Coup? Not a Coup?

Well, I guess my idea that the revolution in Egypt continues through the use of a Citizen petition through social media is not shared by a lot of people. Some say "it's a coup". Other "no, not a coup, it's the will of the people, just another ridge to pass over, another mountain to conquer in an on-going revolution. The maven's of worst case, at Infowars, say that this will all end badly with the ultra Islamist party in power. Also M. Savage goes on about how the guy in charge now was practically hand-picked by sppoookkky-guy (as another talk-dude calls this other political king-mocker). So what are we to believe, people? In any case the behavior that we see on line is all just an illusion of what we can find. It would, of course, help to get the ears on the ground in Egypt to find out what the people there really want. Let's hope that they don't want a Civil War.

But there are those who always want the glory of battle and a quick route to martyrdom. Why? I know that it comes down to the urge to survive. That instinct is directed in a way that foments hatred and incites violence. It is done as a way to try and take power into one's own hands.

Democracy is never a license for pogrom against political opponents. When the results of elections results in suppression and murder of political opposition, there is no reason to back the results of 'democratically held' elections. If the groups are that at-odds then they ought to be divided into two different voting districts. Anyone who wants to vote for the hard-line candidate, the go and vote over there with them. Your vote will never give you the right to submit our group, a minority, to the tyranny of your rage. If you live your lives following the fallacies of externalized jihad why am I forced to cast my vote in the same election as you? An election is not supposed to be a death-sentence to any and all opposition. A 'national' office holder is not a soverign, he does not rule. He merely ministers.

Those who see it as the other way, the idea that 'we win, you loose', that kind of poltiical 'winner' is a loser in the social sense. This kind will not fit in a diverse crowd without puking out his/her rapid delusions about whatever highly-felt agenda that he/she has been bullied into accepting. They don't get to 'fit in' with the big boys if they go along with the hazing.

But, you know, democratically elected is one of those buzz-word things.

Can't you just see if they are throwing people off of roofs because they wear symbolism of the opposition, which did effect a non-violent change, then were these so called MB, were they really that non-violent in the first place? Why does it matter to ask such things? They ought not to be voting for the same leaders as the rest. If the people insist on the phoniness of an authoritative democracy over a region created by the money-mavens of the 1890's, and the insistence on a type of government that doesn't work when the people in charge of various factions are out for the blood of their political opponents.

The policy seems to be, seems to have always been, from the 'West', which really means the banker-hedgemons and their puppetized world-entity banks, that they will ignore whatever dysfunction is going on in a place, whatever violation of the Liberty of minorities, as long as whatever temporary coalition will take whatever loan , (that might be almost seen as a bribe) , at whatever outrageous terms, to make that nation indebted to some concept of ubber-bankista organized collusional banker-banker children (like the people at the [redacted because I don't need to spell it out that clearly, do I?]).

And, as I always do, I put in my disclaimer that this is only how it seems to be. What it is really is hidden through the hedges and stonewalls that are put up for the purposes of obscuring the view of the scene. Who is really pulling the levers of power? What does it matter if it were (would that it were not) an algorithm fed into a computer algorithm modeling language and given consciousness through secret ritual? The delusion would be that it were conscious and 'good' and capable of making 'good' decisions.

Of course there is no such algorithm. It is all, of course, a cabal, and we never even get to know who they are as individuals. And if anyone starts naming names maybe they suffer sudden acceleration and horrible accident death? Would that it would never be that, people, because if that is what has happened then it could happen again. So the door must always be left for the culprits to escape through redemption after understanding their mistaken beliefs. They can be good people  even if they were taken in by lust for power, money, sex, acceptance, drugs, and rowdy music.

Yes they can overcome their strong delusions to rulership (like Saint Paul did) because anyone who is the hall of power for this sick gaming of the powerful is only there by mistake, by fortunate mistake, and is a child at heart and only doing it because it fulfills some urge for 'progeny' of great aristocracies . . . a nobel group who does better for everyone else. There are many different types of motivating lusts. One is for progeny. Another for legacy. The Socialist is alledged to deprecate the need for progeny. But what it often seems to be, from the sidelines watching how these people opperate, that they always promote their own, either through bloodline nepotism, or through ideological nepotism, or through ethnic, racial, social, religion-affiliation, or tribal.

 Yes, youngun, your good fortune here at this seaside mansion assures all the happy baby ducks. If you don't grow up to be a great philanthropists than that means that people don't love mothers and apples. Of course, that is all drivel and I can only imagine. And I can say to you, dear reader, that no such horrible people could possibly still exist, could they? Wouldn't they have been guilted by now to at least pretending to some kind charitibility instead of old-money irritability "if it were like it were back in the day let me tell-ya-mister" rages with an old coot boss guy, a parody from a 1940's socialist propaganda movie from the brain-crunchers in the thought industry. But we only know the past through the fog of forgetery. What is important at the end of one's life is not what one fusses over when one is 25 and off pursuing the sights, sounds, smells, and sensory fulfillment of emptiness, chasing the never-ending yum in the heart-break city of the infinite street. Take a bus to Filmore Heights, ride a swan boat down the Merced through the ducky canals of California. Take a bullet-train to the moon. Go miniature golfing on the rings of Saturn. Par 3 hit the ball onto the third inner ring and you win a free game.

Yes we go off into distraction, as we should, at times, to commune and recollect, to regroup.

And there he is, he's a good guy, It's David Branson. He looks at me. "Why go off about this imagined corruption and that it isn't even real." There are giant puppets. I never knew him in life. I just looked for him on line when I used the wrong name before. He was of my generation but he's been dead for a long time now. Sounds like he did a 'Bread-n-Puppet' thing down in Australia. He is worthy of being remembered.

"Yes, yes Richard" It's Richard Branson now. David has passed on and out of the scene.

So I play miniature golf on the rings of Saturn. It is, of course, just a video game tether ride, a new thing, that sends you flinging around the stratosphere in the clouds on giant bungies and zip lines. Zero gravity? It's hard to throw up in zero gravity, there is no down, and the puke will just float around you. I look at Sir Richard. The dream suddenly dissolved into a debarkation.

I disembark onto a beach in California in less than a minute from where I had gotten on this power ride at the bays of Colchester and Milton.

It's a breezy Sunday. I see whales in the far away sea off beyond my mind. The whole scape has got golden colors. The Pacific never lets the sunset end. It's morning before there is any ceasing of the light, and it isn't the local brew that is doing it.

Over there, beyond the sky, where reason ends, there is no more need for worry. If it's a little girl from a pageant show makes it big on the Internet television feeds, it's a famous actor who has made a lot of good movies and the occasional dud, if it's a rare whale, what whale isn't?

So the day ends with me on the beach. It's all sublime, what happened here, what goes on still, the prayers that we make for the holy dead, thinking that is just about any one who has died to someone.

The glow. It never fades. No wonder the whales sing so sweetly. Do they ever get to hear the twirtle of a Hermit Thrush? They never get to read anyone insightful tweets on the Inter-nuts-and-bolts. Are they any less for it?

writers 'championed' by David Branson:

Daniel Keene, Alison Croggan, Graham Henderson and Christos Tsiolkas.

Daniel Keene

Allison Croggan

Graham Henderson

Christos Tsiolkas

I'll be reading these folks's biographies

July 9, 2013

"Back to your cage." he says, clicking it shut. "

"I'm never really off." twiddles the phone. It is making kissy-face sounds.

what say ye oh milkman-popup sprite?

"got anything? I got nothing."

// 
The Office of Petition
Has a Holy Mission
Back then,
   when you were being an az-ho
  the stuff that I didn't post,
       the thoughts that I held back
  dream-blogging, so I thought,
        but that dream-ap-post-bot process
  is totally internal.
       The non-terminating process
 of respect for sane people, as I so deem
   the guy with the rifle on the ridgeline looking
         for a grizzly bear
   inside a video game in that dream inside a
         matrix of love if
   everyone is always doing what the angels, G()d and 
      santaclause is doing you
     be naughty or
         nice I've
  got you on my channel it's
      just fabtacular, do it like we tell you or we
             put you on the list 
        oh you so naughty.

  But no.
     Grandpa didn't think like that
          nor do I she
      breaks a tear but
        doesn't let him see it's
    a giant sunset the
          clouds and sky the
    colors of old Japanese inks on fine papers 
             she's got
    a collection of them in her dreams
          along with a sweet old man whos hugging a tree
   who follows along with her in her life she
        lets him bless everyone they
   are always surprised to meet him she
         tells them, asks them? tells them?
     "Do you think such joy of a soul such as he
           would keep him down on that flat print 
    in a mueseum
        just for the lucky
              or those guys in the boat most
       people don't even see em
  even if the print is oversized
         grotesquely so
    and hanging in a mueseum?"
               
    She goes on with it like that.
     
     Outside the dream everyone else is awake
          she imagines but
    how could she ever know?
  People are never as mean as she expects them
              to be but she
     sees the mean coming out in them as
          the days wear on the long
       shadows of the afternoon taring around
     the harbor shores she
   thinks of those blues, it's
      an art, it
   really is an art despite
            the cheepness of the fabric
  that blues fades, the other one it
       can get blazed by the sun and it only makes it
            truer, deeper, the
   emeralds that she sold from her great grand dad's collection
       she'll bring these old prints to the Trainer School
           for Better and Better Artists
          she's
     tired did she
   write enough words in that ledger
 to instruct the lawyers the guardians the
   seven angels of dawn? to wake her in Heaven that
    list on her lap she
 knows he'll fulfill it all, all her
      wishes she
   watches, they
   take the 46 frames
           and put them on the sidewalk.

 "I'm not going to worry about some
      old eccentrics lost paintings"
        "woodblocks"
      "I'm not going to worry about
      some dead aunt's boney fingers
          on an old ledger role it
    hadn't even been notorized I
  never like those old moldy things she
 didn't spend the money to have it preserved
 it just rots you know if you don't store it right
 she lived at a swamp size, a top a barge dump
    that great grand dad had filled in from dust from the hill
   he tore it down
      it was an allegory, symbol of the affront of
            lost wagers she
  takes that long ledger with her written in a boney hand.
       Her hands were just bones
             when I got there the
   smell you can't
       even imagine."

    Off to the world of loss somewhere outside of time the
       prints, well framed, from another part of the house he
    was looking for cash but he never found any of it and
      then he realized that it must have been in the frames, the
     posters she had glommed over, the
    obcession she
           must have put the money in the frames if
     you cut it all open but
     dorrie, the cousin, she was a stakeholder
    wanted to drive it into her cupitious cousins heart
  "You were off in Tibet." he tells her. 
   "I try to see the love of the light of life in all things."

Best post

not posted

the winner is . . .

It is easy to waste time writing about things that I read from the Internet, like politics. But it is a lot of work to make it so that I don't feel embarrassed by it later. So, I don't post it. I think that is fair for all involved. Later, if it still matters, I can edit it. I'll post it then. Or not.