Dye my eyes and call me Pretty

I am the Man Who Loves His Life

the most amazing song ever by the Tornados

http://youtube.com/watch?v=5kYcoD5U2wo&feature=related

Luna Meets New Friends

I'm constantly meeting strange folk in the Desert. They get in my face, they double cross me double quick, finding their own way through the heat. But this time, I met two classy gents who gave me hope that there's a shady tree waitin' for me to get to it. I cross my chest as I wade through this infernal oven.

You Gotta Love a Rebel

Heaven

Just saw the film "Heaven". It was euphoric and ego-drowning in a way that was not sick or disturbing-- you know those films I'm talking about-- sick and disturbing for us-- coke candy for looters and moochers. Like "Grizzly Man". Where you end up becoming obsessed with story and characters to the degree that it is disruptive to your life. Bad dreams, constant confusion regarding the dilemma of evil and human nature and their complex, projecting domino effects.

No, "Heaven" was redemption in a non-depressing way, in an aesthetically-pleasing manner, with a particularly beautiful ending of hope and triumph and sheer coolness. Freedom and the human spirit shine, and you can't help but think that helicopters don't fly that high, but who cares? They do in "Heaven". Giovanni and Cate made magic together. Loved it. 10 stars.

Part I -- Father, Good Godzilla

My father was a good man. At least he was to me. Tried to be, for me. Other people loved him too. (In the clip below, he's the one on the red tractor).



It was my mother who didn't always think so. Which was funny, because he was so charismatic when he was "out there". You know, saving the world with his smile. Maybe that's what it was, for my mom. Maybe what it was, for my mom, was that "smile" and everything behind it. It was like she had x-ray glasses, seeing the sockets of lightbulbs, the inner workings of clocks.



After a few years of marriage, a smile can cease to be a smile anymore. It can be-- well, you know, not fake-- not intentionally anyway. One can feel good and have legitimate problems. But I suppose, it can be a facade-- but only if what is beneath it is always left unexamined. Always swept under the rug, as-it-were.

Perhaps that is how it all began for him. My father, I mean. Most people don't examine what's under the rug for examination's sake. They look so that they can remove what is causing the uncomfortable bump in the floor. Right? Right? I think my father could see that my mother oftentimes got rather addicted to looking. Even when nothing was there. That was the rabbit in the hat for them. She became a hook for him to hang his coat on-- the all-encompassing thick, wool, black coat. The one with the hood. It was so easy for him to hang it on her. You see, he could sense in her this compulsive detective work. I think she seriously resented being his coat rack. But it was so easy for her to stand there, holding his coat for him. Her muffled protests coming up between the seams.

Part II-- Father, Good Godzilla

There were pictures of them falling in love from the beginning. She often confessed that she felt akin to those eyes of his, all-a-twinkle, right from the start. Now that I'm an adult, I can speculate that for many couples it begins thataway. That "driveless drive", that ambiguity of quote, unquote love. After a month, two, three, whatever it takes-- the masks come off and the projections begin to circulate like so much bad breath around the room.



My father was a good man. At least he was, to me. But there it was, this small thing-- he'd forget to put a cork in his alembic and there were many times what was brewing inside of him would simply spill out all over us. He couldn't seem to be able to distinguish what was himself, and what was my mother. It was as though all boundary lines had ceased to exist, and his own interstellar wars from within became major battles within our kitchen, living room, car-- on our outings and on the phone; no place was safe.

The beast came out unexpectedly, and when he did why, he'd smash up everything in site. Even the hearts belonging to the people he thought he loved. As I got older, I began to suspect that my mother would actually go crazy, with this false picture of reality always presented to her as a mirror. Either that or die of a heart attack. But she didn't. She got angry. She became an all-consuming tornado tearing it up on every divorce blog she could find. Self-defeating behavior, finally acquiescing to the images Godzilla threw at her face.

It didn't take Mom long to figure out she didn't like being the bride of Frankenstein. She didn’t threaten to leave. She sadly acknowledged that she would.




(Or, if you prefer Xena)

Part IIl-- Father, Good Godzilla

As strong as my mother tried to be for herself, in the end, she didn't have to leave. It's simplistic to say that Dad simply learned how to tame his anima, but indeed that is what happened. Like spontaneous combustion. That hag within him, his all-consuming Hydra, learned how to speak. English, too. And that's when everything around us started to change. The world suddenly seemed lighter, the air easier-- everything took on a sort of roundness to it. It became, enjoyable. For all of us. All the time.



I asked my mother several times, "what happened?" How did it work, exactly? I wanted the tips for any marital catastrophes looming in my own future. She didn't know. She said something like I could take care of myself, figure out reality from where I stood. In the end, it was all about that. When I approached my dad a month before he passed, he listened in silence, hearing what Mom had told me years earlier before old age had finished its last pages upon their faces. Was it the mirror, Dad? Did you finally take a good look in the mirror? Was it Mom? When she said she was going to leave if you didn't give your monsters a name and a place, was it that? Dad?

Silence.

"The monsters are still there. Always will be," he said. "But that's not really why she wanted to leave." He paused. "Yes. Giving them a name, and a place-- it encouraged me to see them-- help them. But what it really was, is that they helped me. Yes . . . yes, they helped me in point-of-fact, to see her. Your mother. My wife."

Online Fiction

I haven't posted because I haven't even begun to come up with a coherent plan. I had wanted to make a home for Luna's Desert, but I don't know if this will qualify as online fiction, first of all-- and I don't know that I have the time or expertise to even do this. Basically, it would be Luna's apartment and links to shots of the city in Australia where she lives. There would be her bedroom and links to the characters in the story. There would also be bits and pieces of the story through linking to this and that-- like an easy maze-- just link to this and link to that.

The other idea I had was to find already existing video clips and photos from free photo stock sites and link them in a sort of manner which would connect them to a background story of my choosing. This idea is probably easier to do-- it is online fiction-- don't know about copyright issues so much. And there you have it.

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (2006) is a Korean film with beautiful cinematography, stark colors and contrasts, and a solid narrative which is told via great dialogue and superb editing. "Be white, like this"-- a great finish to a story of justice and atonement. As soon as the intro-credits roll with the swirling and indents of finger pads, red liquid akin to red blood rolling down, you're hooked-- and it's not corny or cliche' at all. The unique dark humor reflected in the drama surrounding a prison inmate nicknamed "The Witch" as she throws her weight around, and the revenge enacted on her by her roomies is a great backdrop for the real conundrum ahead: Do you leave scum-sucking dirt bags to the state? Do you pronounce and enforce sentence yourself? "Big sins, big atonement. Small sins, small atonement." It can be gruesomely painful to watch at times, but on the whole, you appreciate the sensual ride and the conclusions our heroine comes to make in the end. As part of a revenge trilogy by Park Chan-wook, I look forward to the other two: Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and Oldboy.

Snowflake Smashing

She's blonde, she's five, and she's trapped in The Desert.

----------------

Luna's relationship with her parents leaves much to be desired. They love her, but they're too busy to help her make sense of her expanding world. When a brass key to their business is lost, Luna must enter The Desert to try to find it and restore balance to not only their world, but hers as well.

----------------

more to follow to finish up the "snowflake process"

I make up stories quite a bit. I especially do so for my daughter, Gretel petal. What would be a lot of fun is compiling them together into a site with photographs of enacted scenes, music, etc.

It'd also be a lot of fun to make an interactive site for my screenplay "Luna's Desert". You could visit Luna's room, visit the Desert, meet creatures there, see Luna's parents-- their places of work, etc.

Another interest I have would be to create a nonpolitical political site. Something like: Obama, Clinton, and McCain have all been shot by a team of unknown sniper ninjas. Oh wait-- perhaps that wouldn't be so nonpolitically political. "All Presidential Ass Candidates Shot" sure does have a nice ring to it though.

Online fiction is awesome- as long as you're sitting at the computer, you might as well jump into a fictional story or enjoy the interaction between real-life computer nerds who are role playing as themselves in fictional circumstances.

There are some fantastic narratives being created as I type. What I find so interesting are the spin-offs of fiction and the different ways to relate and connect with others through fiction. For example, an amazing first-of-its-kind hypertext book "Patchwork Girl".
Now, this book isn't available online, and I don't think you can even download it. So I don't know that you would classify it as online fiction. However, I did find this great review of the book in which the reviewer professes to be the girl in patchwork girl. What's so interesting about this, is that a real review of a real work of fiction is written under the auspices of a fictional character who creates a new fictional reality.

This next reference is a bit tricky. There's a blog spot called "Our Souls Journey" which seems to be maintained and subscribed to by every hippie burnout who's obtained "enlightenment" on the planet. However, the key is that however mystically esoteric much of the drivel may be, the blog seems to operate from a place of nonfiction intent. That being said, I did find a bit of obvious fiction on the site, just scroll down until you read:

'On the very
inner fringes of
primordial creation there was born a constellation of
Seven Stars. As
time passed each was ruled by a Prince and a King
bound them all. They
evolved from the material to the spiritual. In the
spiritual they sought out all creation, seeking to
harmonize, to learn,
to grow and to acquire understanding. Their threads of
consciousness
spread over the Universe as a closely woven yarn,
making the vastness . . .'

You get the point. What is interesting about this particular fiction is that the bloggers generally utilize fiction to emphasize nonfictional beliefs and lifestyles.

How is Liberty Best Preserved in the Desert?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economic_encroachment

It's an extensive topic and I'm movin' as fast as I can. The research is fun, but editing in Wiki is not. Please let me know what sounds like gibberish, what sounds like opinionated rhetoric, and what you like too-- that last bit is what keeps me motivated.

Wikipedia post isn't due in my class until Wed. and I don't know how I got that wrong, but it will be posted by then. It's proving very interesting to research--

Wiki in dire need of article re: Encroachment

I'm going to write a bit about economic encroachment. A brief history of economic encroachment will be the most pertinent aspect of my article to come to a better understanding of its place in our world. As far as Wiki commandments are concerned, I think that fact is obviously most important, and I'll try to make it as cut-and-dry as possible. Up by Sunday.

(Thanks for your comments-- overly ambitious endeavor has been updated)

The History of the Creature

I chose to edit the "History of the Federal Reserve" rather than try to touch the actual "The Federal Reserve" article (which was roughly 15 pages long).

Hopefully my changes will stand, I found that earlier edits had been removed by a ghostwriter.
You can read about the history of The Creature From Jeckyll Island here.

This is an interesting link to an article regarding John F. Kennedy and a bill he signed months before his death.

Off with its Head

Very, very, very difficult to keep my opinions out of Wikipedia. This must be because I hate the Federal Reserve this much ------ oh. You can't see how wide my arms are stretched. They're stretched pretty wide. I look like I'm being racked. Sideways.

The info on the lackeyes at the Fed is extremely long-winded within Wikipedia. I made it about halfway through before I gave up (for now). Check it out if you dare (minor edits) here:

FucktheFederalReserveForeverandEveryIdiotAdvocate

When those who do not wish to expose their finances to fractional reserve banking are not forced to do so at the end of a barrel of a gun, it will be a very good day in the Desert.

The FED owns Wikipedia

A List of Rational and Reasonable Demands for Those who Contribute to and Utilize Wikipedia:

* Reason trumps feeling. Always-- when encyclopedias are concerned.
* Random quotes which may seem to give weight to academic research but actually carry no
weight in and of themselves are not welcome.
* History of subject should be included. Within subjects inclusive of government practices,
history of subject in its entirety should be acknowledged. This would be pertinent to central
banking, for instance.
* Peer review of all information, before it becomes public. I realize that Wikipedia is
peer review. However, there ought to be an economically feasible system in place which
either provides peer review for all edits of material, or a system which acknowledges self-
proclaimed peer review for submissions.
* Classified headings/user friendly.
* Bibliography and links to all research.
* Criticisms may be grouped under their own subheading. However, research presented
in an academic manner ought naturally to also include criticisms within the body of
research pertinent to its topic.
* For institutions, philosophies (including say, Buddhism, Veganism, Christianity, Democracy)
and practices which exist solely by the grace of hypothesis, alternate systems, philosophies,
etc. ought to be listed as much as possible. Contrasts of each to be noted.
* Do not edit simply to edit.
* Be grammatically correct. Spell like your life depends on it. Spell check. Edit. Spell check
again.

I will be editing the information on the Federal Reserve System within Wikipedia. I found this article to be severely biased and the lack of discussion regarding its history warrants a closer look. There were several grammatical and spelling errors, the content is disorganized (not to mention very boring in the way it is presented); while I will not attempt to revamp the entire thing as the subject is quite extensive and the information is very long-winded, nevertheless I'd like to at least include the history of central banking and how the Fed Reserve came into being.

Who

What

Where

When

Why

Your Source for A Brand New Day in the Desert

RESEARCH, ORTHODOX CHURCH

What are some examples of traditional and nontraditional research materials?



"Herodotus"
by: himself
Cambridge Mass: Harvard University Press 1969-1975
(v. 1, 1975) Loeb Classical Library

Questions for thought after Herodotus, a traditional research source:
Does categorizing human events and places into chronological order help us to better understand our history? Does a nonlinear view of history help to avoid past mistakes in the present?

http://www.mises.org/story/2179
ECONOMIC FREEDOM IS FREEDOM-- An online source
What do we think of the "cult of the common man"?


A link to nontraditional resources such as audio, video:
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/jksonc/docs/congress-iraq-war.html

Twinkle Eats Dried Poop

Another day in the Desert. I watch a child play in her bedroom within an 11-story apartment building. She sits on a colorful rug. She is in-between worlds, not a little kid, not still a toddler. She has blond curls and wears a striped dress in green, white, and sea blue with 6 little fishes crossing the front in a row. The rug fills the large room. Its bright orange and green borders frame two panda bears eating bamboo. The girl answers to the name, "Gretel."

She stands up. "Ow," she says, grabbing her bum. "That hurt." She grabs a tall and pink hard-covered book, then stands it up on top of a flat panda's head on the floor. She begins to grab more books off of the drab and brown bookshelf, standing them up around a pink plastic bucket. The bucket is upside down. It has Easter eggs on it. There's a mouse hole cut through its brim which rests on the carpet.

"Makin' a little house out of my books," she discloses, not stopping in her tracks. She wasn't asked, and her report is delivered with a matter-of-fact voice that seems serious and mature, despite the fact its pitch and tilt betray one so small. She's about 3 and a half feet tall. Gretel has set down small blankets, belonging to one of her dolls, and a wash cloth on 2 square boards, making a sort of "red carpet". They're shelves really, the 2 square pieces of board-- shelves of an old cupboard-- she sets her brown and white curly-haired guinea pig among the hallway of books. The standing books are spread eagle, their ends just touching one another. They remind me of Jan Švankmajer's "Alice"-- the end bit, where the Queen of Hearts card lines up with her henchmen.

"I'm keeping her warm," says Gretel as she covers "Twinkle" with a dolly blanket and the cobalt-colored washcloth. And just as the guinea pig starts nibbling on Gretel's books, she exclaims, "Oh no! That's not dinner for you!" She removes the book with small white hands. Dolls hands-- 8 other books remain. The guinea pig moves on to the next pages. "Oh no!" She then knocks the rest of her hallway of books down. Standing up, she turns toward me see a heart clip holding back her hair. "Is my ponytail in the middle?" Twinkle continues to bounce around the rug, its curly hair looking like it was crimped under crimping irons. "They really like their new home, huh?" Gretel indicates the large cage on the edge of the rug. She puts Twinkle inside. Twinkle spreads her claws and seems to resist. "There, there. Time for bed now soon. . ." she pauses, and then, "I'm so happy for my new family." Gretel brought her new pets home yesterday.

The little girl begins to hum while simultaneously chewing broccoli and noodles, the butter from her bite making her lips shine. She seems to be making up the tune as she waddles backward, her hands on the floor swinging like a gorilla. She steps from book to book like a frog on the surface of a pond, jumping from lily pad to lily pad. She scoops them up, begins to stack them. After only a moment, she stands up and moves toward Twinkle and Sally's cage and begins to arranges the small log within. Then she resumes walking on all fours, her rear end sky high as she stacks and stacks the books. It takes about 5 minutes for her to stack 5 books. She farts, stands up without saying anything or looking embarrassed, and moves the stack toward her bookshelf about 2 feet away. "My hands feel like they're feeling guinea pigs." She turns toward me. I scribble away furiously to record these observations. "It feels weird. Like bologna." Gretel doesn't eat bologna. In fact, I know that her mother has never even bought bologna. She cups a small hand up to her left ear, as though she's listening to the sea inside of a seashell. Then she puts the rest of her books away.

Walking back toward me, finished with the books and about to go to bed, Gretel notices a few bits of poop amongst some strikingly similar food pellets. I indicate that some are poop and some are food. Gretel says, "These are dried poop. And Twinkle and Sally like dried poop, because they just eat dried poop." She scoops the pellets and poop up together with a few squares of toilet paper. "It's squishy," Gretel's voice trails off as she walks down the hall to the bathroom.

We found a little nook, my friend and I. It was hidden up, back, behind, and within the gigantic penile structures made of sand. We settled ourselves on the floor of the little cave, taking off our shoes and digging our feet into the pink dusting there that hadn't been touched since the last load of school kids had been bused in on bright yellow buses. Middle-school-sized footprints ran around the space, light pouring through from a skylight in the rock directly above us. Another small window in the putty-colored rock just next to us revealed the angles of jutting sandstone all around.

We were in there to escape the Desert heat, but mostly we were in there to get stoned. I pulled out a 1/4-inch socket from a socket-wrench set out of my jean cutoffs pocket. The set was part of some crap tool kit I kept for emergencies. My sister, Natalie, had given me that set as a Christmas gift a couple years earlier. The quarter-inch socket was never intact. I always hoped I'd never need it, because the inside of it was coated with resin, and I wasn't ever quite sure how it'd handle removing a bolt on a car tire.

My friend drew out a lighter. The pipe was already loaded. I simultaneously handed it to her and set down my camera. Trish had long red hair, and no red freckles. She was a friend that rarely ever smoked, and my room mate had grown this stuff himself (he'd also made a bong to go with it. He absolutely loved the Home Depot). We'd already hiked Wild Horse Canyon the night before, mumbling "ohms" as we did Yoga along the way-- sounds kind of like hippie esoteric bullshit now, but we were just enjoying ourselves. So the following day, up among the heads of the penile structures and hidden from the goblins and 14-year-old boys, we got thoroughly stoned while comparing scars and bras. Even dumb shit seems to mean more when you're out in the Desert. The days are 30 hours long instead of 24, and you're invested in them from the moment the Sun comes up until you fall asleep underneath the panorama of our galaxy. Within the reach of the Sun in that 30-hour day, time lapse means little. It is all warped and pushed with a thrust into moment after moment, and the buzz and hum-drum of cars and nonsensical commercials are absent in the Desert. So your eyes are wider-- like a Madagascar lemur's eyes. But the memory of white noise leaves one slightly suspicious of even pre-teens. We weren't really camping, this trip though. We'd been sleeping in my car, a Subaru wagon, too lazy to set up our tent (My roomate called that wagon "The Gookaru". Looking back, it seems like it was in poor taste. But at the time, I knew he wasn't a bigot, just too clever with words for his own good).

I peaked out the window next to us. Not much to see--- rock blocking our view. I threw some gum in my mouth and we exited back the way we came, descending down a narrow trail back onto the valley floor of the goblins.

Kids from junior high, probably from some desert suburb an hour or two drive away, giggled and strolled in huddled groups or ran round and round the valley. Their shoes leaving marks looking like moon boots in moon sand. We began to have a game with them, shooting their pictures, darting past the goblin penile sentries. It didn't take too long awhile to realize that the goblin sentries themselves were much more interesting than pubescent astronauts, and that's when we began shooting and cataloging them instead. And then, when we were sick of being stoned and playing games, we left the valley and went away. That day it was easy to get out of the Desert.

Posted by Sea nettle Soup at 4:39 PM

A Great Escape

We found a little nook hidden up, back, behind, and within the gigantic penile sand structures. My friend and I settled ourselves on pink sand that hadn't been touched since the last load of school kids had been bused in on bright yellow buses. Middle-school-sized footprints ran around the space, light pouring through from a skylight in the rock directly above us. Another small window in the putty-colored rock just next to us revealed the angles of jutting sandstone all around.

I pulled out a 1/4-inch socket from a socket-wrench set out of my jean cutoffs pocket. The set was part of some crap tool kit I kept for emergencies. My sister, Natalie, had given me that set as a Christmas gift a couple years earlier. The quarter-inch socket was never intact. I always hoped I'd never need it, because the inside of it was coated with resin, and I wasn't ever quite sure how it'd handle doing the real work of a socket.

My friend drew out a lighter. The pipe was already loaded. I simultaneously handed it to her and set down my camera. She was a friend that rarely ever smoked, and my room mate had grown this stuff himself. We got thoroughly stoned, and then we heard voices from below. I peaked out the window next to us. Not much to see--- rock blocking our view. I threw some gum in my mouth and we exited back the way we came, descending down a narrow trail back onto the valley floor of the goblins.

Kids from junior high, probably from some desert suburb an hour or two drive away supplied the voices we'd heard. They giggled and strolled in huddled groups or ran round and round the valley. Their shoes leaving marks looking like moon boots in moon sand. We began to have a game with them, shooting their pictures, darting past the goblin penile sentries. After awhile we realized that the goblin sentries themselves were much more interesting than pubescent astronauts, and that's when we began shooting and cataloging them instead. And when we were sick of being stoned and playing games, we left the valley and went away. That day it was easy to get out of the Desert.

Stumbling through the Desert

A blog anywhere in the world is simply a diary-of-sorts on display for the public. That applies to blogging from the Desert as well. However, a blog in the Desert is also a map of perceived pattern, hopefully demonstrating how best to get out. It's a rudder to steer through the sand.

A trove of outsider blogs help with the sifting to find the lines within some shifting sand. Utilizing and integrating other sources with our own rudder will provide the means of escape from the Desert. One blog we're up on right now in the Desert, is to be found through access to an Electric Umbilical Connecting Interworld Device, or EUCID. From the drop point on your EUCID, try this destination: http://www.neatorama.com/

While this specific pathway takes one to particularly peculiars in the Universe, it is perhaps interesting to note that they do not seem to have much relevance pertaining to the Desert at first glance. For instance, according to "neatorama," there has been made a solar arc building for the purpose of generating power. It is the largest of such generators in this System. However, the predicament of being stuck in the Desert is very much connected with the oddities in ourselves and of those claiming to rule here. "Neatorama" illustrates this by way of connecting us to one of their stories, regarding twins who were separated at birth and ended up marrying each other later in life. Stories from around the Universe are updated frequently.

To encourage frequent visits around the pathways of the Universe, EUCID has an outstanding application called Stumble Upon, reached via this connection: http://stumbleupon.com. Through "stumbling" one can link from resource to resource like mushroom hopping, while building up information databases and enjoying like-minded communities.

For myself, I enjoy community in the Desert, but mostly I just want to get out.