koranic interpreters, any leader who fails to 'make wide slaughter' in the land of the infidel is committing a sin. A statesman is only allowed the temporary expedient of peace if his forces are not yet strong enough to win.”

--Howard Bloom, excerpted from The Lucifer Principle: A Scientific Expedition Into The Forces of History

Now in the epochal year 2003, I officially decree the founding of the perpetual mind-state of Isn’tlam with its core determination to wage a holy war of jijaw (Spanish jpronunciation as in Jose ) during the holy month of RamSaddam. My preliminary vision of this realm of Islamic non-fundamentalism was revealed here . But having just shaken off the vengeful assault of Influenza type-A (for Allah, ricin-deriviative), I’m now possessed of inerrant energy to jijaw (heehaw) all jihads back down into their indigenously nondescript and storyless desert dusts.

Smite my fingertips, will you, Prophet? Nay, I shall seduce the virgin daughters of the daughters of your daughters to provide me delicious manicures as they render my blanket ripe with their precious peaches, pears, and plums. And should my fingernails even ever show wear, let it be known that my keyboard took its toll while I was unrelentingly blogging the ideological crap out of this pretentious yet extremely dangerous politico-religious stance called ‘fundamentalist Islam’.

Still running (7 miles yesterday, 4.2 today) and writing in the cemetery here in wintry, late-fall Northern Ohio. But now, after running, when I’m consequently sweaty, I take to the cab of my truck to write rather than risk catching a chill outdoors.



While running today, I realized that my modus operandi vis a vis running is precisely now contrary to what it was while I was in the military years ago. Then, though I quite often ran through a cemetery (Corozal, Panama), I never, except for one shocking psychic moment, stopped running while in the cemetery, but always ran back to ‘home base’ unstoppingly. But now, I always end in the cemetery. How the hell did the cemetery become my new ‘home base’?

Hey, I’m not concerned that I’ve yinned my yang. I think, indeed, that this reversed implementation now matches up well with another realization that occurred to me right after running yesterday: that I’ve transformed my warrior role from service to the state into one of failsafe rebel. And what that means is that I exist to crush our government should it ever attempt a wholesale curtailment of our freedoms. Precisely the notion that ran through my head was this: ‘If our government ever stifles freedom so entirely—on whatever grounds or for whatever justification—so as to become indistinguishable from a totalitarian regime, the counter-measures I’ll undertake to devastate the regime will make today’s terrorists appear to by fighting by Marquis of Queensbury rules.’

Yep, I’m now a rebel-in-waiting and hoping never to see 'the day'. For the true warrior yearns for the fate of the proverbial Maytag repairmen: waiting un- (but not dys-) functional till all the laundry’s done.



Hey, don’t look at me that way—what did you expect? I’d never ever want Bush’s Borg-total-control-clone to consider me more than once as anything but nondescript.

Dealing with Saddam

If I were Bush I’d…

…Covertly have the CIA sell a nuclear bomb to Saddam, have it all on videotape from production to delivery, then say to the world: “We know he has nukes because we sold them to him ourselves .”  Then proceed forthwith despite any objections.

…Sever all presidential ties—ongoing for years—with Billy Grahams’s *Crusade*  Anything *Crusade* fuels fundamentalist rhetoric.  Instead create an official holiday honoring Saladin, the brilliant Islamic poet/warrior/conquerer of Jerusalem.  Make Graham crackers and Salada tea the official snack of Saladin Day.   

"It is equally true that his (Saladin’s) generosity, his piety, devoid of fanaticism, that flower of liberality and courtesy which had been the model of our old chroniclers, won him no less popularity in Frankish (Christian) Syria than in the lands of Islam"

  --The Epic of the Crusades, Rene Grousse

…Resurrect the notion of Kennedy’s Peace Corps, but dub it the Koran Corps.  Send young, patriotic Americans overseas as grassroot ambassadors of goodwill but first require their conversion to Islam.  Allow these converted  ambassadors to take with them their insatiable hunger for McDonald’s Big Macs, videotapes of the Simpsons and Osbournes, and CD cuts of assorted rock music.  Allow 5 years for the subornning of native Islamic cultures.

…Require Vice President Dick Cheney to move to the middle of Wyoming where the secret, mysterious blasts occurring in his compound on his behalf won’t terrorize neighboring, decent Americans.  Or leave Cheney where he is but require his neighbors to move.  Then re-situate all hostile, foreign Islamic embassies and consulates into that neighborhood so that they will be rattled by the blasts instead.  See: Secret Blasts Rattle Cheney’s Neighbors

…Create an alternative state-counterforce to nationalistic, militaristic, fundamentalist Islam.  Call it  Isn'tlam .  Replace 'the Prophet' with the ideological blatherer,  notforprophet.   Attack Iraq during the holy month of RamSaddam with quotes from Rumi.  Drop free passes to Disney World across the Iraqi countryside along with copies of the dreaded corsobomb. 

…And if none of the above work,  follow the lead of Berkeley, Calif. and mute the saber-rattling *oil issue* by building cars that run solely off of bio-based (soybean) fuel.  amen.