Thursday, March 31, 2005

Air America Radio One Year Anniversary!!!

* Shell is our liberal sprite who amazingly stays up all night sending us to sites that are always delights an oracle with an enigmatic smile! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 02:50 PM --- a koo fer shell * eya lil snorty gurl! laughing lil poetess and a new age prankster! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 03:05 PM --- "a new age prankster!" hey that's a good one!! : ) Here. I tried one too for you: The Glow Of The Sun Keeps Us Together as One He Knows What Love Is. Posted by: Shell at March 31, 2005 03:16 PM --- hee hee! a goodun Shell! * a lil koo for you looking at the stars for peace and finding it here * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 03:21 PM --- * Dada a poet whiz knows what his riff iz to foster hope despite the dopes and to piss on currupt big biz! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 04:33 PM --- * N a cranky old fart who's unfotunately to smart for the trolls to flick shit without getting hit by his replies from the heart! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 04:38 PM --- * Fishgrease my ol pard' electronix for him ain't hard but them solderin tools ain't so cool when burnin holes in the card! * Posted by: Shadow Webmaster at March 31, 2005 05:13 PM --- * eya muckie wheres the trolls? they was sayin they was on a roll u got any more bait? maybe that red colored hate we need a few more assh*les! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 05:33 PM --- * A gift of boas for you you're both pretty cool! and some old fashioned hose to grace your pretty toes and diamond ciggy holders too! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 06:35 PM --- * Conbo our Joan de Arc tilts at bad doggie for a lark she takes no shit from neocon halfwits and leaves em in the dark! Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 07:36 PM --- * eya! theres rusty! accused of being crusty but in the end he's known as a freind and altogether trusty! * Posted by: Sunshine Jim at March 31, 2005 07:27 PM

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Vincent Willem van Gogh

b. March 30, 1853, Zundert, Neth.--d. July 29, 1890, Auvers-sur-Oise, near Paris, generally considered the greatest Dutch painter after Rembrandt; he powerfully influenced the current of Expressionism in modern art. His work, all of it produced during a period of only 10 years, hauntingly conveys through its striking colour, coarse brushwork, and contoured forms the anguish of a mental illness that eventually resulted in suicide. Among his masterpieces are numerous self-portraits and the well-known The Starry Night (1889)

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

In a Library by Emily Dickinson

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old; What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man; When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before, He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true; He lived where dreams were sown. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so.

Monday, March 28, 2005

The Triple Fool by John Donne (1572-1631)

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry ; But where's that wise man, that would not be I, If she would not deny ? Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes Do purge sea water's fretful salt away, I thought, if I could draw my pains Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay. Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce, For he tames it, that fetters it in verse. But when I have done so, Some man, his art and voice to show, Doth set and sing my pain ; And, by delighting many, frees again Grief, which verse did restrain. To love and grief tribute of verse belongs, But not of such as pleases when 'tis read. Both are increasèd by such songs, For both their triumphs so are published, And I, which was two fools, do so grow three. Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

The Exterminating Angel by Ben Goertzel

This story is dedicated to the three artists without whom it would not have been possible: Fyodor Dostoevsky - Philip K. Dick - and of course Julie Delpy Russia, 1987 Vladimir smiled. Things were beautiful. The country house was small, but perfect. It would be the ideal vacation. He looked on admiringly as his young wife Avdotya ran around in the field, with his little son Vaclav. Avdotya was gorgeous, in a wispy sort of way. She always looked like she had one foot in another world. She had this smile that was so close to angelic, it could almost be frightening at times. And Vaclav was so very clever. Only four and a half years old, and he could read already, and do simple sums. He was nimble too. He ran around his mother's legs, doing cartwheels and somersaults. Avdotya ran back towards him. "What do you think?" he said. "Nice, isn't it? We've got it for two whole months." "It's more than nice, it's incredible," said Avdotya, embracing him and kissing him. "I wish we never had to go back to Moscow. It's so crowded and dirty. I wish we could stay here forever." "But it's home," he said. "There's nowhere to work out here. Let's just enjoy it while we have it." "You're so practical, Vladimir. Can't a girl have her dreams?" "Dream, dream, by all means dream," he smiled. "Come on, Vaclav. Let's go down by the river. Maybe we can catch some fish for dinner." The three of them walked happily down toward the river, along a narrow winding path through the woods. "Did I tell you I sold an article to Discover?" he said to Avdotya. "Two thousand five hundred U.S. dollars, they paid me. That's more than I made the last three years put together, at the university." "That's amazing," she said. "You're brilliant. So you can quit your job, and move out to the country." "It's just one article. I wouldn't do that, yet. But it's a possibility...." "Dad, what's a possibility?" asked Vaclav. "Something that might happen." "But anything might happen. So everything's a possibility."

Quote by: Susan B. Anthony

Failure is impossible.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

Foreplay by Ben Goertzel

A poem-play, to be performed by a man and a brown-skinned Barbie doll. The Barbie leans against a tape recorder, which plays a tape containing the woman’s speaking parts.

SHE: Talk to me, baby

Talk to me, baby

Talk to me

[Long silence]

SHE: Talk to me, baby

Talk to me


SHE: Talk…

HE: What’s your favorite poem?

SHE: I don’t know

HE: Touch me with fingers of love, carry me to the moon on your wings, astound me with shadow love…


HE: Northeastern Alaska?


HE: Pork chops


HE: Soft light kisses all over your body, incurring trembling rhythms and shaking


SHE [smiling]:


HE: Come here, let me kiss you … kiss ….

SHE: No. Not now…

Not yet…


HE: Dante’s Inferno?


HE: Paradiso


HE: Purgatorio


HE: Broken Oreo?

SHE [scowling]:


HE: The Battle Hymn of the Pubic Pirates?

SHE: No. Certainly not.

Come on, don’t be ridiculous

HE: Why not?

SHE: … I don’t know …


HE: The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

SHE: Heh. No.

HE: The Crap Not Taken, by Charles Bukowski

SHE: Noooo….

HE: Rainer Maria Rilke, the Duino Elegies

“If I cried out, who would hear me up there among the angelic orders?”

SHE: No one would hear you

No one would hear you at all

No one hears anything you say, you moron

Haven’t you noticed that?

HE: Well….

SHE: I think that I will never hear

A poem lovely as a beer

I think that you have never bled

A poem lovely as my head

I think that you have never smashed

A poem lovely as my ass

HE: Well…

[She stares at him, hand on her hip]

HE: You know, I’d have to agree with you there

So honey … how about we forget about all this poetry crap and sort of …

head toward the bedroom, huh?

SHE: Nooo….

Not until you guess my favorite poem.

HE: That wasn’t it? That thing -- I think that I will never hear and so on?


HE: Alive words pound against my skull like poisonous, accelerated drops of rain.

Amazing skewers of ulcerated madness riddle my heart and mind. My body

yearns for you, explodes for you, sings for you bullets and soft tickled babies; my

mind reaches out to explode you, to love you, encompass you, to dream you, but

you always just pull away enchanting, wondering trembling but just out of reach.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Quote by Fyodor Dostoevsky

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Quote by Anais Nin

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Golden Precepts of Esotericism page 111

Love is the cement of the universe; it holds all things in place and in eternal keeping; its very nature is celestial peace, its very characteristic is cosmic harmony, permeating all things, boundless, deathless, infinite, eternal. It is everywhere, and is the very heart of the heart of all that is.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Garden of Nonsense by Ben Goertzel

an image of myself, first two dimensional then nine dimensional, standing naked amidst wild vines and grasses, orchids of all types shining out passion colors The plants are speaking to me in various languages, none of which I fully understand – I get a few words here and there – the feelings are more evident They are telling me that I have created them and they love me They are telling me that I am totally insane They are telling me that I used to be God – no, the universe – and for some reason I occluded my mind, blotted out part of my divine vision, They are telling me I'm only part of myself, that this garden of nonsense I'm tending is one garden among billions That they, the flowers of my meaningless hopes, dreams and delusions, are unique species, but other similarly unique species exist in other similarly unique gardens within the boundaries of what used to be my perfect godly universe soul "Tend your nonsense garden!" they tell me "Tend it carefully and truly Infuse it with your mind and body lust, your surreal inventiveness, your trees of knowledge and despair. Ensure that we, the flowers of your bleeding, tears and laughter, display a strange beauty that sings at the resonant frequency of your innermost core. Then one day your love will come. She'll step into your garden, looking surprising or familiar, gorgeous in unexpected ways, and she'll stare at your flowers vines and grasses with awe She'll reach out her hand and extend to you flowers, a bouquet grown in her own garden of exquisite nonsense, not dead flowers but plants complete with roots, for you to plant in the soil of your mind, to add new shapes to your dictionary of colors, lusts and beauties, to crosspollinate with your lifetime of screams and inventions, creating new blooms that are yours and hers and hers and yours."

Monday, March 21, 2005

Kemo Kimo by: Chubby Parker

A froggie went a courting and he did ride
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o
with a sword and a pistol by his side
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Ki-mo-ke-mo ki-mo-ke,
Way down yonder in a hollow tree
An owl and a bat and a bumble bee
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

He rode ‘til he came to miss mousie’s door,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o
And there he knelt upon the floor,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Ki-mo-ke-mo ki-mo-ke,
Way down yonder in a hollow tree
An owl and a bat and a bumble bee
king kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

He took miss mouse upon his knee
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o
And he said little mouse will you marry me
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Miss mouse had suitors three or four
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o
And there they came right in the door
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

They grabbed Mr. frog and began to fight
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o,
In the hollowed tree it was a terrible night,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Mr. frog brought the suitors to the floor
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o,
With the sword and the pistol he killed all four
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

They went to the park on the very next day
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o,
And left on their honeymoon right away
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Now they live far off in a hollow tree
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o,
Where they now have wealth and children three
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Thanz 4 Tha Vizual

"The Hill" Artist Damien Farrell

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Truth Beauty Roses By Karene Howie

Is a Rose as Beautiful as an Obsession? her mouth blooming out of the quiet vase of her body like a bud of a rose she was climbing up those branches this way and that laying hands on one flower and then another I enter the ballroom wearing a black eye-slit mask through long heavy curtains Many faceless bodies writhe in frenzy about me like buzzing insects swarming up to the light| desperately full of desire wanting fulfillment wondering why it is so dark in their light The swarm picks me up and makes my body move in foreign, awkward ways it is intoxicating, delicious.. to be a puppet I am drugged by their pretty illusions delirious with each sweet sip of myth that i taste from a goblet I am lost in their madness, a whirl of falsehoods and triviality. My eyes shut behind the mask to try to escape into blackness| the sound seeps into my mind like poison and distracts me from emptiness I struggle to open mine eyes again, for I am scared of that prevailing echo Through sticky eyes (for clever silken threads do they weave) I watch a Man who moves slowly holding a red rose against the white of his shirt a blood spill a torn twisted heart his movements are gentle and languid so different against the thronging dancers the din of the orchestra subsides and is forgotten "What a beautiful rose" I murmured to the stranger "What a beautiful rose" he repeated looking up and down my body wrapped in tight silken cloth He then took my body and whirled me around in space holding me close and firm there i could not escape, nor did i want to as he whispered truths into my ear the boundaries of the ballroom disappeared with my black mask of preconceived meaning, identity and body we existed everywhere and all at once! The Man, the Woman and The Rose. together we danced huge and monstrous in the cosmos the focal point, our two bodies waves rippling through us and out beyond meshing us together this wondrous fabric of space The Universe is intelligent and breathed to infinity that the truth of the rose was the beauty of the rose and the rose was me 'that which your eyes see are many separate waves, but that which you know is that all are one, each wave extending from every other wave' I felt far removed from the illusory beauty of my senses once True Beauty illuminated me, to knowing. I now know cause, while others who sense are only aware of effects which they can never know Such that is Truth, that is Beauty. It is something to make a few objects beautiful but far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look to understand what it actually is and how we see it that is the highest of all arts. Thus I feel an obsession can be more beautiful than a rose, if such an obsession allows one to view the rose from a true perspective.

Friday, March 18, 2005

The Boulevard of Broken Balls

Performed by Christopher Walken on 24 Oct 1992 * Temptation lingers in the lamplight, Upon her lips a shadow falls. She loves to flirt, she loves to tease, Beneath her skirt, some new disease. The Boulevard of Broken Balls. Her lovers lurk in every doorway With prices written on the walls So if you're rich and have the cash, You'll get an itch, you'll get a rash. The Boulevard of Broken Balls. You hear the whispers in the darkness The laughter echoes and enthralls They're taking bets you'll never know, Your gigalette's a gigolo, The Boulevard of Broken Balls She leaves a token of your romance, A souvenir that hops and crawls. You bring the crabs home to your wife, She stabs you with a butcher knife. The Boulevard of Broken Balls.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Free Online Books

The Online Books Page is a website that facilitates access to books that are freely readable over the Internet. It also aims to encourage the development of such online books, for the benefit and edification of all. The Online Books Page was founded, and is edited, by John Mark Ockerbloom, He is a digital library planner and researcher at the University of Pennsylvania.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Gaslight E-Books

Gaslight is an Internet discussion list which reviews one story a week from the genres of mystery, adventure and The Weird, written between 1800 and 1919. Lots of old books to read here.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Nek Chand

National Geographic One day over 40 years ago, Nek Chand, a humble transport official in the north Indian city of Chandigarh, began to clear a little patch of jungle to make himself a small garden area. He set stones around the little clearing and before long had sculpted a few figures recycled from materials he found at hand. Gradually Nek Chand's creation developed and grew; before long it covered several acres and comprised of hundreds of sculptures set in a series of interlinking courtyards.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Quote by: Sir Hugh Walpole, 1884-1941

The most wonderful of all things in life is the discovery of another human being with whom one's relationship has a growing depth, beauty and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between two human beings is a most marvelous thing; it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of divine accident, and the most wonderful of all things in life.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Adolf Wölfli 1864-1930

Photo Wölfli always spoke of art as 'a beautifully rhymed curse' Angel, 1920 Pencil and colored pencil on paper, Swiss In a manifestation of Wölfli's "horror vacui," every empty space was filled with two small holes. Wölfli called the shapes around these holes his "birds." His images also incorporated an idiosyncratic musical notation. This notation seemed to start as a purely decorative affair but later developed into real composition which Wölfli would play on a paper trumpet. Adolf Woelfli with Paper Flute

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Wesley Willis

Scream, Dracula, Scream! You are an educated rapper You can really rap your ass off You can really knock it out You are the greatest one of all Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E Oak Street Beach/ Playboy Building * Buckingham Fountain, 1998 Keep on playing that rap music Keep on moving on the jack move Jam harder like a magikist Rock harder like a magikist Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E * State, Rush, and Cedar 1989 Rock, rap and roll will never die The music will pick you up The jam session will rock your artwork Rap, rock and roll will entertain your artistic talent Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E Eazy E Diet Pepsi, uh-huh * Wesley *

Friday, March 11, 2005

The Prayer of Saint Francis-I'm not religious, I just think it's true

O Lord, make me an instrument of Thy Peace! Where there is hatred, let me sow love; Where there is injury, pardon; Where there is discord, harmony; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light, and Where there is sorrow, joy. Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive; It is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

The Beautiful Toilet (may a woman never be one! attributed to Mei Sheng, 140 b.c.)

Blue, blue is the grass about the river And the willows have overfilled the close garden. And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth, White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door. Slender, she puts forth a slender hand; And she was a courtezan in the old days, And she has married a sot, Who now goes drunkly out And leaves her too much alone. Translated by Ezra Pound. Ibid. They called women like that a toilet in those days. What an analogy.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Thanx For Tha Vizual

Jiji Kitty Thanks also to Miss Anne Thropic who turned me on to Kiki and Jiji. Under the shining full moon, people gather to send Kiki off. Kiki, a witch-in-training, is now 13 years old and according to a tradition, she has to leave her home to spend a year alone in a new town to establish herself as a full witch. Kissing her mom and dad good-bye, Kiki sets herself on her mother's broom with her father's transistor radio and her closest companion, Jiji the black cat, at her side. And she flies off - to a new town, to a new adventure, and to a new life. Finding herself a beautiful seaside city of Korico, Kiki sets up a flying delivery service, to take advantage of the only magic she knows - flying a broom. However, her magic does not make Kiki happy or successful overnight. Miyazaki says, "In this movie, magic just means some kinds of talents that today's girls have" and Kiki is "a girl who tries to be herself by flying". Kiki encounters several setbacks and mishaps that an upcoming young entrepreneur would typically face - slow business, misplaced merchandise, not-so-nice customers, and a rainy day (literally!). Kiki also has to deal with her feelings such as loneliness, worries, shyness, and self-doubt, as a teenage girl in a new town. Miyazaki says, "the ability to fly frees her from what is going on on the ground, but freedom also means worries and loneliness", and she has to face and overcome such problems to really become self-sufficient and independent. Her biggest challenge comes when Kiki loses her magic. Flying, which was as natural to Kiki as breathing, no longer comes so easily to her. Miyazaki says that talent is something that you are given, and you have to go through a process to consciously make such a talent truely yours. Kiki overcomes such obstacles with her energy and resourcefulness, and with help from nice people she meets in the course of her adventure. Osono and her baker husband, who gave Kiki a place to stay, take good care of Kiki as sort of surrogate parents. Tombo, a boy whose biggest dream is to fly, befriends Kiki and makes her laugh. Grandmotherly Madame, for whom Kiki delivers a pie, treats Kiki with kindness and care to give Kiki the energy to go on. And a young painter, Ursula, gives Kiki good advice as someone who not so long ago went through the same struggle as Kiki is going through now. In the end, Kiki finds her independence and the meaning of self-reliance. In her letter to her parents, Kiki writes, "There are still some times when I feel a little homesick, but all in all I sure love this city!" as she flies over Koriko, which she now calls home.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Soliel (Autumn) by Robert Scott Leyse

Windy-spirited Soleil, girl of bright Emerald eyes, flowing chestnut tresses, Smooth satin complexion, dove-wing hands - Endearing blitheness, her peals of laughter Which peeled off the lower reaches of gray Sky on dim days, allowed the sun to shine - Wonderful Soleil, darling of darlings, Lies coffin-encased, sealed off forever, In cold, uncaring, colorless soil - autumn Winds slap at its unresponsive surface Before trailing off to die in lifeless Leaf-piles, brittle remains of verdant green. The wind may stir the leaf corpses to move But not to life; nor shall sweet Soleil stir Again - not one spine-caressing sparkle Will spill from her eyes, no pleasing teasings Will escape her lips - her wave-graceful lilt Of a walk won't add to a meadow's cheer Again, beauty won't shameface sneers again - Nothing, not a shiver of a quiver, Remains of lackadaisical Soleil. Nothing? I count not the vacated shell Of her former self - the decaying husk. No, that's not Soleil underground - her soul's Not mouldering in a pine box, longing For light, wedded to smothering darkness. That thing down there is no more sweet Soleil Than these wind-rattled tearings of fiber Are the greenery that carpeted trees Last summer, when my blithe beauty still smiled At the slightest touch of my loving glance.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Amor Profanus by Ernest Dowson

Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love. Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! Over our pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids. In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shone cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red. And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted. Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night. Photo of Ernest Dowson

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Morrison and Music

Blake said that the body was the soul's prison unless the five senses are fully developed and open. He considered the senses the 'windows of the soul.' When sex involves all the senses intensely, it can be like a mystical experence. ~Jim Morrison~

Saturday, March 05, 2005

The Hemperor

Are you interested in drugs, politics, health, philosophy, or conspiracy? We've got one of the largest collections of underground news, investigative material, and information on topics you won't find anywhere else. "If the words 'life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness' don't include the right to experiment with your own consciousness, then the Declaration of Independence isn't worth the HEMP it was written on." --Terence McKenna, 1946-2000--

Friday, March 04, 2005

The Magic of Tone and the Art of Music

By: Dane Rudhyar The Rudhyar Archival Project is pleased to offer this online edition of Dane Rudhyar's The Magic of Tone and the Art of Music. The work was first published by Shambhala Publications in 1982; it has been out-of-print since 1987.

The Negro Project

By Tanya L. Green On the crisp, sunny, fall Columbus Day in 1999, organizers of the "Say So" march approached the steps of the U.S. Supreme Court. The marchers, who were predominantly black pastors and lay persons, concluded their three-day protest at the site of two monumental cases: the school desegregation Brown v. Board of Education (1954) and the pro-abortion Roe v. Wade "rights" in t he latter–converged in the declaration of Rev. Johnny M. Hunter, the march’s sponsor and national director of Life, Education and Resource Network (LEARN), the largest black pro-life organization. "Civil rights’ doesn’t mean anything without a right to life!" declared Hunter. He and the other marchers were protesting the disproportionately high number of abortions in the black community. The high number is no accident. Many Americans–black and white–are unaware of Planned Parenthood founder Margaret Sanger’s Negro Project. Sanger created this program in 1939, after the organization changed its name from the American Birth Control League (ABCL) to the Birth Control Federation of America (BCFA). The aim of the program was to restrict–many believe exterminate–the black population. Under the pretense of "better health" and "family planning," Sanger cleverly implemented her plan. What’s more shocking is Sanger’s beguilement of black America’s créme de la créme–those prominent, well educated and well-to-do–into executing her scheme. Some within the black elite saw birth control as a means to attain economic empowerment, elevate the race and garner the respect of whites. The Negro Project has had lasting repercussions in the black community: "We have become victims of genocide by our own hands," cried Hunter at the "Say So" march. ...from Malthus’ magnum opus, An Essay on the Principle of Population, published in six editions from 1798 to 1826: "All children born, beyond what would be required to keep up the population to a desired level, must necessarily perish, unless room is made for them by the deaths of grown persons. We should facilitate, instead of foolishly and vainly endeavoring to impede, the operations of nature in producing this mortality."

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Thanks For Tha Vizual

Cat Eyes II. Murder--War--Famine--Greed Without this dance of masks, nothing will be created. The oldest mythology makes Eros the firstborn of Chaos. Eros, the wild one who tames, is the door through which the artist returns to Chaos, the One, and then re-returns, comes back again, bearing one of the patterns of beauty. The artist, the hunter, the warrior: one who is both passionate and balanced, both greedy & altruistic to the utmost extreme. We must be saved from all salvations which save us from ourselves, from our animal which is also our anima, our very lifeforce, as well as our animus, our animating self-empowerment, which may even manifest as anger & greed. BABYLON has told us that our flesh is filth--with this device & the promise of salvation it enslaved us. But--if the flesh is already "saved," already light--if even consciousness itself is a kind of flesh, a palpable & simultaneous living aether--then we need no power to intercede for us. The wilderness, as Omar says, is paradise even now. The true proprietorship of murder lies with the Empire, for only freedom is complete life. War is Babylonian as well--no free person will die for another's aggrandizement. Famine comes into existence only with the civilization of the saviors, the priest-kings--wasn't it Joseph who taught Pharaoh to speculate in grain futures? Greed--for land, for symbolic wealth, for power to deform others' souls & bodies for their own salvation--greed too arises not from "Nature nature-ing," but from the damming up & canalization of all energies for the Empire's Glory. Against all this, the artist possesses the dance of masks, the total radicalization of language, the invention of a "Poetic Terrorism" which will strike not at living beings but at malign ideas, dead-weights on the coffin-lid of our desires. The architecture of suffocation and paralysis will be blown up. only by our total celebration of everything-- even darkness.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


A large body of gutter-latin exists that pays tribute to the god Priapus, the wooden-phallused god of the garden. Here is such a poem: Priapea XXV Hoc sceptrum, quod ab arbore ut recisumst, Nulla iam poterit virere fronde, Sceptrum, quod pathicae petunt puellae, Quod quidam cupiunt tenere reges, Cui dant oscula nobiles cinaedi, Intra viscera furis ibit usque Ad pubem capulumque coleorum.

The Book of the Law

"Beauty and strength, leaping laughter and delicious langour, force and fire, are of us." Liber AL II,20.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Artifacts on eBay Every Day

Auction Giant's Policy: "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" Cylinder seals, cuneiform tablets, foundation cones and other objects that are being offered for auction this moment on eBay. Thieves stole thousands of such objects from the Iraq Museum and continue to strip mine Iraq's archaeological sites for more. However, there is no warning on eBay about new global efforts to hunt down black market dealers and collectors in order to recover these artifacts. In April, 2003, Kevin Pursglove, a spokesman for eBay said it's possible items stolen from Iraq could end up on eBay, but eBay can't check every single sale on its site. "If an item like this appears on eBay and we are approached by the authorities, then we would remove the item from auction," he said. The company has 114 million registered members worldwide, and derives its income from fees charged to the sellers.

Quote by: St. Augustine

"Love is the beauty of the soul."

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