Lord Have Mercy, Feel My Temperature Rising …

Ok, so the top recommended diary at Daily Kos is the hard hitting speech by John Edwards immediately following Mister Bush’s address to the nation (which I did not watch — will never watch that man if I can help it).

So now I know that America has officially gone nuts.  The video of Edwards looks as though he is President, he’s sitting in a nice chair, an American flag behind him.  Except … except … HE IS NOT EVEN A SENATOR!  He is not in any position to make any decision in Congress right now!  Aaarrrrggggh!

All right, all right, I’ll calm down.  It’s just that this reminds me of the really creepy phenomenon of so many folks watching “West Wing” after Mister Bush was selected — this kind of fantasy-land where you could at least watch on the teevee what a President was supposed to act like, look like, talk like.  Not having a teevee (I stopped watching after 9/11), I was never gripped by this fantasy.

Look, it’s fine and dandy that Edwards gave a speech right after Mister Bush’s speech — maybe some folks out in teevee land will wake up and realize Mister Bush is a nutjob idiot fool after hearing Edwards.  I’m not against the notion of debunking the speech after it’s given.

But … but … but … isn’t that supposed to be the job of the PRESS?  I mean, how have we become reduced to this — a Presidential candidate for 2008 giving a speech right after the Leader and Decider of the Free World, a Presidential candidate airing a campaign ad?  An ad?  Showing this speech by Mister Bush to be vewwy vewwy wrong?  It is to laugh.

I am competely uninterested in the 2008 Presidential election at this time.  There’s a little thing called the Iraq War that I feel is a wee bit more important to deal with, not to mention a lunatic misAdministration that will continue to perform crimes against America and the world unless they are stopped.

And who will stop them?  Well, I would imagine it would be someone who is ALREADY IN CONGRESS!  AS OF NOW!  Which would kind of leave Edwards out of that equation.

Why wasn’t there an ad by Harry Reid?  By Nancy Pelosi?  Hell, by the entire Democratic caucus?  Now that would have been interesting, wouldn’t it?

Welcome to America, the land of the looney.

Tilling new ground

(Ideas are good in the middle of the night. What’s in your wallet? – promoted by exmearden)

I’ll jump in here, full tilt boogie, with a peek into my non-pragmatic mind…

Only, it’s fallow ground, not new, because I and some of my cohort of that era was asking the question forty years ago.  Back then it was extreme visionary territory, but nowadays, the question just screams for an answer, but nobody is even asking the question.

So when do we come to the realization that there are NEVER going to be enough jobs, either here in America, the USA, or anywhere on the planet, for that matter, and when do we start to talk about the paradigm shift it is going to take to come to accommodation with that fact?  Jobs, in the sense of wage earning, support-your-family-security, steady meaningful employment.  Remember that?

Here’s the simplistic viewpoint I was holding back then, distilled down to a few essentials:
The drudgery of mindless, repetitive work is about to  end, because the cybernetic revolution is on the way towards creating robots that will do all that mindless dumb dull soul-killing work.  Humans, having collectively moved civilization forward to this point where we can create machines to do the slave-type labor, will now collectively benefit from the creative outpouring that will occur as people are  freed from the prison of “have to have a job”  and set free to find for themselves what work they would choose to do based on what they would like to do.

There  dared to be uttered such radical concepts as “guaranteed annual wage”, or “living stipend”.  Heady times, indeed, at the dawn of the cyber revolution.  We  spoke slogans such as “if it is not worth doing for love, it is not worth doing”, the point being that one’s work ought to be that which one is consumed by, driven to do, the free action of a creative being, doing for the love of doing.

So it is forty years later and much of what was predicted came to pass; the machines have indeed liberated vast numbers of humans from certain kinds of work, however these humans have not shared in the benefits, being instead cast adrift to fend for themselves finding what they can to survive.
The benefits have come to accrue to the owners of the robots, the corporate owner class and its pilot fish, the shareholders.  According to the present operating paradigm, it’s OK for them to have seized all these benefits for themselves; they are the self made, the captains of industry.
Unmentioned, and damn near unmentionable in most polite quarters is the fact of centuries of civilization culminating in an operating industrial society that takes the leap into the future. The Captains merely capitalize upon the work of countless others.

Some of those others pushed a wheelbarrow, a few of the others postulated Great Theories and all worked towards some vision of a future that would be better.  It was all of us, the humans, doing our thing.
But meanwhile we get back to the niggling question, how do we devise a society in which it is OK to not have a job, because there sure as shit will NOT be enough jobs to take care of everybody, at least not in the traditional sense.

So are all these people who have become surplus to the needs of the owners of the machinery simply to be cast adrift?  How do we devise a culture that can value those who do not work,  but merely be?  How do we harness the creative drives of the capitalists so that we all can ride?  How can there be dignity for those who have been idled, unneeded by the machinery of profit, but still our human brothers and sisters?

So, obviously, I’m not going to be asking any of the candidates their opinions on this topic, although I do wonder if ANYBODY is trying to grapple with  these sorts of issues.  These are the questions that need to be asked, and we need to dare to define the world we would like to see.
It’s like, long term, where do we want to go, and how do we get there?

I am a child of the New Deal, FDR’s distillation of yeasty brew of socialism, a lite variant that he was able, in the extremis of the Great Depression, to put forth and enforce.  Subsequent policies for the next two decades augmented this vast leveling of the playing field which created the mighty economic engine of the American Middle Class ™. That middle class of which we are, mostly, descendents and beneficiaries.

So, we know for an indisputable fact, that social engineering experiment worked, spectacularly, within its context.  Worked great for the Americans, anyway, especially if they were white Europeans, and to our credit, has continued to evolve towards more inclusiveness, the largely accepted vision that we are ALL Americans, in all our riotous diversity.

The unfortunate events of the past decades, politically, has been the counter revolution to FDR’s vision, a counter revolution now finally gasping to its ultimate failure thanks to George W. Bush. What then?

Do we recreate FDR’s vision, knowing that the planet cannot support that orgy of mass consumption, or do we revise it appropriately? If so, what can we agree on as to what that new vision must contain?

If there is a tectonic shift in American politics and the Dems (supposedly US) take over with a huge majority, there will ensue a cacophony of expectations and proposals, all in need of vision for the future.  Who wants to take a shot at formulating a vision?

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Short Diaries are mine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

~

!

writing in the raw: the touch

(too used to unchecking FP box, so have to promote my own damned FP piece… – promoted by pfiore8)

I’m listening to a musician, new to me. Sam Prekop… heard his music playing as i passed by a small shop. i walked in and asked… who is that. Sam Prekop. Oh.

So now i’m listening to Who’s Your New Professor. I love it. I love the acoustic guitar. And the acoustic piano. The tone… the depth of the music. And listening, i hear the electric elements there too. but it is the acoustic parts that are warmest, most intimate.

Can writing be acoustic? … a writer so intimate with a pen or keyboard… wanting nothing more than to touch a conversation…

Writing like this is the closest thing to reading for me. There is nothing hard or fast about the images, yet I know it… the room, the people in the room, the sound of voices, the lights, the smell of evening, and the crickets, like generators, humming, vibrating in the background

I wonder about you, though. You could be living on the Baja Peninsula for all i know. Maybe you’re playing it down low… down under. Ha! you could be right next store. Maybe it’s slipping into spring where you are. Or dipping into evening. my dutchman is more than 3,500 miles from here.

where’s the touch then? being able to get up and walk over to you. rub your arm. hug you. kiss you. pull your hair. pinch you. bite you. where are you????

i’d love to see how you smile. or hear your laugh… do you snort or make funny contorted faces? i want to touch your laughter with my ears and my eyes… take it with me into my mind.

wait. there’s more to it than that, isn’t there. i want more than just your body. i want your mind. to touch THAT.

so while your steeping that tea for our tete-a-tete, i need to warn you: i have eXpectations. about talk, ideas, challenges, being eXposed, being heard, hearing. no!… listening to you.

think about it for a minute. i am… i’ve been given a forum. a platform. hoLY shit. it’s HERE I AM and then some. because you should know what you’re getting into, here. you have eXpectations. get link so do i.

read me… love it or pull me apart. make me better. don’t come here for personality (i lie)… i want to get somewhere… i have eXpectations. i don’t want to be a shell. i want to go site get to you. i want you to grab me, astound me. take the damned thread over, if it’s meant to be… argue… be maudlin… but be something… feel something… be aroused and want something… we deserve to have some… eXpectations

touch you… touch me…. no smells and nothing to quell the need to touch. it’s raw… it’s writing in the raw… here, it is allowed to be. here, it is just us and there are no mirrors, just perception and our minds creating at the speed of sound who we are… who we want to be… getting closer in every keystroke…

there’s cold comfort in the electric warm touch of my laptop. the keys, the touch pad. the screen… and this wormhole mess of wires and cables, the only portal i have to you out there…somewhere.

buhdydharma, he always says here i am… well, buhdy, HERE I AM. the question is, where are all of you?

tell me a little something about yourself on this first of what i hope will be many Thursday nights… of writing in the raw.

welcome to docuDharma.

Candidate Poll! Who’s your choice as of today?

I’ve not seen one yet, so I’m going to run one! 🙂

Here are your choices:

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Buhdy said I could

Heh.

impatience

I find myself growing more and more impatient. Like a child waiting for the magic of Christmas morning, only to find those toys were not quite what they seemed, and may have been, in fact, argyle socks and tighty whitey underwear.

In November 2006, we all went to the polls to cast our vote. And the vast majority of our nation voted for change. Or so they thought.

The vast majority voted to bring an end to the insanity of an illegal war.

The vast majority voted to bring an end to the corruption run rampant in our halls of Congress, in the western wing of our White House.

The vast majority gave power to their voices in the strongest way provided by our constitution, they voted, for new leadership.

And yet, ten months later, I find myself growing more and more impatient.

Our leaders, those we look to for change, seem weak in the face of a minority power. The tough words heard last summer are all but gone. Except in the voices of a few, including the man who should be leading this nation, instead of trying in vain to rally his own side.

Other leaders, who should be standing up in our congress, insisting an end to the war, insisting a protection of our failing economy, instead make meaningless safe speeches to protect their chance at the powers that the idiot would be king has created.

And still our constitutional rights have not yet been restored, our government listens in on our private lives, more young soldiers are sent off to die.

I find myself growing more and more impatient.

I know I am not alone.

Go in peace,
darrell

Little Grey Orb

On Monday morning a little grey orb was floating three feet off the ground in the living-room of Judd Frimp’s apartment.  Judd was late for work at the supermarket and didn’t notice. 

When he got back that evening, sweaty and swearing, it was still there.

“Don’t put bags of groceries on top of watermellons, Judd,” Judd fumed as he came in the door.  “Don’t smash carts into curbs to make a train, Judd.  It knocks the wheels out of alignment, Judd.”  He threw his green “Food Gnome” apron onto the 70’s-plaid couch and stormed to the shower, stripping clothes as he went.  “I’ll knock you out of alignment you fat pig,” he said to his boss, who wasn’t there.

A moment later Judd reappeared from the bathroom, naked, gawking at the orb.  One of his socks had landed on it. 

“Flubuck?” he said.  “Huh?”

The orb was about a half-a-foot in diameter and unblemished . . . aside from the gym sock.  It hovered motionless above the coffee table in the living room.  Judd had bought the coffee table at a Target Superstore and put it together using the stupid little hexagonal tool that came in the box.  He’d hurt three of his fingers in the process.  Stupid hexagonal tool.  Stupid hexagonal Chink tool.

More importantly, though, nothing was holding the orb up.  It hung in mid-air, next to the lamp on the table.

Judd shuffled toward it warily, squinting.  He expected lighting bolts or maybe laser beams to shoot out of the orb and fry him.  He reached and grabbed his sock.  The orb was unperturbed. 

Judd tapped it with his finger.  Tap tap tap.  Nothing.  He tapped harder.  Tap tap tap.  The orb didn’t move at all.  It was as though it were lodged in the oxygen.  Fixed.  Fast.  Frozen.

It was reflective.  Judd saw himself in the orb — a funhouse-mirror skinny self.  Looking at his own eyes, Judd imagined the orb or the Smurfs inside it could see him.  He covered his privates with the sock. 

“Devil’s own business,” he mused.

Phone in kitchen.  Back up slow.  Dial.  Bart. 

“Hullo.”

“Hey Bart.”

“Yeah?”  Bart sounded groggy.

“You ever see a little grey orb?”

“What?”

“A orb.”

Waking up some: “The fuck are you talking about?  Is this Frimp?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fucker,” Judd said.  “Like a ball.”

“Have I ever seen a ball?”

“Yeah.”

“Well lemme think on that, Frimp.  Yeah, yeah.  I believe so.”

“No shit?  Floating?”

The orb sat in the air, silent, reflecting a Dokken poster on a wood-panel wall.

“You high, Judd?  Get ya some bad shit?”

“No, man, I was gonna ask if you had it in –“

“Yeah, I had it in,” Bart said, mimicking him.  “I been holding it for you all weekend.  You didn’t go buying that shit Harriet sells, did you?”

“Naw, no, Bart.”

“That shit’ll make you see things.”

“No Bart, I’m straight at this exact moment.  Look I’ll be right over.”  Judd hung up.  He got dressed and went over to Bart’s.  He didn’t want to piss off Bart; Bart sold the California shit.

__________________________

Suzie at work agreed to a date for Friday.  Judd invited her over to his place at nine.  At eight, he sat on the couch, watching television on his thirty-inch flat screen, changing channels.  The orb was still there.

Judd had heaved on the orb, tried to shove it, beat it with a tennis racket, all week long.  The orb never budged.  It was a rock.  A rock floating three-feet off the ground in the living-room of his apartment with wood-paneled walls.  It was a true-to-life bitch, is what it was.

But Suzie was pretty, so Judd sat there and contemplated the matter.  He had to hide the orb from her view, so that when she came over in an hour, she wouldn’t see it.  It was some embarrassing shit, having an orb in your place.

Judd took the lamp on the table and tried to arrange it so that the lamp shade covered the orb.  The lampshade was puke-orange and fairly translucent, but Judd figure it would do if he could arrange it correctly. 

He’d left the TV absently on channel 43, the science Discovery channel.  A guy was speculating on higher-dimensional objects, and what would happen if they protruded into the known universe.  Only three of their many dimensions would be apparent, of course.

Judd messed with the lampshade and the lamp and got it about right — the shade was a bit askew but it covered the orb.  He looked down into the shade from above and he could see the orb there.  Good enough.  He changed the channel to a Friends rerun and drank a beer and smoked some weed.

Suzie came over looking nice in a jean-skirt and sweater and they made out.  But Judd made the mistake of trying to turn on the lamp at one point to help her look for an earring.  This sent the lamp twirling about and cast a weird dancing shadow of the orb onto the walls.

Suzie freaked out and left.  Judd kicked the orb a karate kick and hurt all five of his toes.  He drank himself into a daze and then crashed on his bed at two o’clock in the morning.

____________________________

When Judd woke up, the little grey orb was gone.  He thanked God loudly and took a numb, hung-over shower.  He went to work at Food Gnome where the boss yelled at him again.

The most amazing thing that ever happened in the history of the world happened in Judd Frimp’s apartment, but he was stupid and so nothing ever came of it.

Posting on Posting

If you are NOT a Contributing Editor….If you have NOT been specifically informed by e-mail that you are a CE….If you have not spoken to me about your Editorship….If you just signed up like a normal person…then the following applies to you!

Just a quick post to clear some stuff up and answer any questions you might have. It seems that some folks misinterpreted (my fault) the rules for being a CE (Contributing editor) with general posting in the recent list.

After spending all morning over at pff responding to comments in the launch diary, I am afraid to write this next sentence….but here goes!

You can literally write anything you want, in any form you want, at any length you want, in the recent essay list.

Really.

Anything

One of my most oft repeated sayings in life is….We will burn that bridge when we come to it.

Iow, WHEN someone posts something that is….for some yet unforeseen reason….objectionable somehow….we will deal with it. And someone eventually will, we are clever little monkeys here in the blogoverse.

Mischief expands to fill the space allotted for it.

This is NOT to say you will not receive a full liberal an dripping ration of shit for it. We are ALL directly responsible for every word we right. And just as you have the right to write whatever you want….every one in the whole wide world has every right to object to it however they choose.

I am very grateful to peeder, as a matter of fact. Though I have not spent much time at pff, it is obvious that (to whatever degree) the folks who think blogs need an intensive degree of moderation or else they will implode….are just plain wrong.

If you have a specific goal as Daily Kos does in electing Democrats, there is much to be said for keeping that goal in the forefront. It makes achieving that goal much more attainable if you are focussed. Or if you at least prevent things that are anti that goal.

However, here our goal is not clear cut, in fact it is my opinion that the only way to achieve our nominal goal is to NOT focus too much. If the solutions to the problems in the Big Picture were to be found within the box….they would have already been found. Instead history shows us again and again that true change comes from outside conventional thinking, from outside the box. So part of what we are here to do is demolish the box. But while demolishing the box, not to demolish each other or the larger conversation.

So we are starting with a clean slate and we will make rules up as we go and as they become necessary.

As far as commenting goes I (harumph) shall quote the FAQ!

Be Excellent To Each Other. Don’t Start No Shit, And There Won’t Be No Shit. Live And Let Live. There Is no Crying In CalvinBall.

.

As to Contributing Editors, let me try to state the ‘rules’ as clearly as possible.

The following applies ONLY to Contributing Editors…if you have NOT been informed that you are a CE….the following does NOT apply to you!
You are requested to post one original essay a week that is not crossposted at the larger blogs. (smaller sites and personal blogs are fine)

Some folks have scheduled times to post. If you wish to make an unscheduled post, please check the schedule so you are not posting in someone else’s time slot.

The general rule has evolved to….Give an hour on either side of the time you post. In other words….wait an hour after the last person has posted…and make sure you are not posting within an hour of someones scheduled (upcoming)time.

Be prepared to tend your essay for 90 minutes or so.

If you screw up…..you will be forgiven. We will ALL screw up, so forgive those who screw you as you wish to be forgiven by those you screw!


This part is for everyone, lol!
Okay….what have I forgotten and/or what are your questions?

Oh yeah! I have removed the section in the FAQ about becoming a Responsible (damn we need a better name!) User….as far as having to ask to be one etc. ek came up with an algorithm that makes it tough to get., so we are going with that model. OTB says she has added some stuff to the FAQ as well, it is a work in progress, so if you care about such things, check it out occasionally for changes. If there are any major rule changes, lol….we will announce them prominently.

Economist displays the power of Magical Thinking

Now look, children, here is how you dazzle rather than honestly make an argument:  If the surge is working it is a good reason that we should stay in Iraq; if the surge is not working it is a good reason that we should stay in Iraq.  Huh?  Watch the hand with the ball, not the hand fluttering around in front of your eyes.

From the 13 Sept 07 Print edition “Why They Should Stay”

This newspaper was not wowed by either man. The spin General Petraeus put on the military achievements of the surge exaggerated the gains. Mr Crocker’s claim to see a spirit of sectarian reconciliation bubbling just beneath the surface of Iraq’s stalemated politics was even less convincing. But on one point Mr Crocker was surely right. If America removes its forces while Iraq remains in its present condition, the Iraqi future is indeed likely to be disastrous. For that reason above any other, and despite misgivings about the possibility of even modest success any time soon, our own view is that America (and Britain) ought to stay in Iraq until conditions improve.

So, since its been a disaster we should stay: keep eye on ball as we move below

Here is the Flashy Hand: sure the case for leaving is a “powerful one”, a growing consensus of Democrats and a swelling band of Republicans [Goopers, as they are known around my house] believe that we have lost our “ability to shape the politics of Iraq.” Staying merely helps the Shia avoid sharing power with the Sunni, and it is possible that Iraq will “never come good”, and by his insistence that we stay there with only “token” troop reductions GWB merely postpones the inevitable while our troops [and lots of unmentioned Iraqi people] die “for no good cause”.

It can also be argued that the disaster Mr Crocker says will befall Iraq if America leaves has happened already. America’s military presence has not prevented massive human suffering. At least 100,000 civilians have already been killed in an orgy of sectarian killing. Several million have already been forced out of their homes. Regional states have already intervened by proxy. America’s invasion has given al-Qaeda a new cause, battlefield and haven. And-irony of ironies-the best foreign friend of the Shia-led government that the American army props up in Baghdad is probably not the United States but Iran, America’s great regional adversary

Here comes the hand again:  Concede the point that Iraqis themselves are fed up, (BBC/ABC poll) 47% want us to leave at once, 85% say they have lost confidence in our forces, and 57% including 93% of Sunnis think it fucking okay [my word there, you understand] to attack our troops.  The best you can say is that there may be some reduction in violence, “a kink in a graph” that has generally risen regarding sectarian violence for the past four years.  And our buddies the Sunni tribal chiefs?

[A]re at best fair-weather friends who do not trust and are not trusted by the government in Baghdad.

.

So, we ask, why should we stay???Well, because if we leave things the Economist guesses that “things will get worse”.  The same poll indicates that 62% of Iraqis think they should have an unified government and 98%(!!) believe it would be a bad thing to seperate along sectarian lines.  So if we leave they won’t be able to manage that. For some reason only the presence of the hated American troops is keeping the country from flying apart as 2% of its citizens wish.  Maybe a non-sectarian army could be created in 18 months, or “maybe the prospect of a new president in Washington in 2009 [of course we could have one before that if some people would do their jobs] will concentrate the minds of squabbling politicians in Baghdad”.

If America could choose again, it would not step into a civil war in Mesopotamia. But there are worse reasons than preventing a bloodbath for a superpower to put its soldiers at risk. Having invaded Iraq in its own interest-to remove mass-killing weapons that turned out not to exist-America owes something to Iraq’s people, a slim majority of whom want it to stay. It is hard to know how Iraq can be mended. At some point it may become clear the country has sunk so low it is simply beyond saving. But it is not possible to be sure of that yet.

So there we have it:  There is no way we can leave because it is too bad there, and if it was getting better there would be no way we could leave because it would be folly to quit now when our efforts and sacrifices were beginning to bear fruit.  A new President in Washington will concentrate their minds, but being told our troops are leaving won’t.  An astronomically high number of Iraqi citizens want to stay citizens and not be split up, a very high number think its okay to kill US troops, but if we pull our troops out, they will break up.  The argument the Economist makes, and remember they have supported this war through thick and thin, doesn’t hold up.  When will it be time to leave, who knows, maybe when we learn to see into the future and will know for certain what will happen next.  What we do know, and what we know for certain, is that too many people have died because we are there, we went there for illegitimate reasons that had to do with our leaders lying to us, and it seems to me that it is also certain-as can be-that it is time to bring the troops home.

I’m not one who blames the Iraqi government too much for not getting their shit together, it seems that would be a difficult thing with our government involved, so let us leave, let the world help the Iraqi people and let us try to learn from our folly.  But let us not listen to this kind of drivel from a once-respecable newpaper.

My Docudharma Manifesto

No, I haven’t written my own manifesto.  But my intention at this site, and one which I think it is particularly fitting for this site, can be summed up by Tristan Tzara’s 1918 “Dada Manifesto”, from which I quote:

There is a literature that does not reach the voracious mass. It is the work of creators, issued from a real necessity in the author, produced for himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which laws wither away. Every page must explode, either by profound heavy seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the eternal, the crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles, or by the way in which it is printed. On the one hand a tottering world in flight, betrothed to the glockenspiel of hell, on the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups. Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks with a mania for improvement.

I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are not sentimental. We are a furious Wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds and prayers, preparing the great spectacle of disaster, fire, decomposition.  We will put an end to mourning and replace tears by sirens screeching from one continent to another. Pavilions of intense joy and widowers with the sadness of poison. Dada is the signboard of abstraction; advertising and business are also elements of poetry.

I destroy the drawers of the brain and of social organization: spread demoralization wherever I go and cast my hand from heaven to hell, my eyes from hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel of a universal circus to objective forces and the imagination of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it.

If I cry out:

Ideal, ideal, ideal,
Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge,
Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom,

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so manv books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in life; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with philtres made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime’s worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of men and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us in a banal kind of way to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he has demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility-that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity . . . Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins . . . I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one’s own littleness, to fill the vessel with one’s individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies…. Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: Dada; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: Dada; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: Dada; every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: Dada; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: Dada; abolition of prophets: Dada; abolition of the future: Dada; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity:* Dada; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one’s church of every useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them -with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn’t matter in the least-with the same intensity in the thicket of one’s soul-pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: LIFE

If I may say further, the greatest failing of the blogosphere today as I see it is a surplus of logic, of reason, of a demand that we cope with the problems of our age without emotion, without illogic, without animus and human frailty.  Yet we do not live this way, not in America or in the world outside.  It is not a revolution if there is not dancing.  It is not a beginning of a better world if it lacks love and sex and hate and trauma.  It is not always the most important thing to make sense.

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