Friday, August 31, 2012

Power as the Higgs Field.

    There's a point when you look into the face of one who belongs to the political class, and the question emerges, "Does this person really believe what they are saying?"  Some years ago my answer was, "probably not."  And this suggested an understanding of political parties that put them into the category of  advertizing agencies.  Amongst whom there is an acceptance of the world as an essentially rotting place where deception is defined as a personal salvation through stretching the limits of idea.  The phrase "whiter than white"  rings still in my ear as I mix colors into the clothes washer.  As does "a flick and it's lit" when I look at a cigarette and wonder what emphysema will be like. Nor will I remark upon the phrase "Ever Blooming."  But I did think "political party as advertising agency" a remarkably positive understanding, and felt rather smug, especially on January Twenty First 2010, following a five to four decision, when reason, and perhaps the more traditional idea of democracy, left nothing but a fingernail when it fell from a fourth floor library window. 

     I have also flirted with the idea that power can be understood in the same way that particle physics attempts to grasp the universe through an understanding of what they call The Four, or is it now The Five, Fundamental Forces.  I could think of power as a dynamic system, which means those who posses the most of it determine what future states, or shapes will emerge from the present state, or shape.   But this idea of a dynamic system has the purity and predictability of mathematics, which is why I'd prefer to say, individuals drawn to the  political class represent what physics might call quanta, the tiniest bits that are necessary for something to involve itself in interaction with other bits. Then I can go on to say, power is the Field in which these light hearted elemental particles gallop around at the speed of light, and as they do so they gather mass, or nonsense, depending upon who falls flat in the mud first.  It's an ill thought out theory and I find it wonderfully depressing, so it has to be absolutely true which means I can go to bed happy.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


    Maybe it was last year that a younger Dove flew into a kitchen window, and like so many flying creatures that do that sort of thing, she knocked herself senseless. The Artist tells me the Dove finally gathered her wits, staggered around for while, managed to get herself up onto the porch railing, and there she paced up and down for quite a long time.  Hardly an auspicious beginning for a Dove just starting out on the great adventure.  And it was an experience that clearly rearranged the brain cell that might have enabled her to recognize other Dove as belonging to doveliness, and cooing and the kind of behavior that makes a Dove's world a sometimes peaceful and fulfilling place to be.

     Oh certainly she can coo.  She can carry sticks, beat up on bits of string, shake the soil off roots.  She experiments with nesting materials and nest locations. She's very diligent at hunting down just the right grit for her crop.   She sits up there on the electric line in the early and late part of the day.  Mockingbirds take no notice of her, which means she is innocent.  And she likes to join my own clan, do her bit, as we do our own pottering about in the vegetable Garden.  An attempt I guess to learn from us, or maybe she wants friendship.  But when it comes to other Dove, her curiosity ceases.  And woe betide to any of her kind who try to sit next to her.  She'll stare at them, turn her back, and if they do not leave, she becomes fierce.  And I suppose that's what happens when a reflection of yourself leaves a lasting memory.  But who knows, perhaps next year, if she makes it, forgiveness might be on her calendar. 

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Hot Shot

    I am ready to at least consider putting an end to sentences that begin with 'And.'  Call it weak wristed elderliness, if you wish to.  Call it a belated attempt to grasp the fundamentals of grammar, which includes the colon as well as the semi-colon, along with the accent acute.  Indeed, you can call it whatever the hell you want.  I'm calling it craven, or sweet surrender.  

     Which is the sort of thing that happens when the big red hand of the Almighty slithers down from the great shopping center in the sky, pokes you in the back, calls you obedient, then  further insults you by offering what here on earth is described as "a fulltime position, with excellent health insurance, stock, as well as share of profit."  And; he can kiss my wrinkld ├írse. 

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

West Nile

     There is a completely fallacious argument that suggests it's  never sensible to go near a medical dictionary.  The claim is, these monuments contain words and pictures that can act upon the imagination and drive a mind to produce random and sudden convictions unequaled elsewhere in literature, except perhaps when words and pictures are placed in the hands of the political class or mathematicians who work in statistics.  I believe it was the friend who lives too far away who recently offered the words "West Nile" in conjunction with computer screens, Artisan Wine, insect swatting and  keyboards. And I'd like to think it was meant as a comforting aside to the subject of a Fruit Fly Plague that I am so bravely resisting by courting a King of France's adage 'to take no notice.'  "West Nile," is both a Mosquito borne sickness and geographic location.  The sickness was first identified amongst people to the west of the White Nile, in the North corner of Uganda. It's the home of the Lagbara People, who are very adept at raising Guinea Fowl.  And here it's worth remembering, it was the Blue Nile, not the White Nile, that has it's source in Lake Tana,  about seven hundred miles north of the Ateso, that some legends insist is or was the route to Eden.

       I have set foot in the part of the world that is "The West Nile," and  following a series of even more recent events, one of which involved what I have decided was a Mosquito bite while I was amongst the Beans, I am now fairly convinced that I have been suffering from "West Nile" for at least fifty years.  It's a revelation that explains so much. An insight into behavior and ailments, vagueness of mind, incompetence at long division, complete absence of what I call 'genuflection' but which others prefer to call 'ambition' or 'career path.'  There's the wrist and knee, that cannot be described as belonging to athletic injury. There's  an extraordinary intolerance for other opinions.  Inability to understand the semi-colon or the colon.  There's a fondness for Butterflies and the invasive Buddleia.   But so much more important, I am able at last to see a tribute to my strength of character for having endured such ailments for so long without ever actually entering the final stages of "West Nile Fever" which is blessed release, or as the medical profession prefers it, 'coma followed by death'.  And I also think I might have Bilharzia, which puts me in the company of two hundred million people. It's a Snail borne sickness, or more accurately a Fluke borne sickness, that has a wonderful rolling name which substitutes well for the 'G,' 'D,' and 'B' words I find myself compulsively vocalizing while walking the ten yards that belong to the  ice cream display at the Grocery Store when there are children too old to be stuffed into shopping carts nearby.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Late Season Behaviors.

     It's been a Green Pepper Year.  As soon as they turn red they succumb to what I will call The Tomato Pox.  And it's been an Eggplant Year.  And it's been a Tropical Plant year, because a volunteering Wax Gourd, emerged from one of those spots where weeding is lax, shot twenty feet southward so he could mount the arch where three years ago, despite coddling and cooing and the occasional foot stamp, his ancestors completely failed to respond.  And it's been a year to test a well.

      There is also an understanding in me that some plants are male and some plants are female.  An Eggplant is an uncle.  All Beans are aunts.  A Wax Gourd I think of as a chubby little boy with a fondness for bakeries.  Potatoes are girls in my mind.  But when it comes to Tomato I have to pause to think, which is always an error and absolutely certain to put a kink in the hosepipe, with whom I have what I'll call a very late season relationship that often includes irritable behavior on both our parts. 

Sunday, August 26, 2012


     Always nice to get there when the car park is still lonely. I saw the Nightjar which haunts the old house that was probably sold along with the land, which is what happens when people reach for fulfillment.  The house still has it's window frames and the trees, older than any of us.  There is low pressure sodium street lighting, and rarely are there night insects to be seen there. I have heard him often, but this time I could see him swinging this way and that, from one lamp to the next, and I'd like to think he was giving me another reason to think of him as Whippoorwill.  A big treat for me, until Pic-A-Stick and Raggedy Ann pulled up.  Their halogens straight in the eye.

      Then when I got home, that Effing Merlin flew into the porch window.  Knocked himself senseless for at least one minute.  I could see his large talons. His cruel eye, and his beak was open, so I could see his tongue, I guess.  The feathers on his head, and the breadth of his wings, like a fighter plane.  It's a bright yellow skin he has on his feet.  And when I realized he was young, just learning, I felt a tiny, tiny bit sorry for him.  A more agile mind might have caught a photo of him as he hobbled back into the air.  Only afterwards did I think of it.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Dry As A Bone

     'Oblivion' gains a more reputable address if it hangs the title Authentic, or Grace, or Come In, upon its front door.  'Nothingness' on the other hand is not a something a person wishes to read when he lifts a knuckle to knock on that same front door. Granted all words are inventions of mind which are then shared, rather than real things that would exist without us. And granted, 'nothingness' has associations of meaning that I have stretched and contorted, in order to better understand the nuances within 'oblivion.' 

       It's a zero, a no thing, without existence and so on, rather than the serenity, 'oblivion' is sometimes attached to.  But in the search for this moment now, the alternative to which is always either 'oblivion' or 'nothing,' I could think instead of this moment now, in terms of it being a full glass, which might tempt me to call last orders so tomorrow would not come.  But I prefer to think of this moment now as 'time,' or as 'cheerfulness', or maybe 'gravity.' And it's these things I prefer to think, keep the breath in me, rather than something with the potential to be half empty, or even 'nothing.' A primitive thought I know and one which does no service to purpose, or any of those other oddities that so constrain the imagination, and which are so vital for those arrangements that make the idea of tomorrow possible.

Friday, August 24, 2012

The Venerable Bede

     The answer may well be that when there is less and less it's better to secure more and more for fewer and fewer.  Just look around, and the alternative of sharing is quite without foundation in the experience of a human being, except perhaps in one or other of the many fictions that are raised to secure orderliness in limited spaces, such as cinemas, or golf courses, or political conventions. 

      Me, I go back to the womb, where we could lie in ambient fluids, hoping to be sufficiently important to dominate the day to day of everything around us.  I argue the battle is downhill from the moment we are asked to breath on our own or think our own thoughts.  And I guess short of some kind of lobotomy, or big green pill, or rigorous entrance exam, this has to be a problem in heaven as well.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Apple Cider Vinegar

      Not certain how effective a bowl of Apple Cider Vinegar is at seducing Fruit Fly.  I'd like to think that advice from a Friend who lives too far away, a native of these parts and one who must therefore have good familiarity with the Fruit Fly scourge, has been carefully followed.  I pictured the little creatures falling over each other in their attempt to be the first to take that giant step into the unknown, or oblivion.  I pictured the upstairs community of Fruit Fly making a bee line for Apple Cider Vinegar on the kitchen counter downstairs.  I saw myself walk to the compost pile with at least one heaped teaspoon of corpses.  And I pictured myself well satisfied by my ability to follow directions.  Sadly, except for a certain somnolence in kitchen Fruit Flies which has made them more satisfying to swat at, no such moments have come to pass.  But perhaps there is an impatience in me, a longing for the quick fix, and like a watched pot coming to the boil, Fruit Fly are also shy.
      Of course it could be the color of the bowl that I have chosen to contain Apple Cider Vinegar.  It's a mottled blue glaze of some kind.  Hand thrown and higher fired.  Which in most respects is perfectly fashionable, except for the color, which being blue or bluish, falls foul of a set of patterns in the thinking of many who call themselves potters in this much less than perfect world.  And quite possible that Fruit Flies too are cliquish when it comes to the color of glazes, so I am going to try again, and this time I am looking for a color that's earthy, and sewer pipe bland, or at least without any sense of tranquility whatsoever. I remember the Pear Shaped Fruit Fly Trap for $19.95.  It came in two colors, a lime green with day-glow qualities and a most upsetting cough drop red. Which, however painful to look at, could well be a less expensive than the current alternative which is a Weather Master 10 With Hinged Door, a cabin tent from Coleman for $229.00, shipping and stakes not included.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Catastrophe Germs

     At the outset of his second attempt to conquer the Celts of the British Islands, a school boy legend amongst the English has it that Julius Caesar ordered the transport ships to be burned while his legions were sleeping.  Worth noting that this is not a story Julius Caesar himself admits to in his own history of the Gallic Wars.  But in the mind of a conquered people, the desperate ruthlessness of the victor can never be over exaggerated.  There is also a record in the Muslim invasion of the Spanish Peninsular, around 700 Ad, where Tariq son of Ziyad ordered the ships to be burned.  And on it goes through Hernan Cortes during his adventure in the Americas, into that moment when Christian and his followers from the Bounty reached Pitcairn Island.  All of these leaders determined to succeed or die in their attempt to succeed.  It was The Principal, I guess, that drove them, as much as fear or lust.  And it's one that may or may not make sense to a mathematician from a distant planet. 

      This mathematician might of course see the burning of ships as catastrophe germs, critical moments that direct the unfolding of an equation or shape.  "It was that Principal," he'd say, "that begun this unfolding and which led to this spot here on the line where it is at this moment in time."   Then he might go on to point out other variables contained in his unfolding equation, at which point I'd probably lose interest, which would leave him hunting for a definition of the word Principal that might synthesize into a particular set of variables, that he'd call directional variables.  A concept my much smaller tolerance for detail might comprehend.  "The sealing of fate," I'd suggest.  "More like an LOL," he'd reply with the smugness that mathematicians from distant planets are so prone to.  Which isn't an expression I approve of, I find it puerile and deceitful, which is another way of saying very, very irritating, but like Dali I do see his point..

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


      The Fruit Fly gathering is later than usual this year.  The kitchen downstairs appears to be a paradise for them.  They like coffee in the morning, thrive upon cleaning products, become excited around refrigerator doors, they thrill at the prospect of spending time inside a freeze box or microwave oven. Nor are they in the least alarmed by any maniacal with murderous intent swatting activities directed against them.  But more astonishing is that a of all creatures in the world, a variety of very small male Fruit Fly called Drosophila Bifurca has the largest sperm. About nine thousand times larger than gametes that provide the haploid generation in the males of my own species.

      I have no intention of ever knowing exactly what variety of Fruit Fly it is that have chosen to call the room where I sleep home.  And I am certainly not going to completely lose touch with reality by starting to wonder about what it is the upstairs branch of their community finds to eat.  I would prefer to think these five little creatures, obsessed by a computer screen, are driven by curiosity and a deep yearning to improve themselves, because the cruelest thing about Fruit Flies is their practice of traumatic insemination.  A male pierces a female's body in order to  inject his sperm through what becomes a wound in her abdomen.  It's a wound that leaves her susceptible to infection, premature death and sadness.   I am told Robber Flies and some Wasps, prey upon Fruit Flies, but, however tempting it might be, I am not yet so deranged as to open a window onto that spectacle, or call forth a far too obvious political digression.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Seasons Greeting.

      Very beautiful morning, and calm.  Clear and brisk, and almost Mockingbird free, because Mockingbirds take these next few weeks to ponder straight lines, circles and the mystery of purpose.  And I would guess too the call of far places is upon migratory beings, that scent of spice in the air, a lone Chimney Swift, a Cardboard Box from the Yangtze Kiang, or what we who are doomed to shopping culture call the holiday season. 

      Certainly August might seem a little early to start, but football jerseys from the mysterious East, winter woollies from Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh, days of yore shaving equipment from Saigon, colorful battery operated phalluses from Taiwan, and other such tributes are beating down the doors of fulfillment centers. And Oh Dear Sweet Lord, please let Republican Congressmen get drunk and swim naked in the Sea that Jesus walked upon.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Ear Canal

     Some of us have ear wax and other issues with accompanying pain, lumpen-ness, that sense of actually being underwater and a ringing in the ears that I have convinced myself is because hearing apparatus is too close to vessels supplying blood to the head.  Not an attractive subject, but worth addressing because it provides an opportunity to again raise the issue of yet one more design flaw in the species I belong to.

       If we were made by an all knowing brilliance, it would have given us ear canals that traveled north toward an eardrum and Eustachian tube in the top of the head, instead of these questionable organs being placed directly beside the main arteries which pump an increasingly unnecessary quantity of blood to the brain.  And don't tell me it's yet one more 'mysterious way.'   Just tell me where the 'off switch' is located.

Saturday, August 18, 2012


     I wonder what actually happens when an economy does not grow.  And I wonder whether growth is an assumption measured by Gross Domestic Product.  And I wonder why growth is indeed measured by Gross Domestic Product.  And I wonder why the political class  is so dedicated to the promise of increase.

      It's easy to say that in our species imagination has hit a brick wall.  It's easier to say there is no measuring happiness, or contentment, or joy, or success, or dreams except through Gross Domestic Product.  And even easier to wander through the meanings of 'Gross Domestic Product' and come away feeling vaguely ashamed, depressed and otherwise emotional..  

Friday, August 17, 2012

Tics and Tacks

     The argument that language is also a form of grooming, is one to which I fondly adhere.  And by grooming, I mean the sort of things Chimpanzee do to each other.  Call it an understanding that Tics in the fur are a bind.  They must be ceremoniously hunted down in order to properly understand each other.   The sooth of touch, and the endless parade of words that patter through the day.  "Good Morning."  "How are you." "Have a nice day."  "Bite me."

      Once Tic-less, we become less concerned. A bland custard of an emotion or maybe satisfied, or content, just sort of happy. And this way silence is comfortable, the sunset makes sense, the bark of a dog no more than a melody that needs no explaining or thoughts of shotguns.  Fortunately there is the political class whose role it is to discover Tics where none have been before.  Damned if I don't itch all over from listening to them.

Thursday, August 16, 2012


     I have access to the internet, and sometimes I get a presumptuous Email from someone I have never met, nor ever want to.  Almost always the Email is an attempt to persuade me that there's a  burden upon me to act quickly or else I miss an opportunity to possess this or that valuable artifact, or contraption, or chance to win a reduced rate aboard a plague infested, child friendly cruise ship, or hotel with a swimming pool. 

       Which is why I mostly sneer, but when it comes to the issue of Mole and Fruit Fly slaughtering I am easily tempted.   The  "Pear shaped Fruit Fly Trap: $19.95," I am told, is  "attractive, effective and discreet." As it happens I have seen the "Pear shaped Fruit Fly Trap."  Held it in my hands.  It is neither discreet or attractive, and I strongly suspect it is also ineffective.  But who knows.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


     We have the Great Black Wasp in abundance.  They must all be girl Wasps because boy Wasps, who have no sting I try to remember, are reclusive and hiding, spend most of their shorter life span staring at the stars or grumbling about this or that as they pollinate the odd flower, while girl Great Black Wasps buzz around, dig huge holes in the ground,  hunt down Cicada and Katydid and Grasshopper, and generally remain well occupied.

      "They must be one of the larger Wasp," I can hear the refrain. And I laugh at the poverty of such a description.  The Sperm Wale is large.  The Burmese Python is large.  Elephants are less dangerous than African Buffalo.  But the Great Black Wasp is just bloody enormous if she catches you, when you're about your own business, trying to be useful, flat on your back in her dirt, giving hell to the more cantankerous  personalities of an older mowing machine. 

Tuesday, August 14, 2012


     The word placebo has origins in Medieval Europe.   "Vespers for the Dead,"  included verse nine, from psalm one hundred and sixteen: "I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living."  In Medieval times the verse went this way: "I will please the Lord in the land of the living."  Or as it is in Latin "Placebo Domino in region vivorum....." or something like it.  Even today a good funeral includes buffet and general largesse, and I'd say even today many turn up for the food, the drinkies, their appearance and the after party.  In Medieval times these less than sincere participants would more likely feign grief than risk being called "Placeboes."  

      My own preferred translation of verse nine in Psalm one hundred and sixteen, would be   "I will please the Dead in the land of the Living."  And I say this because I remember those who have died, and how they died and it doesn't seem to matter how long ago they died.  I remember their courage or otherwise.  I remember how they managed fear and loneliness. Sometimes too I wonder why they died.  More often though, I wonder what it is they think of me, as we debate their opinion in what I suppose is a somewhat one sided manner.  "Be not afraid, " I guess.  Not so much because god holds your worried soul through the "valley of the shadow of death," rather because it's the living who'll remember you, and they might even wish you were still around.  And isn't it fun to use bold italics.

Monday, August 13, 2012

The Sabaot

        A History can be written in many ways. The idea of it ever being an objective process would result in lists of names, some of which might have no spelling, and in hard to remember dates and other angry moments.  And while too often an historical account has a bias, it also contains a story.  This is a story from many years ago, and this story, along with the Kingdom of Prestor John and the Island of Atlantis, has been described as both rubbish and as absolute truth. 

      The Sabeans and the Israelites spent some part of their history as sub-clans of the Ancient Egyptian hierarchy, an organizational structure that was more politically complex than anything the west has yet to produce or comprehend as exemplified by each and every western incursion Eastwards.  About fifteen hundred years before Christ, the Israelites pissed off Pharaoh by becoming overly influential, and they had to make a run for it.  The Sabeans, were a military clan, and it's possible some of the Sabeans drowned while chasing Moses.  The Bible reckons Sabeans were from the desert.  King James version called the Sabeans 'men of the common sort.'  The New American Standard version calls Sabeans 'drunkards.'  And I guess this is because the New American Standard version is holier than King James wanted his bible to be.  But most do agree the Sabeans were useful to Pharaoh, until a Persian invasion of Egypt two thousand five hundred years ago.  A tribulation that drove The Sabeans into a five hundred year journey in search of their own promised land, or ancestral home.

      Herodotus, the Greek Historian, claims to have actually asked the Sabeans where they had come from.  Their reply was "We are from the Holy Land of God in the South."  The Book of Job reckoned the desert from where the Sabeans originally hailed was Arabia.  Some will argue that Job should know because not far from where he had his camp, Sabeans attacked his neighbors and made off with their Oxen and Donkeys, and worse they killed the servants.  Which in those days was rather a regular and very irritating occurrence.   The Koran reckons the Sabeans were from Yemen.  Much wiser head will say this holy land was in Uganda. Some suggest the Tororo Hills in South Eastern Uganda.  Some will say it was the land of the Karamojong.  But I don't think so, because Karamojong, in their own language means 'the old men sat down.'  A name that stuck to their clan around two thousand years ago, when the Karamojong  became lumpen and refused to travel further into the swamps of Teso, or south toward the lake, or East toward the cold mountain.  Which, some say, enabled the Karamojong to better concentrate upon stealing cattle from the more honest men who lived all around them. But I wouldn't say that, because to this day I am a little nervous of the Karamojong. 

     Steven Kiprotich is from that part of the world which some call West of Mount Elgon, others call Masaba, or perhaps Bagisu but which when I was little, Okanya and I called, "Way Over There Beyond Bukedea The other Side Of The Karamojong Where the Sabaot Are."  It was a place of great wonder in my mind, a place where Leopards and Heroes lived and probably Eden.  And I'd like to still go on thinking it's where the Sabeans settled, which is what Okanya's mother's father told us.  Nor did I ever really try to understand the Olympics, except in terms of jingoistic rah-rah and equally poor behavior, until maybe yesterday when Saboat from Uganda won a Gold Medal in Olympic Marathon.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Class War (3)

        I think the word 'lumpen' came to the English language during that time in European history when a significant proportion of the populace responded to tribulation by deciding society was scientifically comprehensible. And those who could not be bothered with this revelation were quite clearly just that little bit set in their ways.  Around one hundred and fifty years ago Marx gave the wonderful name 'lumpen-proletariat' to vagrants, criminals and the unemployed.  Such individualists comprised an underclass of people who had somehow avoided developing what he thought of as the consciousness of those with nothing beyond their labor to sell. 'Proletariat' was the Roman word for those without property.

       'Lumpen-bourgeoisie' then emerged as the polite, or perhaps more scientific way, to reference the 'macht hungrig scheisse kopfe' or Job Creators of their day.  This property owning class comprised the middle, or perhaps mercantile,  and upper classes. This class of people, the theory predicted, would become smaller and smaller in number as power gravitated  into increasingly corrupt and, fewer and fewer hands.  'Lumpen-bourgeoisie' was also a class considered way too self absorbed to care much about the historical inevitability of Kapital's decay, nor had they the necessary consciousness to conceive of a fairer and more just, or equitable, distribution of wealth.   Of course bourgeois too,  can also mean 'incredibly boring and wholly predictable.' 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Class War (2)

        The current fad, inspired by Ayn Rand's mind, her stories and her super hero Alan Galt, presents an idea of class where division is into 'A' people and 'B' people.  The 'A' people, even though flawed by things like doubt and buoyed by things like selfishness, are in the grand tapestry better able to grasp value and thereby direct 'B' people in a manner most suited to the species Homo Sapiens.  Which is why 'A' people are entitled to preferential treatment, by for example taxing authorities, otherwise they lose interest or sulk, take their toys or electric cars, and go home to the Mountain of Solitude, or is it Krypton.  And the rattle of this argument can be heard here in the United States as a still small voice deep in the heart of  a troubled, and apparently Bible reading,  Republican Party.

       'A' people emerge, they are not elected or chosen by others, they don't go to special schools as Plato would have them do, they are just occasionally born.  Consequently social, bureaucratic and legal constraints on society as a whole and upon 'A' people in particular, should be reduced to a minimum, and best if done away with altogether.  Objectivists, for whom Ayn Rand wears the funny hat, define the species I belong to as heroic beings.  They go on to assure me that my own happiness provides the moral purpose of my life, and that my productive achievement is my most noble activity.  And then the Objectivists completely confuse me by assuring me that reason is my only absolute.  For my part, I think it reasonable, not to dismiss the past ten to twenty thousand years of Human experience as some sort of anomaly.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Class War

    Division of people into groups is a device designed to better understand "what it is we might be."  The idea that the word "class" is pejorative or without value, follows an emotional response which stems from a confusion of mind that muddles "what it is we might be," with "what it is we would like to be."  This muddle is even further distressed by "what it is we should be," and "why aren't we what we want to be."  It's a tapestry, I'd argue, a muddle in consciousness, and I have to admit that more often than is healthy. I too hear P.F. Sloan's 1965 "Eve of Destruction."  And less often than I'd like, do I hear B. Dylan's 1962  "Blowing in the Wind."  But maybe I am just old, decrepit and unable to multitask.

     "What it is we would like to be" and "what it is we are," are two very different things.  And this same distinction can be made between "what it is we would like to be" and "what it is we can be."  The phrase "class warfare" is no more than an understanding of these differences that places access to power as a prime determinant of 'status,' a word most simply defined as 'position relative to others,' and in the world of plenty 'position relative to others' is more often measured through income level. Consequently, the argument goes, different interests, or classes, fight for power. And here it's worth noting that the word 'fight' in no way resembles 'compete on level playing field.'  The further to the right or left of a political spectrum a person goes, the more likely that person is to denounce this understanding in favor of what I will call "a class of oneness." A thoroughly mawkish political model that has fallen to chaos and bloodshed many more times than once, and too often rears it's ugly head when plenty is threatened.  So, it's worth glancing through all lyrics of La Marseillaise, while humming J. Lennon's "All you need is love." 

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Velvet Ant

    These days where I live we disapprove when the severed head of an opponent is placed upon a stake then marched around town, except when this is done symbolically.  As for example, when "The Little Leaguers" go on to a semi-semi-quarter-final.  However there are many who still regard traditional practice as the more obvious solution to resolving disagreement, even when the dispute is completely invented, and for no apparent reason, such as any form of Olympic Event.   Stocks and Pillories, for example.  Ping-Pong, The Rack, The Brazen Bull, The Spanish Tickler, Foot Roasting, The Street Sweepers Daughter,Toe Wedging, Football in all its forms and there is always Water as an instrument of torture. 

      But I try to understand it as all a part of that single minded determination to win Gold.  Which apparently is an Olympic virtue as well as a religious goal.  So even better, for example, if political opponents learn to openly dislike each other by digging deeper into the dictionary for words like "Aeolist" or "Batrachophagous Head" or "Mamothept" then sink toward the more visceral and popular traditions of  "Raccoon Felcher,"  "Shit Mouth" and "Card Carrying  Moron." That way there is less pretending the game has anything to do with a fairy dust that can also be promulgated through the blooms of language.  And I really need to stop planting in rows and mooning over the Velvet Ant. 

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Hot Weather Pox

    In my view, it's the much wetter than average last part of July that's resulted in an outbreak of 'Exploding Tomato Syndrome.'  One minute a Gardner has a Tomato, pepper, mayonnaise and white bread sandwich in mind, the next he is on the verge of euthanizing all fourteen of his Tomato  plants.  They are out there now, struggling with Black Foot, Mole Burrow, Blister Beetle, Possible Possum Attack, Humming Bird Beak, Morning Glory Strangle, Stinkbug and a humidity that leaves dew on the leaves until noon.  And it's this last pox that provides good living conditions for whatever it is that takes meaning from permitting a Tomato to almost ripen before causing it to explode, leaving dredge and juice along with the smell of death.

      A Vegetable Garden is either a collection of competing species, or it's a social gathering that has to get along with itself.  And it's always humbling to realize that interdependence is more of a spiritual quest than it is a scientific fact.  I hear the word ecology applied to economics by those pompous asses, who go on and on in their constant search for  holiness, and I think, "How Nice."  The reality of course is that a wetter May or June and our fourteen Tomato plants would have been gone by now.  Nor can I say that a fungicide has saved my soul or ever will, but, if I am to believe in Kapital, then that Tomato Sandwich, with just a hint of Marmite, certainly might have done.  It's no wonder "Blessed Release" is on the list of  preferred phrases and "It's A Job" is down there in the underworld.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


    A person has to wonder about the evolutionary path of a Wasp Sting.  Quite certain there are theories that put the Wasp Sting into the arena of survival of those Wasps that had the most advantageous sting as they cruised their environment in search of smaller creatures to paralyze before bundling into a perfectly hexagonal chamber so their wretched offspring might have something to feed upon.. And too, interestingly enough, Boy Wasps have no sting, their role is purely that of pleasuring Queens.

      Nor was it enough for the Wasp to come up with an honorable poison that would simply anesthetize a victim, send us unfortunates into a genteel and painless decline with that vague chance of entering a dream state where Honeysuckle and Buddleia are not considered a curse.  Not in the least did the first Wasps think that way. Their preference was for a poison that produced terrible pain accompanied by near death experience as consciousness watches flesh swell, followed by months of mind altering itchiness and involuntary twitching.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Big Red Hand

     I had a fat left hand and red arm most of yesterday. This morning, the hand remains pudgy, and is developing an itchiness that is extremely annoying.  As well, I remember the afternoon many years ago when a Wasp stung me on the neck, a few millimeters from a jugular vein.  

     It's not that you see a lifetime pass before your eyes, that's way too romantic.  Mostly it's wondering about whether your ears are clean, your work socks without holes, your finger nails acceptable, your hair without Tics, and there is the underpants issue.  All of which are things Saint Peter checks on.