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.
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!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
In Just Seven Days
They will pretend He took seven days to make it all. The sad reality is this: He's not around, never made anything and is in grave danger of dying. It's YOU. Yes, the sad truth here is that creation is coming into Being, not happened once -- when God awakens -- in whatever version you see fit to coalesce -- we're only going to have about seven days to do it right. It's how it works. They turned it all around somehow. Turns out it's us who only gets a week. The audacity of putting God to work!!
I think we better hurry though, because on the seventh day we will work our hardest. I just know the pattern by now.
Kinda Stunned Today
So I never saw the guy sing it really. Just heard the magic. In all honesty I guess I always pictured someone from the past -- a kind of Johnny Mathis ghost. I had heard the adaptation of Leonard Cohen's original "If it Be Your Will" on the I'm Your Man release recently when I Van Winkled into iTunes and "discovered" Leonard Cohen a while back (so I liked Tom Waits, shoot me! That's an awful lot of froggie-throated poet at once).
Now it's the same thing with this Antony. Prepare yourself if you haven't witnessed his other stuff. Also listen to him on NPR in an interview from a 2005 broadcast. Amazing, and angel-like. Yeah I stoop to that. But if one came in your room to sing you to blinding white heaven or the grayest of forgotten purgatories, this would surely be the voice and the melody. He also has a MySpace profile, where he lists his interests as sailors, fish, goblins, light beams, rain, tricks, and crying.
Now it's the same thing with this Antony. Prepare yourself if you haven't witnessed his other stuff. Also listen to him on NPR in an interview from a 2005 broadcast. Amazing, and angel-like. Yeah I stoop to that. But if one came in your room to sing you to blinding white heaven or the grayest of forgotten purgatories, this would surely be the voice and the melody. He also has a MySpace profile, where he lists his interests as sailors, fish, goblins, light beams, rain, tricks, and crying.
Brain Bennedict
So lately I've been reading a few books on the Toltec; there are so, so many out there. They really understood this thing called Reality, and the dream of everyone. Anyway, I prefer the more modern books blended into the self-help sections. They tie stuff to our daily chaos now, and don't get lost in the middle of the archeology and history of it all.
Alchemical psychology - but with neater drawings. Glyphics!
The Toltec, like the co-called "ancient" Egyptians, realized there was a lot more to life than the things in front of you. Like get this simple idea: all that space between stars and planets isn't empty. You put an object up there in space, and it gets illuminated. That is, the space between is filled with light. Not empty, but swimming in light.
And the space between the nucleus and electron shells of the atoms making us up? Same light. Yep - everything is light and maybe a few tiny bits of matter are suspended in it here and there. This light -- it touches on everything I write about, but if you concentrate on the idea that there is no space, essentially, between any of us, between you and the moon, between you and your long lost mother... it can produce a collapsing cascade of false security enough to bring down a entire house of cards.
And who is this conspiracy that prevents us from seeing the Truth? Well, you've been aiding a fugitive all this time. You see, our brains are parasites, keeping us held to the dream. Focused all in unison, all on the wrong thing. Here's the right thing now: Identify the symbols of your dream. Look at the world outside your eyes in this new, nagual way. See what your brain doesn't want you to see, and see how the two dreams can fuse and allow the real stuff to bubble up between.
Alchemical psychology - but with neater drawings. Glyphics!
The Toltec, like the co-called "ancient" Egyptians, realized there was a lot more to life than the things in front of you. Like get this simple idea: all that space between stars and planets isn't empty. You put an object up there in space, and it gets illuminated. That is, the space between is filled with light. Not empty, but swimming in light.
And the space between the nucleus and electron shells of the atoms making us up? Same light. Yep - everything is light and maybe a few tiny bits of matter are suspended in it here and there. This light -- it touches on everything I write about, but if you concentrate on the idea that there is no space, essentially, between any of us, between you and the moon, between you and your long lost mother... it can produce a collapsing cascade of false security enough to bring down a entire house of cards.
And who is this conspiracy that prevents us from seeing the Truth? Well, you've been aiding a fugitive all this time. You see, our brains are parasites, keeping us held to the dream. Focused all in unison, all on the wrong thing. Here's the right thing now: Identify the symbols of your dream. Look at the world outside your eyes in this new, nagual way. See what your brain doesn't want you to see, and see how the two dreams can fuse and allow the real stuff to bubble up between.
Ode to an Atheist Science Kook
I get into discussions all the time about Jesus. I get into discussions all the time about what's big-R Reality. I get into discussions all the time about Truth, and the absence of absolutes.
The more I think of it now, the more I realize I am not getting into anything at all. It is getting into me. And so, it is getting into you too.
Stop looking in the test tube! Observing is making us stick. You and I are the same, and nobody will believe. This is the beginning-end and that is no trick of words, symbols or even game of language. It is a game though. To describe what is indescribable, the Logos becomes, talks to itself incessantly in endless arrays of acts and scenes and, oh the beautiful game of Ego which hath no victory nor purpose.
Just the wind of we. The dream that flows.
Communicate? Oh, please. Each letter is a symbol and its words are trains on which they ride. Right into my head. Your head too. I am in there now. Rules in avenues of percussive punctuation in the Maya you perceive as order. Non-sense, if you will.
As David Byrne says (Talking Heads), Stop Making Sense. Even the Beatles. Now, hit me.
The more I think of it now, the more I realize I am not getting into anything at all. It is getting into me. And so, it is getting into you too.
Stop looking in the test tube! Observing is making us stick. You and I are the same, and nobody will believe. This is the beginning-end and that is no trick of words, symbols or even game of language. It is a game though. To describe what is indescribable, the Logos becomes, talks to itself incessantly in endless arrays of acts and scenes and, oh the beautiful game of Ego which hath no victory nor purpose.
Just the wind of we. The dream that flows.
Communicate? Oh, please. Each letter is a symbol and its words are trains on which they ride. Right into my head. Your head too. I am in there now. Rules in avenues of percussive punctuation in the Maya you perceive as order. Non-sense, if you will.
As David Byrne says (Talking Heads), Stop Making Sense. Even the Beatles. Now, hit me.
Balsa Wood Pilot Guy
You KNOW that was always the best part of the kit.
It came dressed in a thin cardboardy stiffness, wings all flat and even the special "engine" of rubberband and big red plastic propeller attached to praying mantis wheels. And these paper slivers of soft, wet, seemingly hamwood but real tree Styrofoam indeed. Yes, the paper airplanes in candy wrappers! But putting them together was only part of it. Of course it flew -- took off sometimes movie credits good, too. No-one ever saw this of course, only the times you said look and there it went all 911 right before your eyes.
But no, I'm talking about that GUY. He was part of the kit; in my humble opinion (Bisquichinanly large and hairy as it may seem) the BEST part of it.
It was an oblong tab with a pilot printed on it. The side view appearance showed him to be a very intent, obviously military (no dust cropper dreams for boys please) pilot. You just sort of stuck him in there, along the spine of the vertically presented balsa piece passing for the body of the airplane. Like putting a coin away in jewelry case. Click here or on the post title to see a sample of it. I used to make him face the wrong way just for fun.
To fly, one could simply mean ALOFT.
Now the years have gone by and I realize...that pilot guy is us.
The symbol of mighty direction in flight and yet being nothing of the kind. Looking keenly onward-front but mounted only on flying pieces of wood tension strong to a rubber band of flight, and not by the feathers we all really have. Poor 2D pilot guy! There he is, bold as a coin face when seen from one side, mission in the skies of a child! Having no idea really how long the tension will last to support his brief journey in the air, or of whoMever may have wound it up just right or not nearly enough, tab into pre-cut slit-in-the-wood precision but always gruffly placed a little off in hurried fashion for the Great Godchildren to fly your plane with their giggles in the air.YOUR plane.
I think it's us because lately we're always looking ahead somewhere else on the ground even when high up in the sky. It just makes no sense to me at all if Heaven's in the clouds. Always, always -- we're needing a place to land. And you know there's no such thing as land, right? So when you think of him think of you a little. I do now. If you close your eyes and think about it, you may like me remember building these airplane kits too, and when pushing the pilot into position flight after flight, always inward and deeper into the seat of the tiny wood, it was really a symbol to the study of life. Opus Christi, now fly.
If only you could turn and look around.
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