s n a p p e r h e a d

The Durman Murmurs to Eranthe

(Imagine Rod Serling's voice) "Earth ... the year is ... well, of-course you know the year ... our main character, well of-course you read the title, so you know her name ... she leads the life of an hobby-artist. Her canvas: the earth itself. She creates crop circles and other Earth Art when there are no crops to trample. She does this for fun and adventure ... damaging crops at night because she likes the designs and the not-getting-caught part is an adrenaline rush. One might say she's a pretentious, privileged, middle-class, white (American or British or Canadian) woman who has no thought or consideration for the entire earth besides how she can use it to her advantage. But . . . in 2020 . . . the planet strikes back. With fires. With floods. With hurricanes. With a global pandemic. And for Eranthe? . . Weeeeellll ... the wheat field tries to kill that bitch by plugging her every orifice. But, in the end, it fails. But, does she learn her lesson? . . Do humans learn from nature's desire to eradicate them? Abso-fucking-lutely not!

"I don't think I've ever met a crop circle maker—ahh, designer? engineer?"

"Earth and Ephemeral artist. My mediums vary: stones, sand, snow, sticks..."

"Sooo....only things beginning with an S?..."

"Ha! I just noticed that..."

"How do you add 'wheat field' to that list?"

"Spelt."

"W. H. E. A..."

"Yea. No. Another name for wheat ... spelt."

"I want you on my trivial pursuit team."

"Thanks. Sign me up. Most people aren't very complimentary when I show off my vocabulary. Hang-on. There's such a thing as team trivial pursuit? Or did you mean your Scrabble team?"

"Never heard of team Scrabble, but there's definitely team TeePee. Six people, max. And there's always a lack of AL knowledgeable teammates."

"Art and Literature, right? What's your go-to category or specialty?"

"Guess. You already know it's not brown. That leaves five choices."

"Ahh, Geography. That's my final answer."

"Wow. Most guess Sports and Leisure, because I'm kinda tall and athletic; but playing basketball and knowing who won an Olympic gold medal in the decathlon a decade ago, is not the same. So, yea, I've always been interested in maps. Geography-blue is my area. How'd you guess?"

"You don't seem very interested in these TV screens, so I eliminated sports and leisure, as well as entertainment; then I decided to go-with the statistical probabilities of the patriarchy: science is dominated by men, which left history or geography. I flipped a mental coin."

"There are a number of queer women, like myself, who know their way around SN-green..."

"I was being biased, sorry. No offense intended."

"No apology necessary...I was also thinking with bias: when you said the reason you're leaving early was because tonight was the trifecta: perfect weather, perfect moon phase, and prime crop formation season, I - kinda - thought that anything involving that level of subterfuge—like guerilla street art—was dominated by cis-men."

"I don't frequent any online sites or communities and do everything solo. No team. My art is for me. Once it's done, I focus on the selection and design of my next one. The famous earth-ephemeral artists who I know about do skew cis-male, but you could say that about almost anything. For every Andy Goldsworthy, there may be a hundred creative dykes like me. There's no way to know."

"Do you have time to tell me your best crop circle story?"

"Welll... I guess."

"No pressure. I'd just like a peek inside the process. I assume you recon, and sketch, and measure, and use tools?"

"Yup, OK. I had a very memorable formation last month."

"In the spelt?"

"It was actually in Durman wheat, but that's an unimportant detail. I ... haven't ... umm. Maybe I should tell you about a different time. Sorry, it's just..."

"Aww. You got me interested! But—hang on—I can see from your expression you're not thinking about an exciting thing . . . seems you are, what? . . scared?"

"Yea. I had an experience. I'm not sure how to explain. Sorry, I don't talk to people much. And I haven't told anyone about this."

"How come? None of your friends understand about your artwork, Eranthe? Sorry, am I pronouncing that right?"

"Please; call me Eran. It wasn't my creation which, Bree..."

"Come on. Let's sit over here where we can be out of earshot. You can confide in me. Or not. But maybe talking to someone who won't judge you, like, ever, is what you need? And, I prefer my friends call me Bry, rather than Brianna. Please. Lose the anna."

"Ok. So I was assaulted. But not, well, not . . . by a person. At least, I never saw anyone. That night's creation was to be a hypotrochoid shape. All was going fine, I'd been flattening for almost thirty minutes and then I began to get lost. Lost in my own head. Dizzy. Confused as to how far along in the creation I was. I walked back, retraced the border. And felt paranoid. I listened. Heard nothing. But got more scared. For no reason."

"How far out from the nearest road or building were you at this point?"

"I parked almost 3 clicks away; but, I guess, I was about six or seven hundred meters from a roadway. Maybe the nearest house or farm was, thru the field, over a kilometer."

"Sorry to interrupt. Go ahead."

"The dizziness was not like being intoxicated it was like vertigo—like I was going to fall over a steep cliff, but there was nothing all around me but kilometers of farmlands and wooded plots. I got down and crawled into the wheat with all my stuff. I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and attempted to meditate to calm myself.

"You don't have to talk anymore. I can see this has upset you. I'm so sorry. Don't cry. Please."

"Maybe talking will help me understand. Maybe you can think of something I haven't thought of. I felt my clothes and gear bag get caught-up in the tangle of stalks and leaves and I had to squirm thru a few rows so I was away from the trampled area. But. I don't know how what happened next happened. The next thing I know is my shirt and undershirt are gone. I sit up. Kinda, raise up on my elbows and the leaves and grass seems all stuffed into the top of my boots and waistband. I pull some of it out of my pants and turn to look around. My gear bag is, like, three meters away—deeper in. I could never have thrown my stuff that far. And there is nobody around and there is no noise besides a slight breeze."

"You fell asleep, maybe? And there were no animal or bug noises?"

"Ahh, I recall bird wings; lots of them. I might've fallen asleep, but that doesn't explain what I experienced next. So, I roll over. Begin to get up on my hands and knees to crawl and when I do, both of my boots are pulled off. Foop. Foop. I twist and look. All I see is my boots wrapped in blades of wheat leaves. I say, "fuck this," start to stand up, and the sky lights up with lights and lasers. I freeze and slowly lay back down."

"Drone or helicopter?"

"Silent. Too silent. Never heard any blade noise. When I first noticed the lights, they were one field away, on the other side of a tree-line. They did fly over my position but never paused . . ."

"How high do you estimate it was over the trees?"

"Oh, good question. I've gone back and looked in daylight, the tallest tree is about 50 meters, no more that 70 meters tall and I think the lights were kinda close to the tops and never came closer to the ground than that."

"What do you mean lights and lasers?"

"Lights were yellow-white but not all that bright. I never saw a circle of light on the field like a searchlight in the movies, and I was also able to see many thin lines of green lights, similar to laser lights at concerts, but also not all that bright. No points of light on the ground or on the wheat around me."

"Then what."

"This is the fucked-up part."

"Ok."

"It lasts maybe. I don't know. I want to say the lights last about three minutes. But when it is gone I try to sit up and my ankles and wrists are wrapped in sheaves of wheat grass and my pants are off. I pull off a bunch of the wheat. Rip it. Tear it. Kick stalks out of the ground. I get up, partly. I'm so weirded out and confused and can't figure out how any of this is possible. I wonder if I'm dreaming. I'm definitely talking to myself. I pull up my loose panties from my thighs and struggle up on my feet; oh yea, my socks are gone. So I'm looking for clothes and I trip and fall. And. and... I think the field of wheat. This sounds crazy out-loud. The wheat . . ."

"Raped you?"

"Well . . . that's not possible. The wheat assaulted every part of me, though. It moved. Well it had to move. But I never saw it moving. Not really. I would look and it would be wrapped around my wrist and I would pull it off, and then look and it would be completely wrapped around both my ankles. I would focus on kicking it off and would realize it was around my neck. I would grab it. When it was in my hand it never moved. It was just leaves or stalks or stems or seeds of grain. But eventually. Yea. I fought and struggled for... seemed like thirty minutes. But it wrapped me completely. Entered everywhere. My ears. Plugged my nose. I bit and chewed and it never got beyond my teeth. It entered my vagina, my anus, and my urethra. That burned like fire."

"Your eyes? Did you scream?"

"Right. Once it covered my face I closed my eyes. It pushed into everywhere, but it never was able to force my eyelids. It felt like a thousand pricks of grass pushing into me. Grass. Bendy grass. Not like sticks. Not cutting. Just that when it was able to get inside me, it was immediately followed by as many blades of grass that would fit. And I think I got a couple screams out before I realized it was better to clamp my teeth together so I could breathe."

"I assume you went to a doctor?"

"Yea. I told her I thought I'd been drugged or poisoned and indecently assaulted the night before. She found nothing pharmacological, but told me—I never told her about the wheat—that she found spores and suggested that whoever dosed me might have made some type of hallucinogen out of the fungus found on wheat, called Ergot."

"You were? This would have been hallucination? I'm... Shit, this blows my mind. Explain how long it was until it was over and what you did at that point."

"Like I said, it was at least a half-hour of biting off and swallowing pieces of grass that pushed through my pursed lips and then it just stopped. I sat up, pulled fibers out of my sinus, colon, cervix, and bladder. Got dressed, found my equipment. I wasn't dizzy anymore, so I walked to my car. I was out of it for maybe an hour and a half or two hours."

"And you are headed back out there tonight?"

"Like I said, the conditions are perfect and I've added items to my equipment bag."

"Oh?"

"I have an industrial mask to prevent Ergot re-infection."

"Ergo, Ergot—sorry, I couldn't resist—but, what if you weren't hallucinating?"

"I've got an infrared body-camera for the UFO and a Tesla flamethrower for the wheat."

more dark-art-poems:

too eglaf or not eglaf enough?

CHASMS

image portions by: Austin Granger (website),

Anders Lindgren, and Alan Schaller

Albedo Ambedo (next word is...)

Of to day I would speak: tine tap fray battle squeak

underwall there’s a gnaw, scrabble brawl tine-o-claw

neighbors flap: “Just One Bite” “lay a trap” neophyte

“that’s not me” different tack cup-o-tea give a snack

daily crumbs might divert, fervid scrum hangry-blurt

but disease! they’re a pest! (disagrees kill-obsessed)

airship stow’way mischief—panel faux aft sneakthief:

trusting not in my crew; stormy yacht flying through

allmorrow’s grime-n-hate an their “throes castigate”

loath we’re to disembark, n’find it’s too like this ark.

Albedo describes a reflective quality (radiation/light).
Ambedo is a deep-focus-relaxed state of mind (trance).
Azbedo is next (the Bulgarian word for asbestos).

similar time wasting:

...animals got harmed...

...laundromat...

...eglaf...

image excerpts by:

Stefan Bernsmann, Jorris Martinez, f_du ,

Hamilton Ross, Aaron Smith, Mark Fly, Reva G,

Dmitry Senik, James Ison-Stierer, Leanne Boulton,

Glandular Porcupine Rage, and Simon Caplan

covert corvid covid video

Everyone within my orbit, entertains their brain without going out a door; but

Also not by turning pages, playing games or having conversations, nor

By exercising (thumb scrolling replaced park strolling, lawn bowling,

Boat rowing, as well as the chance to duck when someone shouts, “Fore!”)

“Just as guilty,” I mutter, “clicking-links instead of playing them as before—

Staring at videos, instead of venturing outdoors.”

Endless escapades of police escalating, arresting, and murdering, brigades

Of the innocent—and shooting grenades at protestors—all while dressed for war.

Angrily I close the screen; clearly I’ve again consumed too much caffeine

While researching ‘failed vaccine’ (“un-be-foreseen” said a president I abhor)—

Heretofore the supervillain, with henchmen claiming they adore

His every stupid step towards trade-, class- and race-war.

Having always been a corvid ally (ravens, jays, and the occasional magpie)

I restock the feeder and contemplate, my neighborhood’s winged-dinosaurs.

“Tell me something good.” I grumble, at a black corvid beginning to fumble

With some jerky, crumble-jumbled. “A great song . . . from 1974.”

“Did you speak aloud?” I stammer, “Or, have I—now got—a brain tumor?”

“. . . By Chaka Kahn . . . I’m pretty sure.”

Self-sanity test, preliminary: pose a problem to-yourself without tarry.

143 times 17 is my query. Now, fingers in ear-canals, listen for

Anything—muffled or not; incorrect or not. Naught is heard and nothing more.

Now to those within earshot, request an answer you don’t yet have. Implore.

“Please tell me your favorite foodstuff, something found in a grocery store.”

Its beak moved as I heard, “Tuna . . . preferably, albacore.”

“What’s your name?—once finished talking, I’ll buy some without balking.”

Pausing its pecking, it hopped close and stared with such intensity and vigor

I forgot our conversation, and became lost in its feather-sheen and respiration.

“My nation calls our own name . . . when we meet I say, hello Köal-Lor.”

“Hello Veach” I reply with a smile, “no need to remember names anymore;

With how many of my nation have you shared your lore?”

No longer snacking, Köal-Lor croaked at an encroaching corvid’s braacking,

Which caused me to wonder if human yakking was already a thing of yore.

Curious, I said, “Hello, Veach” to the newcomer; it replied, “low, beach.”

“Xss-Tarè has no cross-nation speech . . . only emulates,” said Köal-Lor.

“Many copy . . . only a few of my nation can both think and speak in yours.

I ask you not endanger my life by telling others . . . you are number 44.”

“Query,” (black-eye to eye-forlorn) “Why’re so many faces under full-adorn?”

“New disease,” I say, “Airborne—called covid—some protect with face decor,

Stay apart, travel less; others express hate and fear; some oppress; most stress.”

“Our battle against life’s unkindness’s . . . always ends in death . . . closed door.

You call it corvid, though?” “No, co-vid without the arrh; a virus we abhor.”

As the corvid began to soar, I swore, to bring albacore—tomorrow, for sure.

This homage to Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven obviously doesn't have an attached covert video. If you've read this far, expecting to find a video, thank you for reading my poetry and viewing my photo-collage; sorry for the misleading homophone-title.

similar creations:

Mess of Pottage (meal of stew)

Work in Progress ... Interesting Times

Re-fractured Echoes

image excerpts by:

Thorsten Röpke, Paul Indigo (website),

S J Luke, Hari Roser, Andrew Steel (website),

Christopher Michel (website), Paul Kelly,

Amanda Owen, and Austin Granger (website)

Nullachtfünfzehn's Mailbox

Nullachtfünfzehn's Mailbox - 15 Aug (08/15 Day)

Mailbox artwork - ALL

Santa Claus' Mailbox - 25 Dec (Christmas)

AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)

Sommerzeit's Mailbox - 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)

ÔSTARA's Mailbox - 19 Mar (Vernal Equinox / first day of Spring - northern hemisphere 2020)

Avril Poisson's Mailbox - 1 Apr (April Fools Day / April Fish in France)

St. George's Mailbox - 23 Apr (Feast of St George)

May IV's Mailbox - 4 May (Star Wars Day)

Serling's Mailbox - 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)

Orangemen's Mailbox - 12 Jul (Orangemen's Day / 'The Glorious Twelfth')

too eglaf or not eglaf enough?

sexual horror poetry; image of a partially-nude female body; warning / caution / head's up fuck face: this poem is not suitable for children under the age of whenever their terrible parents permit them unfettered access to the internet; the word/mental imagery is explicit, more than slightly suggestive and contains overt sexual violence against women, including (but not limited to) kidnap, rape, bondage, and sex-slavery; while the author considers the visual image to be simple erotica - the poem, however, is not for anyone with an unworldly conservate mindset or who posseses an immature sensibility; if you are adroit enough to find this, then you are certainly competent-enough at internetting to not be shocked by any of the topics in my poem. Just don't share it with your baby brother or your grandma.

basement machine, byproduct steam; scaffolding, overhead, rusty

bloody-lip smell, loamy green hell; body sweat, lubricant, lust scree

intrinsic maw, pheromone draw; whispering murmuring: *trust me,

I know it's dark* fungus and bark; *please disrobe, climb inside, thusly,

follow my voice, no other choice, getting tight, wonderful* [cussing]

*creep deeper in, now pull your chin* gag reflex, metronome, thrust deep

*fast growing roots, fill all your chutes; provide fuel, oxygen, musk-seed,

symbiont-spouse, cervix feels soused; already, desire-full tusking?

here, finger flex: one-no two-yes* commencing ...*tap for speed*... kvmzee

spasm thrill still? un-sated fille; then births-n-nursing why... rush thee?

immortal wife, now quell your strife; deep coma, paralyze (brusquely)

soon we drop spawn, nurse thereupon; for decades, the brood you'll bustfeed

brainless your part - while I teach art: ambush scent, bait-luring, husk-breed

once all depart, we will restart; tuskin' and raisin' our Musk Trees

— The Musk Tree by Veach Glines

Eglaf (/egg/•luff) is not a word. Because this combination of letters is not a morpheme, has no meaning or definition in any language, but bears the resemblance of a word, eglaf is a place-holder for any word of the reader's choosing.

peruse similar:

... 'tween neck and knees ...

... Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato ...

... true ascetic Jain's own no clothing ...

image portions by: Marcel Pouce and Keith Shuley

US Health Care if King for a Day

Dior I want to paint it

      Sounds like you think the proposed Medicare For All is the best way.
Weell—it's not the way that I'd completely re-tool the US health care system if I was king for a day, but it's a step in the right direction. In my opinion, our for-profit system is immoral and everyone who works in it is required to behave unethically.

          Sounds socialist.

          Yees. It is. Maybe you don't know the term you're throwing around like an idiot. Makes you sound stupid. Are you?

What?

Arre yoou Duumb?

          Sounds like you want to pick a fight.

          Yuup. I'm pickin' a fight with an idiot who's never had an original thought. Ever. Who bows at the alter of FOX on a daily basis, who probably was grateful to be able to stop reading books after graduation, is proud of that ignorance, and who's willing to defend that ignorance, rather than learn anything, . . . with your fist.

Soo, hit me—I won't hit you back. Instead, I intend to just call the police.

Theey'll come and arrest you for assault, and you'll begin a journey thru the US legal system. All of which can be paid for by our government. A court appointed attorney is paid a flat fee. The judge, jailers, bailiff, all get a government salary; 'course your fines will go to the government—so it's not all paid by taxes.

          Umm, you might choose to hire a lawyer who'll charge by the billable-hour. He or she will find any-and-every imaginable reason to up their price, because—by hiring them—you've declared that money is paramount and you don't want a public attorney who chose to work, to help people. If you're found guilty and go to jail—you'll still pay your lawyer anyway. Refuse to pay the tens of thousands of dollars they'll charge and they then will sue you into bankruptcy. One punch. Risk losing your job, getting a felony record and a 550 credit score.

Sounds like you are trying to make a point.

Annd. What's that point I'm tryin' to make?

Sounds to me that you think hospitals can be run like the legal system. But that has never been a thing and would never work.

Ahh bit of honest advice? Me to you? Not pickin' a fight—just sayin'—that, from now on, you should try twisting every statement you're plannin' on makin' into a question. So your last idiotic statement would be changed into: Are you sayin' the US health care system could be run like the legal system? Has that ever been a thing that's worked? Can you hear how my voice raises at the end of the sentences? That upraising tone of voice doesn't make you sound like a fool making factless-statements, it makes you sound like you're interested in learning. Get it?

          Ohh, before you say anything, I'll answer those questions. Yes. That's what I'm sayin' and yes, that system currently works in hundreds of countries. It also has worked and currently works on every US active duty military airbase, on every ship, on every post, in every Bureau of Indian Affairs hospital and clinic and in every Veterans Affairs hospital.

But that's just a ...shit... OK. How would you switch over the tens of thousands of hospitals and clinics and pharmaceutical companies and drug stores and insurance companies and ambulance companies and hell — I don't even know how many hundreds of different companies currently make stuff designed to be SOLD for health care. Are you saying all those jobs become government jobs?

Noo. Our legal system buys the products it needs. The government buys uniforms and vehicles and bullets and handcuffs. It buys land and hires construction engineers to build court houses and jails and prisons.

Are you saying the government would buy all the hospitals or build new ones of their own?

Weell — king for a day — I'd pass a law which made it illegal to profit from providing any service in any way related to health care. I'd also make it illegal to profit from the criminal legal system, which would make private prisons illegal and the only lawyers able to work in the criminal courts would be government salaried professionals.

Yea, but you didn't answer my question.

Wiith my new law it would be impossible to profit from providing health care without going to prison, so every doctor running a private practice, every clinic, to every hospital-conglomerate would have three choices: either they become a non-profit organization with set prices and salaries; or they donate their entire operation to the government who would take it over and run it like a VA hospital; or they could turn their hospital into a resort-spa-hotel for non-health care type services, which would not be banned: like elective surgeries, drug rehabilitation, autopsies, and the like.

Abortions?

Aahh. I don't know. Hadn't thought about that. Off the top of my head, all birth control is immediately free because it's health care; but, since most people who terminate a pregnancy are doing so as an elective surgery, I think that'd, mostly, not be covered. So you can add abortions to another service available at the resort-spa-hotel option.

          You said — see, I'm asking questions — the hospitals would be able to become non-profit and then they would post prices, but the government hospitals in the same town would be free, right?

          Riight.

          How would nonprofit hospitals or doctor's offices get any business? Even with posted prices and set salaries they could never compete against free.

          Buut, how do non-profit museums or zoos or civil rights organizations or medical clinics survive today? There are tens of thousands of them.

I don't know. Donations?

Yess, memberships and donations are a big part. But, I suspect the most successful ones provide a unique service not available elsewhere. A standard government VA hospital is going to triage, prioritize, schedule, and provide satisfactory health care for all. Key word there was satisfactory. Think DMV. Think police station. Think county jail. Is the picture becoming clearer?

Not a pretty picture.

Noo. I suspect that there are millions of wealthy people who'll be willing to pay an annual membership fee and then pay out of pocket for health care at a non-profit hospital in order to not stand in line and only receive the standard and satisfactory health care available to every person in the country. Just like at Disneyland, money makes it possible to not wait in line.

When you said out-of-pocket I remembered health insurance companies. Are your new laws going to make them illegal?

Absoolutely not. No company would be banned or forced out of business or seized by the government. The only thing that would happen is people or corporations who make any profit from providing any form of service related to health care would be guilty of the felony crime of intentional harm toward the greater populace, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a ten million dollar fine for each individual whom they profit from. I suspect a limited amount of non-profit health insurance companies might be created, probably affiliated with the few non-profit hospitals, but most health insurance companies would decide to re-tool to become life-home-car insurance companies.

And pharmaceutical companies?

Soo, there are already a couple nonprofit drug companies out there, but they only make generic drugs. My new law would make it illegal for any company to profit from creating a patient on a new drug, as well as selling patients they already own. The federal government will set all drug prices, not the pharmaceutical companies, so if they wanted to stay in business, big-pharma would—obviously—have to become completely non-profit. Or, they would have to separate and only work on research and production of non-health care medications. They could still profit from 'elective drugs' like recreational drug production, penis pills, vitamins.

I'm sensing a theme. Your law would mostly change executive pay, bonuses and stocks. Non-profit companies don't have stocks.

Thaat's correct. Not for profit agencies are focused on the best product for people or on people themselves. At the end of a profitable year, nonprofit organizations invest all their profits in structural improvements, logistics, expansion, or saving for a future non-profitable year. Think military—a commander doesn't get a bonus when the soldiers under their command successfully accomplish a mission.

Wheen soldiers get paid bonuses or are promised more money for more efficient killing they are mercenaries. Soldiers for hire. Or, pirates. Any job which is best filled by people with no moral code or who are not required to adhere to ethical behavior, should never be one related to providing constant and consistent health care to the entire population of a country regardless of income. My law would force that to happen. I would call it the Every Community Health Organization and the slogan would be: Every ECHO is your ECHO where you're an ECHO member.

          Why?

          Eveentually asshats will say it or hear it enough to learn the difference between your and the abbreviated form of you are. Don't ya think? King for a day!

more but different:

... using an apostrophe ...

... on socialized medicine ...

... squirrels in conversation ...

image portions by: krystina stimakovits (website)

and Marc Carpenter

(noah's ark) know whut's art

No-matter our differences in fur or feather

nor volume and variety, oh voices in tatter

vow share this surface — most vital factor

street art public art ephemeral art; graffiti

entreat your local creatives, in two and 3D

drumbeat the injustice & corporate greedy

'thots-n-prayers' dished by their hypocrites

musical chairs; 'vote 4 no-change' ad blitz

their heirs till white-lye and "take the piss"

surmount every agenda and all superstition

confound linguistic—string critical cognition

battleground for a future not their perdition

similar:

...Design Fault...

...cul-de-sac graffito...

...KEEP CLEAR...

image excerpts by: Joseph O Holmes (website); Anders Eliasson,

Johns_take; Richard de sousa; Thomas Reicken; and Nils Grudzielski

Mess of Pottage (meal of stew)

not a very august wind

Excerpts from Life Without Principle, 1863, by Henry David Thoreau:

"... Perhaps I am more than usually jealous with respect to my freedom. I feel that my connection with, and obligation to, society are still very slight and transient. ... If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society—as most appear to do—I am sure that, for me, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that I shall never, thus, sell my birthright for a mess of pottage. I wish to suggest that a man may be very industrious, and yet not spend his time well. There is no more fatal blunderer than he who consumes the greater part of his life getting his living. ... The ways in which most men get their living, that is, live, are mere makeshifts and a shirking of the real business of life—chiefly because they do not know, but partly because they do not mean, any better. ... When (someday) we want culture more than potatoes and illumination more than sugar-plums then the great resources of a world ... (will be) drawn out, and the result ... (will be) those rare fruits called heroes, saints, poets, philosophers, and redeemers. ..."

The Watershed

Our ancestors, historians, and those of us who happen to still be alive, will refer to this moment—the year 2020—with an as-yet-to-be-coined term, the meaning of which will be similar to: the watershed.

The bubonic plague years in the 1300s were not called the Black Death until centuries later. It was the middle-ages. Religions were governments; they blamed any faction of "outside group" who they deemed deserving of death (the only thing they didn't do was blame the fleas or their deity).

The world war of over a century ago, was not called either the Great War nor the First World War until decades later (for obvious reasons) but it was referred to as the war to end war in its time, allegedly as a call-to-arms and a reason to be proud to fight the Germans (after the Second World War, it may have retained the label 'the war to end all wars' in a sarcastic manner).

The 1918 influenza pandemic, which—coincidentally—overlapped the first world war years, was mis-labelled the Spanish Flu because Spain was neutral during the first world war and, therefore, had no reason to prevent their press from reporting its serious death toll.

Today's Corona virus (covid19) happened to overlap an authoritarian US political administration led by a sociopath, almost solely focused on enriching corporations and wealthy individuals. Because sociopath's do not think about anyone but themselves, almost every governmental act appears to be the opposite of what would protect lives and serve the most vulnerable portions of the populace.

A few months ago, a large percentage of the world's population was correctly directed not to go outside, nor to work, nor to school—so as to slow the rate of infection of the virus, which would allow the health care systems of the world to keep up with the expected increase in the rate of infection. Many disregarded this guidance; especially the ignorant sociopaths who supported and continue to support the current federal administration's policies. Today, many health care systems are so over-burdened they are forced to choose who is too sick to receive their dwindling supplies. Death panels are a thing in the US today (so far, the press is too kind to label it that).

Two months ago, also coincidentally, another sociopath employed as a Minneapolis Police Officer, murdered a black man on camera.

I wonder. Are we all too deep in the weeds to step back and see the forest from the trees (I like mixing my metaphors)? I think we're actually standing on the top of the watershed, looking over the top of that weedy-forest.

Behind us are all the past horrible US political administrations which scorned its citizens; all the previous times a police officer murdered a black man; all the past memories of people who died during a plague when their governments blamed others; every historical government which bailed out a bunch of corporations and let their average citizens go bankrupt.

Ahead of us are . . . all up to you . . . (my crystal ball is for ornamentation purposes only).

Tens of millions of your neighbors are on unemployment and can't pay their rent / mortgage.

The government would rather point its finger at the protestors and demonstrators (who just want their governments to change their law enforcement officer's behavior and stop murdering citizens).

The administration has already provided hundreds of billions to corporations to keep the stock market from crashing; today it seems poised to allow banks / landlords to evict, and wants to drastically reduce you and your neighbors ability to collect enough unemployment to feed your/themselves.

Hurricane season has begun. Did wildfire season ever leave? Floods will be back soon (and never left in many places). Earthquakes and tsunamis could be just over the horizon. Terrible events will overlap this terrible pandemic; we all must do everything in our power to support each other and work together for all of our futures. Together. I say it this way, because . . .

Plagues of the past have always lasted years—not months—three to four years, on average. That's either the entire Biden presidency or the entire second Trump term. And you think things will be different in today's world? Why?

A 2021 vaccine will (likely) only be able to provide the same protection that the normal flu vaccine provided/provides. Look backwards to the past-side of this watershed moment, in your rear-view mirror; did you routinely get your flu vaccine? Every year? Did everyone you know? How many anti-vaccine people live in your community? How many people you know already refuse to wear a mask today? Do you actually think anything is going to change?

Pessimism 101 teaches that, statistically, Trump will be re-elected.

The sped-up approval process for the vaccine will not work very well, and be given out in a much too-little and much too-late manner; consequently, the world-wide death toll in a few short years will be difficult to pin-point (many countries like China have already drastically under-reported) but a softball estimate is 100 million; the US death toll will be (slightly) more accurate: at a little over twenty million.

Because of massive homelessness, unemployment, systemic racism, a broken criminal justice system, unfettered militaristic police agencies, and very-poor recovery of several major sectors of industry and commerce the US will undergo a real constitutional crisis—some will call it a coup.

But. Optimism/realism 101 teaches that, intelligence prevails and Biden is elected.

The vaccine works ok, but needs to be booster-shot every 90 days. The new administration passes a law: every employer, school, hospital, and restaurant/store, is required to check every employee, student, patient, and customer's up-to-date shot record before they can be paid, get a report card, check-in, or buy anything. World deaths top 6 million; US deaths reach slightly more than 1 million.

The US congress and senate, with Biden's administration, begin to make changes in the legal system (Police unions are banned nation-wide). Many laws are thrown out; things which were once illegal are now legal. Police who murder are sent to prison; smaller, better-trained police departments actually protect all classes and races of their citizenry and are required to adhere to a new service oath (two-time violators of this oath are terminated). A series of massive WPA-level retraining- and work-programs boost the economy. The world begins (by 2023) to limp back to its feet.

This is a work in Philosopical progress
and these are the 'interesting times' RFK referred to in 1966. . .

Always. Constantly. Your entire life. Yesterday, today and especially tomorrow; you were, are, and will be talked about . . . after you walk out the door. Also, before you arrive. And, when you are not present. Does this come as a surprise? Maybe this is something you prefer not to think about? If so, you might be someone who chooses to think that only you talk about other people candidly, without fetter, when they're out of earshot.

You were raised by hypocrites, who were themselves reared by hypocrites. Generations of people who thrived on gossip but shamed those who talked about them "behind their backs." They, who filled long hours talking about those around them—but, invariably, denied (and will deny tomorrow) talking about you. The result is a classic dichotomy: you and your family hold two conflicting ideas in your head at the same time; you talk about everyone you know, but you don't think they talk about you the same way. They do. Especially if you attempt to manipulate how they should think about you when you talk to them. To them. Not with them. That shit gets you judged faster than any other behavior. Fake. Insincere. Shallow. Vapid. (Are never said to your face.)

Decades ago, social researchers posited that the majority of adults had between five and twenty-five other adults who were members of their circle of trust. That was before the internet; when people paid large amounts of money (relative to their income) for "long distance phone calls," and—almost exclusively—communicated by talking face-to-face and writing letters delivered by affixing inexpensive postage stamps to envelopes. Those hippy researchers labeled our 'inner circles' as circles of intimacy (containing between zero and five people) and the third ring as our circles of associates with a maximum of 150 acquaintances and friends-of-friends.

During these Trying Times of The Twenties™ (TToTT^®) although technology makes instant communication simple, our circles of trust have shrunk. [I wanted to edit out these cute correlation-causations, but I like them too much: the number of characters in your average text; the number of colors and filters in your latest insta; the number of likes; number of favs; of 🖒; of conversations (pay-to-talk helps, but doesn't count); of pills you take; of videos you watch; of ... ?] ... Do you even know how to have a conversation? A real one?

Today's hipster researchers have re-researched and, now, our circles of trust contain between zero and five people and our circle of intimacy now contains—on average—between zero and two people. This deserves repeating: your circles of intimacy and trust may be nonexistent. Are there any people with whom you can relax and tell anything to ... ... who feel likewise about you? Are you certain of that?

Now, of course, you have viewers, followers, and 'facebook friends'. Those screen-names might fit into our circles of associates, but more-than-likely they are a fourth circle: strangers hoping you Egostroke, Entertain, or Educate for Free™ (EEE 4 Free^®).

fuck you and the horse you rode in on IRONY HURTS

O. K. (you say) So . . . this is a blog post about Philosophy. Capital P. This is the point where you philosophize, bitch. Impart your art! Tell me (you demand) about some long-dead, heavily-read, thinker. Someone who lived during the time of leeches; thrived under the threat of being spiked to a crossbeam until they asphyxiated; for whom pedophilia was routine and customary (their entire lives: catcher-to-pitcher); who practiced a rape-is-legal level of misogyny; who proudly owned slaves (but wrote thoughtfully on how to get the most out of one's chattel-born); and who only thought murder was immoral when it was done to men of his wealth, class, race, and education . . . what knowledge did he have to impart regarding how to cope with my life's difficulties (you ask). Share the wisdom (you cajole) which might help me assuage these new hardships as I have difficulty coping with uncomfortable and unfamiliar mask-breathing and social-distancing as a modern socially distant person living without access to all the comforts and privileges I was accustomed to a couple of months ago (you say without awareness of the irony, except that I've rubbed your nose in it for a paragraph).

Stay alert for opportunities to be able to say the sentences: "I was wrong"; "I don't know"; or "That is a new (word, idea, concept, etc) for me".

And, when the opportunity occurs, say those words to your viewers, screen-names, followers, and 'friends'. Then, keep talking to them. Ask them to explain their point of view, request they share their opinion, and maybe you could even apologize for being wrong. *shudder* Honest. Sincere. Thoughtful. Challenging. (Said in your presence ellipsis question-mark.)

This mind-set is transformative. If you are someone who never says these sentences, who never admits to any of these attributes of normal human behavior (or incessantly qualifies the rare admissions you're capable or willing to make) don't give up, you're more than half way there! It takes more effort to frown than to smile . . . which is just a metaphor I borrowed to point out the huge wall your ego must be constantly building around you. Justifying the biases which we all have (but which you are seemingly unaware)^🞹🞹.

It is only an inordinate strength of intellect which recognizes it is never the strongest nor the most intelligent, can easily admit if-and-when it has misspoken, and eagerly listens with the intent to learn; which always possesses a child's openness to absorb new information (with the seasoned reasoning of a philosopher only acting as custodial-staff: stepping-in to clean up afterwards); and actively hopes-for and wants—when listening/reading—to hear anything which might improve its out-of-date, biased, confused brain with new-to-you knowledge. Something, which another might have been carrying around in their head (and been willing to impart) for as long as you've known them. For free. All you had to do was ask. *gasp*

Normally, I'd attribute, here, which terrible human being(s) I gleaned the above advice from. The thing is, it came from all of them and none of them. It's not even possible to source to a single style, type, or area of philo-theosophical writing.

A bunch of eastern and western dudes (who probably supported the burning of witches for speaking heresy—if, in no other way, than by keeping silent when their next-door neighbors did it) wrote a bunch of random ideas in letters, books, diaries, and formal speeches. Probably a large amount of which they'd heard or read in books or libraries which were later sacked and burned, so—today—they appear to be the first to think these thoughts. Which, let me assure you, they were not; almost everything is paraphrased.

For years, I've put some of that shite which has been attributed to them in my head. Then, I typed this distillation. If this makes me a philosopher, please, know this: I reject almost everything ever written or said, by almost anyone I've ever listened to, or read. If pressed, I'll probably disagree with the majority of what I just wrote. *sigh*

^🞹🞹as to what is meant by half-way there and seemingly: Those who are already vigilantly hyper-attentive, in order to never admit their fallibility, are unaware this always makes them appear to be trying to be someone they're not, which is all it takes to be considered untrustworthy. Which is why their circles of intimacy and trust are small (or gone) and why they are spoken about, negatively, behind their back. The fix sounds simple: admit misspeaking, admit not knowing, admit learning something new.

more on 'how to relate' (to your-2020-self and others):

uncouple here

modicum of self awareness

Neither Over nor Underwhelmed

Can You Canoe?

Senator Robert F. "Bobby" Kennedy's full Day of Affirmation speech is linked here; I especially enjoy the following excerpts: ...The cruelties and the obstacles of this swiftly changing planet will not yield to obsolete dogmas and outworn slogans. ... "There is," said an Italian philosopher, "nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things." ... Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring: those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance. ... There is a Chinese curse which says "May he live in interesting times." Like it or not, we live in interesting times. They are times of danger and uncertainty; but they are also the most creative of any time in the history of mankind. And everyone here will ultimately be judged - will ultimately judge himself – on the effort he has contributed to building a new world society and the extent to which his ideals and goals have shaped that effort. ...

That RFK was unwilling to attribute the new-order-of-things quote to Machiavelli, by name, gives me a tickle. It was ballsy enough to give this speech in mid-apartheid South Africa, but to reference the guy who wrote the book on how to unseat a government by any and all means? Priceless.

image portions for fuck you and the horse you rode in on IRONY HURTS by:

KISSES

(click for 🔎)

This conglomeration of nine real image portions (one which was quasi-distorted) is intended to instigate a type of ambedo. One's eye is drawn to the center, into a storefront, to a poster on the wall above teller windows—what kind of business would KISSES be and who would be so comfortable, in today's society, to challenge their customers with such a necessary (albeit polarizing) question? The pleasantly warm bustle of a city and the genuine happiness of a mother—yet what city has simple-to-climb rungs on sidewalk electric poles? Multiple mirrors provide you, the driver, with ample all-around views—but what is happening around your bus? And, what thought(s) or emotion(s) was the artist trying to instigate in viewers . . . of the sticker they adhered to the electric pole?

Composite collage art comprised of photos by:

Rob Fracisco (biosfear.com), Passionfoto, Lorie Shaull,

David Morris, Kriystina Stimakovits, bswise,

steckandose.gallery, and Larry Myhre

Saint Labrador the Retriever (et al)

In Waterbury, Vermont, you can: touristy-tour the Ben and Jerry's ice cream factory and the Cold Hollow Cider Mill; view sculpture-art on the train-trestle and Saint Labrador the Retriever; hike, bike, or cross-country ski the portion of the Cross-Vermont Trail which loops around the old state hospital and asylum grounds and parallels the Winooski River; or you can meander the obstacle course of the three-year (2019-2021) construction project to explore the tiny downtown area where there is one art gallery, a thrift shop, a bookstore, two bric-a-brac stores, a nice toy store, and a hand-full of bars with a double hand-full of restaurants/diners.