a star shines bright every night: a channelling

~

OK

it's been a little while since

ol' Makropoulos has done

one of her extended

arias,

so there may be some folks out there

who might prefer

to ignore this one;

I can go places right now

that the ordinary

parochial

mind may find

a little

                                                        out there.

I know that.

But my mind goes there.

And somewhere in my heart I know

there is an iota of truth

in what I write.

I am grateful for the readers

I have,

and I realize sometimes

one of my extended pieces

can be tiring.

Hell, they're tiring for me.

But here goes:

11//11/11 11:11

The more I think about it, it's the way to go.

Yes, wouldn't it be a dream if

on 11/11/11 at 11:11

everyone

decided, that for the next year

or so

that is, until

12/21 2012

when the Mayan Calendar ends,

we all just started being

nice

to each other?

~ * ~

I wrote that once,

and I'll write it down again.

11/11(2)11 11:11

Every morning I wake up to more news,

and it makes me think,

as I lie there in bed:

is it Armageddon yet?

I mean seriously folks,

how bad does it have to get

before we all stop trying

to destroy each other?

I mean seriously,

folks.

~ * ~

Because that's when Armageddon

\

will come.

At that moment when

we all

destroy each other.

Hell,

at the rate we're going,

we may do it

before  December 2012.

That's right.

We're doing such a damned good job of hating

each other

that we might just succeed

at wiping all of us out

before we even get to December

2012.

,

so

the great proposal

is this:

stop it, will ya?

As of 11:11(2)11 at 11:11

start being nice.

If you do that,

I'm telling ya'

Jesus will come

in the hearts of women and men

Jesus will come.

( colliedoscope )

At this point, let

me please insert a channeling I received

on the morning of February 16:

I wake up every morning and I ask myself:

is it Armageddon yet?

How will we know 

when it's here?

Will there be trumpets?

(            I say no

--

no trumpets.

)

Just a deafening silence

as the apparatus (this world)  produced

by men and women

to sustain themselves

                                                       flickers off.

(webecoist )

There may be screaming

-

a collective scream

-

of horror as we realize we

cannot turn it on 

again.

There may be, if we believe

that that is what we need 

to survive.

There may be looting, and

mugging, and murdering

as the disaffected and 

                         down-trodden

assert their form of justice

over the judges and the lawyers and the abusive

law enforcers.

There may be unspeakable horrors

as humans are left

                            in the darkness

to discover the darkness

they harbor 

in themselves.

There may be.

But may be

not. 

( somali )

What of Jesus?:

will he come again?

And how will we know,

will we learn by word-of-mouth

       

                          or radio

that somewhere in Bethlehem

in a stable 

was born to a virgin

( apod )

and a star shone bright?

And the relief will be great

because we will recognize Him.

But history shows

that Jesus does not come in the clothes

we expect him to wear.

No,

not at all.

That is the true test:

recognizing Jesus

where we least expect

Jesus

( picturesofJesus )

I'm fairly consistent

in my message

in this regard:

that yes, Jesus will come

if we let Jesus come

and the miracle again will be

\

the manner of Jesus' birth.

Jesus will be born,

to each of us, if we can conceive

of the notion that Jesus lingers

inside of each of us, that we are all Jesus

in disguise.

Jesus can and will come

and conquer the world

if everyone could be

Jesus,

if everyone dared to discard

their home and family

and a couple megolamaniac churches

and followed these teachings.

( apod )

I've said it before;

I'll say it again:

many would feel that

only an idiot -

a fool -

would follow the teachings of Jesus

literally.

I mean

literally.

Love one another?   (literally)

Don't judge one another?    (literally)

Do for the others as you 

would have them do

unto you?

(literally)

Turn the other cheek 

rather than

fight back?

(literally)

Only an idiot;

only a stupid Fool

would act that way

unabashedly and

sincerely

in the modern world made by men.

I know, because I've tried.

And I have learned I have to keep a wide

open 

eye

to the ones who feel

that those who love unselfishly

are here for them to use and abuse.

I fight back bitterness and keep looking for that place where I found

utterly forgiving 

love.

I won't give up on love;

it is the one thing that keeps us human

:

love, and laughter.

And I firmly believe

that to sustain humanity,

we must enact love

with a vengeance.

And if we try

we will see

that it's a very wise

Fool

who plays the card

of Love.

St Vincent

It's been a busy week,

my dear readers, dear world.

And it's still busy.

(Is it Armageddon yet?)

Maybe not

yet.

But I wanted to post my latest 

favorite

diva:

St. Vincent

(aka: Annie Clark)

enjoy:

On Parking Tickets

( lottery_tickets )

Are you one of those people

who will get a ticket even when

you're parked right in front of your house?

Are you one of them?

I am.

a lot -

But this morning I had

the most extraordinary experience.

Where I live, we have these insane

alternate street parking laws.

I mean:

they are insane. 

I've lived in a lot of places,

including in cities where alternate street parking laws

actually made sense:

you moved your car on garbage night; 

and in the winter, 

you moved your car every other night

so they could keep both sides of the street clean.

Well, here, I'll tell ya:

there's no rhyme or reason.

You don't move it on garbage day

until after the garbage truck comes through,

and when the snow is so high

you need cross-countries skis to get your mail,

you only move your car once a week.

Now, go figure.

~ ~ ~

Well, anyway,

there was my car

sitting in front of my house,

required by law to be moved 

by ?:00 am, and I didn't leave

the house til later than that. 

How late?

Let me just say this:

I was late enough that I met the ticket cop

just as he was walking up to my car.

I should say:

I was just walking out my door

when he was walking up to my car.

And I called out:

Hey officer!  That's my car!

Fully expecting him to say:

That's your tough luck, sweetie, you didn't move it.

But, he didn't.

Instead he acted like he'd just gotten caught

with his hand in the cookie jar, and he said,

Oh, OK.  Sorry.

And he walked away.

Now was this a random act of kindness?

Or could it be

that that dear officer knew

that if he gave me a ticket,

he'd make $35 

for the city that day.

How would he know that?

Because I always pay my tickets, and

I'll bet you

they can access that information

by running my license.

Silly me.

I pay those fuckers,

generally the next day.

So guess who gets tickets?

Me.

Perhaps I need to change my M.O.

So of course,

this rather simple but extraordinary

experience got me thinking:

was this just a random act of kindness

(which is what I decided at the moment,

and I went to work,

feeling so happy)

? 

Or did that officer run my license

and see the notation

TSCPHT

("This Stupid Chick Pays Her Tickets")

and then jump out of his car

for a little extra revenue?

Perhaps they have a quota

of people like me

that they're supposed to ticket

every month.

I remember once,

I got three tickets on my windshield

in this one night 

when my car didn't get moved

because I was inside sick.

Three tickets on my window

for one night

of being too sick

to go out and move my car.

Now isn't that a little overkill?

You do begin to wonder

why they just like to pick on

me.

But the officer this morning kind of made

my day.

I hope he remembers that I live here

the next time

I sleep in a little.

( marketplace.publicradio )

post-Valentine's Day video

I absolutely hate

Valentine's Day.

But I heard this on the radio while I was driving home

and thought:

yes, that's my Valentine's Day song:

Hope it was a good one for you.

2/11/11: Oh, Egypt (a channel ing)

( allin1one )

Well,

the world is full 

of patterns,

                             and today

is a most amazing pattern:

2 - 11 - 11

                               or, if you're

in Europe

11 - 2 - 11

which is prettier.

Either way,

it's magical:

and look what happened:

Egypt.

One of the world's very

oldest of civizations

made a peaceful decision

civilly.

May the peace they found

today

stay with them,

civilly,

in the spirit of 

11 - 2 - 11

                                 Who will the next nation

                                               be to find a civil

                                                  solution to an old

                                            problem

on a harmonious

                                         day?

God bless you,

Egypt.

Elton, Leon & Bernie: Best Part of the Day

So

I went from my last posting 

to dinner.

And while I ate,

I was listening

to Elton John & Leon Russell's album

The Union,

which you may recall,

I just went gaga over

even before it was released, and I still listen to it, at least 4 or 5 or 6 or 7 times a week.

This is my current favorite song,

and I really wanted to share it,

on this chilly,

white

winter's day:

Best Part of the Day

by Elton John & Bernie Taupin

I hear you singing "I Shall Be Released"
Like a chainsaw running through a masterpiece
But that's all right, that's ok
Grab the bottle and slide my way
You dreamt of a devil down below
Sprinkled cayenne pepper in your sugar bowl
But he's a fool and he's a thief
Got silly little horns and pointed teeth:

chorus

Roll back the covers and raise the shades
We don't want to miss out on the best part of the day
You're my best friend, you shared my crazy ways
Now we don't want to miss out on the best part of the day

There's a canyon where an echo hangs
Like the ancient bells of Notre Dame
It's beyond the hills out of sight
Thought I heard them ringing all last night
Hear the mating call of the morning dove
Like Romeo angels in the roof above
Rains will come sweet and clean
Let the tears of God keep the mountains green

[repeat chorus]

One big sun coming up, old moon going down
Thunder breaking in the east
I'm gonna love you 'til it comes around

[repeat chorus]

You're my best friend you shared my crazy ways
Now we don't want to miss out on the best part of the day

© 2010 Mercury Records Limited

( eltonography )

I do think this song goes well

with my next entry,

which is hot off the presses:

Living in Ice-Land

I've only been to Iceland

once, around the year 1992.

But the exact day was certain:

it was June 21: the longest day of the year.

And in Iceland that means the sun

never leaves the sky.

In Iceland in June,

many fields are green, but

you can also find ice, for sure,

and geysers,

and the 

omnipresent smell of

sulfur,

and the pale blond Icelanders

smile at you and dance

in the sun, determined to celebrate

their endless day.

The man who was my husband at that time

was mad at me,

when I slid between the sheets

and fell asleep

around 1:00 a.m.

He wanted to stay up through a night

with no night

(I believe he actually did, too),

and now I understand why:

It was a rare occasion,

it was why one would be

in Iceland on June 21,

and I, with my usual

naivete

fell asleep.

( thepunkguy )

The people of Iceland

drink a lot,

sincerely and matter-of-factly:

it's what one must do to weather

those long, cold, dark nights.

The people of Iceland

read a lot too,

and their eyes burn like

smoldering coals,

turned inside out by months of

darkness.  

One of their great national poets was a guy

named Snorri Sturluson;

I visited what is reported to be his home,

but it looked like a mound of sod with a door:

the people of Iceland know

that when it's really cold

true warmth can be found

underground.

( mangabay )

When you look through the Icelandic phonebook,

(and if I recall correctly, there was only one

for the whole country)

you will find the names are alphabetized

by first names,

not by last;

even last names are spawned 

by first names;

I interpreted this to suggest

that these people accept and acknowledge

they're all in this together,

so they might as well not try to mask anything

with the false veneer of 

formality.

In fact, reportedly,

there is not much crime in Iceland.

One would be foolish to alienate one's self so

in such an alien land.

( icelandweatherreport )

I remembered that trip to Iceland

today, as the sun glinted off the deep, hard packed snow

in the quadrangle of the college where I work,

and then again, as I shoveled over a foot of the heavy stuff

off the second story porch roof

connected to the place

where I live --

We are, so many of us,  living in Ice Land right now.

And I believe

we have a lot to learn

from the people of Iceland

in this chilly season,

as our wounded earth pulls round herself

this deep white blanket,

a death-like blanket to us,

but really intended to restore.

We struggle across the surface of it,

insistently trudging

through our self-important, self-destructive

lives as we know them,

but what we really know,

if we listen to our bones,

is that we should be sleeping right now,

gently resting inside the womb

of our slumbering mother,

Earth.

Iceland, they say, 

is the youngest landmass on earth, and under her surface

bubbles the cauldron 

of new life.

The ice and snow protect the budding rebirth,

and heals the wounds inflected

by her heedless inhabitants.

~ ~ ~

I've decided to become

an Ice-Lander today,

tomorrow,

and always,

and the next time I get the chance

to experience endless day,

I'll stay awake,

and bask in it.

( theodora.com )

recognizing subterfuge: to Egypt

( allvoices.com )

I need to speak of Egypt.

I watch, in amazement,

not quite sure

what to think.

Part of me wants to rejoice

in the collective power

of human will,

and part of me wants

to puke.

Not only are we watching,

on t.v. and the internet,

a modern revolution,

a revolution

fed and informed

by the new media,

 (New York Times story: 2011/02/06)

but we can also watch the machinations

of different political interests

at work.

The world has gained

a lot of skill at seeing

subtext

and knows that every international leader
that has something to say
has something to say
for a reason.

In fact, I think

every national population

-- except that of the USA --

has mastered the art of 

                                           recognizing

subterfuge.                  

( psychologytoday )

~ * ~

As of right now, I agree

with Hillary

Clinton

     Yes, the energy 

of popular uprising

is so stimulating,

but it can quickly become

rank and base,

especially once the 

popular uprising begins to realize it needs

to choose representatives.

Just today I read an interview,

in which a member of the crowd said

they need someone to 

represent 

them,
and that,
my friend,
is where the trouble
can and will
begin.

Who

can represent them?

Who can represent

a collective cry 

for freedom?

What one person can do that

unselfishly?

Still--

I wish them well,
every sweet
Egyptian,
I wish
them the very best.

  

(  jaunted )

enter the Age of Comedy

It's time for us to end

The Age of Tragedy;

we've been living in it

far too long.

Now, you wonder,

what on God's earth 

does she mean, but you know

this verbious chick will tell you

that, and more.

Furthermore, perhaps you

(like I) are beginning to wonder 

if I ever laugh.

Those last two entries were

dark, and darker still.

But in fact,

I crack a smile on many occasions, and my laugh

is loud.  I love the rush of fresh air

that comes with laughing,

and the way it loosens my clamped

jaw.  This is why

I write this entry:

~ ~ 

We've been living in the Age

of Tragedy 

for far too long.

Now the word "tragedy" can be defined

in a number of ways; I talk

to my students about this a lot,

and here, as in the classroom,

I define it in its most classical sense,

the way Aristotle did:

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions.  (Poetics)

Thus, 

as you can see,

tragedy is all about

plot and performance.

Its single, ill-fated action

does unfold in narrative time,

enacted by humans

(Notably, according to Aristotle,

the most suitable tragic heroes are men)

while others witness,

watching one man, one great man

make one great

big

stupid mistake.

We, the onlookers,

are supposed to benefit from watching

that fatal error.  We're supposed to be purged

of our own sadnesses and nasty desires,

learn a vital lesson,

and get on with living,

civilly.

Over time, dramatists like Shakespeare

added a second plot,

and even women;

dear Arthur Miller made sure

the Common Man could share

in the carnage, and August

Wilson painted it black.

Tragedy, for thousands of years,

has, ultimately, held the place of choice

in our dramatic fayre.

( wikipedia )

~ ~ ~ 

Now, I'll take a logical step here

that asks you to apply some of my other ramblings:

Narrative time 

is Real time; 

Narrative time

is All Time.

A distinctive feature of

Narrative time

is that it has a clear

beginning, middle and end

(aka: birth, life, death);

its dominant message

can be summarized

in stories.

Narrative time is the time

we live in.  Lives unfold around

us, patterned by established patterns

we have come to call History.

We live in narrative time.

We --         

----- each of us ---

write our stories with each step

we take, each word we 

utter, each heart we

break.  Of course, when we get

to the end of our stories, and

look back at them,

we just remember

the highest highs and the lowest

lows, editing out the daily trips

to the bathroom.

On some level, we all know

that this is what we are doing

in our lives:

creating our own stories.

This is why we 

go to college, 

get married,

get promoted

have children

get divorced

go on journeys

retire

:

all of these acts provide chapters

in the narrative of our lives

and lead us to place we think

we'd like to be

in the end,

as we face our end.

Sometimes, we feel the need

to edit our stories, with lies

and omissions,

we convince ourselves that we

are always right,

believing that when we review

it all at the end,

the lies will have the power to erase

our biggest transgressions.

Unfortunately, I tend to think that in the story

we will witness at the end, when

we confront that unflinching mirror

of death, those lies and denials will apear

just as that: 

lies and denials.

(ex: she had an abortion

and told everyone

she lost the child

or

he cheated on his fathful wife

and when his wife suspected, he convinced her

she had an overactive thyroid

to divert her attention. .  . 

That's how the lies will appear to us.

The mirror that divides

this world from the next

captures each of our actions

unflinchingly.

Anyway, I can see my own pen meandering.

Back to my point:

we live in narrative time

and each of our lives,

so distinctly framed by

a beginning and an end,

all contain a series of plots.

~ ~ ~ 

Now, a bit over a year ago,

I wrote an entry that referred to the idea

that there are 36 recognized plots

in drama (or so some critics

say), and every play

can be summarized by one

of those plots.

Notably, they're all Tragedies.

In that earlier entry I wondered if the same

could be said of our lives.

At that time my own life

seemed to be catapulting

down a pre-ordained path

that could only end tragically,

and quite frankly, 

I didn't like it.  I felt fated,
and I refused to accept that version
of my own story.
In the time since,

I have reclaimed power over the direction

my feet are tracing, but I'm still 

unsure of the ending.

But aren't we all?

That truly is the part of each

of our stories

we generally have little power over.

Anyway, at that time, I considered how perhaps

our lives follow

pre-ordained, repeated plots,

that traverse this earth in cycles,

unrecognized until the end, when

we come face to face 

with the plot we accepted,

and lived,

trudgingly,

in this lifetime.

Thinking we couldn't change it,

we followed the footsteps of those

who came before.

And the dominant genre,

the favored genre 

of the past 2,500 years or so,

has been Tragedy.

Just look at it:

the blood spattered across the lines

our feet have traced, 

collectively and individually.

Even the story of Jesus

is a tragedy : He saves us

in a self-sacrificial gesture; He

provides us all with a text we repeat

annually,

a text that documents humanity's greatest sin:

the Sin of Killing Innocence.

A sin we keep committing,

over and over.

Who is the Hero in that?

* * *

Notably, the joy in the story of Jesus

comes from two places:

in the insistence of the primacy of Love

and

in an act that, in other circumstances

would be called "magic."

He rose from the dead:

magic.

And, arguably,

Comic.

 ( utexas )

 Now, quite frankly,

one is more likely

to encounter

magic,

rebirth,

restoration of order

and a celebration of Love

in a Comedy.

Aristotle, by the way,

appeared to disapprove

of Comedy.  

This is what he had to say about it:

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type- not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain. 

Aristotle did grant women a place 

in Comedy.

~ ~ ~ ~

Now the thesis of this rambling blog entry is 

that we should have done with 

The Age of Tragedy

and commence

with Comedy

(or at least the Tragic-Comic,

which acknowledges that life has elements

of both.)

I propose (as I have said) that each 

of our lives follows a path,

a path we choose;

our feet are our pens,

their markings, ink, indelibly

etched across the pages of earthly time.

Unfortunately, I propose,

collectively humanity keeps following in the previous

generations' paths, wearing them deep into the brow

of human memory,

so deep we seem to have 

no other option.

Those paths are painfully tragic,

and sad, full of mistakes that we could not accept,

as we are

as blind as Oedipus before his 

eyelessness.

It's time,

I think, to have done

with the Tragic Plots that History

continually replays; 

we've become too obsessed with gore,

titilated by catharsis so much so

that we've lost sight

of the lessons we are supposed to be learning,

all because we,

the potential heroes, 

keep lying, from age to age, refusing

to accept responsibility for the sins

we've committed.

The lesson I've learned in my multiple lives

is

that you cannot hide from yourself.

Ultimately, when the crowd is gone,

when you face your own silence,

the truths are always there.

The only way out of the lies that cloak our vision

is to tell our own truths,

first to ourselves,

and then to those we've deceived,

always remembering

that only (s)he without sin

can cast 

the first stone.

So let's imagine the majority of humanity

decided to do this.

The only humans who should qualify as judges

in this collective, individual confessional

will be

children, with the average age 

of three.

If they heard all these stories

of our indiscretions

they would laugh at the foolishness

of humanity before them,

they would cry a little too,

but finally,

thank us for finally telling them

the truth,

and they'll still love us,

because we taught them well.

Jesus will come again

at the very instant 

the Age of Comedy dawns,

at the crack of the collective human laugh

at our own foibles

and clumsiness,

at the bursting of

collective love

that refuses to lie

ever again.

Jesus will be there,

covering the earth like a blanket,

his smile glimmering in the stories

that we've each told, 

and in our final realization that WE 

have the power to end the Tragedy

as Comedy.