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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
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Archive for June, 2008

WHERE WE ARE GOING

Monday, June 30th, 2008

photo by lady

I believe we manifest possible realities. Every day I tell myself a mythology about two futures, one global in scope, and one more personal. In my personal future, Smith and I have great success with our books and artwork.

In the other future/present, everything collapses and there is no more civil society by, oh, say 2012. My personal, successful future is negated by this other future which seems more and more real. 2012 sounds hokey. But I believe in the collective unconscious and the myth of destruction seems to be winning over the myth of hope.

“Rational” people keep telling me that somehow the scientists are going to solve this environmental crisis and avert global catastrophe. I’m very skeptical of this brand of rationalism. (My own “credentials” in rationalism: I have an electrical engineering degree and have worked in the controls industry serving municipal sewer, water and power plants for ten years. Not that this sheep skin matters one iota.)

The scientific gestalt–for those in environmental sciences, at any rate–is in such a state that marine biologists break down in tears at press conferences.

The scientific gestalt–for those “scientists” in the petroleum industry–is that we’re going to extract every last bit of fossil fuel, no matter the consequences. We’re working on tar sands now, which when they are fully developed are estimated to only provide 10% of our fuel needs. If not the tar sands, then they’re in jubilation over the melting arctic and the possibilities of slurping melting methyl hydrate from the sea bottom, thus burning more fossil fuel, thus warming the earth more, thus melting the arctic faster, thus expanding the area of sunlight that is not reflected back into space, but absorbed by our dying oceans, absorbed by our warming planet, ultimate impact absorbed by us human feces species.

Environmental scientists are worried that the arctic’s melt will cause a gigantic “burp” of methyl hydrate, which would end life on this earth as we know it. And if the burp doesn’t happen, corporate scientists are greedy to extract the stuff anyways, dump it into our atmosphere. The only benefit of using methyl hydrate as a fuel is it produces 50% less CO2 emissions than coal. But believe you me, it’s not going to be a substitute for coal. They’re going after *everything.*

I remember when “rational” people were telling me, “Don’t worry, Lady, we’re going to use ethanol instead of oil. Brazil fuels their economy on sugar-based ethanol.” Never mind that Brazil uses slaves to do so because it’s such a labor intensive process it’s economically unfeasible otherwise. Never mind that we can’t grow sugar in America! Corn based ethanol? Never mind that it takes nearly as much energy in the form of fertilizer and fueling equipment to raise and process the corn as it does to use it.

Ethanol is a false panacea. Beware of people telling you that science is going to figure it out, that you won’t have to change your energy consuming ways.

Although I’m a fatalist, I still work on my soul. My soul urges me to divest myself of meat, of long commute, of plane rides, of energy-burning house, of car. (Still gotta stop riding planes and eating meat.) I want to invest myself in earnestness, in community, in good heart, in friendship with our home, the Earth.

Lady

 

give us this day our daily blog

Monday, June 30th, 2008

wall and ad frag – foto by smith

been trying for 20 months to put a label on my waking life. for a long time i used “endure,” but that has erroneous negative implications.

before lady came along, i had a hard time going. i thought i knew what was going on – i was wrong of course, but at least believed i could make plans, build tomorrow on today. then lady walked into my life like goldilocks on steroids in my 20th year of celibacy, my 14th year of sobriety, 3 months after mom died – and predictability went out the door,

since then, there ain’t no normal. there’s been psycho stalker, bulimia, cancer, operation, job resignation, radiation, nose polyps, another operation, loss of house & possessions & neighborhood followed by expatriatization and many countries in many months – all finally ending in mexico.

50 moves in 20 months leads to loss of routine, fogs expectation, makes planning difficult if not impossible. with no planning comes freeform discontinuity. there’s no continuity from day to day. one day we walk up a mountain. next day we go to a mixtec’s house for chili rellenos lessons. day after that we plot a magic mushroom trip, or we walk down an endless mountain through thousands of rabbits, or sit in a tent under a water sky, or eat ostrich in the bummed out grayness of a polish city, or watch lizards scamper in france or croatia or mexico. there’s no connect between one day and the next. the only reliable sameness day after day is lady and me being together – but even this is not exactly “sameness” because we’re both constantly evolving due to the journey. so every day i wake to a slightly new lady and we go through unknown and unknowable steps and people and adventures until we sleep and wake to the next day’s newness.

but today, standing in the afternoon’s after rain grey light looking into the lighted room where lady was working away on her laptop, it became clear to me – my waking life has become dream time. and like dreams, however odd the thing happening is, i go through it doing what i must to make it work as well as possible for as many as possible.

i don’t plan, i don’t schedule, i don’t expect. i try (and i’m getting better at succeeding) to get up and go through each day accepting what comes my way best i can.

now that we’re going to be living in one place for a couple years, some of this will change. i’ll find reoccurring cycles to play upon. and i do have my three daily rituals – bonding with lady, my daily blog, and my nightly toke.

weird life – i’m down to counting on the uncountable.


graffiti – foto by smith

 

a muse mess

Sunday, June 29th, 2008

political graffiti – foto by smith

number nine #9

i was musing on the muses and was amused to find there are 9. or 18. depends on your back story. one source says they are 9 water nymphs sired by Zeus, king of the gods, out of Mnemosyne, goddess of memory. a second claims they’re more primeval, their father being Uranus and their mother Gaia. a third says both are true, that there are two generations of muses. this leaves 18 muses for 9 muse slots, so they’re going to have to fight it out in a game of mortal muse-ical chairs.

i was looking for inspiration and thought “aha – it’s the muse’s job to inspire so look em up. see what makes em tick.” disappointingly dry stuff.

1 Calliope – chief of the muses and muse of epic or heroic poetry
2 Clio – muse of history
3 Erato – muse of love or erotic poetry, lyrics, and marriage songs
4 Euterpe – muse of music and lyric poetry
5 Melpomene – muse of tragedy
6 Polyhymnia – muse of sacred song, oratory, lyric, singing and rhetoric
7 Terpsichore – muse of choral song and dance
8 Thalia – muse of comedy and bucolic poetry
9 Urania – muse of astronomy

closest i can come for my own use are selected bits and pieces. i’ll take #5 for tragedy, the 1st half of #8 for comedy, a slice of #2 for the past, the lyric of #6, and the love of #3 (with a dash of the erotic).

other than that, i can’t find much to make this muse muss interesting. looks to me like they’re laying down on the job.


graffiti – foto by smith

 

OUR MASTERS ARE IMMORAL ASSHOLES. WE’RE IN A BAD TRIP.

Sunday, June 29th, 2008

photo by lady

OUR MASTERS ARE IMMORAL ASSHOLES

“I feel like I’m looking at the past when I read business news articles.”

In a way, you are, aren’t you. ‘The Way the World Was.’

“Yeah, definitely. We’re not gonna be able to sustain this.”

Read the petroleum article. (End of the Petroleum Age?

http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2008/06/28/9943/) They give actual figures about how we cannot sustain this. They talk about how much oil we use per day, the declining output of the major oil fields. 116 oil fields provide 50% of the world’s oil. They talk about the rate of depletion, the amount that alternative sources can add, calculate what’s gonna be needed by 2015. And we can’t do it.

“Whaddaya mean?”

There’s no way we can produce enough oil to keep the world happy in 2015. In fact, the largest oil field in the world, Saudi Arabia, has been using water pressure to keep up the oil pressure, which is a finite solution. Once that fails, there’s a DRAMATIC and DRASTIC DROP in output. So the point of the article is, you can’t keep the old game going, you best fund the new game, whatever that’s gonna be. Which they list as three: solar, biofuels, and hydrogen. And biofuels are not an option, not if you’re gonna feed folk.

“I think it’s time for us zombies to turn on the masters.”

Brains…

“That’s my metaphor. The zombie movies.”

I think it’s a pretty good one, don’t you? That’s the way we’re going through life. America, land of the zombies. That’s why my favorite zombie movie is Dawn of the Dead. It takes place in a mall.

“I just had this thought. In the near future war, soldiers are going to realize that they’re just fighting for oil. And they’ll feel OK about taking it, survival of the homeland and all. That’ll be their rallying call, ‘Blood for Oil! (grunt) You should be thankful we’re sacrificing ourselves to preserve your way of life!’ Our masters are immoral assholes.”

 

sop

Saturday, June 28th, 2008

graffiti – foto by smith

SOP

It hurts to be a teddy bear
To sit alone, unused
No longer wanted anywhere
Just left alone, confused

I’m tossed aside to lie in here
This dank and musty chest
The dampness serves to hide my tear
The dark to mock my past

Not always thus, this has been no
I was her fair haired toy
She loved me once, I pleased her so
I shone, her chosen joy

Yet here I lie in darkest net
Her love for me did end
My love for her she deemed forget
She found a stranger friend

And now the stranger she does mold
And twists him through the air
While in this chest my heart grows cold
Alone and frightened, bare


graffiti – foto by smith

 

 
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