Paskha, Pugnacity, and Parochial Prerogative

Paskha, Pugnacity And Parochial Prerogative

Good Friday Begets Awesome Saturday, Then Ever Saner Sunday

Look, world number one; do you really want a piece of me? Who the hell are you? …The playground monitor? Kindly remove your pointed pious finger from my person, then take a frigging hike off a tower! What I do in privacy with my step children should remain just that – private!

Our styles may all show a bit of similarity, but with contrasts as significant as the many phases of the measured moon. I’m not really an Aries; the horns are actually fake (…never mind the legs). I’m more of a ‘balancer’ in the recess game, still handsome with but a tinge of telltale grotesqueness and, in rare instances, perhaps even sexy in my sixties. I don’t have an empire in need of more territory, except for my thoughts and feelings, trapped and perished like children awaiting salvage in a cold, sunken vessel, and simply for following the directions of authority.

Yes, I attract attention, when I think it’s necessary to do so. Don’t you? Otherwise, stay out of my business. Yes, I’m a bit of an asshole, and when I speak, I want you to listen and to take heart, because what I do, and what I believe, and what I have, and what I have to say is important. Sound familiar? The birds do it, the fleas do it… I believe a world leader on his knees would do it.

Like ramming into a bunch of like poles of the same fractured magnet, I also don’t seem to be terribly popular with the ladies, despite my overwhelming personality. Nevertheless, I am the curator of distinctive excellence. I’ve paid the dues; I deserve the ass! Besides, it’s a regional kind of thing. Raisins rather rancid that I sample that have dropped from the world wide grapevine tell me that I become more narrow in scope as the days, weeks, and hours march on. Well, again… forget about the legs. And do recall something my man once said: “Let he who can afford a glass house cast the first stone” (…or something to that effect).

The cycles of human events, intertwining yet remaining ever parallel, are punctuated with periodic indices of calendar class, to orient ourselves along the continuous wave of eternity. [That’s just an aspie’s preferred way of verbalizing the novelty of holidays, in general, and their general significance in the scheme of all things.]

Life is such a ‘meat and potatoes’ kind of meal – a salty, daily duty, derived of desire, and of the original sin of having been born of the earth. Each holiday, marked by tradition however varied, is a diversion from the denser reality. In devoutness consumed unanimous, we conquer each bight of living. We kill our savior then watch him take gloriously to the sky. Still, two kilo-years later, we exhumerate why. Such a diet necessitates addition of a softer dish – rich in dairy, fruits, nuts, spices… and blessed with the best of tradition human hope can define.


Ladies In The Air

Ladies In The Air

It’s a light and lively love affair
My thoughts and the visions within their eyes
To see lovely ladies in the air
Enchants my soul, as theirs kiss the skies

With such beauty and grace they achieve release
In the moment from gravity’s tenuous hold
Divinity glows and Her song is of peace
Suspended, indelibly Her story is told

Were a prayer said on earth to reach the Most High
Their joy is the messenger whom God knows so well
Their gift hand delivered, there’s such reason why
One’s wish is now granted; they so know how to sell!

Their bodies of flesh so breathtakingly free
Are precious jewels on a backdrop of blue
Their eyes cheer loudly; their song blesses me
Angels of Eden, my heart beats for you

So play with the laws; nature made them to screw
And for us come before you, we guard and protect
And honor the instant God first thought of you
For no lesser behavior could nature expect

There’s a reason on earth why I lift you so high
Like proud daddy thanking his maker and yours
There’s a place in that space that you reach as I sigh
Within it, your wonder – my heart, it restores

The Making Of A Manic Misogynist?

Managing The Malignant Muliebrous Mind

Oh… to be a Man…!  How dare you challenge me?  Well, actually, I’m honored, even if I end up failing at it (which isn’t possible, btw).  That was the plan long before we all ever got here.  I remember that much!  We all agreed that I would be the one to come here into physical form to become something of a psychic martyr – a Christ figure for the cause of women in general and causes most deeply feminine (or at least to float around here for a lifetime and just dream and write about it).  I’m the flamboyant student in class initially eager to take on advanced spiritual assignments.  But do cut me some slack this time.  The last several times here have been female, so getting used to being male again takes… some getting used to.  But I do remember, and it’s a total picnic.

Bullshit!  That may be true in some airy fairy cluster of clues that I’ve concocted to induce remedy for my self-inflicted madness, but in reality it feels like Hell.  What has actually happened is that, in response to the accumulated trauma of its women at the hands of its men, nature, in its cruel and exact justice, has sprouted an articulate fool to attempt in vain to seduce attention elsewhere.  I know because among all of us who are so polite to one another in spirit land are those, here and now, learning to love to be as terribly rude as is possible.  When the video game is over, the fact that you wasted my ass a thousand times over in the game won’t matter all that much.  Next time, you best keep cover.

So, do I make it into ‘the Manual’ – that big blue bible that Harvard bred cowboy pimps and hoes use to herd the feminine mind into production and eventual slaughter?  I’m man enough, but does standing for, with and among women rate me a label?  Does being just as mind mangled as those whom I was made to love count for something?  Does helping to carry their cross of ridicule – derision even from and unto themselves along with me… doesn’t that give me some kind of a fruit cake brand?  …Perhaps something like “Gyno-nasal Associative Disorder?”  …Hence the term ‘eGAD!’ at the thought of a grown man uttering the word ‘tampon’ in any casual context?  Tending do display any sign of empathy, let alone chivalry, in celebration of humanity’s pubescence… isn’t such foul behavior in a man worthy of a checkup from the neck up and a closet with a name?  A turkey can’t fly with its giblets in backwards, so don’t I deserve a Dx like the rest of the girls?

No!  All of that alone doesn’t earn me a place in the book.  What does, however, is the fact that I do it all alone, totally in the blind, without a pat on the back or so much as spittle in the face – unless, of course, one considers absolute disassociation from anyone ever having made one’s acquaintance a force of cold, airborne saliva.  And I keep on crankin’em out until the heart fails from excessive fracking, totally without a clue as to as to why I’m not being read… other than the possibility that I speak of foolish things – important things that are generally regarded as hopelessly trivial.  There is a diagnosis for such a person, both in the mental health books and in the Book of Life.

I observe that one man’s lesson is another’s freak show by virtue of costume and role.  When a slave, at ultimate distance, falls in love with his owner’s daughter, is toleration of her foul treatment his sickness or hers?  Surely if your dog suddenly stood upright and began speaking to you in coherent English, it would scare the crap out of you!  So then do creatures of even the same species react to one another’s indignations?

Who really ‘knocked down those buildings?’  Just how did the United States know that those people had WMD?  If you’d have been there, the telltale stench of peanuts on their breath would have convinced you!  As the peanut scented gun smoke slowly dissipates, it becomes clearer.

Some intelligent force much greater than myself is driving me to write this way, indeed to be this way – whatever way one chooses to tag me.  I am a product of nature, a natural antigen to misogyny – an alkaline additive to the acid air in human evolution, conceived of menses seeped back to the earth.

A woman looks into the mirror and sees something other than an absolute Queen.  The society that I rely on reinforces the message.  Everyone but me plays along.  That fucks with me… big time!

Is autism really required for my job?  Not necessarily.  So why not just call me a lover?

My Mind Scrawls Thick Onto A Sanitary Pad… My Thoughts Are Scarlet

My Mind Scrawls Thick Onto A Sanitary Pad... My Thoughts Are Scarlet

Period Princess from “The Art of the Blog”

It’s that time again.  How do I possibly know this?  …That it gets awful bloody down there, though not really more so than in times past?  My inverted volcano calls again for the pony express.  It and I don the same fabric to keep me on board.  It’s just the way it is.  It’s telepathic, like when a girl knows the moment her best friend’s heart has been broken – even if she’s minutes or miles or countries or light years away.  It’s erotic; it takes my control most willingly and devoid of any semblance of common courtesy.  It’s Periodic, like the Aggravated Table of Elements arguing over the covalent cuisine at hand.  I’ve felt this many times before, and will continue to feel it until I’m really old. 

This is so much about me, and so it is so much about no one – I’m just another girl on her rag again for a while… just every other young lady on the planet, even while so much the mind of a foolish old man.  So, I just get over it.  Why am I so bitchy?  Don’t ‘look’ at me.  I want you instead to listen to me, and if you don’t, I’ll claw your eyes out then fuck your bloody face until our blood becomes one.  Something out there must be the cause of the way that I feel, and whether or not a pin has dropped, my wrath you will know – even if you think you’re not to blame.

‘Down there,’ it starts, deep in the space that my hips guard so well.  A little girl with pigtails is weeping because her wish didn’t come true this time.  First one tear, then another….  Soon she is sobbing uncontrollably.  I don’t know whether to scold her for being such a cry baby, especially over something that’s not even all that cool for now, or to put my forehead to hers in hopes of siphoning off some of her pain and discomfort.  Such focus unbeknownst – each tear a little sponge from a huge hall of little sponges – each squeeze a little stab at me from within.  What have I done so wrong?  Why does nature prod me with such uncanny diligence?

“…An empty page that men will want to write on…?”  Fuck that noise!  Give me a break because I could surely use one today – surely in lieu of proximity to a blacker hole in the vastness of space.  Any man brave enough to even think about pointing pen in the direction of this ‘empty page’ is in for a severe lesson in penmanship and a broke dick scribing implement upon graduation.  No, I write on you, that is, if you’re worthy enough and man enough to interpret the message.  Oops… Am I not supposed to talk like that, or even think that way?  …Too un-ladylike?  …Too unsanitary?  Dear bastard of a bitch, we are all animals, because I feel so much like one today –  one whose blessed blog accrues the audience of a stubborn stain.

My touch of red is the strike of a maxi-head match, and everything I strike turns to red.  I turn toilets into bowls of Hawaiian punch as if by magic.  I can wilt a sensitive nose like a death struck weed almost at will, yet I can still tenderize the principal’s heart with just a look.  Surely I’m a super hero in some man’s world?  Just let me use the lady’s room, Miss Fembarren.  Screw your stupid boot camp mentality.  You don’t remember what it’s like?  “Modeling” has erased it from your concern?  Perhaps you are the one who’s in school, and that it is I who have something to teach… or re-teach.  All I need do is stand on your desk, face the class and open my legs upon your ‘plan.’  Class adjourned!  …At least for a few hours….

I know it stinks down there.  I’d be an idiot to pretend it doesn’t.  There are things in life that just smell gross once in a while.  Haven’t you ever taken a dog for a walk, for God’s sake?  Is he not worth the same to you afterwards?  Why do you treat me like I have bionic plague?

I know also – deep in the subconscious… or somewhere – that my stink is a driving force in nature.  I may not know a whole lot, but I do notice how differently men and boys are hypnotized by the same chimney when its smoke is not present.  For a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, an ‘acceleration’ of some kind takes place in their minds that my stink might be worth investigating – maybe a tribal call to know my ‘health’ for whatever purpose, be it passion or peace of mind.  I know you’re an animal because I feel like one – from my face that grows tits faster than my chest, down to my paint weighted toenails, sensitive to the pressure of extra water beneath them.  And, every once in a while, I can sense my ‘stink cup’ – like a prehensile third hand – snare a stray thought that may happen to meander by.  On such a deep level, my animal tells me that my tribe is concerned, but I so want you to listen to me.  I want to hear it back from you… something like a cheer would be nice – something worthwhile that I can include in my sacred, secret diary.  Telepathy is fine with me, if you ‘prefer‘ not to speak out loud.  I’m naturally proficient either way.  My tongue is many. 

But with all that goes on in this world that tells me that I am cursed far worse than I would ever care to know – just for being female – perhaps it is best that I use my divinity to create my own all-purpose toy – some creature who’s a combination teddy bear, daddy, prince Charming, tampon detective and general fuckpiece.  I wouldn’t be so unkind as to keep him in my purse.  I’d pull him face up in a red wagon with a cunt hitch handle.  But need I create any more?  It’s such a bore by now!  Applications are acceptable.  The position is constantly open, for I require fresh pads of attention for every period to come.  Feel me, bro?

If you think a homosexual is someone who prefers sex with humans, what color is your neck?

BLOG - another 4-letter word

Whether this question is pondered for a microsecond or a megasecond, forget about it; nobody really, wants to know.  The fact that your eyes have been taken thus far upon a linear path is hope enough that your benefit of doubt will then swiftly follow.  Perhaps only then does the path expand toward ever inclusive human awareness.

“…Just Twyyyying to come-on-icate, so commune!”

 …Or else take me to your leader.  Has anyone who’s normal ever felt this way?   …Like the only asshole member of the away team who somehow managed to jinx the transporter beam and re-materialize on the wrong planet?  I know that there are a few of you out there actually scanning these lines of words as I have ordered them.  As you trickle by, one or a few at a time, know that it is appreciated, although an actual comment from a casual visitor once or twice an eon would be nearly erotic.  As I learn more about sex and life (and we never stop learning), the more I see the symbol ‘Blog’ as just another four-letter word often taken in vain.  But it’s yet a medium of cutting edge self-expression that is of tremendous benefit to the evolution of consciousness (if we want it to turn out that way).

On the surface of this planet souls observe android bodies in a holodeck of mirrors forever seeking clues from others as to the natures of their own existence.  As symbol ‘Blog’ becomes nonsequitur, positronic commanders patch their circuitry into the blood work of being.  The Pinocchio’s of life aboard starships certainly dictate personal logs, if indeed anything does.  When people want to know ‘funny,’ they refer to one another, then run knowledge of laughter through their vocal algorithms.  Can we do this while standing?  Well, one thing at a time, I guess….  I wonder if a sane human talks to himself because he feels no one else will listen… then I contemplate the possible nature of insanity.

Blogs of a feather whom I’ve acquainted over the years are seen, and perhaps even read and commented on.  Why not this one?  Why trip about it?  Although I feel somewhat like the captive canine in an alien back yard barking madly into the air, I still derive pleasure (perhaps masochistic) in going through this process.  So I continue battling the urge to ponder why this blog gets no social life, barking and responding to other’s barking, and taking meticulous inventory of my cluttered yard of self-pity.

Maybe you’re thinking about blogging?  Why?  Do spend some time ironing that out.  Do you have a friend to begin with?  …or even a clue in lieu of one?  …or someone you know who would say something nice about you at your funeral?  If so, then go for it!  Such may be the necessary Base of potential growth.  If not… then forget it!  Blogging seems to be too much like reality TV.  Winners and losers are already well established long before stage and audience are assembled.

If you are looking for a ‘fan club’ in the game of life, then blogging just might be the way to go.  If you want to talk… to explore the unknown and the known… to actually and sincerely interact a bit with an intelligent humanoid life form whose heart is willing, then why not let me know you’re really here?  …or else you shouldn’t have ended up here in the first place …not even for a few seconds.       


Another Silly Love Song

Another Silly Love Song

Least ‘tis not for lack of trying

To be, or not to be not….  The pleasure is in the mere pondering.  Whether to be in love with love that I may speak of her, or to be in love with her that I may speak of love – Oh Heaven, that thou has gifted me with tongue do I then speak!

My cheeks are the sides of her very own magic lamp, and as she speaks, my wish is but the brush of her hand upon them.  I am the ether that adheres her stamp of approval upon all that she may wish, and whatever more… forevermore.  “…like Feather, except with an H….”  Her name, so much like her voice, is the full will of heaven wed to the human soul.

What has made me feel this way?  Her Voice… surely sunshine on a cloudy day!

My own cumulative spiritual programming includes the belief that one is more fortunate in not swallowing one’s own heartfelt desire with doubt regardless of the opinion of the peanut gallery.  It would be more proper to bathe desire in the delusion of serenity, lest in its swallowing is manifested future carcinoma!  The purity of love is that in itself – the means and the end.  All else is an elaboration of illusory signposts to point the way (and the way not).

Once upon a casual drive around the bend on a cool summer afternoon, with windows rolled down and Wichita Public Radio complementing the breeze, her voice pierced my ears, ignited my consciousness, and lifted my spirit gently by the chin to uncommon heights.  Yeah, she really is that good!  There’s only one Heather, and as you follow this treasure map, you needn’t tell her who sent you.  Through the world who know her, she is already aware on more quantum a level.

Split second resistance to my own desire to cling to the essence of the moment resulted in my immediately concluding that it’s all a ruse – a fake voice, so well-practiced and polished to perfection as to produce the desired effect… and all with probable implicit commercial intent.  I couldn’t deal with it, at least not while driving.  I turned off the radio and continued cruising.  I didn’t get a quarter mile before I realized I needed another fix.  I wanted to again feel the experience caused by that voice – contrived or not.

I turned the radio back on within seconds of the tail end of a featured broadcast, and just in time for her announcements.  I knew precisely the instant her voice would again flick that switch in my soul… and as surely as babies’ bottoms are warm and soft, it did!  In the blink of an eye I’m in heaven again… her voice… how to describe it…?  As my rational mind attempted to arm wrestle with the richness and purity of the sound, trying to detect the slightest indication of fabrication, it could find none.  So the heck with it!  She’s for real… even if she’s not.  I don’t care anymore; she just sounds so good… so frigging [well] that I’d be happy to be her puppy if I could hear her voice as often as possible – for only her voice.  Indeed, I’m fortunate she hadn’t chosen to be a flight attendant, as I’d then be cashing out in bouts of random first class air travel.  But as it is, to become spiritually aligned, I have only to be in touch with a device that harvests the airwaves.

The name of God, the voice of the divine, the Word, the sound, the air… all exist within vibration.  Each being, whether ethereal or earthly, and each with its own signature wavelength, interfaces existence and keeps it held together.  Heather’s sacred sonar is milky sweet – just so much so to yet remain recognizably of human origin.  Her song is energy pulsing straight from the golden glow within her blessed Wichita heart.  It penetrates me with the realization that there are things about life that are so much worth paying attention to.

Thank you, Heather, for daily making my day!

 You Are My Love


Exit Interview

There is nothing serious going on hereTo those who are nearly as lonely as I
Believe that the world just might care if you die
That is if you choose NOT to give death a try

Been there… Doing that!

Disclamer:  This is NOT a cry from someone about to commit his final crime!  Indeed, there are at least a few more to come.  Nor is it in any way (necessarily) a public service announcement to those who are in pain.  It is merely therapeutic for me to express mine in this way… and perhaps it may be a pearl of entertainment – a collateral kiss to the less encumbered… but, then for me if for no one else.  The Process in life’s journey is exquisite.

It has been said quite often, especially lately, that life is supposed to be fun.  That seems like such a simple declaration in the midst of the doldrums of daily business.  It throws me for a loop often enough!  But it also reminds me that the statement is absolutely true.  I used to believe it.  I used to know it in the depths of my soul.  I used to feel it and quite often shout it out to the world much in the same way that now shatters my ears when I hear it from others a time plinth my junior.  Why do I not rejoice in that feeling when I see it reflected from others instead of causing the feeling to morph into jealousy, ill-reflection and self-isolation?

Life is supposed to be fun… period.  (Exclamation point… or whatever)  Children know that!  More so than our political, and economic leaders, children also seem to know that simply being happy is the answer to all ills social, physical, spiritual and otherwise.  A healthy child on a fair day is an authority on the subject of joy.  Well, there are others; the world is actually replete….  As a child, I was once told by an adult in a uniform that we should all be as children (funny… I was also wearing a uniform at the time).  Perhaps that early advice has stuck with me for much too long (not so much the uniform).  Nevertheless, I remember things about life, a few things out of the grand mix, which have thrilled me and have made it all worthwhile.

So how does someone just “be happy,” especially if there’s no apparent reason to… (hypothetically)?  Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we seem to reason it out that being happy is directly related to thoughts we are thinking at any given moment.  We come to figure out that thinking good thoughts produces good feelings and vice versa.  But as the world and myriad of its individuals has uncovered such treasures, a means to manage and disseminate the wealth organizationally so that all may benefit seems yet to come about.  We each have a cluster in the mix – a few life experiences out of all that are available which we may consider favorite.  An example of but a handful of various life experiences one individual may live:

Princess with paintings of splotches and squiggles
Lipstick and perfume and innocent giggles
Pink pillows, whispers and faces aglow
These are a few of the things that I know.
Back office powder room social scoop chatter
One might suspect that there’s something the matter…
Tenderly caring and loving at will
Take thou my mind; teach it how to lie still.
When the hog farts
When the dick prods
When I feel undone,
I simply remember that heaven above
And woman on earth
Are one

Silly stuff!  (But with all due respect to Sister Maria’s version) …Too much of an alien crevasse for the man most manly to enter, but perhaps no more so than any person’s belief in say, the Virgin Birth, or in Liberty and Justice for All, as examples.  Any “belief” is simply a software subroutine for the brain to facilitate its smooth operation.  It is an Operating System, a code of conduct, a subconscious pattern for human behavior – not at all a big enough deal to knit pick.  Sure, I’ll believe that Oscar has a heap of apples (perhaps among other things) as long as it gets me through trig class!  The point is that facing one’s heartfelt passion without fear for a long enough moment will generally put me ‘there…’ in that place where no one or nothing can touch me.  Each soul has its own mix (or a favorite bunch of mixes) of ‘favorite things’ to keep it enduring through life, and as happiness is realized from moment to moment, the enduring of life effortlessly approaches rapture.

There is nothing “serious” going on here… ever!  Thank God!  Children seem to know this as well.  They really are the teachers of humanity as we are their guardians.  They remind us of what it was like to live free of the rigor of being, and of what ‘being’ means in the long run, modulated by our own perceptions, of course, and by our wisdom of experience.  They show us how, where and when life experience has taken its toll in our learning, and by doing so, they offer course correction.  A child’s mind knows nothing of life that is serious.  The fear of falling and the fear of loud noises are all that nature provides an infant as clues to the concept of survival.  Its wellbeing is assured by the community who bore it.  Make me laugh, and I’ll do the same for you.  You don’t even have to ask.  I even share the depths of my clownish soul with the world.  That’s how much it means for humanity to evolve spiritually.

Comparisons are perhaps useful to the extent that they show us that there are lives of severe challenge with respect to one’s own life, but also that there are lives one would die for (as it were), as well as a range of conditions in-between.  Is the pain of one who endures physical anguish any different in magnitude than that of one who ‘started a joke that started the whole world crying’…?  In the case of the latter, the only appropriate superhero would be Nerfrod Spongeballs from where all went wrong in Thong Middle, for mercy does not exist in a world any more real.  A possible belief?  Surely enough!  Beliefs are thoughts that we’ve kept on thinking through over and over again until their essences become engrained within the gray matter so that, to the consciousness of everyday living, no competing notion seems right or natural.

Life can be seen as an Organization where souls are hired to perform their talents and services in exchange for ‘a living.’  Living on earth can become complicated and potentially very precarious.  Human Resources Management become indicative through our agreements on how society is to be governed and how its more spiritual needs are to be addressed.  Indeed, within the ideal organization, all employees are business owners, each an individual organization in itself, interacting with every other member of the business from day to day.  So, within the structure of managing human resources, the concept of Customer Service evolves.  When the business of living runs into a snag, sometimes there’s a direct line to Customer Service, and sometimes someone else is mistaken for Customer Service.  The latter can be assessed by the tone of the one-way conversation:

You’ve reached our exclusive, quality assured, automated customer satisfaction distress line.  Although this recording is so scratchy because it’s been played over and over millions of times, still, our menu options have recently changed.  This means that you’ll just have to grin and bear it for the next several minutes and be annoyed into coma.  And if you think pressing ‘zero’ will grant you escape… just try it!

So, just how does a soul “be happy” in the business of life?  Snatch a few clues, form a hypothesis, then jump to the conclusion that yields the best feeling yet without causing harm.  Choose a thought that feels good.  Keep thinking it… and thoughts like it.  Keep feeling the good feelings and building on them until your belief becomes a power greater than yourself.  Then confide in that power to keep changing… adjusting your life for the better.

The puzzle of life to today’s human being is perhaps as a flight to the moon would be to a Neanderthal.  It is still wide open; it’s all still good!

My Love, Tell Me Again What Life Is Like

A Box of Chocolates is my mind

A box of chocolates is my mind
A piece of my will in the shape of your sweetest song
You are always on it
It is not offered.  It is already yours
You know that so blessed well – your knowing intoxicates me
You carry me on a breeze wherever you go
And as you go, my thoughts hover gently above… slightly behind
Angel Guardian am I… earthed and fleshy, just as thee
A bouquet of devotion does my lover display
Life is foolish, vain and proud…
Life is Honey Sweet
Life is utter bliss

A colorful lollypop is your soul, your lap, a pillow of energy down
Your face is a rose who delights in attention, the mind’s caress
A bonnet of garland becomes your hair
‘Tis the mist of your beauty that never fades, snickering the passing of years
You never know what you’re gonna get
Your purity assures you that it is all good
My mind, my heart… my every piece is ordered to your confection
Every moment… each tender feeling, a unique texture and flavor unto itself
Enjoy all, my love, one by one
Each nestled in rarefied pastel leafing
At once and again replenished upon being with you
Life is a rainbow, Holy One… a very safe and special journey

You are my Emancipator’s daughter
A child of higher sight and knowing
And I, your priest on Life’s row, revisit you with each breath
Blessing unions prepared to me secretly
Wallowing carefree the practice of faith
You needn’t utter a word nor raise a finger, blessed one
You screw me so sweet from where you stand
With the blink of your eyes you command me
Support?  Honor?  Cherish?  Obey?
Nostalgic, such features are standard – not much so today
From your Valentine, Life is a Dream
And you are the way




God, When You Want Me to See Something, Get a Woman to Show It to Me.

God, when you want me to see something, get a woman to show it to me.

See that girl, watch that scene, digging The Dancing Queen [Abba]

Her tempered, steady voice, that of an exuberant and very proud young lady, is richly infused with the power of prolific reason and with the wisdom of a deity as she explains ever so fluently what she’s been working on and what her team have found.  It is a natural matter of course that her work is important and that it is to be given worldwide notice… she is Woman after all!  One will sense from her demeanor that her team is a family of honor, teeming in coordination, cooperation, and mutual respect to the tune of superior performance through steadfast dedication in service to science, to community, and thus, to humanity – and all by direct guidance of the Majestic Feminine.  Lord, I’d love to be in that number!

She is Dr. Bonnie Lynn Bassler, Squibb Professor in Molecular Biology and Chair of the Department of Molecular Biology at Princeton University.  For the past few decades, she’s been focusing her talents on exploring how micro-organisms communicate with one another and how this information can be used to enhance our health, and perhaps that of populations through eternities to come.  Meanwhile, I’d been unknowingly preparing myself to meet up with her teaching and to be so moved by it … and by her, that I realize my own dharma – to continue with pride and honor to lift ‘the pedestal of feminine grace’ high above me, that a possibly ignorant world may better see (sick bastard that I am).  So this blog post is just as much the recording of a personal rite of baptism into the world of Quorum Sensing and its profound implications, as it is a song of praise to Dr. Bassler herself for causing my heart to sing in this way.  I am but a humble and willing platform for witness to the sanctity that female leadership can inspire toward such a positive world class endeavor.

So… Quorum Sensing, as filtered down to me by way of W.T. Fugg & associates, is a term that I first must break down into its molecular parts before anything else can pass through the dense membrane that is my skull.

quorum – definition:  noun [singular] formal – /ˈkwɔrəm/

the smallest number of people who must be present at a meeting to allow official decisions to be made

sense – definition:  verb [transitive] – /sens/

to know about something through a natural ability or feeling, without being told.  e.g.  ‘Cats seem to instinctively sense his fear.’

sense (that) e.g.  ‘I think she must have sensed there was something wrong.’  ‘I guess he sensed that I was a little nervous.’

senses e.g.  ‘if a machine senses a change, it notices that it is happening….  The machine senses when the engine gets too hot, and shuts itself off.’

[extracted from]

 quorum sensing –  definition: (noun)

a method of communication between bacterial cells by the release and sensing of small diffusible signal molecules

Source: WiktionaryCC BY-SA 3.0

An individual may have a desire, but until others of like ‘mind’ are present, that intent remains potential.  And when others congregate, the combined presence can be recognized and the amplified mutual intent acted upon en mass.  One homie alone doth not a mark on society make, but a quorum united with spray cans in hand, can really tag some wall!  How do they recognize one another and distinguish themselves from cousins and from rivals?  This is the very ‘stuff’ that perks my ears and makes me pay attention no matter how grueling the learning curve is for me to negotiate, because the insights into the meaning of life derived far outweigh the effort expended.

Science tells us that single-celled microbes are among the most ancient of life forms, and that all life on the planet evolved from these guys.  It says that our bodies are made up mostly of colonies of interacting bacteria, and that without them we could not survive!  Some of them are, of course, ‘bad guys,’ that we want to keep away from.  Although a typical microbe is about one five-hundredth the size of a human cell, for every one of our cells, there are about nine or ten of them – yet we claim them all as our own (theirs plus ours) and assign them all our unique and singular identity.  [Doo doo doo doo… Doo doo doo doo…]  We humans presume we have quite an agenda going on here, but these bugs have been around much longer.  It could very well be that they are asking questions amongst themselves:  “Is there anyone here but us germs?  If so, can they be considered sentient?”

Some things that are known right now, much due to Dr. Bassler’s work are:

  • Bacteria talk to each other.
  • They speak multiple languages among species members and among those of other species.
  • They can distinguish ‘self’ from ‘other.’
  • Many more special molecules (the building blocks) remain to be discovered (like molecules that tell who the ‘other’ is).
  • Quorum Sensing allows bacteria to be multi-cellular in their behavior, similar to ‘higher’ organisms.
  • Opportunities abound for novel biotechnological applications involving impeding or enhancing sensing controlled functions.
  • Natural Anti-Quorum Sensing strategies already exist.

The work that has been done in this relatively new field of special science is of obvious benefit, as it is already resulting in improving the conditions of real lives, and in supporting education through the world community.  What is equally as significant about this study is that it opens up a world of intoxicating speculation for the helium filled philosopher and the fantasy or science fiction writer.  (Consider the concepts of the “Trill” and the “Borg” in Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek?)  Imagine a primordial earth with no life on it except for tribes and nations of microbes.  Each group has a group consciousness, just as much as an individuality – all moving in unison as birds in flight… changing direction on a dime, yet individuals when on the surface, scanning the earth for food.  The bacteria of early earth, unnoticed and benign to the more ‘sentient,’ have always been in charge of the earth and have “created” the remainder of life on earth so that they can inhabit their bodies and control them.  Wow!

Well, perhaps I’m not a writer, but by honorary mention, there are things about life that move me to the core.  Two are especially big in that regard.  They are Woman, and The Imagination.  In the natural state of being moved, I write without remorse and strive to be immune to concern, somewhat open to cooperation and congregation, and ever focused on my heart’s desire.


Selected Shorts

Selected Shorts

There is a “thing” about equations of the form A=BC.  The form is prevalent throughout nature and commerce, and therefore it’s imbedded in the fabric of basic mathematical study.  Remember ‘helping’ the kids with their homework?  Area equals length times widthprincipal equals rate times time…?  And, in the study of electricity, voltage equals current times resistance?  That “thing” is a “holy trinity,” a certain special relationship among elements of a system designed for a specific purpose.  Whether it’s measuring the landscape, figuring interest on a loan, or limiting power loss in  a circuit, the relationship among the trio of elements involved is innately analogous.

Consider, for a moment, another “holy trinity,” one where the ultimate viability of a proto-species can be accurately assessed.  The elements of this system and their interrelationship are:  Humanity equals Gyneolatry times Misogyny.  Humanity is the result of the interplay between man and woman… woman and man… the kiss of the earth and the sprout of the earth (oops, ..never mind).  The sacred interplay is a dance between the two poles of a continuum.  One pole is indicative of that which hates the feminine, and the other, that which is willingly, hopelessly, and most literally under its spell.  The oscillation which is the back-and-forth movement of the energy between the two poles establishes humanity’s fundamental frequency.  Etymology of the verbal symbol ‘cunt’ may well be a clue to the possibility that the ‘voltage’ felt or produced by humanity is directly proportional to the interplay between the flow of “cunt current” and the masculine’s ‘resistance’ to that flow.  Why then would such a charged word as ‘cunt’ have evolved rather simultaneously in the language of both male and female among cunt kisser and cunt disser alike… and with such rich diversity of meaning along the continuum?

To some, the word ‘cunt’ has no charge whatsoever.  To others, simply hearing the word is an unexpected blast of ammonia in front of the nose.  Some recoil violently while others tolerate the initial jolt and eventually become fond of its energy and the narcotic quality of the word and of the thing it represents, both potentially and kinetically (depending on the quality of mental imagery the word evokes).  Other names for this infamous void include:  goatmilker, botany bay, cookie, low country, tickle-toby, pen wiper, unforgettable, rose of flesh, funniment, chum, undeniable, cave of love, wonderful lamp, jelly bag, coffee shop, parenthesis, fumbler’s hall, heaven, hell, dick skinner, itching jenny, aphrodisiacal tennis court, fancy bit, nature’s tufted treasure, and end of the sentimental journey.  There are hundreds of other names [per] in other languages and cultures throughout the world, and the same is probably true of that counterpart part which is (…nearly) uniquely male.

For whatever reasons natural, the female form, to some people, is moving poetry, even when standing perfectly still.  Her bottom half is a bell.  She rings it loudly with her gait, and many within her radius are subject to its call.  Should that ringing be muffled or silenced…?  Why?  Why not?  Why care?  For whatever reasons unnatural, the female form, to the remainder of people, is a lethal weapon – a threat to the sanctity of mind and spirit, good order and discipline, and a thing that must be covered up completely lest iniquity escape like beams of sunlight to contaminate the darkness.

Once upon a time, goddess culture was prominent.  Women themselves, nor their bodies, probably weren’t necessarily worshiped, adored, and sensationalized any more than is the case today –  something akin to the utopia one might find in the pages of some erotic, sci-fi-fantasy novel.  But the feminine principle was allowed to guide human activity, the raping, slaughter, and wholesale hatred of women as a gender was practically nonexistent, and humanity’s link to nature was much stronger then than it had been at other times.

Until such time recurs that women are paid attention to in ways unanimously acceptable to them, we now operate in the reign and domain of the pimp.  Such an archetype best epitomizes the gist of misogynist manifesto… or ‘male rights’ activism by any other name.  The word ‘pimp’ may suggest smoky downtown bars along dark and busy streets, yet pimps of past and present had achieved relatively high station, among them, Aristotle, and Sigmund Freud.  The hating of an entire gender (absurd as such a notion is to some) is not really all that complicated a concept.  What’s required is only that women are made to feel as much like crap as possible, for as long as possible, from the earliest possible age.  This is the pimp’s job.  Life is business, and women can’t fit in a stale leather wallet.

In a goddess centered culture, one might see quite an inversion of relationship.  The big, strong male figure of one reality is the gentle giant who plays in the grass with giggling children in another reality as he entertains them with tricks and stories.  Perhaps it’s not a terribly dignified day job, but the point is that instead of young females being targeted as merchandise for a lucrative but deadly market… and modeling like behavior to boys who take notice, girls, from a very young age, are emblazoned with loving support so that they retain a solid grip on confidence throughout their lives – confidence to shout “I enjoy being a girl… it’s so cool!”  That particular shout can certainly be heard today, but it’s generally not easy for many girls to say that.  An alternate society would allot more of its resources to ensure the viability its most valuable resource.

Current flows through the circuitry of human life.  When there’s too much current, the circuitry will burn itself out.  When there’s too much resistance, no current will flow.  Neither element is inherently right or wrong.  Balance is reflected in our humanity as pimp and goddess dance together hand-in-hand.