Literal, Literature and Liturgy: Book of Lee

Okay it's the holidays and that ALWAYS means Mom. She loved collecting Santas and talking at kitchen tables with snacks. And then, we let men in white coats backed by corporate deacons and the church of Health, Medicine & Wellbeing poison and radiate her to death at the ripe old age of 54, right before my sibling's and lost father's eyes.

Of course, as the Book would have it, I was far away in Hollywood, but I did come home to see The End.

Ah yes, and then there's him. Daddy. After a few short years with his only friend gone and two years barely into retirement, alone in a stripped-down house with NO SANTAS, no color, and no spirit, it finally was his turn.

His lungs of all things; what a Lucky Strike. I remember being sent on the errands, money in hand and a short bribe on top, to go walk to the gas station each weekend and buy the cigarettes that killed him.

Oh, how I'm Witness!

Yeah so holidays always kinda brought me down. I was gonna say "bring" but nah, I feel the spirit this season -- I do. But it ain't no Jesus spurring me on. It's Light as a theme and love of Home. But they won't stop reading the wrong book out there! He's the reason for the season, they all say, and cite that stupid, Kubric monolith (one rock) of a Black Book everyone still thinks is really history.

The only Bible is the book you live every day, and you read this Book by noting all the irony and synchronicity of your each and every hour -- the silly coincidences that only Authors can come up with. And then it Dawns on you. You ARE the Bible, not God! Wow! Just a pretty Damned-Good Read. See? Both ways the Word "read," -- one Way Once Done, and the other -- to Do. So Merry Christmas.

Happy Jesus.

To the Three Magicians and a Star!

To a poor bastard kid.

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[a stubborn life] || sweet boy, the hive came crashing down today | cracked open on the driveway | sweet boy, the bee queen fled here from the smoke | the day i burned the roses | i dreamed i gave her new wings for her flight | the once she owned just didn't fit right | sweet boy, there is this stubborn life | cracking me open like the bee hive | somewhere somewhere somewhere inside | sweet boy, if you ever made me cry, | it was from all the tender things you've said | sleep tight, and when you wake up again | it is my time to go to bed | like every every every night, okay? ||

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"That which triggers off an affect, that which effectuates a power to be affected, is called a signal: the web stirs, the scalp creases, a little skin is bared. Nothing but a few signs like stars in an immense black night. Spider-becoming, flea-becoming, tick-becoming, an unknown, resilient, obscure, stubborn life." (Dialogues, 61)

---

a footnote to Mom and Dad - their Bibles were beautiful books, and are still, and holy; I have rite and live their stories every day. Heck, I've even created hymns. They are Genesis to me.

A Shadow Without Eyes and Growing

SO LATELY I've had to wear the glasses everywhere because the hard lenses just gave out -- the edges get jagged when they get ragged. Time for new ones. I have to wear thick THICK ant-burning magnifiers, my eyes are so bad.

So it got me to remembering when I was a kid and had to wear them all the time. Beat up and made fun of for having them on back then. And now I go to work wearing them! Anyway, at night, as a kid, they had to come off when you went to bed. That's scary, because everything in the room instantly takes on a bigger, cloudier shape just when you don't want it to. And your wee sleepy mind stays awake, trying to make things out all night.

Worse than most kids, I saw all your same scary things, only much bigger and more horrifying because my canvas was a hell of a lot broader. If your mind plays tricks on you with a closet light in the dark, imagine the cardgames it throws when all that shit's blobby and moving.

You see things in the night.

So yeah, where was I? Oh yeah. Because of all this I would always have this recurring nightmare, well into my prepubescent days I might add, that was more like lucid nightmaring. It was no dream that's for sure. I would try to lay there, terrified, and fall asleep. Closing eyes never helped. The simplest of themes, even all shut up tight I would feel the presence of EYES. But when I looked (the fear response) all I would see was this SHADOW WITHOUT EYES AND GROWING persistent in the corner of the ceiling, way over there in the dark.

Not on the ceiling, nor on the walls either. But in the corner, hoisted or floating, and looking down and all over at once at the same time. Like one corner of a triangle filling in with swirls of oil, if you will. Man I was scared; but in a very personal way. How do you tell people about something you can't see? And this was every night! I saw the eyes with my whole being; felt the darkness like heavier air, always approaching the shoreline of my blanket but never getting close enough on land.

Now skip ahead into adulthood, with me working for the Rhode Island Tourism Division. I was with my colleagues on a "familiarity tour" (FAM) of historic houses, maybe mansions -- who's to say really -- but it surely was the Masons I remember. (an aside for later: Mom worked as a nurse at the OES nursing home in RI).

In that musty museum with heavy drapes and shiny floors you walk through velvet roped-off rooms into the family quarters of the rich, still bedecked in original 18th century opulence. Then the children's rooms. Man, they used to PAINT murals on the ceiling of their kids' rooms -- sky scenes with clouds and stuff, and then I saw it. The all-seeing Eye! Propped up in the sky! Along with symbols and stars and shit. Like, George Washington Mason stuff. Creepy! How many of these little brats looked up at night and saw things too? Only this was programming.

Mine was just a shadow of what theirs would always be. Open to the impressions of my fertile mind. So, my many builders of the Temple, look at how I've Turned Out.


The first imprinting. Not painted Vegas skies above my pillow, but right there in my head. Root consciousness. Basically, like the counted semicircle stars and symbolism gazed at by the spawn of important bloodlines, my fear track was my own and contained much more absolute power. Claymation from only my hands.

Skip back to present day, and it's the same thing, I am thinking, as I strip off the goggles and head to bed.

The blurry things bring me back. One day you finally realize all the fear under the bed on the ceiling and in the closet was only YOU looking back, and this makes for the simplest banning ritual in both worlds once you grow up and see that it was yourself, inner and outer unresolved, all along the Way. What better way to hide from the Eye than to realize there are none but yours?

Is that you? That you? (squint) Oh hi! How the Hell are ya?

International Clownday

That's how we'll do it.

All agree, once and for all, on a calendar week in which we

a) don't watch TV or check the Internet; and

b) dress up as clowns every day.

Even those in government, mayor and all. Imagine your daily routine with each other? No show to discuss? No thing you saw at home? Clowns, all of us. So we'd do it then. We'd all dress bad Shakespeare in a grossly overdone, vaudevillian way. Only colorful and cartoony!

The world would be upside down and circus like. But whoa the fun we'd have!

Oh, it would start small. But then grow real real big. Even the president, if he even wanted to or not, would HAVE TO DRESS AS A CLOWN just for credibility. The UN would pass a resolution that demanded international compliance in an effort to eventually support world peace and understanding that we are one, colorful race after all. Some countries would say no, others maybe. But it wouldn't matter because the people of everyday you see would be clowns.

Even armies would comply. The brilliance of instantly recognizing a way to stay connected simply surpassed war on the basis of economy alone. WIGS ARE CHEAPER THAN BOMBS. Criss-crossed eyes of us all! So then, after the week was done, it would be tough getting back to your everyday routine -- but you'd have the footage from the last week to look at now.

Yes -- cameramen were dressed as clowns.

Anchors, too. Networks needed footage (most of it big and red), they always do! Every year we'd analyze, with the help of FOX and CNN of course, how we clowns all got along.

Take it back silly gooses!
Take back the three rings and be king of it all!

photo note: okay, the Vegas sign thing is gettin' kinda scary. When you click the photo you'll see a logo. In VEGAS. Glizy hotel signs. Everyone's using it around here to put their shit up in lights, and it just ain't right. More on this later. Clicking the title tells a million words too.

Checkerboard Head

The world
it constantly demands of us
black and white,
yet all we've got there
'tween the headbones
is nothin'
but lots of
gray matter
to make sense
of it all.

Fuck Space Travel

...and time travel too. You can't go where you already are. There are only two spaces and no time at all. Inside and outside surrounded by the same One Thing, this instant and always. So what the fuck, why explode? But really -- don't bring the suit deep underwater and you'll implode like a beercan underboot. Go way too high up without the suit and BLAMMO you explode from every inside, heart and all.

I watched the Space Age being born,
and I would like to participate!

--from the NASA job application of astronaut Sharon Christa Corrigan McAuliffe, of Lebanese origin through her father and first teacher in space. She died on the job in 1986. Dying along with her that day, former pilot from Isreal Ilan Ramon, who fought four years earlier in the 1982 war in Lebanon, and who incidentally bombed an Iraqi nuclear reactor in 1981. Yeah! Click the picture for more.



So the suit, then is the lie all around us.

You can't bring your true nature with you wrapped in tupper-wear where you truly don't belong. Travel to the stars? Fuck, I am a star! Sorry for the Profane. There's a real sad joke in the fact that all everyone remembers a girl named Ride. Sally at that.

Byfar My Favorite Size

Sure, A4 intrigues the hell out of me, but if pressed, I would have to say my favorite paper size byfar is 11 x17 (tabloid). It's just so cool and feels great in your hands, no matter what you're reading.

There. I said it. Good night.

Beat the Buddha

I can no longer stand by and hear it without swearing at my car radio. "The government today cracked down on the monks peacefully demonstrating in the streets by rounding them up, beating them with their rifle butts, and hauling them off for interrogation and torture."

Burma. Buddha. Bastards. I hate soldiers, I'm sorry. But I do.

The so-called soldiers who beat unarmed religious men of peace are just plain thugs. The government in Burma isn't doing anything wrong. In fact it isn't doing anything at all. What you see here are blind, stupid thugs.

Individual men devoid of humanity and inflated by the hot air balloon of the state's authority. Not a single thought for themselves, nor of their actions' consequence. The junta government does not exist! The map is not the territory, remember? Right there on the street though, the soldier is the one bashing his rifle butt into the head of a bald, defenseless holy man who he knows will not fight back and represents no threat to his person whatsoever. Just one man brutally beating another while the sun shines and birds sing overhead.

The government doesn't pick up so much as a stick.

How can it? It's a concept. Let me say it again. Look at the people in these pictures. They could all have the same Mom and Dad. They could all switch outfits and look the same. And yet, put an (intimidating) outfit on some of them and they become monsters. Our brains are very tiny things. The government is only as strong as the soldier carrying out its authority. Atrocities are never performed by states or leaders. They are performed by some everyday guy with black hair and crazed with hate at the trigger end of a state-sponsored murder weapon.

Maybe even your brother. Maybe even in Iraq.

Champion Breakfast: OJ, Bread and Circuses

SO TRANSPARENT now! Amerika! Too late to sleep. Election year-- a woman and a black man. How to stop the chances of political upheaval and military abandonment if you're the big machine already-in-progress?

Divide and conquer, just like in Iraq! Give the common folk their bread and circuses to distract them from the real matters at hand (in glove yuk yuk). Suddenly after like millions of sports memorabilia events for years where I'm sure his stuff got circulated, OJ decides "hmmmm, now's good" and storms a room in Vegas with the velvet glove this time audio smooth.

Then, some easily manipulated taunting and button-pushing at a tree NOT destroyed by Hurricane Katrina and some dude gets pummeled for the prosecution. Now the six in Jena. How doth we protest? No it's not political at all.

All arranged I say. Press! As in you're a sandwich heavy on the grill.

It will go like this now: How can we expect a black president when they all can't even get their act together, fighting like crazy in the streets all about who got away with murder (see OJ, above) when? Oldest trick in the book! And this last curve.

Months and months no little Laden who knew no place did he shoo and BOOM he's all over the television in still frame. Hey, is that a postage stamp talking? Cuz stop sign Mc-voterville ain't gonna be able to tell the difference 'tween Osama and Obama, and that's why his name will go down the tubes - people will remember that Osama dude instead. Not as easy as (burning) Bush.

So you see we can't have Obama. Can't have a dude there who represents off the handle hotheads and resurrects the wounds of the deep, still drowning South. So OJ, morning marks please. First scene of the day. Circus South with a noose!

Imposter!

Another example of the Bisquich has surfaced. Sold right there on iOffer: "Bisquich Fresh Summertime Recipes, 1977." Click the photo to see the sale page. Tomorrow the world!

Look Out David Bowie

Uh-oh, there's something much newer here I know it.

Fashion

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Osama Bin Latte

I simply HAVE to make this post right now. Hurry! Hurry! Step right up! Get your Bisquich buy! Heh -- Even though I made it a while back it's ripe for ol' black beardie now coming on TV to talk to us. Wait a minute! I know something isn't right here... last time he was old!

That's right. Can't put one over on me, you terrorists. I'm an American.

Drink up Amerika. It's frothy at the top.

Click on the pictures to shop! A neat Euro-car oval sticker! A bitchin' beach bag! Even to a Tee.

Everything is Superimposed

It's way too late. Even on the iPhone giddy idiots push "buttons" like crazy on an elecro-sensitive grid and think they have access to to it all. Don't get me wrong it's pretty. But, wake up kids, cuz guess what? There are no buttons there! You're pushing nothing -- don't be fooled! Press... PRESS!! Oh, I want to press it!

buttons must be pressed

I say, make Them touch your click, not make you dream control is yours! You want control? Touch me or Nothing! Yeah. There's where it all starts, I'm afraid.

I just saw a commercial for Target on TV - you know where everything you're not gonna buy is white and backgroundy and the colorful kids run all over the place? Superimposed. All the white is unimportant, but these kids have got to stand on something after all. Beautiful, commercial agents of the Market Gods like angels stepping all over the poor fluffy white clouds of Heaven.



And we buy it. We're all kinda like that now. Nobody knows who runs what any more. We're all pushing buttons that aren't really there. Colorful ones too. Screens and monitors reach out for our Adamic touch every stupid, repetitive day of our lives. We swim right for the hook each and every time. Grouped together, on a blue background. You name it. Ocean, sky, what was once blue before the greeenscreen, it goes on.

Everything is just put on there. To play around. And we do, but we're not really there are we, if there's more outside that stage of puppet theater? I thought about more like this, too. If all these pressing screens replaced clickety typewriter keys what's the big diff? Well for one thing - FORM. You used to have to directly touch controls for technology to work. Now they're all gone. There's no more thing. No more sticks, levers. No more wheels. We're making it ALL UP.

Postage stamps of glass wait for our finger poke and stroke now. Little hungry lillypads for the Circuit Board of approval, all lit up and ready. When they're dark they're truly ugly and look the same, and now you know why.

If we think we're controlling stuff and that stuff isn't even there we think we're manipulating, then our attempt at control is illusionary and futile. We are all definitively dreaming, because the last time I checked, when you frantically pressed buttons or tried dialing phones in a real-ass hurry in a dream or nightmare, it was all imaginary too.

and thus the thunderstorms

Pressing did nothing, and now it does nothing in the "real world" too. The line is gone and we are drowning in MEDIA, the ocean foretold so many many times. She is a tricky One, Flood. Wash away the sins now, or get ready to count the giraffes on board.