Quibblings

QUIBBLINGS: alternate for of the word siblings, which accounts for the sisterly tendency toward minor (hopefully not major) arguments.

My brother and I seem fortunate in that we get along pretty great. Disagreements are rare. More common is his tendency to interpret that I have insulted him in some minor way when in reality I intended nothing of the sort. He does seem more sensitive than most toward imagining slights however there is a definite body of evidence to suggest that I am, or else have been, of that same tendency, even though I do not feel that I am.

My nephew of four is a loud little guy, always gabbing exuberantly or singing or droning while stomping around in circles. The niece, Claire, at the final turn of year-one, seems to adore her brother, or at least finds him an engaging entertainment, and lacking the language to fully participate, has adopted a loud drone of her own which her loving parents kindly refer to as the most annoying sound on Earth, often referring to her as Clairodactyl.

I predict they will do very well as siblings. He showers her with regular affection. I'm still immensely impressed and proud at what a great dad my brother has turned out to be. His generosity as a family man is... inspiring.

The close-quarters Covid environment seems a threat though, as Dad tires of the constant pandemonium while working a sensitive career from home. I hope he can bear this assault without too much backlash at the kid, who will no doubt receive plenty of that from teachers as well. He is a very gregarious and loving boy and it would be a tragedy to crush that spirit. A real tragedy.

Question Q: If you could learn the absolute truth about one thing, what QUESTION would you ask?

Well that's a trillion dollar question. The origin of the universe?

Is it applicable to say I would like to meet the Buddha and/or Jesus of Nazareth and learn the truth of their stories behind the suspicious literary tales; their real origins and methods which led to their wisdom?

 

Departing

Well, this piece got away from me… as some do. Oh well. I post it intact:

The Liaison’s funeral was not a big one. His influence manifested mostly through the wires to many locales beyond Scooterville. But I think that both his family and co-workers may have been surprised by the extent of outreach from the writing community. More than a hundred writers sent words of comfort or even flowers (and we accounted for a good third of the attendance). I was proud of sick boy’s moving speech at the event which helped to crystallize this for everyone.

His boss was a very sweet man who spoke very kindly of him. I was grateful for this brief insight into the other side of the Liaison’s life and said so later to the fellow, on the lawn, as we shook hands, both failing to hold back tears entirely. We’re likely to meet for a drink at some point.

The brother also spoke, of their childhood struggles for one thing, and it was very sincere and moving.

Then the final speaker was a soulless troglodyte named Pastor F.U. or thereabouts, who had never met the Liaison once in his life but who felt empowered to condescend to us with the usual outrageous doublethink concerning atheism versus faith and the inane ass-backwards idea that belief provides meaning in life.

I tried not to walk out. I reminded myself that I was here for the prime purpose of supporting the Liaison’s family. I thought carefully; realized I could not in any good conscience give permission to this hijacking, got up and walked out and waited in the parking lot to take my assigned passengers to the cemetery. I hoped very much that I had not caused a scene in any way; that I made no one other than the troglodyte uncomfortable. I did not want this event to be about me and my principles. Dog Whisperer, despite being an employee of a church, came to find me afterwards and issued firm support. She wanted to follow me out but her seating was trapped in essence. So that was a comfort to hear.

It can be immensely sad to reflect on the apparently-growing collective human insanity. It is not only the swiftly-deteriorating economic and environmental systems which point to impending disaster. It is the realization that almost nobody among the privileged societies which steer the world has any regard for truth, but only the addiction to the clinging to falsehoods derived from cherry-picked factoids, peddled by the world’s grotesquely-untrustworthy horde of priests, politicians and corporate-sponsored mouthpieces: whichever ones happen to peddle the particular bullshit which is most flattering, convenient or profitable to the ultimately self-serving and self-righteous listener.

We created a society wherein there is no requirement, regard or reward for truth (except in the field of science which cannot function without it - and look how the field of science is routinely maligned by the above perpetrators), a society riddled with problems which will not be solved because problems are not solved without truth.

But truth is so buried. The internet is surely 99% rubbish. And we’re so busy chasing our unfortunate addictions there is no time for the average person to unearth truth. We need specialists devoted to it. I am trying to do just that I suppose, but society does not include this in the ledger of currency nor afford a framework for accountability.

Where oh where are the people who can summon the courage to just want the truth no matter what it is? No matter how unflattering, how inconvenient, how unprofitable it might be? Are you out there? You’re certainly not in the youtube comment section; I know that.

And if you exist, where do you turn to for real news? for real authority? Where are the leaders or other powerful voices who only want to report truth without personal interest? Probably the Buddha, probably the real Jesus of Nazareth prior to being exploited and misquoted and misunderstood. Einstein of course. Likely Eckhart Tolle. Likely that dude who wrote the Four Hour Work Week! Read Tolle by the way, for goodness sake.

I’m not going to be falsely humble. I am a devoted adept of truth on my good days and frankly, even on my mediocre days. I was a self-identified Catholic who denied my tribe when I learned it untrue. I gave up my position as a climate-change denier when the truth became all-too apparent. I walked away from my sports tribes when I learned of their delusion. I have largely given up many instinctive tribal mind comforts having learned of their treachery. I even gave up my self-image as a good person, prepared to accept that I was an evil person if that was where the pursuit of truth led me - which it did - for a while. Somehow (through very fortunate circumstance) I was afforded a certain brand of courage that I can see almost nowhere else.

I wish I knew how to tell my story. I wish that people would know what I know: that the reward for this kind of courage is utterly freeing and joyful and transformative; transcending even, and that the fears which contain you will be revealed illusion! Where are the champions of truth to lead us? I appear not to have what it takes, nor where to find such a congregation.

Papal pansophy and Obi Wan-liners

Unfortunately the vast majority of quotes circulated not only on FB but literally everywhere are falsely attributed (mostly unknowingly), and the more famous or polarized a person is, the more quotes are invented or re-attributed to them by people more eager to push their agenda than to be honest. For instance 99% of published Hitler quotes were faked by those who wished to paint the words of their opposition in the worst light. And Yogi Berra rarely had anything intelligent to say. Most of the quotes he's attributed were redirected to him as a joke; a way to poke fun at him for all his authentic malapropisms and other ding-battery.

The human penchant for misquoting came about well before the internet by the way. Those captured in respected books and on posters are just as likely suspect. The only quotes you ever see that are more likely to be true than false are those that are published along with the full context (place/date/occasion/publication as applicable) which unfortunately is the only fully responsible way to share a quote.

This is a dilemma, I know. Naturally we want to share good ideas and we want to have integrity and thus to attribute them fairly. But we live in a world of rampant misinformation and it's important to me that people realize it, in the hopes we will demand better some day and achieve a sane society.

The comfort is that every quote is real in that it came from somebody! The answer, I suppose, is to check Snopes or such and add in the context if verified, and if not, change it to "attribution unknown." Unfortunately it takes a lot of work to be real in a world that mostly isn't. On my good days, when I succeed, the reward is worth it.

The Tallest Bridges art Nearest to Heaven

Should you figure you linger at a stopping ground;

Your real home a gift yet received,

Then oughtn’t you quit your farting around

And pack your bags and leave?

acolyte /ˈakəˌlīt/

My blog profile blurb once read something like this: “I am a seeker, poet, counselor, […] alchemist and priest… in training.” Something like that.

And what I meant is that these are the directions I was moving and the kind of functions I was dabbling in; the pursuits which had become meaningful and applicable to me in various manners which lie rather outside the normal workings of our commercial society. And I suspect that any regular readers of this blog would get what I meant.

A friend said to me pointedly, “Have you been ordained? Because you might be misleading people here.”

I confessed I had not been ordained in terms of actual ceremony under the structures of popular religions and their recruitment of seekers of lucrative employment. Nor, for that matter had I received any organized instruction with the regards to the manufacture of gold out of lead. But I do possess notable insights into each. Regardless, the meaning was not meant to be literal.

The friend advised that I should not make any untrue claims and I took this under advisement and later (possibly for another reason) changed my profile blurb to a quote which I’d been trying to track the source of for years! I loved the quote because it seemed to speak from my very own heart and say precisely what I most cherished. And finally I discovered the source, by the way. I discovered its very genesis in multiple versions in my very own handwriting! I had loved the quote for its intimacy with my own feelings because I had written the damn thing myself! And this is not the first time I haven’t recognized my own work. I’m going to have to start copywriting my work simply to make sure I remember it’s my own!

But I digress.

Am I ordained? In the ordinary sense, of course not. For a time though, I thought some form of priesthood a wise choice of pursuits but I could not find a religion which my own solid understandings could fully support. Humanism came so very close but it was too devoid of legitimate joy; of wonder and spirituality; of regard for miracle.

Look at me still digressing.

I have since remembered the reason I put priest (in training) on my blog profile. Because beyond the regular societal use of the word (and our society bears no ownership of language by the way), I did indeed qualify by my honest interpretation. I was – in theory only, without practical experience – a qualified leader of a new religion: a fully integrated system of thought, understanding, life-guidance  and problem-solving structure. A religion which chooses not to employ the term religion but which possesses the dogma of comparable scope to that found in the books of Hinduism or Christianity for instance. A religion with one founder, one leader and one participant: me, myself and I! A religion without the numbers to suggest legitimacy of the banal standard but with a global consolidation of theory and applicability which frankly blows the mainstream religions away, by my own priorities, because (according to all honest dissection it has so far suffered under my own auditing) it:

1. appears to cover all the worldly and spiritual landscapes as the big religions.

2. appears to unite said big religions under a common compatible set of understandings.

3. appears fully compatible with the living experience of human beings as interpreted by the clear mind and the five senses.

4. appears fully in line with the application of logic without resorting to “God works in mysterious ways” or other such cop-outs.

5. does not suffer constant (or any) self-contradictions (especially the constant contradictions concerning violence and punishment versus mercy and peace).

6. appears fully in line with the science of the day (and without requiring obscure translations to do so).

7. appears fully compatible with the teachings of eminent, perhaps preeminent, spiritual author Eckhart Tolle.

8. appears to include, and fully consolidate, all relevant areas of human and worldly consequence, leaving no measurable gaps or mysteries.

9. appears to supply the attainable solutions to any conceivable problem.

Do you believe this claim? Does it seem outrageous? Too lofty to be true? It’s not actually a big deal if you consider that these landscapes are far less complex than we might otherwise interpret once you see through all the fog and fragmentation of the illusions of mind and society. Regardless, I don’t invite belief or even suggest belief; only awareness that the claim exists. That is all.

My, what grandeur I must suffer from, eh? I must think I’m a Jesus or Buddha, right? What I think is that Jesus and Buddha were ordinary humans who were merely untethered from the constant bindings which suffocate normal society and were simply free to think simply, and were blessed with the opportunity to avoid a lot of distracting, time-consuming work of a normal role in their societies, and the associated stresses. 

I don’t at all think that Jesus or the Buddha did anything which is beyond the reach of normal humans and that the belief otherwise, the putting them on a pedestal, is among the most harmful consequences of normal religions.

And if my above claim is true and is enough to qualify the work a religion-of-sorts, then regardless of the rite of ordination and its legal bearing, I would best qualify its leader, at least for now, in the current absence of someone more qualified, whom I would eagerly invite or subscribe to, for I interpret that my leadership skills are lacking.

Although, where among the above nine qualifiers is its “holy” book? Alas there is none. Its “scriptures” are here, there and everywhere and very much incomplete. And frankly I wonder if all the remaining undocumented material is still retrievable from my mind.

I have so very often tinkered about with plans and short-lived attempts at creating such a tome and the scope of the project feels often unbearable. It is simply so big and interconnected that organizing it all looms a monstrous beast.

I do possess a skeletal framework though (which only Neo has seen), which is workable I think, yet somewhat flexible and arbitrary in arrangement, which I produced years ago and which organizes the broad landscape into a hierarchy of eighty-something sections, mapped by prerequisites. Some sections would require further breakdown into chapters.

Perhaps my two attempts to write the thing from the beginning toward distant end, in quite contrasting styles, were the wrong ways to go, and I should simply expand on the framework in gradual stages; building it outward in rings instead of trying to travel the linear circumference.   

Sometimes I wonder what the point is in bothering with such a project? My closest trusted associates seem to suggest it may be unnecessary. The result will be so huge and unsuitable to any known genre of book that no publisher will touch it. Yet perhaps this claim above is the very reason. Perhaps I need to write it just for myself so that I can observe the result and confirm that yes, a piece of written evidence exists to support my claim above, and on the rare days I might wish to call myself “priest in training,” here is my qualification!

Victimhood

I worked, by contract, in the criminal justice system for a few years and now I work, by contract, for a corporation which commits terrible crimes daily but they are crimes that are not detailed in the criminal justice system of this nation because they are crimes which injure everyone and everything – BUT – those of the injuries which are inflicted on you and me and the rest of Western society are delayed enough that in our collective insanity we can easily ignore them – or – for most people I suspect, remain consciously unaware of them.

I still do volunteer work in the criminal justice community and I don’t think of myself as being any better than the murderers and child rapists I have worked with, And I don’t mean that in the bullshit phony way that many others might delight in saying. I am in fact no better. I’ve never directly killed a human being nor had sexual contact with a child and I’m pretty damn confident that I will never do either of those things. These are not my areas of weakness. There is no appeal.

However I regularly inflict death and violence upon the Earth and its mammals and even upon human beings who don’t live around here. I do it all the time. Daily. I do it when I eat many of the things I eat. I do it when I buy a new laptop. I do it when I fill the tank with gas. I am an extremely harmful person. I know this with perfect clarity on my best days and on those best days I also reflect upon my total insanity of the previous days wherein my instincts had been duping my consciousness or when I’d been rationalizing my way to a benign self image which is bullshit.

I am no saint. I was not made “in His own image” and neither was anyone else. Humans are beasts the same as wolves and trees and mosquitoes and precisely like wolves and trees and mosquitoes, just about everything we do satisfies our instinctive survival instincts which, besides food and sex and protection, has evolved very largely to manifest as survival within the society which equals REPUTATION, which often includes MONEY (for money is simply a ledger of reputation). Just like the wolf, tree or mosquito, nearly everything we do is bent on our own needs at the expense of any other species. Wolves, trees and mosquitoes – and bunny rabbits and petunias are all, if you open your eyes and pay attention – entirely evil. They kill in order to live. Just like us. And just like the peacock’s tail and many other phenomena of evolution, we have our own unlikely elaborate errant evolutionary feature. It is in the human mind and it encompasses our cleverness, our perversely social infatuation and our illusion of consciousness.

When I keep that in mind I look around at all the nice things we are doing on the surface and it’s very easy to realize that these nice things do not make us angels; do not make us benevolent; do not make us innocent and certainly don’t make us better than murderers and rapists except within a childish viewpoint. Because all the nice things we do reward our vicious survival instincts. They improve our reputation. Nice deeds that we do, feed our own greed.

Now – does every single nice thing we do necessarily come solely from selfish desire or from the master instinctive mind’s need to fool our own consciousness (for we have to fool ourselves in order to effectively fool others)? I won’t suggest that. I like to imagine otherwise but the fact is, it is very simple to map all our good deeds to greedy beastly motives and pretty much impossible to prove otherwise…

BUT…!

So what?

I’m not trying to say that we are all terrible. Oh, I felt that way for a while, years ago. I thought we were all devils. All Satan. Satans in drag as gods. And for the record I suspect that the God mythology stems from that idea; that originally this personification of the source of the universe was set up like that: that Satan is the creator and God is his disguise. But that doesn’t matter. And I’m not here to slag religion today, even though it has perpetrated two of the primary nails in the coffin of humanity – the twin omnipresent fatal ideas – and I mean fatal to our species, literally: one, that we were made in his own image and two, that Earth is not heaven, that some improved heaven resides somewhere else. This is why humans do not understand that we are killers – we are killing machines above all else and why we don’t understand that Earth is the paradise and that we are mercilessly killing it and there is very little time remaining. By Earth I really mean the biosphere, not the crust, mantle, core and all the other bits and pieces. I mean the forests, wetlands and top soil and water systems and air and underground filtration – all of which we have massively crippled or destroyed in a tiny infinitesimal blip of time by any real (universal) perspective or context outside the illusion of our puny lifespans.

Look – all of this is natural. This is the natural state of humanity. It’s nothing to cry or rage about.

And it is okay to wake up from our insanity. It is okay to face up to the beasts that we are. We have every opportunity to evolve. We can close the gap between instinct and consciousness; between the devil and angel if you prefer. I have reliably witnessed this functionality. We humans did not ask for this circumstance. We were born into it without choice. We did not ask for this illusion of consciousness which is – in a sense – an evolutionary precursor to genuine consciousness. We learned to kill to survive because we had to. We are beautiful for this opportunity to become the first species of harmony. We are beautiful for this terrible struggle that we must endure. We are beautiful for our potential and for the suffering we inflict upon our selves.

I am human and I am okay with that. I am not a single entity. I know that. There is a beast in me and there is a weak pitiful beautiful consciousness as well. And when I look around I don’t see single human creatures. When I look at you I see two of you. It has become my normal everyday perception. Unfortunately when I talk to you I must talk to both of you at the same time and that makes things tricky and I confess, I don’t often treat that challenge with utmost diligence. Generally I am not keeping track of what I want each of you to hear; you and your evil twin! Creeped out? Still want to do lunch?

So this piece (if anyone is still reading it) was not planned in any way. It’s strictly a stream-of-consciousness ramble which was intended for one reason only:

I have many associates who open up to me and there is one who is trying to get together with me, largely to express something which they find terrible to contemplate; a suffering. A couple hints have been dropped and I am going out on a limb and I am suspecting that some kind of molestation has been brought to light. I am going to guess a child molestation which has severed – or potentially severed – close relationships. And while it can be very difficult for me to express certain ideas to someone who is looking to me for comfort, because they may not want to accept them and may be looking for other comforts which I regard as artificial comforts, and I may not play the blame game to their liking, I am safe in ruminating here in this anonymous space.

And to anyone who is watching their family break apart because someone they loved has been revealed a victim and another revealed a monster and just can’t wrap their head around it and just doesn’t know what to do or who to support in what way…

The answer, by my accounting, is not difficult to conceive:

You forgive because forgiveness is the only sane option. To forgive is to confess that what has happened was inevitable. All of causality is connected. All happenings are inevitable. There is no logic with which to escape this certainty.

You forgive the conscious entity in the perpetrator. It was the beast which was compelled to act, not the conscious person whom you loved and whom you can still love if you are strong enough; if you understand enough; if you are on board with these understandings enough.

You forgive but that forgiveness is not with impunity. You forgive but you do not forget. You accept that there must be consequences for the instinctive presence whose survival mechanisms dictated the act (probably multiple acts) while fooling the consciousness or rationalizing. For the sake of community safety and the victim’s well-being, there must be consequences. Those consequences could ideally take many forms but for most of us we don’t have the opportunity to manufacture ideal justice and we must trust the police and courts and prison system – as horrifically flawed as they are – to do the best they can.

You love and support the conscious perpetrator if you are strong enough – perhaps after a required hiatus from them – or else you tell them honestly, “I wish I could support you but I am not strong enough. I am only strong enough to try to support the victim if I can. If I grow in strength in the future, then I will return to you. For now I must abandon you for my own well being.”

You also have to support yourself by understanding the above ideas and remembering that we are all molesters; we are all killers; we all leave victims in our wake: the Earth (our only conduit to the survival of our children and descendants), the animals, the people of poor countries whom our masters have brutally exploited through the Western imperialism which gives us our impossible cars and furnaces and iPhones which we gladly accept; blindly or deviously or otherwise.

You support yourself by suppressing the urge to see yourself as a collateral victim.

You support yourself by looking at the victim and remembering that we are all victims and we all create victims and that what has happened to your beloved is not outside the normal mode of life. We all live by creating victims and for all of us our time comes when we are victimized; eventually to the extent of our death.

You support yourself by looking beyond the instinctive desire to see the victim as a tragic aberration though your instincts push you to see it that way. What has happened is essentially normal. (Do not think that this means that I suggest throwing in the towel. It can be our purpose in life to improve; to seek harmony, to reduce victimization of all sorts. We must endeavor to improve; of course.)

Unfortunately it is hard for me to suggest how to support the victim. The victim will have heightened instinctive survival forces working on her – or him. The ideal support is to absorb the above understandings but every victim will be in a different place psychologically and not ready for most of the above material. But ideally I would want to work toward those concepts as gently and patiently and slowly as required. Unfortunately it might be often best in the short term to trust the psychology community for help though that is far from ideal in terms of getting at the one true comfort in life; the comfort of truth; of genuine reality. Psychology will not rescue anyone from the Matrix but often they can do a decent job of navigating the Matrix.

The most valuable thing probably, for a victim to understand is that the victimization happened in the past and the past does not exist. The acts happened to a person who existed in the past who is no longer “you.” The only reason we seem eternally harmed by victimization is because we internally choose to. Our instinctive ego chooses not to let go of it because the pain of victimization becomes our identity and we cannot conceive of letting go of our identity – because we are all in the business of manufacturing identity instead of being real; a bi-product of the survival-by-reputation-and-denial game which the instinct forces upon the consciousness.

I suppose it is probably in actions that we can most-accessibly help victims: simply doing the things that demonstrate they are loved and without condition. But other than the pursuit of true consciousness and the resulting enlightenment which dispels the spectres of lasting pain and victimhood, which is evidently rare to achieve, the area of victim recovery is not my area of privilege; of strongest insight.

Z is for Zappa

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Real Frank Zappa (1989)

by Frank Zappa

(1940-1993) USA

Zappa was clearly one of the most unique musicians of all time, if not singularly, the most. The man had an almost supernatural imperviousness to peer pressure. That same quality which served deliberate counter-culture musical approach and theory, combined with fearless free-thinking, made him a vocal anti-drug advocate at a time when recreational drugs were rampant in the industry and among his closest associates, and a vocal contrarian to most common societal and political views.

This book, written so appropriately in his own style, literary norms be-damned—and delightfully effectively so!—was largely an effort to set a few records straight, clarify many of his opinions, and I think: to offer support to like-minded fans who probably find themselves disenfranchised by our particularly narrow-minded society. And he was an opinionated man to be sure. The book is marvelously unsubtle! The problem with being a courageous contrarian in a society where the sheep will fear your ideas, is that the sheep will spread myths about you which paint you as a simple anarchist. Not a conscious conspiracy, I suggest, just a natural consequence to our seeking comfort as we hide from the truth.

Zappa never shat on stage or bit heads off animals or whichever such nonsense was attributed him. This is a very intelligent man who thought for himself.

I loved the book and call it a must-read for selfish reasons: I agree whole-heartedly with the great majority of his opinions and not for the reason most of us do agree with what we read. This is not the common case where the author slowly seduces you with unarguable views early on, purloins your trust and strings you along through the later chapters growing progressively radical; an offense that is kind of hard to avoid. I’ve caught myself at it unintentionally!

When a man has such little care for pressures of peers and his own popularity, it enables a rare freedom for quality thinking and contemplation. Thus such a man has opinions which are worth something because they are discovered honestly; not conveniently provided.

And this book is definitely a must-read for young musicians. Zappa’s tutelage comes from wonderfully nurturing priorities which encourage his followers to let go of a lot of academic, creativity-hindering baggage! Great stuff.

A few quotes which I find amusing and comforting:

I believe that, to a certain extent, kids get weird because their parents made them weird. Parents have more to do with making their children weird than TV or rock and roll records. The only other thing that makes them weirder than TV and parents is religion and drugs.

Stupidity has a certain charm. Ignorance does not.

I would say that today, dishonesty is the rule, and honesty the exception. It could be, statistically, that more people are honest than dishonest, but the few that really control things are not honest, and that tips the balance. I don't think we have an honest president. I don't think that he is surrounded by honest people. I don't believe that most of the people in Congress or in the senate are honest. I don't think that people who head up businesses are honest. We have let them get away with it because we're not honest enough to face up to the fact that we are 'owned and operated' by a bunch of bad people.

Politics is the Entertainment Branch of Industry.

O is for Omnipotence

April A-to-Z: must-read books

Under Satan’s Sun (1926)

By Georges Bernanos

(1888-1948) France

In hindsight, why the hell (yes, hell; it’s appropriate here) did I unthinkingly include this book in my plan for this exercise? It was an extremely profound read but truthfully, I’m sure I didn’t understand much , or perhaps even most, of it and it is a must-read, by my accounting, only for small minorities of readers. Oh well. ‘O’ is a difficult slot to fill. We are stuck with it so, what the heck? Watch me struggle! I’m okay with that. Here goes:

Here is what I wrote on this blog in October 2007 following my first and only reading:

Under Satan’s Sun (1926) by Georges Bernanos, translated by J.C. Whitehouse. It’s very deep. I read it slowly, painstakingly, and still much of it went over my head. I believe I understand what he’s suggesting though. It concerns God, Satan and humanity and it’s clearly an honest interpretation of the divine landscape. And what it suggests is entirely shocking. Makes Da Vinci Code look like Curious George.

Now here is what I did not say (warning: spoiler alert. I have tried not to include any spoilage of—or even reference to—plot this month but Under Satan’s Sun strikes me as such an academic experience, I feel the plot is not overly relevant though this is admittedly a subjective opinion!):

Bernanos was clearly a poet of significant success in terms of grasping the human mind. He is also touted a devout Catholic and a gifted student of Catholicism. That said, Catholics, as with any tribe, religious or otherwise, cannot be expected to easily let go their claim to an esteemed member should he go astray, or otherwise evolve beyond the tribe. So where his true loyalties lay, at the time of this writing, if anywhere at all, I would not make assumptions.

It is said that one needs to thoroughly understand Catholic doctrine in order to properly grasp the intended messages in this book. That may be a perfectly valid point. Personally, I parted from Catholicism when faced with the Confirmation ritual choice at age thirteen. It is said that the meat of this book is in the question: What would happen if a proper saint appeared in the post-modern era? I don’t remember connecting much to that idea.

What totally intrigued me was my perception that the very basic nature of “God” and “Satan” were being called into question. And I admit: Perhaps Bernanos meant nothing of the sort. Or perhaps he meant precisely that but without expecting anyone to necessarily get it. For I’m reminded of this painting by Michael Pacher (c1975) which was recently pointed out to me by a young associate who was intrigued by the funny idea of a face on one’s bum. I was instead intrigued that the image garnered endless internet comments from Christians who were delighted that dumb ol’ Satan had been tricked into holding the Bishop’s (or whatever his rank is) scriptures for him. I find that point of view adorable and would bet any money the painter intended nothing remotely so goofy as that, regardless what currently-approved version of a Christian story might actually support that scenario. No. When I look at this painting I see something far more sinister going on; something far more worth painting. My point is: tribal addiction invites a conceit which blinds us to all but what we wish to see, no matter how lame.

I believe Satan’s Sun was written with much subtlety in the storytelling but with none in the writing. It is written fully in the tell style, not show, and rightfully so as the greatest usefulness lies in Bernanos’ exploration of the mind. Thus he leads us directly in to the consciousness of the character. There is simply great stuff for the reader to explore this way.

I suggest that this is a must-read for those with a fascination for the human mind or for Christian theory or for the concept of a superpower, or superpowers in the universe, divine or otherwise. 

Some passages which were of magnificent comfort and consolidation to me:

No one ever discovers the depths of his own loneliness.

The human mind is constantly varying the shape and curve of its wings, attacking the air from every angle, from positive to negative, and yet never learns how to fly.

The simplest emotions are born and grow in impenetrable darkness, attracting and repelling each other like thunderclouds in accordance with secret affinities. All we see on the surface of the darkness is the brief flashes of the inaccessible storm. That's why the best psychological hypothesis can perhaps throw some light on the past but can never tell us what the future may hold. And, like many other conjectures, they merely hide a mystery that our minds find intolerable even to contemplate.

Will each of us, if he turns his head, see behind him his shadow, his double, the beast that resembles him, silently watching him?

And he also knew what man really is: a grown up child, full of vice and boredom.

What does the truth matter? Haven't we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies? Lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep.

For the first time he contemplated, lovelessly but with pity, the lamentable human flock, born to graze and die.

abbey [ab-ee]

I would very much wish to go off and apply to some monastery. I imagine it would be a profoundly appropriate and productive experience, where I would further my understandings, test them through dialogue with qualified peers, and most importantly, learn how to leverage them. And there I would be forced to develop discipline; my great downfall. That I might be further separated from the people in the world I most love, on top of the other hurdles and barriers which already separate us, would be the main drawback.

The greater problem though, is that there are no existing spiritual enterprises that I know of which I could subscribe to without hitting fundamental barriers. There are key understandings, so ingrained in my unarguable living experience, they will not bend for anyone. For instance, key Christian fundamentals are taught backwards with regards to causality, while too much useful wisdom is cloaked in metaphor. And there is such a failure to communicate Christ as a relevant and accessible role model. Buddhism, as it is taught suffers profound unnecessary contradictions, while Buddha too, is treated too much on a pedestal; like Christ, his experience presumed too unreachable. Not good. Humanism has so many merits but seems not to have done the math; has not found the joy and inspiration; has not grasped the miracle at the end of the equation.      

To create such a spiritual enterprise that is free of such problems as these; which wraps everything up in a circle of logic and universal inclusivity, would be some great achievement, and I truly believe the basic blueprints lay at hand. But I have little ability to lead people or inspire them to such great ends. The way to nourish in this present society seems to be in self-help books I suppose, while cathedrals loom about; dull and archaic.

April A-Z: Bopping the Bishop

So here's a little theory for you and it's interesting to me that I've googled the life out of this matter and found it nowhere on the interwebs, so perhaps this is an internet scoop as it were: It concerns El Greco's work, Portrait of a Cardinal.

The subject is largely assumed to be Don Fernando Niño de Guevara, Archbishop of Seville and Grand Inquisitor of Spain. This was a fellow with significant clout.

Take a look at the expression on his face. Does it radiate with the unburdened confidence and clear-mindedness which one surely must possess when one is to competently command the sentencing of 1868 heretics, 240 of them to death by burning? Or does he look a little - I don't know - paranoid?

My question is - How much was El Greco responsible for this portrayal. Let's be clear: El Greco, in addition to a great painter, was a great poet. He was not fooled by the tyranny of appearances. Not a word of his poetry was arbitrary or imprecise and I would think the same must be said for each stroke of his brush. What did El Greco wish to say about the Grand Inquisitor?

There are two odd components to this work. One is the unnatural shape of Guevara's left hand which seems to me bestial; claw-like. 

And then there is the strange protuberance of his robe just left of his left foot. Fabric doesn't fall that way. I'm sure when Guevara's robes were carefully draped about him this shape did not exist. What do you see in that shape? I know what I see. And El Greco must have been a brave man. Because if the archbishop had interpreted that allusions to a weasel were painted in to his portrait, the artist would have been put to death.

R is for Reiliebogie

Reiliebogie: a state of confusion, tumult or disorder. Possibly having connection to the song Reel o' Bogie, as if in reference to an irregular form of dance. From reile, to roll.

Followers of religion/philosophy Discordianism observe the Discordian calendar, consisting of five 73-day "months" named Chaos, Discord, Confusion, Bureaucracy, and The Aftermath. Their weeks consist of five days: Sweetmorn, Boomtime, Pungenday, Prickle-Prickle, and Setting Orange.

Discordianism holds that both order and disorder are illusions imposed on the universe by the human nervous system, and that neither of these illusions of apparent order and disorder is any more accurate or objectively true than the other.

Source: Etymological Scottish Dictionary
Google hits: 73


Renty: handsome; well-shaped. Spoken of horses, cows, etc.

According to urbandictionary.com, an amazing horse is one who tastes like raisins and has a purple winkie. Personally I don't find this useful. Personally, I sometimes wonder if some intergalactic court of aliens might be passing around samples of our internet right now and deciding whether earth should be blown up or not.

Source: North Country Words (1942) John Ray
Google hits: 1,800,000


Ring-time: the aptest season for marriage; spring.

Not to be confused with ring tone, a safety mechanism of the matrix; a musical alarm that goes off whenever a person might otherwise be burdened with too much peace and quiet wherein they might accidently contemplate and learn something dangerously genuine about themselves or the world.

[editor's note: He means he doesn't like phones.]

Source: Shakespeare Cyclopaedia and Glossary (1902) John Phin
Google hits: 16,800

A bird may love a fish, Signor, but where would they live?

P is for Pulpatoon

Pulpatoon: a dish made of rabbits, fowl, etc., in a crust of stuffed meat. From Latin pulpamentum: tidbits.

In 1770, London's Newcastle Chronicle reported the baking of a nine foot diameter Christmas pie featuring geese, turkeys, rabbit, duck, woodcocks, snipes, partridges, curlews, blackbirds and pigeons. Yum. I guess.

Source: Glossary of Tudor and Stuart Words (1914) Walter Skeat
Google hits: 7200


Pooster: to toil in mud or filth; to splash among water.

Not to be confused with poofters, which reportedly do not exist in such enlightened higher-order nations as Iran. Oh, except for those framed, imprisoned, tortured and/or killed by their enlightened higher-order government. Oops, but we don't talk about that.

Source: Scots Dialect Dictionary (1911) Alexander Warrack
Google hits: 67,600


Pokeweed religion: Seemingly impressive religious excitement which springs up rapidly but without permanent value.

"We're hotter than pokeweed religion on an Ozark Sunday night!" is what John Lennon should have said, rather than the off-hand quip about Jesus Christ. It would have saved him a whole lotta splainin-to-do. Of course, then the Beatles wouldn't have got to re-sell all those albums to temporarily delirious vinyl-burning yankees.

Source: Down in the Holler: A Gallery of Ozark Folk Speech (1953) Vance Randolf
Google hits: 86

Dick Cheney pulpatoon anyone?

D is for Dog Nawper

Dog-nawper: A church beadle who uses his wand of office for tapping (nawping) the heads of dozing, or unruly, youngsters.

At the Roman Catholic church I was occasionally sentenced to as a youth, there were few opportunities to doze
thanks to the constant game of Simon Sez that went on. Simon sez stand... Simon sez sit... Simon sez kneel... Catholic clergy like to take up gobs of your time. You can't get in and out of their churches in less than an hour. So they resort to a lot of audience participation to keep the snoring levels down.

Source: Leeds Dialect Glossary and Lore (1924) John Wilkinson
Google hits: 20


Dishing up the spurs: To hint to guests that it is time to depart.

The phrase is said to originate from the English-Scotch borderlands where, upon provisions running low, a pair of spurs would appear at the table instead of food, signalling the time had arrived for a raid for provisions.

A friend and generous host once swore that if we didn't learn to start departing his home at a reasonable hour he would resort to leaving the room and returning wearing an old-fashioned night-robe complete with droopy nightcap, and carrying a candlestick.

Source: Dictionary of English Phrases (1922) Albert Hyamson
Google hits: 56


Dendranthopology: The study concerning the theory that man had sprung from trees.

Not to be confused with Neandrothology which is the study concerning the theory that man is slowly devolving; growing stupider, due to the complacency-inducing processes of societal power structures derived for the financial benefit of the wealthy elite... or at least there should be such a study.

Source: Supplemental English Glossary (1881) T. Lewis Davies
Google hits: 580

Why is there a hotdog on the tree of mythology?

Who's flying this thing?

IF GOD IS YOUR CO-PILOT, MAYBE YOU SHOULD SWAP SEATS

This is what the sign says outside the Baptist church as I drive by. It concerns me that I have no clue what this means.

[Editor's note: Yeah, sure it does.]

Later, driving back to Multispirit House, home of the Thoughtful Educator and his excellent wife and daughter, I share with them my concerns. We have just been to dinner at Red Lobster where a steady parade of staff dropped by the table to see how some of their most regular of customers were doing.

"I'm not sure which seat the church expects that I'm in," I explain, "Nor which seat I'm supposed to be in. Am I the pilot? Am I supposed to be the pilot? I'm not sure if I should be changing seats or not."

The rest of the car's occupants sympathize. They don't get it either.  Also, we're worried whether it's safe to be playing musical chairs while the plane is in flight. Shouldn't we land first to be safe? And since this is all metaphorical, just what does landing the plane mean? Death and rebirth? What if I come back from the dead a zombie or vampire? This is now getting scary.

T.E. is taking a slightly longer route home. I've come to stay for two weeks to look after their two lovely dogs, Princess and Oliver. The three humans in the family are about to bugger off to Northern Ireland for shits and giggles - oh yeah, and a wedding.

I'm also lookiong after their fishes who remain sadly anonymous. I think I shall make it a goal this particular visit to get to know them better. I'll see if I have any innate fish-whisperer abilities.

"You're not going out of your way just to see this sign, are you?" I ask.

"Of course I am," says the Thoughtful Educator. Not only that, but he pulls into the church parking lot. "I have to ask them what the heck this means," he says, and sure enough he proceeds to the front door while the rest of us shake our heads and laugh.

He has been invited inside and does not quickly return.

"Okay," says I, debarking. "I'm going to go say I'm a doctor and my patient has escaped." I intend to describe T.E. and ask if they've seen anyone by that description wandering around.

But T.E. and the pastor (priest? Minister?) are just emerging as I approach. The holy man is a tad too friendly and sets off my creep-meter when he invites me to come around for a good ol' baptist celebration some time. Not likely, Thumper. You're sniffing up the very wrong tree.

Oh - I almost forgot. The explanation: Bumper stickers have been common, apparently, which read: Is God your co-pilot? Father Baptistman disagrees with this. God should not co-pilot your life. He should pilot your life. You are just a giant nobody who is along for the ride. So don't even bother getting out of bed in the morning.

IF GOD IS YOUR CO-PILOT, MAYBE YOU SHOULD SWAP SEATS

Now if some prankster came around and fiddled with the interchangible letters of this sign, what might Father McBaptistpreacher find on the lawn as he arrives at work one morning?

One possibility:

GO AHEAD MISS - SWAP YOUR SPIT, IF YOU BE COY OLD LOTUS

Hmm. Sounds more Hindu than Baptist, doesn't it? How about:

GOD SHOULD SWAT YOUR MOIST ASS, YOU LIPPY-FACE BOIE

Hmm. Overly rude and bad spelling. One more try:

YO BOY - FEED US SPAMSLAW, YOU STUPID COOTISH GORILA

I know. I know. I ran out of L's. Oh well. Fun with anagrams. Try it some time. Or not.

F is for Fail

Oh dear.

Do you ever look at a photo and not grasp for the longest time what you're actually looking at?

There are a whole lot of really nice sweet people on the interwebs who blog about the simple pleasures in life; their relationships with family, their relationship with God. Their dog. Their church. Those sorts of things. The A-Z Challenge led me to That Corgi's blog where E-Day was all about Easter eggs and the church easter egg hunt. That Corgi contributed to the event by buying plastic eggs and then hiring her young son to stuff them full of candy (she didn't want to tempt herself with the delilcious morsels).

Other nice sweet people commented on her nice sweet post but I was paralyzed from doing so. Something seemed incredibly wrong to me.

Have a look at her photo of her plastic eggs and then come right back here and read my conclusion. Okay?

http://viewsfrombenches.blogspot.ca/2012/04/easter-eggs.html


Did you see the photo?

I swear to god.

I swear...

To god.

I thought they were dildoes.

I thought she accidently enlisted her son to stuff dildoes.

Does this mean I'm going to hell?

The Gospel According to FWG

Chapter One: Genesis

On the first day God created light and the firmament and the heavens and the twinklie stars.

On the second day He created oceans and trees and rocks and very tiny pebbles and He saw that the tiny pebbles were good and He said, 'Tiny pebbles, you shall be called sand.'

On the third day God created the seasons and He made the leaves turn pretty colors in autumn and fall down from the trees.

On the fourth day He created wind and He blew the fallen leaves all over the damn place.

On the fifth day God created morons and called them people. And he said, 'Morons, you shall be called people.'

On the sixth day God created Guinness and he saw that it was good.

On the seventh day God rested and recovered from a wicked hang-over.

On the tenth day or so the people began to take offence to God’s work and to the pretty leaves and they created oil drills and oil refineries and gas-powered leaf blowers and they blew the leaves in directions of their own choosing.

On the Eleventh day God blew the leaves back where He wanted them.

On the twelfth day and every even-numbered day thereafter the people fired up their gas-powered leaf blowers and tried to undo God’s work.

On the thirteenth day and every odd-numbered day thereafter God blew the leaves back where he wanted them and made the people look like jack-asses.

Finally the fume-sucking people all died from cancer and severe asthma and God thought that was pretty funny and he laughed and laughed until he got a cramp in his abdomen. Then He remembered that he was the almighty and he wiggled his nose and made the cramp disappear.

Then God created monkeys and he saw that they were good because they were a lot nicer than people and much more fun at parties. And even when they played with their own feces He had to agree that this was significantly more productive than blowing leaves around.

Love is in the air... and headaches

Went to a kick-ass wedding yesterday. Hung over today. Can’t really have one without the other. I convinced my parents to pick me up on the way to the ceremony and to drop me off again afterwards – which made sense. The grotto is on the way from Caledon to Burlington. Add an open bar to the formula…

X = infinite drinkies + 0 KM driving

… carry the 1…

X = hangover.

The bride and groom are both 27 and have been dating for more than ten years – since grade 10! Isn’t that something? If you’re still looking for purity and spirituality in love - this might just be a starting point.

Here’s my outfit: Black pants and shoes; a tweed jacket ostensibly grayish-brown at a glance but upon close inspection, built of threads of navy and peacock blues, olive green and orange; a multi-grey toned shirt patterned like a mosaic of stone; and a bold, deeply-textured tie resembling tire treads filled with blood. Having trouble imagining such an ensemble? Good. Don’t. It wasn’t my finest fashion moment. I discovered too late that much of my favorite dress-up clothes have shrunk since my last wedding-and-or-funeral.

(Okay - they’ve shrunk or I’ve grown. Same difference.)

You know I once had two funerals to attend on the same day? And at the same funeral home to boot. I wouldn’t kid you. A coworker and the mother of a friend. I’m sure the funeral home people thought I was some kind of freak.

“Look! Him again! He’s a funeral crasher. I’m sure of it. Wow. I’ve only read about such people…”



'Kay, back to the wedding.


Upon arrival at the big modern church I made sure to use the lavatory. I know first hand how Catholics can drag out an event to exasperating unfathomable lengths. However this wasn’t the case. This was a simple 12-step wedding ceremony.

The steps, you ask? Voila:

1. Admit powerlessness over addiction.

2. Believe in a greater pow– oops. Wrong program.

Here we go:

1. Prelude. Excellent music by the pianist, flutist and canter. Yes. Canter. That’s what it said in the program. I was very disappointed, expecting a live horse to be present – until I heard the canter’s voice – which was truly heavenly. I was later informed that ‘canter’ is the new modern term for one that was once – in ancient times – known as a ‘singer.’ That’s right. Singer. Say it with me everyone: Sing-er…

2. Processional: Parents of the groom and bride; six groomsmen; six maids of milking; one maid of honour, one best man, one groom and of course – one bride. Oh – and somewhere in there was a ring bearer who was maybe three months old and was carried in Mom’s left arm while the pillow and rings rode in the right arm. And oddly enough the kid’s name was Frodo. No! No, it wasn’t. I jest.

3. Opening prayer

4. First and second readings

5. Responsorial Psalm. Yes. Responsorial. My personal responsorialities included involuntary nodding and blinking.

6. Rite of Marriage. This is where the priest, Father Bob said, “I, William… Take you, Deanna… To be my wife…” and moments later said, “I, Deanna… Take you, William… To be my wife…” much to the amusement of all present. Odd that he knew so much about lesbian weddings despite his church’s official poo-pooing of such vile sacrilege. Later he attributed the gaff to a ‘senior moment’.

7. Much sitting, standing, sitting, standing, kneeling, sitting, standing, kneeling, putting in of left leg, shaking all about etc. I just sat still the whole time. Father Bob never once said “Simon sez.”

8. Litany of the Eucharist (oops! I mean – Liturgy)

9. Presentation of gifts – by the very teary and huggy mamas of the bride and of the groom.

10. Signing of the register

11. Final blessing

12. Group photo of all the party and guests gathered on and around the big alter while Father Bob scampered about in great consternation, worried we’d upset the holy order of things – that we’d knock over his magic candles or his holy-but-fake flowers or his bowl of pixie dust or otherwise upset the Savior to such degree that He’d turn His back on mankind and leave us to our own sinful devices. Luckily for us all, no hocus-pocusry were harmed even when one of the guests fell backwards down the three steps from the alter while his hands were buried in his jacket pockets - prompting many to utter, “My gosh! And he hasn’t even started drinking yet!”

Ah, but how can you be sure, my friends? How can you be sure?


Next: Off to East Side Marios for a half litre of cheap wine and the worst calamari I’ve had since the Kelsey’s debacle when an alien burst out the chest of my android friend.


And finally – the reception.

I slipped my card through the slot in the long low box that had a mirrored top on which stood magnificent decorative horse-and-carriage pieces.

I then signed the registry: ‘Fantasy Writer Guy – I hope I win the horse and carriage! I stuffed the ballot box!’

Off to the bar where I threw a hefty bill into the tip basket just to get things started right. Big mistake. The barkeep was all over me the rest of the night. He’d track me down at my table or half-way across the hall.

“Here’s another vodka and tonic, sir. I noticed you were getting low.”

Getting sloshed is more like it.

I only spoke briefly to the B and G. They were rather popular for some reason and hard to corner.

But I twice enjoyed long conversations with the mom of the groom – a kind and delightful lady and long-time family friend. I felt it my duty to warn her:

“You realize your son’s going to lose his virginity tonight.”

“Oh!” she chortled, waving her hand in dismissal. “I’m sure he lost that a long time ago!”

It really was a great wedding and more than a few guests commented such. I haven’t demonstrated why though. In reality there were no details that made it stand apart. Just this. The bride and groom are both the kind of people you love to be around. The kind who are always ‘up’. Who are happy and kind and enthusiastic but who not only speak with intensity but listen with intensity. They’re the very rare kind of extroverts who actually give more energy to a room than they take. Very rare. Very special.

Like Advil. Advil is very special at times like this. Come Advil! Come to Papa.

FWG

Jesus Appears!

Oh dear.

Oh dear oh dear.

How am I gonna explain this? Flumadiddle will be so disappointed with me but it can't be denied. The face of Jesus has appeared here today. And at the dining room table of all places. And to His credit, he didn't play favorites. He appeared neither in Steve-o's plate or mine but in the extra plate - where the ruined over-poached eggs and leftover salmon were tossed.

Here's a picture. It's hard to make out His visage immediately but trust me - it's in there.

If thou truly have faith - you shall see your savior:

Smashing on the dash: A homage to Flumadiddle

Have you read Flumadiddle yet? She’s a champion blasphemer, possibly even the antichrist. And her dissertations on rednecks and Jesus freaks and an Arkansan existence are an absolute riot.

Warning: If you’re at all religious and like yourself that way, do not dare to read further.


And now - Volume two of FWG's 'Dr. Seuss on Chrystal meth' poetry series for deranged/psychotic children -- this one dedicated to Flumaddidle:

Smashing on the Dash

Are you weary of that dreary little priest and all his chanting?
Would you rather skip his blather or at least dissolve his ranting?
Do you wonder does he fiddle with those little alter lads?
Does this standing-sitting-kneeling numb the feeling from your ‘nads?

Are you one to trace a face in such a place as bathroom walls?
Does your Lord appear to leer at you from tiles in bathroom stalls?
When your bag of peases freezes is that Jesus in their midst?
Is that Mary on your derriere or just a hairy cyst?

Is that Moses striking poses in the soup stain on your table?
Do you find these sightings frightening? Are you mentally unstable?
Do you crave your savior such that your behavior has gone rash?
When your campfire has expired is His image in the ash?

Are you stressing and confessing that these blessings make you sour?
Will these preacher’s teachings reach you when you face your final hour?
Do you fear to not adhere, lest it clear your path to hell?
Well don’t worry ‘bout God’s fury. This is what I’m here to tell.

There are better beasts than priests at least, to give your soul to steer.
There are better pests than pederasts to whom to lend your ear.
There are better ways to spend your days than slumping in a pew.
There are better things to do, it’s true and here are but a few:

Go roam the streets of Rome. Maybe try to grope the pope.
But don’t get caught at that a lot. They’ll swing you from a rope.
Let’s go stumble through the jungle. Let’s go slashing through the gash.
Go sloshing down to Washington. Go crashing Bush’s bash!

Is the bible really viable? Let us spin a better story.
We’ll drive Beemers with blasphemers down the road to purgatory.
Take that auto Colorado bound where fashion’s unabashed,
Where that faggard, Teddy Haggard lives. He’s stashing all the cash!

Read a little Flumadiddle while laughing off your ass.
Try some Eeeeekkk or Magnet Freak. Their chatter is a gas.
Take a toke or snort some coke. Try mashing up your hash.
Let’s fill craters full of ‘taters. We’ll go splashing in the mash!

Leap the brink and sink a drink. Go thrashing up a splash.
Jump the hump into the dump. Go dashing through the trash.
Drop your hoard below the board. Go lashing down the stash.
Buy a ChristBud from the Price Club. He’ll look smashing on your dash!


There you go. I hope there’s not a hell ‘cause if there is they’ve got a special seat reserved for me for sure.

FWG