- Nothing wrecks me like a photo of an animal killed for fun and/or treasure
- nothing bombs me more than a video of an animal wounded and left for dead after poachers hacked off the horn and the rhino is crying as vets try to save
- it's still all I can see
- The hate
- makes me realize my hate for Republican shitsmears and motherfucking Democrats a hobby
- Republican shitsmears and motherfucking Democrats work for the same assholes as poachers
- Our ruling sociopaths willfully (and
- happily if they think about it at
- all) ruin planet for profit
- what's the threat of a rhino extinction to them but a warning to go kill one now and/or get horn's dust for imaginary boner while product still available
- Same calculation applies to you
- Earthgirl and I rediscovered that a half mile from our house walking in the rain Sunday past
- (w/o comma)
- I stopped thinking about the rhino for a minute or two
- I'll play.
- Our sociopath overlords, hoo-wee, our sociopath overlords killing the planet beneath the story of birth in House of Windsor in NYT webpage 20:45 EDT last night
- Blowback, Russiagate, 2020
- Our Sociopath Overlords, they've already opened a Micronesian sports book taking bets on American Civil War II, World War V
- But it is worse than that
- Cornelius Cardew born 83 years ago today:
This sweater is made from only the finest, softest underhairs of the Mongolian camel.
“Fancy-schmancy,” my father would have said,
whose snazziest sweater was still a declassé
synthetic from the sweatshops of Taiwan. My friend
Deloris, however, who really owns such clothes,
would say “exquisite” or “sublime”—her opened closet’s
row of shoulders teases late-day bedroomlight
along such textures, there are days when the laboring brain
and throbbing crotch appear to us to be not much more
than her wardrobe’s tasteful accessories. “. . . woven
from genital-down of prepubescent yeti, and then
hand-sewn in our undersea domes.” “Untouched
by anyone other than albino elves, this wool is . . . .”
Rarefied—to Helthi Hart, the diet guru, it’s
a cup of clear organic cauliflower broth. And for
the Emperor Excessia, it’s a mad dessert of swans’ tongues
—there were, what? ten thousand?—dipped in a slip
of stiffening honey and set out to await the banqueteers
like a field of fresh shoots they could graze.
Some Roman party hosts had great roped bowls of snow
brought from the mountaintops to entertain their guests
with dishes of rose-petal sherbet and chilled roe.
They might even allow the household slaves to slide
leftover snow along the burning welts the ropes ate
into their shoulders all down the mountainside.
Afterwards it was an unrecognizable tatter.
But an image of my father’s worn-thin Bargain City
“all-weather” jacket is still whole in its polyester glory.
This is what happened: the alley dog (he later called the thing
a “cur”) had cornered Livia, and she screamed once,
with a seven-year-old’s unselfconscious terror.
And then my father was there, with his jacket wound around his arm,
and a rock. When it was over, he tore the sleeves off, tied the poor dog
quiet and, after comforting Livia, they both kneeled down
to comfort the dog. He was like that. And the jacket
that served as weapon and restraint?—was like him,
every day of his life. It did what was needed.
I misread “migraine.” Which of the two
would we call the most rarefied? “Margarine”?
Or maybe comparison isn’t the point. A ghost
is a person rarefied through the fine, fine colander
death; that doesn’t make, for most of us, extinction
an ideal. It was hard to think of Frank and Deloris
divorcing, since it was hard to imagine the two of them
engaging in anything so mundane as sex or rage or envy
with the rest of the hoi polloi. They seemed unearthly
in close to a literal way, like radio waves. And yet divorce
they did. They found something real they could unjoin,
hertz from hertz until there just was air.
A dream: We own the softest of the soft
Mongolian camel underhair sweaters. One day
(we think we’re doing the “right thing”) we release it
into the wild, to romp with its brother and sister
desert sweaters, out where it “belongs.”
You know, however, what happens by now: it’s unfit
to fend for itself amid that hardened herd.
They beat it. It’s hungry. It crawls back
into the city, mewing, curling up at night against a door
my father opens and, seeing something in need, brings it inside,
wraps it in flannel. That’s how he was.
He’d give you the cheap shirt off his back.
1)speaking of jackets, and taking a garment off of one's back, as goldbarth's poem does, reminds me of something that happened in the closest costco this past sundayReplyDelete
while spouse and self were waiting in the checkout line a non-english speaking older woman and a somewhat younger bilingual woman - her daughter? - both of east asian appearance - were behind us
the older woman admired missus charley's jacket and had the younger woman ask where she had gotten it - missus charley kindly took the jacket off her back so that the younger woman - using her smartphone - could take a picture of the label (it was NOT from l.l. bean, but i forget which competitor it was) to enable them to find the model or one similar
i swear or affirm that this event happened exactly as stated
to be frank, many, probably most, of the customers at this particular costco are not gringos - even in the mistah charley-missus charley duo, only 50% of us are - and don't get me started on the staff
who knows if it's good or bad?
2)and speaking about things that might be good or bad (under what circumstances? compared to what?) - hate
in my role as self-appointed role as spokesmodel for the better angels of our nature, i wish to point out that
anger - natural, even laudable, as an emotional response
is to be distinguished from
petrified malice, which is what hate is
in the format of the miller analogies test
rather than a quote from some buddhist guy pointing out how hatred distorts one's perceptual field, here's something from one of my favorite theologians - kurt vonnegut
Everybody asks during and after our wars, and the continuing terrorist attacks all over the globe, “What’s gone wrong?”
What has gone wrong is that too many people, including high school kids and heads of state, are obeying the Code of Hammurabi, a King of Babylonia who lived nearly four thousand years ago. And you can find his code echoed in the Old Testament, too. Are you ready for this?
“An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”
A categorical imperative for all who live in obedience to the Code of Hammurabi, which includes heroes of every cowboy show or gangster show you ever saw is this: every injury, real or imagined, shall be avenged. Somebody’s going to be really sorry.
When Jesus Christ was nailed to a cross, he said, “Forgive them, Father, they don't know what they do.” Any real man, obeying the Code of Hammurabi, would have said, “Kill them, Dad, and all of their friends and relatives, and make their deaths slow and painful.”
His greatest legacy to us, in my humble opinion, consists of only twelve words. They are the antidote to the Code of Hammurabi.
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
from a commencement speech at agnes scott college, decatur, georgia, may 5, 1999
source of this text (with a crucial omitted word re-inserted in my quotation from it):
3)re sociopathic overlords and their shortsightedness re environmental conditions -
on some level, same as it ever was
on another level, humans got too soon schmart, too late wise
stuff will happen, people will deal with it
you never know when something surprising might happen
enjoy yourself, it's later than you think
it's a big universe, there are a lot of start-ups, a few will succeed - if ours doesn't then that's the way it goes
life goes on within you and without you