The purpose of presenting the world with my twists and turns is to get the attention of the inner eye of suffering hypnotized people. If I'm doing an okay job of it, I'm not getting a fix on it, and I'm tired of being chained to uselessness. I was a stone cold hermit for many years, OUT of all this palaver we call "the world". It isn't that I don't love the world. It is more that the world doesn't love the world... and so can't hang with stuff that falls too far out of the hypno-zone. It has ever been thus. It just feels worse now.
And there's that dream when my father came frantically to kidnap me and put me into my real life. So. I have not stopped blogging, and I don't think I'm going to stop, but SOMETHING has to budge in a big way. I might have to go back to spending the bulk of my day with the ancients and only small bursts with the world. Or I may have to try to get some fiction written. Or I may have to MOVE, however impossible that seems on this end of it, further out or closer in. We're getting very close to the point where structures start getting mowed down and progress happens, the cutting off of that nose that has had to be regrown so many times in my life.
How long? WHAT does it take?
Former CIA agent Ray McGovern, an outspoken critic of US foreign policy, stood silently in the auditorium's center aisle, and turned his back on Clinton.
For his symbolic and otherwise non-disruptive protest, he was quickly accosted by security agents. As they struggled to pull him out of the room, a CNN news camera caught the tail end of the ordeal.
You know, I do that when there's somebody at the head of the room pumping us full of shit. That is PRECISELY what I do, and have done my whole life. I turn my back on them in front of everyone in the room. School. Zen temple. Lecture. Supervisor's meeting. Board of Forestry meeting. Wherever people are gathered and somebody at the head of the room is lying or saying something completely unacceptable. THAT is how you communicate that you're not having it. It is NOT your wimpy kind of peacenik gig. It ruffles peacock feathers in a big way. Seven-year-old stormtroopers on steroids come and maul you for it now... because you let them.