The old bad twin – bad twin gimmick…

The Road Goes Ever On…

Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

That ditty by J.R.R. Tolkien sums it up real good like. I have not blogged in forever and I often wonder if I am indeed a blogger anymore. Judging by my posts (or lack thereof) I am, by definiton, definitely NOT a blogger.

Yet here I am – blogging. I think the one thing that has stood in the way of this weblog actually getting the attention necessary to get “off the ground” is my own reluctance to define this project’s direction and, thusly, my own sense of identity.

I thrive on knowing myself as something that is, in a sense, completely ignorant there is a box to be outside and yet I get that rarely. Instead, I work daily to anchor my senses of identity into something timeless, myriad, and in constant flux. I fear that if I blog, I will end up labeling myself and suffering for it as I have done in the past. Perhaps, as well and to an extent, I also fear retribution should I “resurface” in the “reality based community” as one of its leading and independent investigators into parapolitical affairs and if you are here reading this to begin with then there is a good chance you already know of what I speak.

So here I am blogging. La dee da. Ho hum. Really already, am I so starved to see myself in print again that I would post THIS?!?

Apparently so…

The Temporary Autonomous Zone

WILD CHILDREN

THE FULL MOON’S UNFATHOMABLE light-path–mid-May midnight in some State that starts with “I,” so two-dimensional it can scarcely be said to possess any geography at all–the beams so urgent & tangible you must draw the shades in order to think in words.

No question of writing to Wild Children. They think in images–prose is for them a code not yet fully digested & ossified, just as for us never fully trusted.

You may write about them, so that others who have lost the silver chain may follow. Or write for them, making of STORY & EMBLEM a process of seduction into your own paleolithic memories, a barbaric enticement to liberty (chaos as CHAOS understands it).

For this otherworld species or “third sex,” les enfants sauvages, fancy & Imagination are still undifferentiated. Unbridled PLAY: at one & the same time the source of our Art & of all the race’s rarest eros.

To embrace disorder both as wellspring of style & voluptuous storehouse, a fundamental of our alien & occult civilization, our conspiratorial esthetic, our lunatic espionage–this is the action (let’s face it) either of an artist of some sort, or of a ten- or thirteen-year-old.

Children whose clarified senses betray them into a brilliant sorcery of beautiful pleasure reflect something feral & smutty in the nature of reality itself: natural ontological anarchists, angels of chaos–their gestures & body odors broadcast around them a jungle of presence, a forest of prescience complete with snakes, ninja weapons, turtles, futuristic shamanism, incredible mess, piss, ghosts, sunlight, jerking off, birds’ nests & eggs–gleeful aggression against the groan-ups of those Lower Planes so powerless to englobe either destructive epiphanies or creation in the form of antics fragile but sharp enough to slice moonlight.

And yet the denizens of these inferior jerkwater dimensions truly believe they control the destinies of Wild Children–& down here, such vicious beliefs actually sculpt most of the substance of happenstance.

The only ones who actually wish to share the mischievous destiny of those savage runaways or minor guerillas rather than dictate it, the only ones who can understand that cherishing & unleashing are the same act–these are mostly artists, anarchists, perverts, heretics, a band apart (as much from each other as from the world) or able to meet only as wild children might, locking gazes across a dinnertable while adults gibber from behind their masks.

Too young for Harley choppers–flunk-outs, break-dancers, scarcely pubescent poets of flat lost railroad towns–a million sparks falling from the skyrockets of Rimbaud & Mowgli–slender terrorists whose gaudy bombs are compacted of polymorphous love & the precious shards of popular culture–punk gunslingers dreaming of piercing their ears, animist bicyclists gliding in the pewter dusk through Welfare streets of accidental flowers–out-of-season gypsy skinny-dippers, smiling sideways-glancing thieves of power- totems, small change & panther-bladed knives–we sense them everywhere–we publish this offer to trade the corruption of our own lux et gaudium for their perfect gentle filth.

So get this: our realization, our liberation depends on theirs–not because we ape the Family, those “misers of love” who hold hostages for a banal future, nor the State which schools us all to sink beneath the event-horizon of a tedious “usefulness”–no–but because we & they, the wild ones, are images of each other, linked & bordered by that silver chain which defines the pale of sensuality, transgression & vision.

We share the same enemies & our means of triumphant escape are also the same: a delirious & obsessive play, powered by the spectral brilliance of the wolves & their children.

Much more here.

I started out as a luddite…

Luddite: The Luddites were a social movement of British textile artisans in the nineteenth century who protested – often by destroying mechanized looms – against the changes produced by the Industrial Revolution, which they felt was leaving them without work and changing their way of life. It took its name from the fictional King Ludd. [SOURCE: Wikipedia]

I must have been about seven years old when I had a dream that would shape the rest of my days.  Certainly, there were other factors that went into this dream.  Take that I was young and impressionable and living in the early seventies amidst black lights, velvet paintings, and beads in the doorways.

The dream went like this:

I am walking down an avenue in a city.  It’s not a big city but it is urban and concrete dominates what the eye can see, almost.  For there is a new force on the scene, or a re-emerging one.  The streets and sidewalks crack and split open and greenery is seen to be experiencing a renewal.  Small trees can be seen peeking through some of the larger cracks in the street and a mosaic of cement and tough grasses and wild shrubs lead the eye to a long line of old and decrepit storefronts.  It used to be a sidewalk.

Nature is reclaiming and the scarification of our Mother’s face is healing.  Civilization has fallen.  In my heart, even at that tender age, I knew it was a good thing.

I awake with a sense of hope and purpose.  I still feel that to this day.

Please have a gander at my blogroll.  I think you will be pleased that you did.

PEACE!

Psy Ops

“If you give a man the correct information for seven years, he may believe the incorrect information on the first day of the eighth year when it is necessary, from your point of view, that he should do so. Your first job is to build the credibility and the authenticity of your propaganda, and persuade the enemy to trust you although you are his enemy.”

A Psychological Warfare Casebook Operations Research Office Johns Hopkins University Baltimore (1958)

Assignment: What is or what should a weblog be?

Initially, I had decided this blog would be devoid of activist rantings and favor, instead, ramblings of a more creative and inspiring nature.  I also wanted to share episodes of my life with the cyber-passerby so that certain memes might get a fair shot at being appreciated.  The things that I have seen, often, will be very difficult to believe.  This is to be expected since you and I both were likely to have been born into a world of cruelty, unimaginitiveness, and denial.  Denial of what?

That magic is not only real but that, as well, our inability to wrap our brains around what that would mean is making us destroy ourselves for magic is connection to nature and nature is under attack.

At this weblog, I will tell you the truth.  To the best of my ability, I will tell it to you as close to how it happened as my own memories tell me, and I am not error proof.  What I witnessed and experienced from 1992 to 2004 would make a book that many publishers would never dare publish and not just because I start outside the box and lead the reader even further out.  Essentially, it would be politically dangerous.  I myself have had death threats visited upon me and in my face, not to mention a decade of harassment that is difficult to fathom for most.

But I am not here to ruffle parapolitical feathers.  I am here to share and some of that may be politically controversial but it’s not the point.  I just want to tell the story and that stuff is part of it.  If I leave it out the rest really doesn’t make sense.

These things changed me, forever.  I hope I can share some of the inspiration with you.

About that Flag

Here I go: the symbol must always take a back seat to making sure that what it stands for is thriving. We get so lost in the posturing, in posing as we think we should look if we are patriotic, that we forget to be patriotic: like standing up for the power of the people and not just that of those we agree with. If we get too far on one side of the political spectrum, we are likely to run into people who oppose us and encounter realities starkly different from our own (woven together out of different sets of “facts”) and when we cannot even agree on facts, then chances are that both parties are in an isolated political vacuum. Knowing where WE stand depends on our actually desiring to understand the position of those we disagree with. We must RELATE with those with whom we disagree. Too often we merely shout our opposing beliefs in an effort to drown out any sense that there is an opposition, or at least one of much merit.

I sailed the oceans in defense of this nation and I stood for the rights of people to differ from I in both word and deed. In that sense, patriotism has, to me, always been about the vision of America as a crucible of the world’s movers and shakers, a mixing pot wherein world peace is an aspiration, acted out and not just talked about. Many do not agree with me on this. That is their right, too. My patriotism extends beyond just this nation, though, and becomes philosophy, as a result, applicable to all. Who am I to say another is unworthy of attempting to contribute to this dream?

Patriotism of this kind ought never be cheapened by wrapping all its meaning into a mere piece of cloth. Let us not disassociate from it in this way but, rather, live it.