…our Les Visible, Smoking Mirrors.
Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your noses always be cold and wet.
It looks like we’ve moved up a stage into critical mass with this Ferguson business. It went on and is probably still going on, past the point where someone higher up in the pecking order should have stepped in and taken over. They let it go on. I see where the governor has now decided to send in other forces. Unmentioned in the mix is the fact that Israeli police advisers have been training the American police for some time. Then we hear that all of the NSA traffic was routed directly to Israel. I haven’t been able to decide if they are The Beast of the Apocalypse or the Whore of Babylon or… both, with Godzilla and Mothra thrown in. Many of these police are veterans of American aggression abroad, pumped full of steroids and fear, indoctrinated into the hate and suspicion that now drives them. There are no innocent bystanders, just people that got in the way.
The world is in a collective uproar about this latest genocide in Gaza. Enola has passed on so it’s now Ebola who is stalking the Earth and potentially just as dangerous as Enola the facilitator. The shades of World War 3 are dropping down upon the staged and badly managed conflict in The Ukraine. Marching in attendance with this are a thousand other ills, all bringing their weight to bear upon the timbre of our times. The timber of our times has been hollowed out by termites. From all kinds of angles it looks normal but… from the inside it’s rotten and on the verge of collapse, once the right tremor or shock passes by.
They say that in Ferguson they were shooting journalists with rubber bullets. They tear gassed an Al Jazeera news crew. They hauled a local politician out of his car and threw him in jail. They beat up and gassed all and sundry. It was a step further than they have ever gone before; unless you hearken back to Ludlow, or any number of the countless offenses performed on one victim, or groups of victims, one after another. Times have changed. Now a new police chief has come into town and is marching with the protesters. Long time FBI snitch and professional agitator, Al Sharpton is on the scene, making things worse and apparently people don’t know or don’t want to know about him. It’s the same thing as with Chomsky, slithering like an ancient, sun baked lizard through the convoluted disaster zone constructed by his kinsmen; speaking out in hypocritical non sequiturs against the people he works for, with all the detachment of an indifferent behavioral scientist, commenting on horrific circumstance like a dry academic, untouched by his subject matter. Zap! He just caught another fat fly that was hovering around the conference table. Who says there’s no free lunch?
The degree to which otherwise intelligent people are taken in by the Crass Media continues to amaze me. I was speaking with a fellow about Putin the other day and he’s telling me, “Well, you know, there are many there (implying Putin as well) who are eagerly seeking to bring back a Stalinist state.” I gave him a pretty authentic argument to the contrary but I could see he was not convinced and only demurred to say anything out of a sense of politeness. For some reason, most people believe the bullshit that they hear every day.
I walk the streets of this northern French city and I am awash in a ubiquitous spectacle of ten thousand thumbs banging out a dissonant symphony on their cellphones. There’s money here and at night, on the esplanades (original meaning of) and plazas, beneath the warm, yellow mercury lamps that shine off the façades of huge and beautiful buildings; architectural triumphs of stability and incrementally submerging integrity that whispers of another time (but these whispers go unheard beneath the clamor) beautiful people stroll or sit in cafes and spend 8 Euro plus for a goblet of beer.. It’s a sexually charged atmosphere, with rough youths playing at sparing or recounting previous exercises of combat like demented mimes. There are people asking for money and when you can, given the profile of the supplicant, you try to help.
After a short sojourn in Italy to take care of an unfortunate choice, made in a tandem, that played a significant role in breaking up the tandem, we are off to a private home in London so… any readers from that locale… we’ll be there for ten days or two weeks, at your service; in about ten days.
“The road goes ever on and on” as a famous, quasi fictitious adventurer once said. He continued at some point to say that one should beware when they step out of their door and on to the road in front of it because that road can lead anywhere, ‘even to the gates of Mordor’. It’s intention that sets our GPS. If our intention is stronger that the pull of the magnetics of the material realm, as they impinge upon our judgment and the force of our attractions then… then we are on the high road. Otherwise, in these times, uh huh.
I have had living proof of the educative facility of pain and suffering in recent times. I learned things I thought I knew but didn’t know. Perhaps it was merely a transference of the intellectual to the visceral. However it may be. The most important thing I learned is not to let the sun go down on your anger and not to carry resentment or any sentiment of revenge along on your journey, outward and inward. Don’t regret the loss of things treasured for their usefulness. Their usefulness has not stopped. They will continue to be useful and so will you, if you don’t let discouragement and rancor meddle with your clarity of mind. I think this may be one of the first times in this life when I was able to just step lightly forward without any propensity for being turned into a pillar of salt. “Shake the dust of that city from your sandals.” Hoorahrooooo as we members of The Dolphin Regiment like to say, with a little, ‘voila’ and ‘holay’ thrown in.
They’re searching Cliff Richards digs but Cliff has moved on; moved on from Portugal (nope- looks like he’s there at the moment) and the UK to a Caribbean island that has no extradition treaty. Man! What a populous club of pervs we have! I’ve been singing my song, Pedophilia, done to the tune of Desperado. It’s pretty funny, regardless of the subject matter. I could cry I suppose but neither tears nor laughter will eradicate the evil that men do. The Kiddie Diddlers Rhapsody is moving up the charts with a bullet, metaphorically speaking. The power of the Dark Lord has proven irresistible to those so entranced and enamored. Tragedies abound on all sides. What does one do in the midst? Unless you have cultivated an enduring attraction that is greater than the pull of the pits, you are in danger of being sucked down into it; one or another of them.
Never before has the force of money exercised such a compelling influence upon the consciousness of humanity. Never before has the lack of it brought so much fear and censure. Never before has the measure of ones worth been so widely legitimized by the possession of it. The money mongers call the tune and the world dances the tarantella, as a prelude to the Tandava. Money! Ching ka ching! Money! Ka ching, Ka ching! It’s everywhere and incredibly elusive. It’s hovering like an incandescent carrot. There’s a hard wire tied around your head and the carrot dances forever out of reach and none of it is real. They loan out money that doesn’t even exist and then collect a return and by virtue of this power that they have wrested from the clouded minds of their victims, they control, or appear to control the manifest realms. Kings and presidents, popes and and populace must come to them on bended knees. For all I know, so do warlords and drug dealers. It’s a nice system, if it’s your system and were there no greater justice, it would be dark indeed.
“I, I, Me, Me, Mine!” as the tunes states. Motivated self interest; self interest generated by powerful transmitting towers, holds the near entirety of humanity in thrall. I am walking through it. I see it. I feel it. It is like swimming in an unpredictable ocean with rip tides, cross current and undertows all vying for supremacy. How strong is your stroke and how clear is your direction? Upon that is your fate dependent. One might ask, “Who is the swimmer?” Activated archetypes need fear nothing but… to choose to rely upon your own powers and resources; I shudder to think. Lucky me. Lucky you? I know better and you should too. You can’t go far through the darkness without a light. Terrain easily traversed in the daylight can be fraught with danger at night. In recent times I have had occasion to experience this in a literal sense; an unfamiliar landscape seen briefly in the day becomes a whole other thing once night falls and possibly so do you.
Well… we have tripped about in this posting, gathering in the scatterings of the moment; a snapshot of the times in transition. Will it one day be like one of those sepia tinted photographs of a world that was? Will we look as serious or comical as those characters from the past now look to us? Time will tell.