Bow To Big City Dictates

 

The Big City

Part 16 of 28

Once again, the Big City takes us to a dark place. At least it's kind of dark, the shadows creeping everywhere. The barest light is sooner or later extinguished, with what little bit of light that remains flickering with promise, but the promise is next to nothing, then it’s gone. Everything is fairly dark, with moneyed interests and the way they’re forever greasing each other's palms, winking, signalling the separation of groups into those on top and the rest of us. The supposed new day begins, then it’s immediately dark, and that’s all the light we see.

How everything goes to hell like this -- which is my go-to sociological theory no matter where I live -- is a thing both to rue and celebrate, though darkly. Certainly ruing it is warranted, because the response to every injustice ought to be a stand against it. But because this response is never welcome with the powers-that-be, it’s tough to sustain, and is usually met in one of two ways: 1) A passive/aggressive affirming of their stance, then quietly tabling it once you’ve been sidelined; and, 2) An overt rejection, threats, mental/physical harassment, browbeating, criticism both to your face and subversive, or strangulation, or telling you the so-called parable of the Good and Bad Eggs, how the Good Egg sits unmolested in the refrigerator till it’s eventually retired to the dumpster, whereas the Bad Egg is immediately killed and eaten, although not digested but brought again to public shame with heaving and hacking, and all of it with severe prejudice. Ho hum.

But, my friends -- and my expertise in Big City sociology is more or less something I picked up on the fly with minimal experience; I’m a fast learner -- they can’t hide the truth forever. From the great unwashed masses, yes, they can hide it in a sense. Those unwashed masses are happy to live their pathetic unwashed lives constricted like this. It’s the old line about bread and circuses, keep them sedated, docile, and distracted -- mentally stymied, socially sidelined, forever in the vain pursuit of being Top Dog or what have you. Step by step, then -- and there’s lots of baby steps here -- they're finally kept in their place only apparently by force. Once inured, they maintain their station at the bottom rung by a sort of sleepy forgetfulness, knowing next to nothing of their lives. What an objective person would see as constriction, they see as freedom.

Just going over the more cheerful aspects as I have, I also see it as a negative thing. Which is only made worse by our own complicity, failing to keep our minds fresh and free, basically what’s common in the small town setting. There are, however, in the small town the Big City wanna-bes. Cheerful on the outside, but conniving behind the scenes, they want to emulate the Big City, and bit by bit to exercise power toward that end. Example: “Let’s build a spouting fountain in the park!” The unusual unwashed masses think that “sounds good.” In the interest of time, I’ll leave out some of the social progression here. But a couple months later you’ve got your precious fountain, then suddenly the town is the Fourth Reich and in deep. They may as well have moved to the Big City when they had the chance and forgotten the middle man!

It's all so typical, I almost regret boring you with the same old run-of-the-mill details. But the Big City is an octopus with its tentacles around the so-called Master’s legs. And the Master and the others are sooner or later, inevitably, dragged down to their demise.

Positive & Negative Devils

 

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 3 of 30

I’m going out on a limb to say, This devil doesn’t apply to me in any way. I hate the sight of the Devil and that’s no joke. And it’s the same story if it’s the Tarot deck, where there’s a Devil card. It’s never my favorite card to see. Even if there's positive things you can say about it. Any of the others, including Death, are OK and cards meant for me. But if I pull the Devil card, obviously something happened a little out of whack. Perhaps an enemy is walking up the sidewalk in front of my house. Or is just coming around the corner nearby. Or is somewhere else in the Big City daring me to come out for a decisive rendezvous. But I won’t. I actually postpone trips till some other day, beyond taking the dog out to poo. And if I ever saw a Devil walking by when the dog’s out, we'd need a Plan B. Just yesterday, though, the dog saw a pit-bull and went ballistic, while the pit-bull was quiet and well-behaved. Which one's the Devil?

Here our Devil anti-friend gives us his message, “Always give your level best!” Which is kind of a positive message, unexpected, for a Devil. Although it could be he’s not a Devil but just looks like one. Car wreck? Mashed in a machine? Maybe had chromosome or genetic problems and is actually an angel. I wouldn’t bet on it, but they -- angels -- could just as easily have problems. Remember all the angels in movies lacking wings? Although it’s more likely to be the Devil trying one of two things, 1) Pretending to be a former evildoer who’s gone straight, or, 2) Just more deceit whereby to deceive more insidiously.

How that would work precisely is not a subject I’m given a lot of thought to. Just "Anything Can Happen." But as with the Tarot Devil, like alluded to already, he’s not always a negative but a positive corrective to possibly something unbalanced in your life, eating too much sugar, a reminder not even to tell little white lies, or sometimes meant to ensnare you (“Ah, the cute little Devil”), who suddenly has you in his grasp, the pitchfork piercing you with the hottest sharpest tines ever you've felt. They’re pierced in you and you’re lifted in the air like a forklift, dangled over the fire, and at the last second, in pain and just as you’re about to black out, dropped in eternal flames. That’s a little reward for those of you who like things literal and not just seeing them symbolic of discipline and correctives, which is more of a psychological aim.

My “feel-good” advice, while perhaps not 100% true is at least more pleasant than "Go to hell." So, no matter how screwed up your Destiny appears to be, always give your level best. Try to put yourself in the driver’s seat, thinking this logical “truth,” that Destiny generally has a positive side. Try to see the downers you face as a corrective, steering you toward a positive outcome. Don’t be one who quickly gives in to the idea (like I’m prone to do) that Devils are always literally bad news. There’s about one chance in a million that that’s not so, but it’s better than nothing. So go with the flow. However screwed up things appear to be, continue giving your level best.

Whatever you do, keep your happiness intact to the degree that it’s possible. Don’t let the pick-ax hit you on the way out.

Happy New Year, Death To My Enemies

“May old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind...” We sang it last night at the local ball, a gala affair. I shouted at the top of my lungs for a "Happy New Year!" to my old community, town, and burg. Even though, let’s be honest, what've they done for me? But it’s the holidays! And if Christmas this year taught me anything, thanks to a rare movie I saw, it's good to live right, God bless us everyone.

That said, I frankly wouldn’t mind if a few of my acquaintances could be forgot, with the extra bonus of being never brought to mind. Yeah, that’s the ticket, I could use that for a New Year's gift! Perfect for the bastards ... and a few beyoches thrown in the mix. That's women’s progress, right? Having them right in there with the bastards, making my life miserable to the best of their ability. They may be ham-handed morons at everything else life throws their way, but they're experts at being bastards, real pros! No one's gotta lend a hand, they got it!

But it’s tough to open the New Year on a down note, although, frankly, this morning I’m high as a kite. I had a few good dances last night. There was this one young chick, wow, young, must have been 19-20 — I didn’t card her, that’s the doorman's job. And here I am, nearly 67 (but I could pass for 64), dancing with this little filly. Ha ha! Like dying and going to a particularly decent section of heaven, where everything’s blue and the Lord hasn’t gotten around to censoring it. Slow Lord there.

Anyway, she’d had a little too much to drink, thankfully, and I was stone sober like always. And I’m not saying she exactly went overboard with the close dancing — I’d never make that complaint — I'm just glad her dad wasn’t there to take her home. Nothing much happened, I hope you understand, I’m just hoping she doesn’t name it after me! No, no, of course I kid, although, you know, as much drinking as everyone else was doing, and me with my ginger ale, I probably could’ve skipped the country and no one would’ve been the wiser. Also, I always show up blurry on video evidence, don’t know why.

Getting back to the old acquaintances, the bastards, my enemies. There were a few bullies bullying me when I came in, “Hey, old man, past your bedtime!” “Does 'The Home' have a bus outside? We’ll have some blue-haired chicks next!” And one guy bumped into me in the hat room and I dropped my keys. But a helpful angel to my right picked them up and gave them to me. I thought, God, the abuse here is atrocious!

Closer to the serving table, it was more of the same. Friendly jostling for the most part, but there’s always a few in the crowd that look at me like I’m dirt. This one drunk bastard singled me out and was calling me Seabiscuit. I guess the same as saying I’m a horse. And if I’m a horse, perhaps a horse’s ass. I’m not completely sure, but it sounded like a slur.” Make way for Seabiscuit!” He bellowed louder than he had to. The chandeliers, which my mother would’ve loved, were shaking. I thought, I’d love to squash you under my hoof, you blankety blank bastard!”

Then the next thing, one of these evil SOBs suddenly had my car keys again! It was a pickpocket job, just to get my goat. As luck would have it — HIS — he was about two foot taller than me. And his equally asinine friends were nearly the same height. And they were throwing my keys back and forth, with me looking like a complete dweeb jumping in the middle. This went on for a couple minutes, very humiliating. Finally, one guy wasn’t expecting the keys to come to him. He raised a glass to sip another alcoholic beverage, when the keys were flung. He missed and they went by his feet. I grabbed them and crawled through the legs of several other people, bit the actual thief hard on the kneecap, then didn’t come up till I'd crawled to the chips and dip table.

I brushed off my knees and had a few chips. The dip was delicious, sort of like the way one of my aunts used to make it, very good. If only she’d been there. Kids used to say she wore army boots. And even though I never saw them, if she’d been there, she could’ve kicked these guys to the next county.

Happy New Year to everyone else who is good. But Death — temporal and eternal — to the various mofos there are in the world that hate me, Exhibit A being those guys and some of the other troublemakers, as well as the usual everyday people who hate my guts.

Stanley -- The Spirit of Evil

Part 4 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Cases involving people yielding themselves to evil —  body and spirit — are among the saddest to me. But that’s just because they always seem to go the same way, down the tubes morally and socially. But I’m resolved not to talk politics.

Is it wrong to hate evil? I’ve always hated evil. I got it from the Lone Ranger. He was a do-gooder in a world that seemed to have about 12 people. Himself, Tonto, and a few others. The others were evenly divided into two camps, the good townspeople/ranchers and the evil people out to cheat them because of the railroads, claims of gold or water rights. If it hadn't been for this same boring story week after week, I might’ve never learned morality.

And with me in the work of the Psycho Squad there’s always evildoers. Saddam Hussein wanna-bes, apparently, without land to conquer or nations to terrorize. They take their half out of the middle, acting goofy around people, breaking in, trespassing, often getting their jollies under the influence of something strong, booze or narcotics, so they’re only about half there, but it’s the half that’s entirely bad, the worst part. I'd love to run a full-page ad. A big picture of me surrounded with a description of my morality and how I got there. Then some earnest rage tearing people a new one, ripping them up one side and down the other, but ending with a positive plea, "Get with the program, you half-wits!"

In a typical day, the police often call me. It happens more often than I like, because my favorite cases don't involve evil but are just guys who forgot to take their meds and are acting out. I can get those straightened out right away. They go from shackles to home right away and adapt themselves quickly to normal. Five minutes of billing and I'm done. It’s the people who are objectively evil even when times are good that get me down. And someone — do-gooders unaware of my preferences — will call the Psycho Squad. We take down the information, then kick it around. “Does it sound dangerous? Is there someone else we can pawn it off on? Shouldn't we leave a guy that bad for the police? Take ‘em in, throw away the key? It’s not Stanley, is it? Tell me it’s not Stanley! Anyone but Stanley!”

You can almost spell Satan with Stanley if you bought another vowel. But Stanley must not know how to spell, because this loony bin reject half the time thinks he IS the Dark Lord. It’s a sad case. Looming large with his inflated ego. Which is essentially what Satan is, good boy gone bad, left the family and by inflation lacks the smarts to go back. I’m almost of the mind to quit feeding Stanley's ego, because there might not be much left. But if I could get him in a clear mind and explain to him the mythological elements of what he's doing — that he's a base idiot with a Big Idea personified — then he'd have some worries. With the spark of realization and a brick to the head, he might be normal.

This is an issue Hollywood could clear up. Every time they show one of these (ho-hum) Satan programs, run the disclaimer, “The following show is fiction. If you fall for it, the Psycho Squad will get you! They are bad ass and when they're done you will wish you were in hell!”

Grandma vs. Guidance Counselor

 No. 21 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I’m looking at the picture one last time before launching into this and it makes me smile. This might be the best, most decisive evisceration ever of a guidance counselor. But if you have a better graphic evisceration, I’d be happy to set it side by side mentally and judge.

As graphic eviscerations go, it’s hard to say it’s better than he deserves, since in this one case the guidance counselor deserves only the best. It’d be a humbling thing to see the look on his face as he looked at it. I'd get a tingle in my legs. And I’m nice enough, remember, to have sympathy for him, so I'd probably not even show him. But if he had an ounce of humanity at this point, I hope he'd be a little humbled. Of course then he'd get a grip and shake off the humanity and swear it never happened! Or swear it would never happen again because he's now dead...

We ought to have an Evisceration-Off. All you need is the world’s bitterest grudge and a willingness to admit it, then put it in the most drastic terms you can think of. Notice how my guidance counselor never comes in for shades of gray. The ounce of humanity I gave him was a stretch. Because you can’t eviscerate in slow motion or by half measures. It’s not compassionate to the recipient of your grudge. Like skinning a rabbit, it has to be fast. And lest I look bad with that statement, remember, I didn’t start this fire. He was the one in charge, not me.

Anyway, we have here a truly compassionate person, Grandma, telling me that she was just reading an article about women’s boots, something perfectly wonderful, then assuring me that I can do whatever I set my mind to. Isn’t that just like her? The important news about what she was reading became a touching defense of her grandson’s ability to set his mind on things!

Then on the other hand, what have we here but His Unholy Eminence, the world’s most concrete evidence of the existence of a literal devil, the guidance counselor, doing his level worst to cut me down. I need to read his poisonous words again, which I’ve put in his mouth, to get the full impact of his evil: “Whatever it is, you’ve shown you can’t possibly accomplish it.” That's harsh! And might be even too drastic for him, but in putting it that way I’m consolidating numerous slights, interpreting rolled eyes, etc., so naturally it needs to be essentially the opposite of what saintly Grandma said.  She read an article about boots and encouraged me in the same breath. But he does the exact opposite.

Now look at me in the middle, torn between pure goodness and abject evil, not countermanding the guidance counselor or even thanking Grandma for her fashion sense and sense of my righteousness, but speaking from my own intellect on a book designed for children but still impressive enough to be called a psychological tome -- sort of like Dr. Seuss -- of a cat and mouse sharing the same name. Which could be applied to me and the guidance counselor. We’re either two individuals or the same mega-person in an inner titanic struggle — good vs. evil. Two souls in one body, like something from Star Trek, with the Enterprise in mortal danger for about 49 minutes.

I seriously like this graphic more than all the others! One, it gives me a remembrance of Grandma. Two, it takes my breath away to hear the guidance counselor’s verbal poison, and it makes me feel good about myself in the center, an overlooked scholar enchanted about a cat and mouse, while no doubt raising in my own core lessons about guidance counselors and how they go bad.

Was The Lunch Lady A Hag?

I had an unfortunate run-in the other day with a couple of friends from childhood. You always think it’d be great to get the old gang together, then you know it’s a disaster when you see them more than five minutes. But having my home base right there in town — when I’m not in the Big City — such run-ins are guaranteed unless I'm in disguise.

Flashback, these guys were the terror of the lunchroom, holding sway over all, and once battling the lunch lady royally for something like four days straight. Sometimes I'd be at their table, sometimes not, depending on what note I had or didn’t have from my mother. Me, though, I thought of lunch as a time to eat fast and get outside, not something to get in trouble over.

OK, the talk in this recent meeting focused on whether the lunch lady was a hag. Benny said she was definitely a hag, the very definition, and even alluded to a particular edition of the dictionary, without citing it specifically enough to verify his claim, that her picture was published adjacent to the entry "hag." I waved it off, but he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles (of any publisher) that it was so.

Be that as it may, I’m a grown man, I’ve put aside childish things. I don’t even think calling people hags (for the sake of argument let's say lunch ladies are technically people) is even a thing we do anymore. Now, today, supposedly, there's a more enlightened way of dealing with people. They're considered to have the same dignity as everyone else and should not be diminished in any way with terms that detract from their full value as members of collective humanity. Or something.

It is true, however, that one guy can be a real bastard or one lady an obvious bitch, etc., and if we’re not willing to call a monster a monster, then we’re dishonest. There’s good people, there’s saints, there’s bad people, there’s evil seeds, there’s dipshits, morons, dweebs, and losers. All, however, with each one having the full value of human beings, even if they have gone off the tracks for some reason — stupidity, lack of insight at the chromosomal level, or something about the inner person being soured and them being consequently rotten to the core. But I don’t want to make this political. A decent guy like me could get killed by some of the halfwits, morons, and losers we see these days. I will stay out of that all together, except for the bitching I do in private with other decent people.

Anyway, I did my best to steer my old friends (losers in their own right) away from dehumanizing language like “hags.” I don’t think Mrs. [lunch lady] was a hag, no sir. Was she thoroughly the wrong person for the job of lunch lady? Did she miss her true calling of lion tamer? In our modern age, would she be charged with child abuse? That’s an interesting question. She might've avoided charges because she was slippery. But back then we didn't have video surveillance. So she could get away with the despicable defense of, "Who do you believe? Me, the responsible lunch lady, or a whole gym of irresponsible halfwit eyewitnesses?" I'm sure she had lots of bad days, but did that make her a hag? There was a lot of pain in her withered soul, but “hag," I won't go that far.

So I offered excuses for her: 1) She was popping pills and that would obscure anyone's judgment. 2) She had friends who were also lunch ladies, but they served more prestigious schools; her bitterness of spirit was compensation. 3) The hairnet she was forced to wear was much too tight, constricting blood flow to her head, making her semi-wacky.

But my old friends couldn't see anything past the starkest black or white. The lunch lady was a hag, a bitch, in short, a despicable troll, rotten to her withered core with no redeeming qualities that could ever lead her from the world of the hopelessly lost to the new world of politeness, etiquette, and beauty that we share today. I had to get out of there and quick. Another five minutes and we would’ve been pissing on her grave. And my time’s valuable. I'm not running across town when the bathroom's only 20 feet away.

Happy Feather of Maat New Year

 

See the scales?

On the left is your heart and the feather of Maat on the right.

Let me start by wishing everyone the Happiest and Healthiest Feather of Maat New Years Day! It's my sincere hope that everything about you, from the least little indiscretion to the very worst sins of your life, are steadily balanced out with the feather of Maat. Because that's the thing; you don't want any of your nastiness to be heavier, because ... [throat-cutting gesture].

Isn’t that the greatest wish, for your life to be balanced? Because right off, we’re dealing with judgment, getting it out of the way, trusting that Maat and her feather will save the day, then the week, and finally the whole year. Then at the end of the year, when someone wishes you a regular Happy New Year you can say, “What? Nothing’s been the slightest bit bad for me till now, and I imagine next year will be great, too, thanks to the feather of Maat!”

Oh yes, this is a life giving wish. A friend turned me on to the whole feather of Maat philosophy, and you might say I didn't take it seriously at first. But I've found that paying attention to things is key to transforming your life. Even if your goal is to be the world’s worst ogre, you have to pay attention to it; it doesn't just happen. And it goes for good things too.

So this friend — we'd been discussing the nature of applying world teachings in a practical way, then he applied it to himself so diligently he went crazy and died. Because when you step into the craziness, you’re caught in it, and that's a heavy bag. But you're not him, so please don't despair quite yet. Because when you’re in the worst thicket of craziness, close to tearing your hair out, a clearing also appears, and, if you see it, sunbeams stream down, the sky takes on a hazy shade of heavenly, and your life is new! This is true and good. I’ve been through it a few times, and though I'm falling apart bit by bit, I'm generally OK.

Back to this Maat thing, I heard of it, immediately saw its value, applied it to myself, and by the usual weird quirks of grace, the job was done, the mission complete. And it helped that I had already heard enough in passing about Maat’s feather that I was able quickly to extrapolate from the beginning to the end. And now I’m telling you, just me and the feather, and you...

So what's it all about? To get the whole story, contact an ancient Egyptian priest or priestess. Because what do I know? I immediately staked out my own little place and gave it my personal spin. As far as I'm concerned, the feather of Maat is license to live your life as graciously and coolly as you choose. I think that if you're convinced about the feather, that it's the same weight or only slightly heavier than your karma, it's so.

Does that mean you will never get a different verdict? Well, never say never. I only like to look on the bright side of things, but naturally it's something to consider. There's some disconcerting things about it. Which is, if you screw up too much, a dog called Anubis eats your heart. But I don't know how literally things like that should be taken. Taken in its more literal sense, you'll have a vicious mythological dog eating your heart, and when it's gone, it's gone. But it could also be, 1) An idle threat to make you more careful; or, 2) An occasional headache or pimple. But remember, my friend went crazy and died.

In my opinion, though, sincerity counts for a lot, and attention. So you basically need to be sure yourself how good you are. Maat probably takes your word for it, and that's true or false depending... Is my outlook convincing to me? If yes, then I guess it is! So I'd just go whole hog, or something just less than that. And stay home if I got a zit or went crazy.

Now, just to get you started: Keep your own behavior as far below the weight of the feather as you can and you’ll likely be fine. But how do you determine the weight differential? There's some guesswork to it. But who else could know? It has to be you alone, and Maat. And Maat is sort of like your mom, or another force of good, saying, “Yeah, yeah, you’re OK, keep up the good work!” Or, "No, no, stop it now. Danger, danger, you're zapped!" Don't blame me, get a time machine, go back to ancient Egypt.

Happy Feather of Maat New Year!

My Better Angels

There's a bitter struggle going on inside the soul of man, I'm told. Friends tell me how they're torn from two directions, good and evil. It sounds dreadful, frankly, and I guess one of my biggest fears is that something like that might someday happen to me. Hope not!

Even in my innocence, however, I have not been entirely clueless about these things. I too see multiple paths and choices, which, however good my own options are, are enough to make me understand that not everyone is as fortunate. I'm often torn -- riven -- between two very good choices. Do I do this, something good, or this other thing, also good? It gives me pause. Fortunately a flip of the coin resolves the question, which, for me, is divinely determined.

But for my friends--- It sounds hideous for them. They've told me things that have made my hair stand on end, and goosebumps have been another reaction. I've had to wonder at those moments if indeed I do have it somewhere within me, like them. I wonder, How do I understand these things, never having experienced them. I can only resolve it like this, I'm just smart, or, again, it's divinely determined. Whatever the truth, Saints Be Praised!

It could be the saints, or it could be the angels. We've all heard the line about having "better angels." But they're not always successful (in others), leaving the field wide open for "worse angels," who, although they're worse tend to best the better! Ironic and weird. Boggles the mind. Definitely something for further exploration, as long as the taint of evil doesn't get on me.

My own saints and angels are very good at all this stuff. This is all literally true, in case you're wondering. As I think back, they came to me at a very early age, and just stayed. I don't think I'm bragging by saying I made a good home for them. They found me in innocence and they never left! What a great job for them. If you're an angel, you don't want to be assigned to someone who's going to immediately fall. That's a good way to be called on the carpet, the Big Carpet! But if you can luck out and get a charge like me -- someone never falling -- imagine how that looks on an angel's record. Looks fantastic.

I should apply -- I really should! -- to have all angels removed and see if I could do it on my own. I bet I could. I've had enough experience by now, no matter what the temptation. Even if there was no angel to help, I'd avoid it, stand up to it, and prevail! No doubt. I really think I'd be OK.

But, and this is important, I'm listening to my better angels right now, and they're saying not to go for it. So at this point, I'm not doing it. They've never deceived me yet, that I know of, so I'm very sure they're telling the truth now. The clear message is that I might not actually be that strong on my own. And once I tasted sin, there's no telling what it might do for the future. I better keep my better angels, and stay pure. Great advice!

Stay true, OK? Yours for clean living, Dbkundalini out.

Great Caesar's Ghost

Was Julius Caesar evil? I'm asking. For once in my life I'm not trying to conceal my ignorance. I know virtually nothing about him. I tried to read him in Latin one time. But not knowing Latin it was a tough go, and I made it up to about page 4. I know he traveled around doing stuff, to England, building walls, etc., but that's about it. And I read Shakespeare, the play where he got killed midway through.

My other exposure was the Adventures of Superman episode where he (apparently) comes back from the dead and appears to Perry White, who has a catchphrase, "Great Caesar's ghost!" The way that episode goes, if memory serves, is that it's just more Adventures of Superman two-bit thugs out to swindle Perry for a few bucks. I love the old Superman show, but there was never much there.

For my purposes today, Great Caesar is very evil, and his ghost, being him, is also very evil. And that's me saying it, who basically doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, I've had some scary moments in my life where I've imagined there were ghosts, like when I was a little kid. The last thing I wanted to be dealing with -- and my main Superman days were when I was little -- would've been Great Caesar's ghost!

It's easy to imagine the ghosts of the great -- the infamous great -- was being around. They were larger than life, therefore they're larger than death. They did their mean crap when they were alive, and now that they're dead, they still have the moxy-on-the-ball to get out there and do mean crap. I could probably toss out Hitler, since he always comes to mind when it comes to evil. And Julius Caesar, whose evil I'm not even sure about.

Whatever the reason, he's back with a vengeance, no doubt because he's dead and wants to share his misery with us. He's a ghost, that's one word for it, but he's also a shade, a somewhat freakier ghost. You see him when the light's right, and before you can get a handle on what you're seeing, he's gone!

What precisely he's sharing of his misery, I haven't had personal experience. Except I know it can't be good. Likely much of it's passive, afflicting the vulnerable. Like Perry White, who was very vulnerable in that episode. Tired, dragged-out, listless, with very little resistance. He needed Jimmy Olsen and Jimmy's pal, Superman, to help.

All evil must be dealt with. Please vote Democratic.

Mt. Olympus and the Pits of El Cid

"If anything was ever said wrong in this lifetime, that was surely it. And now, with my boldness, with my mistake, I have been hurled from the heights of Mount Olympus, all the way to the gloomy depths of El Cid." -- From my morning meditation, thinking of a recent (massive) failure in speech.

Here's a teaching I've kept in reserve, hoping that one day my readers would show them worthy of receiving it. My hopes have long been disappointed, as I suspected would happen, but I have a terrific sense that the time has come anyway. It currently applies to me.

I want to teach a little bit about the difference between Mount Olympus (good) and El Cid (bad), as these opposite concepts/locales relate to the things we say, our speech. Olympus being good, of course that's what we strive for. El Cid being evil, that's what we so often settle for, a big mistake.

But, you say, historically El Cid is supposed to be a beautiful place, a place of goodness. Not the way I see it, Cid being related to sin or, more immediately, Tom Sawyer's brother Syd, a true snake in Eden.

Was it something I cid? Said or did? Certainly. I've cid plenty, and you can't take back what you cid. The tongue is a world of fire, of evil. Rooting itself as it does in the rottenest part of your soul. What makes a soul -- the highest expression of the person -- crash and burn faster and meaner than that? As long as I'm secure in one place, not stirring, uttering not a peep, I'm OK. But where there's movement there's trouble. And with movement comes expression, verbal blather, verbal garbage, the whole dump truck of written or spoken vileness.

The only antidote -- or solution -- is to remain in one place, be physically still, and keep your fool mouth shut. Am I right? That's what they say in meditation: You want to sit still and focus on one thing, that hopefully becomes no thing, so that you're again in the non-dual realm of Mount Olympus, i.e., the highest place, heaven.

For many of us this is hard to maintain. It's certainly been tough for me. Whereas I might sit there silently -- I'm thinking of myself in a group now -- at the last minute I open my mouth and all is lost. The Olympus investment I made is suddenly sunk by the junk bonds of El Cid. It's happened so many times it's not funny.

And I know where it's rooted, those stinking college courses where part of your grade is dependent on participation. You sit there silently all semester, then realize you're going to flunk if you don't speak up by the last session. By now -- and this is straight out of our group dynamics experience -- the groove of the group is deeply chiseled, the pecking order of talkers being long established. The fact that you're suddenly blurting something out, and clearly to meet the participation requirement even if it's by the skin of your teeth, makes you a shame in their eyes. They are in Olympus, but you are hopelessly mired in El Cid. Same old story.

I hasten to clarify, however, that Mount Olympus, despite what I just said, is a thoroughly positive thing, the very opposite of El Cid. On Olympus the gods are assembled in one place, the correlate of being alone with your thoughts. In the wastleland known as El Cid, knowing that you've broken the silence, and the filth hole on your face has spewed forth its muck and mire, that which is most despicable in the depths, you're in the depths.

You can tell -- I hope you grasp this -- that to be an extrovert is to constantly fail, to sink as it were in the quicksand of El Cid. No one wants to be around you. Everyone wishes you'd shut up. But to be an introvert -- like cleanliness -- is next to godliness. Clearly the reason is that with silence you're on Olympus (or closer), although, as is well known, you can still spoil it and once again fall to El Cid.

With my mind, then, I honor Mount Olympus, but with my mouth El Cid. How may I be delivered from such a fate? Thanks to the gods of Mount Olympus, my natural homeland is not El Cid! My daily prayer -- join me in this prayer now -- is for Olympus to keep me far from El Cid, in my spirit and daily life. May it be true for all of us! Although I know it won't be.

The NSA and Baby Monitors

Welcome to the true nanny state, as our National Security Agency (NSA), with their great success at surveillance on all other fronts, turns its attention to the last frontier, baby monitors. These limited communication devices, usually with such innocent messages -- "Good baby," "Baby wet," and "Hey, Mom, get your butt in here!" -- can also be channels of deceit and intrigue, detrimental to national and international security.

They say kids are growing up faster all the time. We've all seen that's true. Kids shooting one another, kids blowing up schools, and of course, kid entrepreneurs buying up multinational companies and burning them to the ground for the insurance. With schools -- this is no laughing matter -- kids are developing a war mentality: "If I'm old enough to go to school, I'm old enough to vote and drink." It's a lot different from when I was a kid. If the teacher saw you with a knife, let's say, she gave you a thumbs up and we continued our mumblypeg game. But the downside was we couldn't vote or drink.

Now it appears, we're facing an even more insidious enemy, the innocent baby. Think of Vladimir Putin. Is there a bigger babyface than him on the international scene? There actually is, Kim Jong Un, but we've got him contained. That leaves Putin, who, with his KGB background has brought the old Soviet mindset to our shores in the most despicable manner possible, in our freshly-minted youngsters, fresh out of the womb, fresh into the party! Communists!

Look at the way they do it in hospitals. The babies are in a little commune behind glass, one big happy family, sharing and sharing alike, identifying themselves by party colors, pink and blue. I think I've got that right. Pink field, blue sickle in the corner. It's only right that the NSA would do their best to protect the homeland, gathering and massaging all the intelligence they can get. I know they even have a number of my calls by now, checking around as I have with various baby stores about monitors in researching this article. Some creeps google pressure cookers -- and not just Grandma -- I google baby devices. Both dangerous to do.

Anyway, we've always looked at these monitors as completely innocent, because Mom, and to a more limited degree Dad, thought they needed them to keep Junior or Princess protected. God forbid they soil themselves and they miss their immediate cry! They might have to lay in their own filth a few seconds. Seriously, my opinion, we've been babying babies far too long. We should let them experience life as it really is, tough. Lie in it, kid! Learn what Desitin's for! Of course we wouldn't let them suffer to the point of demanding the vote and liquor, just give them moderate toughness, of the right kind, American toughness.

But no, instead, by babying them various party apparatchiks have taken advantage and infiltrated the nursery, knowing the little buggers would reveal information via the monitor. "What's your father up to?" "Burning flags in the basement." "What's your mom doing?" "Something with a breast pump, sending milk to Russia and Red China, hoping to develop super warriors, that America be destroyed from within and without." God, that's insidious! Who was it who rued "The Enemy Within"? One of the Kennedys, Churchill, or some bigwig like that? They didn't expect the enemy within to be so young ... and apparently so helpless!

Then there's kids who aren't merely passive and accepting of outside schemes. There's the ones with brains -- probably reincarnated Cold Warriors -- who know where the grids are and what grids do and can be made to do. They're the ones who immediately know how to communicate via these obscure radio frequencies -- baby monitors -- the plans of a mastermind: "We'll meet at the docks. The soldiers are hiding in tuna barrels. You'll know them by their breath, smelling of fish. Get there by 8:00 p.m. Bring mayo."

I have to say, friends, I'm glad -- you don't know how glad! -- the NSA is on this. And patrolling neighborhoods all through our threatened land. Recording baby monitors and protecting democracy from future generations, hopefully never to be born.

Tricky the Demon -- Itching's Alt Consciousness

Previous "Itching" links:
Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?
Secret Journal -- Scratching an Itch (or Not)
This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh
 
I feel a little guilty, but I'm overcoming it more and more. The short answer to guilt is obviously I wasn't cut out to be an ascetic. Whether not-scratching actually does you any good, it's looks like it can. But there must be some evolutionary reason why we scratch. It was probably those who didn't scratch who were overrun with bacteria and died. It explains why we have fingernails, and it's not just to give nail salons something to do.

I did my best with the idea. I had the idea suddenly one day that if I didn't scratch that might mean I'd be transported into other realms of consciousness. I'm always getting ideas like that, when I should just sit quietly after one comes and ask myself, Is it really likely that every stupid stray thought is a revelation? Or pick an idea and stick with it. If it succeeds, great. If it fails, at least I stuck with it. They used to advertise cars going 0 to 60 in 8 seconds. That's how fast I act on impulse.

Still, even as I think of it now, it makes a certain amount of sense. Portals to alt consciousness exist, and are likely round, and you can easily picture a round space encompassing every itch point. Even with my lack of discipline I'm smart enough to know that. But everything's changed now -- for the better, I hope -- and I'm back to scratching.

You'd be amazed at the heroic measures I took over the last couple weeks. I didn't shower for a week, thinking the more clogged my pores got, the more I'd itch, and the faster I'd attain the alt realms. I was half right. I had five times as many itches, but the commensurate realms were few. Until! I did have one, but at first I didn't think of it as alt consciousness. By and large, as my discomfort rose, I had only discomfort. It felt like things were crawling on me. Honestly, I had to look a few times, and I believed I saw something darting behind me when I was near a mirror.

So that was the alt realm! Which confused me, because it didn't seem like a reward for not scratching, because it had more to do with tempting me to scratch. Weird, huh? But that was it! I did the ascetic thing and the alt realm came disguised as sin. Which I hesitated over but gave into. Now I see, it was the reward, the payoff. Like I said, at my lowest point, I thought I saw something darting behind me, and finally I caught a glimpse in the window. There was a being ducking and hiding. I called out to it, and the name Tricky the Demon came to my mind.

Who, it turns out, was only ducking and hiding because he wanted to see me really squirm, I mean, really really squirm. Maybe for my own good, but still ... sadistic little bastard. I'll skip over the preliminaries. He told me he was here so I could go back to scratching. I resisted with all my might! I shall not scratch! But he was persuasive, saying he had the injunction to come up and assist me.

His voice was like honey, sweet to the ears, seductive like a beautiful woman, although his form, reddish, deformed, and obviously demonic was much less of a turn-on. He said in words so soft and sweet how gooooood it'd feeeeeel to let myself gooooo, etc, with very drawn out seductive language, like maybe he was selling Calgon. I said I felt bad about scratching and he had an answer for that. Which turned out to be a Magic Butler, materialized here for the job of scratching me!

So I went out for the day, trailed by Tricky the Demon and my Magic Butler. Every word of this is true, by the way. Maybe I started off confused, but this was the only alt portal I was going to get, and it was a fantastic one. In addition to scratching me, the Magic Butler is doing all the things that regular butlers do, more or less by the wave of his hand. And Tricky the Demon and I have been luxuriating on the couch, binge-watching old movies and eating free Whitman Samplers that he's teleporting in from somewhere.

I love it. All the luxury I'm getting, Tricky isn't making it, it's teleported in. Anything I want, I haven't paid for a thing. And apparently it's all untraceable. I'd guess the warehouses would have video cameras. But all they'd pick up would be the thing vanishing. Heck of a way to live, I know, but I don't see a downside. Tricky really is the Prince of Tempters, and so far I'm not noticing any ill effects. It's all great.

Anyway, I've changed my opinion 100%. Itching is out; full, free, and purposeful scratching is in. It really is true, you barely see anything when you fail to scratch. But when you're scratching -- I mean going at it with the full force of gusto, just short of drawing blood, all of life is open to you and the possibilities are endless. This is the greatest thing I've ever experienced. And that covers a number of things, of which the less said the better.

The good news, I'm back to scratching. The Magic Butler's scratching me, and himself once in a while. The places I can't reach, or don't want to because I'd have to wash my hands, I'm letting him get. Everything in front, above the waist and in plain sight, I'm going for. Tricky lies on the couch and looks at me, a playful smile. His eyes scrunch up when he smiles. He's truly delighted to see a guy in comfort.

So this is my thing now! It all worked out and it all makes sense. Alt consciousness comes from scratching and the grace of Tricky and the Magic Butler coming at my lowest point. I'm like Martin Luther King, Jr. -- I went down the mountain, I came back up, or however that goes. I imagined I saw it from afar, then I lived to arrive there, and now my children -- which I'm going to need a woman to get some of -- will someday play with children of the opposite color and be judged by their character, which will likely be very much like mine, beyond reproach.

I'm very blessed. I got alt consciousness from itching and scratching. Which maybe, like Dorothy said, I had all the time. But like her in Oz and waking up, maybe the Magic Butler and Tricky the Demon are just guys in the hood, the mailman and one of my cousins. With a bunch of old Whitman Samplers. They seem real enough. Life's still full of mysteries, like a box of chocolates, teleported in from somewhere. Over the rainbow?

Our Shared Earthly Experience

Like me, you were probably thrilled to see the picture of Earth sent back from Saturn. Because it's such an enormous distance, and because the Earth looks smaller due to that, and because they didn't use a zoom lens, the Earth came out looking merely like a tiny blue dot.

Seeing the smallness of our planet, and realizing that all of us are together on it, has really made me think. Such philosophical questions as, "Why can't we do better as one common global human family?" Then I remember, it looks small, but it seems bigger when you're actually here ... and the craziness of people can't be entirely controlled. There's good and there's bad, and possibly a mixed group in the middle.

The good are all gathered on that dot. There's me and my family, always a people of self-aware virtue in both behavior and philosophy; we've got it going on. The world goes on with some regularity partly from this reservoir of virtue. The fact that there's not one killer hurricane after another... You get the idea.

Then there's the other good. Mostly little old ladies. How little old ladies ever got so good is a whole topic in itself. They had the childhood for it: a fascination with life, a rich imagination through books and quality toys, love for nature, a solid family life, a father with a stern mustache, regular meals (which they helped prepare), and they've always been serious but genial. There's also good little old men, but their "goodness" is mostly just because they've slowed down.

On the dot there's also the bad. You about have to assume that if you're not a little old lady or a slowed-down little old man that you're in this group, or close to it. These were the ones out waving and then wanting to spot themselves on the picture from Saturn. Very vain.

I actually had a very humble attitude about the picture, and was even a little fearful. I didn't want to look at first, because I was afraid my messy garage and shaggy half acre would stick out, dwarfing the sequoias. But even with a magnifying glass I could still just barely make them out.

There's a lot of people who agree that they're bad, without question. You've heard of Original Sin. They say it affects everyone, that is, everyone but little old ladies and the occasional old man. So I'm not saying anything that the world's great faiths haven't already verified. Still, even these folks see some need to qualify Original Sin's implications, meaning you can still be practically good or practically evil.

So I'm thinking more of the practical bad. Thieves, robbers, child molesters, cheats, speeders, scam artists, spammers, those who are late for appointments without giving 24 hours notice, those who make fingernail noises on chalkboards, Evil Samaritans, doping athletes, dog haters, irresponsible industrialists, Republicans in Congress, nitpickers, mass murderers, poachers, and guys who dress up in Sasquatch suits. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Please, next time they take a picture, stay inside!

[Cue the swelling, inspirational music:]

Our shared experience on this little dot, this planet Earth, is such that we need to make progress in the things of fundamental decency. No longer may our desires be selfish and completely out of control, with an constant push for bigger and better, regardless of the consequences for all. We must live like we're expecting a brighter tomorrow, because if we don't, tomorrow might not come. And I for one want to fall asleep tonight in a world that I want to wake up to tomorrow. Just like yesterday, only better.

Why You'll Never See Me In Black

Probably all of you remember Johnny Cash being "The Man In Black." He wore black, he talked about his clothes, he wrote a book called that, and he had a hit song of the same name.

Now that he's gone, you don't hear much about it anymore. Which is why I want to reopen the subject for a new generation. Because now, thanks to the world's progress, there's no more reason to wear black. And if Johnny Cash were here today and able to look around at our progress, I'm sure he would agree, and purchase some lighter threads.

Remember his song, "Man In Black," in which he explained why he wore black? He sang:

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

Right off the bat we see where he's going. Back then there were folks who were called poor and beaten down, folks who were hopeless and hungry. So to address that, Johnny Cash wore black. Of course there was nothing about his clothing that told the story itself. He needed to spell it out for us, then whenever we'd see him in black, we'd know what was going on.

But hallelujah! There's no more need for black, now that everyone has enough for his daily needs, now that folks are no longer beaten down, and now that no one is hopeless or hungry. And the prisons are empty. Most of them have been torn down, there being no more need for them. If I felt like wearing black today, I'd have to come up with a whole new set of reasons, because with progress we've eliminated the old ones. That's great news!

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Again, hallelujah! There's no one, except maybe newborn babies, who hasn't read or listened to the words of the Lord. All of us in this more enlightened time, thanks to the strides of progress of the last 30 years, have easy access and eager minds to imbibe the wisdom of Christ, as he speaks still about the road to happiness through love and charity. We've not only had the teachings, we've lived out their spirit. So ... no more need for black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

There's no more sick, there's no more old who are lonely. There's no more reckless ones taking bad trips. There's no more need to mourn the lives that could have been, because they're all living to a ripe old age, thank you very much, and enjoying their lives immensely. I'm thinking the last piece of the stanza had to do with guys who were fighting and dying in Vietnam. Of course that's long since over with, and because the world has found a way to live in peace, everything now is great. Black is definitely out!

Johnny Cash was, I hate to say it, the definition of pessimism. Read this depressing verse:

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

First, he thinks "there's things that never will be right," saying he knows that! Unfortunately he isn't with us today to eat his words! He didn't imagine the golden age that has opened up to us, where every evil has been dealt with and everything good, right, and proper is the order of the day. And yet, look at the last piece, he at least had the optimism to imagine that we might "start to make a move to make a few things right..." What?! "Start to make a move..." and "to make a few things right." It's not as optimistic as it sounded on first hearing, but only then -- only then -- would we, might we hope to see him wear a suit of white!

The big finale drives home his pessimism and his despair at having to always wear black:

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.

He'd "love" to wear a rainbow everyday, he'd "love" to tell the world everything's OK, but, alas, he couldn't. If only he'd lived, he would have seen that day come, that day of rainbows, happiness, fulfillment, and righteousness. Instead, as he shuffled off the stage, he sounded a Suffering Servant/Christ-with-His-cross tone, "I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back..."

You know what, that's a far out thought! Maybe after Johnny Cash's death, his atonement amounted to something in glory. Maybe that's how we got the switch, how everything started coming up roses. Johnny Cash's clothes saved the day. In glory, his having been clad in black ... saved the world! Stranger things have happened!

So, up there somewhere, today, Johnny Cash has to know the world's Golden Age is here. Injustice, heartache, and all forms of evil have been dealt with. Mankind is in harmony with his brother once and for all! And that's why you'll never see me in black!