i'm gonna zen my way through this

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I will not make a scene. Nor will I kill anyone. I'm just going to the clinic and waiting for the doors to open. If they will not help me immediately, I will quietly proceed to get some fresh and functioning dilaudid from the impostors with prescription pads next door. I will then drive down to my dentist in Mendo World and he will fix me up.

The big news of the morning is that—through the miracle of pain killers—I have at last been able to identify THE offending tooth. It's the very last one on the bottom on the right side of my mouth. I've been just sure it was the second to last, and that one may be suffering too, but THE bad one is the last one. I can tell by pressing on it. None of the others hurt when pressing on them. Except I can't get them all to stop hurting until I have enough dilaudid in me to shut them up.

Zen. I'm going to be Zen. No one will die. No one will be knocked on their ass. This will just be handled. Or everything in Northern California is coming to a grinding halt.

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NOON: Nobody died. I was quietly emphatic and a cancellation came in just in time to give me the appointment. We are nuking me with amoxicillin and ibuprofen and the remainder of my aged dilaudid, to be refilled if I'm still hurting too badly. Back bottom tooth needs a root canal and crown, which I can get for a mere $600 since I'm so poor. Or, they can pull it. I'm getting in bed for a nice nap now. If the pain will just ebb enough. OMG, this shit just does NOT ebb once it's really made up its mind. I was SO good. None of that drama queen moaning and thumping, and people were alarmed anyway. I guess I'm in that zone where you have to be blind not to tell something's wrong... because people have been VERY solicitous toward me all morning. Total strangers.

Please let me know if the tsunami's coming to get me or Norway nukes Madagascar or the entire government suddenly drops from space rays... or whatever.....

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SIX: Well, that was fraught with difficulty! Good thing I didn't wait any longer to go have it seen to. Even taking way more ibuprofen and the dilaudid, the pain had gotten so it was still pretty bad anyway. It took me some hours to do anything more than lie there in misery awaiting naptude and I had to get up a couple times to take more pills. Now my ear and throat and side of my tongue hurt along with my teeth and gums, but it isn't as despicable.

I dreamed a lotta stuff, and most of it's long gone, but my mother was in there somewhere, and that means I was dreaming of relative reality instead of absolute reality. I'd been this lump of Zenned-out pain sculpture in the waiting rotunda. The building that houses County medical and dental and old people and lort knows what else is a really large barn-shaped building with labyrinthine halls and cubbyholes for labs and nurses stations and examination rooms and whatnot. They'd have to fit me with some sort of GPS device if I worked there. One begins to feel terror if one's escort pops out of one's field of vision. But all the waiting around goes on in one wide stretch down the middle length of the building and the roof is a long way up from there. It makes you feel as though you've come to be seen by elephants. They'd turned on a television to entertain a very young Hispanic boy whose brother was in with the elephants.

The shrill sound effects of cartoons were skewering my neurons through my right ear. I had a stately O magazine on my lap and I slowly and silently went through its pages one-by-one until such time as I would be shown what was the professional choice for me or the elephants called me in. I never got to discern my true destiny. I was still back in the ads for diamond-encrusted things and not-your-daughter's-jeans. I'd gone off to find some breakfast that didn't demand chewing while I filled out a stack of forms, dotted T's and crossed I's and had to get up to go beg a couple crusty old dairymen to tell me the date. They'd both whipped out their cell phones to find out, but I was the only one with cheaters to read it. It's the 9th. I'd known that hours earlier, but had stopped in the intervening debacle and didn't want to punt because last week I arrived at my hair appointment a full twenty-four hours early. So I'd come back and handed in my assignment before settling down to the meditation in the fires of hell bit. I thought I had another hour to endure, but I guess there must have been another cancellation because, mercifully, except if you count my need to have Oprah point out where I've gone wrong with my life, they got me in pretty quickly.

I remember taking one of those personality tests by which jackasses set so much store, and it advised I should be a counselor. Oprah probably would have done the same. So I guess my dreaming was trying to tie up that loose thread. I was counseling one woman who had taken up grieving widow duties over another woman's dead husband. I was telling her it wasn't a good idea to let the actual widow dump her grieving on a surrogate like this. She was upset by this, as though the real widow had maybe put one over on her, not, maybe, as gracefully conceding the position out of the kind of generosity and sublimity of spirit my patient had been supposing. Leave it to me. I'll wreck everything.

Somebody get me started analyzing this dream.

Anyway, I'm going to try gently going about my stupid little house without whipping up any more PAIN now, and see if I can't go back to sleep by around eight or so. I mean, I only slept for a couple forty-minute sprints last night and I've been in too much pain for fatigue to really register. I just know I must be tired back there, and that holding still while nuking with antibiotics is the best way to insure they actually work. So I'm just going to keep on funning my way out of this Zenhouse hall of mirrors, and will pop back in if this doesn't go according to the sensible plan I can just barely make out that I've plotted for myself here.

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SEVEN: It occurs to me I should point out that Del Norte County's medical and dental, etc, clinics are not like those you find in most counties. In most counties, those are just for poor people and are relatively squalid places, even when it's just the rumpled throngs of abject persons making it appear that way. Here, it's close to two hours in any direction to get to something more approximating a medical professional. We do have some dentists, and about four private practice doctors, but their waiting lists are so long you'd die of gangrene from waiting to get your indigestion seen to. So everybody but a mystical few goes to the County clinic. It's really very chic, which is unexpected in one of the last bastions of true redneckdom in all California. Exotic fresh flower arrangements are always on the redwood block coffee tables and the chairs are not hard plastic. They are remotely comfortable and there are a lot of them and usually very few people waiting. The hospital is pretty much the same thing. Chic. The Urgent Care Clinic blows chunks and I don't know about the mental health clinic. It's back in some trees with mysterious signage at the road.

The problem isn't the facilities. It's the staffing. Homeless people plucked off the street and dressed in scrubs to look authentic. They only look authentic. They have computer terminals that display all lab tests optimal for persons of the age and general description of each patient and they let you vent about your complaint for a moment and order the tests on their screen for you. They never match the complaint even remotely. This is of no moment. You can bring it up all you want and they have a designated extra-concern person to not help you then. Very civilized. Never gets out of hand. In fact, you have signed something that certifies you know you will be 86'd for life if you get out of hand.

So I guess I am lucky I had something as straightforward as an infected tooth. My dentist looks like a church lady in scrubs. She didn't even have to scrutinize my x-rays because a computer puts black bugs on them at the spots that show infection. No room to maneuver there. I wonder if they have a robot that does the root canals? I wonder if I will end up like my real estate agent, getting them all yanked in favor of false teeth, it being so many thousands of dollars cheaper than trying to keep them. Old lady waiting at the pharmacy next to me said she just had two yanked. I'm, like, pretty interested in chewing and have already paid millions to dentists to keep my mouth perfectly pristine over the course of my life. I don't think it's right to be telling me these things now.

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TEN-THIRTY: Go postal for me, please. I'm too sick.

The Wisconsin Senate succeeded in voting Wednesday to strip nearly all collective bargaining rights from public workers, after Republicans outmaneuvered the chamber's missing Democrats and approved an explosive proposal that has rocked the state and unions nationwide.

"You are cowards!" spectators in the Senate gallery screamed as lawmakers voted. Within hours, a crowd of a few hundred protesters inside the Capitol had grown to an estimated 7,000, more than had been in the building at any point during weeks of protests.

Monster storm barreling down on me. The surf sounds like cannon fire. I'm too uncomfortable to sleep, to stay up, to think, and so until I'm not dying of this anymore, you gotta handle dat stuff please.

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love, 99
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that reminds me

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I set us all to setting our hearts on Julian's release last night, resolving to get in bed with the determination to dream of this, even, and then got in bed and picked up a magazine to combat the alertness trying to poke through my drowsiness. I was reading some blather about the relative merits of a couple of maverick Muslim scholars when I dropped into dreamland and kept being annoyed by the vision of some Muslim official somewhere lying very charmingly to some parliament or other. He was kind of handsome. He was doing an Obama. I kept being so angry about it that it would wake me back up, pissed off, and then I'd sink right back into it. I don't think it was a dream. I think it's happened or is happening or will happen and I was seeing it, but so unwilling that this is all I can say about it.

So I got up this "morning" chuffed and puffed and cranky as anything over not having gotten to the part where I invoked the good dream for Assange... but... after thinking about it a while, I'm now much more pissed off even that I was so obtuse about noting the precise specs of this Muslim politician I saw.

Never mind. JULIAN. We must concentrate on this ending tomorrow. We must concentrate on freeing a truthteller.

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love, 99
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i know it's mad

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But I want all my windows and doors open. That dream I had in one of my three-hour sleep shifts upset me in a place that does not translate out here such that you could understand.

I was running into his bathroom to take a shower, but he got there before I could get clean and he hollered at me my most crushing defeat in utter dismissal. I ran for my big canvas bag of things and had great trouble finding them in a huge dorm. I was going to get all my stuff together, ready to leave, to be banished, and go back and tell him I wanted one more chance, knowing he would give it to me if I would but do the work it would involve, but the bag I was sure was mine was turning into someone else's and a young blond thing was sweetly reminding me these were her items and I should not be going through them. I was confused at first, but then saw she was right. I apologized and struck out to ask for my chance, but there were people screaming for help, wedged into crevasses and caves and locked into stocks or hung up on pegs, wailing, wailing wailing. One of them was demanding my help for his/her daughter who was about to give birth but was going to do it such that it would kill her or the baby and it was going to happen any second and I was screaming, screaming, screaming, "DIAL 911! DIAL 911! DIAL 911!" as I saw someone being yanked bodily from encasement in the side of the cliff, like an elephant from an Anasazi ruin, or a grub from a tree trunk....

I awoke with a blazing feeling in my throat and sinuses that also pushed out through my ears... a sort of burning cross from the base of my neck to the top of my head and out both ears. My muscles and nerves were on wrong, too, and my heart had lit out for a circuit of interstellar space. I decided against immediate witlessness. Going to put it off for a while and do other things first. That's when the fighter jets started blowing out everyone's ears.

In the last day I have slept three and been up for three, slept three and been up for three, slept three and been up for three, slept three and been up for three. This is a distinct change from that marvelous early to bed and early to rise thing I got to enjoy for a couple weeks. This is my life... and all my windows and doors are wide open on a cold January night. I am clad in a LOT of very warm clothes... and stalling still on the witlessness to make room for a bolt of insight instead.

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love, 99
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i can dream

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I had gone to a church basement to hear Auster and Arriaga talk. That was odd because to me church basements are where antiwar protests and freedom movements are born, but this time it was to listen to these great authors talk about novels and screenplays and liking directing because you can look at the beautiful women. It's a very, very engaging discussion and I'm having a fine time.

When they are done and the lights come up in the audience, Robin is sitting about two seats from me, and even though he is smiling, I can't tell if he recognizes me. I get him to move to the seat next to me. Now HE seems shy. Yes, yes, he remembers. "You would write and write and write and then face-to-face... fwoosh." He made a hand motion of a young girl disappearing swiftly and smoothly into the pages of time. I said something about how crazy it was to run into him like this, clear out here in the boondocks. He cracked a half smile. He looked genuinely pleased, but also a little distracted with little winces of discomfort so I left him to himself.

Auster and Arriaga were jumping off the stage and talking happily with everyone in their path. We all went out into the parking lot to make for our various cars. I said good-bye to Robin as he hurried to his car. The other two stuck near me, and I got a chance to tell them how I enjoyed their talk so much that now I really had to read their books, telling Auster that a friend had heavily recommended at least half his books to me. He was very pleased about this. I thought this was going to be the end of it, but, no, we were going back in for another.

Inside now there were about ten of us and the church basement was now in Jenner instead of Smith River. [I so love that about dreams. Easiest trip between those two points ever not even conceivable.] Now it wasn't just authors and people coming to listen to a literary discussion. Now it wasn't set up for an audience facing the stage. It was set up like a meeting was to take place and the people doing the staff work keep flipping back and forth between church member volunteers and hotel staff and back. There was a wife there for one or the other of them, and Auster had been showing a great deal of interest in me, but suddenly it was Arriaga who was engaging me in the very friendliest exchanges, and it seemed to be his wife with him, but not taking any of our banter in any way awry... letting us start turning into close friends completely unimpeded by wife energy.

I saw a desk with a mound of cards and papers on it. Right on top was something clearly with my handwriting on it. It had been a card to Bradley Manning wherein I had enclosed some paltry sum toward his defense. I was going to become alarmed, but noticed that there was a note attached to it that they were sorry but they couldn't deliver the donation and had to return it. Things were very busy in preparation for something, and the whole energy stayed a big roiling leaving from the former situation and planning for another one and setting up to do something right now. The energy was seamlessly leaving / staying / returning / conspiring / planning and all of it in an extremely satisfyingly friendly... no... essentially loving atmosphere. Arriaga was saying very wonderful things to me. He made The Connection.

This couldn't have anything to do with my mp3 player continuing to replay until I get up and turn it off, or the fact that my crazy tiredness and need to get back in bed eighty times today was all about me needing to have one of those bouts where I do all my Phase Four and REM for the month at once. My sinuses are taking their turn being the part with the ice picks in them. It moves around my head. It sometimes is my ears, one or the other, and sometimes my EYES, and sometimes my sinuses, with varying participation in the little necklace of lymph nodes at the top of my neck. Anyway, when it is my sinuses all inflamed, I snore so loudly I keep waking myself up... which was what I kept doing every time I tried to succumb to a nap all day. It was just the gods of dreaming finally grabbing me by the throat and slamming me down on my bed that let me get the dreaming in before the snores could prevent it.

So. Now I'm going to pretend I am back at the monastery, getting my coffee and puffing my carcinogens before hitting the Zendo at five. I'm going to—in honor of this pleasant dreaming—pretend that I have finally trained my haywire circadian rhythms to go to sleep at nine and be up by five. The IDEAL schedule for anyone like me.

IS there anyone like that?

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love, 99
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baby it's cold outside

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I had a semi-decent day's sleep, and I know this because I was dreaming. Whenever I recall that I've been dreaming, and especially if I can remember bits, that means I'm getting some of the good quality sleep, which, ahem, is not usual enough for me, for anyone. I don't recall that much about the dreams, except that I was at some sort of not okay resort with, I think, a landlord type man trying to sing its merits to me and me trying not to slip off the pier into the water while he was holding forth thus. I don't think trying not to slip into water is a good thing in either Jungian or Buddhist dream analysis. Water is the unconscious, the place one needs to make conscious in order to be a free human, a true human. Fuckup one. And then I was at some sort of fast food place—fuckup two—concerned for the staff, and finding I'd remembered my pocket change but not my paper cash and had to go back to the resort to get my money so I could purchase my "food". When I got back, the "food" thing wasn't happening, the ladies room was! I needed toilet paper. My money turned into toilet paper. This could be Buddhistly good, shedding awful habit, the toilet is the ace dream metaphor for that... OR it could be that I had to pee so badly my dream was trying to warn me not to wet the bed. It could have been either, but maybe it is the latter because I wasn't performing so well with the resort landlord thing, or with the entering a fast food "restaurant" even in a dream thing... except that I really did go in there with the intention of saving sentient beings, wasn't interested in the eating plastic crap part, but rather wanting to add energy to the liberation of the slaves behind the counter. So, hell. I'm ambivalent as heck about it... I just don't feel very enthused about what metaphor I can pluck out of the soup.

Not that I need to feel admirable or nuthin, but it seems too ignominious for someone who's been at it for this long.

Anyway, after a day of sunshine and then a Christmas Eve of only mild overcast, Christmas broke upon my home a sodden and too cold place yet again. Not as bad as the weeks leading up to Christmas, not quite as North Pole in its aspect, but dreary and uncomfortable as heck. A good sleeping day and that's really about all it's good for. I just hung a strand of itty lights, willy nilly in my kitchen—hang the electric bill and the added environmental damage. If I am up, and I need to be if I want to keep anywhere near a doable circadian rhythm, I'm going to have some atmosphere in this place... just turn off other stuff to compensate... like the heater. I've always loved strings of itty lights, preferably not colored, and I bought the suckers over five years ago and then never used them when I found out how environmentally incorrect they are. It's just a fucking ego trip to be this clean when BP is literally sliming the planet and overthrowing any government in its way. Okay? Being so scrupulously clean and correct to "combat" those fuckers is just a lethal head trip. Period. So my itty twinklers are happening.

Last night I stumbled upon the bad news that the wonderful anti-Israel bus ad campaign scheduled to begin on Monday is not going to happen and it depressed me. See, the moment I read about it I knew it wouldn't happen, was in fact pissed off that they'd put it out in the media BEFORE the fact, as though begging for a clampdown. I didn't feel like being negative over it, and so I wasn't, and I still don't, but, dammit, these pansy fuckers who grind paychecks out of "activism" make me yearn for my very own rocket launcher so I can blow their headquarters to smithereens. The tonnage of saved irk to everyone on earth would lift our hearts vastly more than any of these agony exploiters we do insist on adoring.

And I think I'm going to start my one-woman crusade against these evil fucks on KEVIN ZEESE. That dickless cash leacher and his incessant framings of "slow" and "longterm" and "long hard slog"—et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—has gone from merely making me want to knock his block off to making me want to nuke everything having to do with him to smithereens. He is the nexus for that little constellation of nonprofit, but paycheck generating, websites that pose as action against everything wrong. I DON'T CARE ANYMORE THAT HIS LAST NAME MEANS "COFFEE" IN BOONT! Now, if the filthy worm is murdered I'm going to be a suspect, even though my homicidal speech is unerringly just speech, every violent impulse I ever had having done a U turn about six inches off my face, but maybe they could just wrongly put me on death row and I'd still be glad that walking phial of sleeping powder in the apocalypse had been halted from perpetrating his deathless and pusillanimous and damn apocalyptically-lethal harm forever.

I'll be over this any minute, I'm sure.

What good what it do? He'd be replaced by another. They're in limitless supply. I hate them all, and indeed I hate them more than the ones whose perfidy is right up front, because of all the good people they BAMBOOZLE for a living. It has been pointed out to me that the bamboozled are bamboozled because it's their karma, and that is actually irrefutable, but my path must evidently be to fry out my circuits so utterly with wrath over the harm that I end up in a state of perfect enlightenment by dint of completely melted wiring. Others simply drop this shit, shed it. I couldn't be that sensible, all my toilet dreams notwithstanding. Not in my makeup.

So, still being up at some ridiculous hour, resolved to postpone my murderous impulses for the sake of everyone's holiday serenity, I invoked the use of my browser's reader function to blank out everything but the, enlarged, text to enjoy an essay by Neil Kramer. That was some help, but deflating a bit because he started it out with that crap about the whole WikiLeaks brouhaha being a psyop, which gets on my nerves. Number one, the sociopaths do NOT control everything that happens. They simply succeed in gaining control over it too quickly. There's a big distinction there. A huge one. One you could sail the Titanic through if you hadn't sunk it. And, number two, he has been extremely unclear about the need to keep your eyes open while you go about using nature to do the hard work of restoring yourself to some sort of near-human condition in this planet-swallowing mindfuck we call "life".

Still, there were a few really good paragraphs in it, and so I copied them, only editing just a jot, in case you find yourself too lazy or otherwise disinclined to click the link:

Mass culture is a control mechanism that devalues the individual. It is aimed solely at promoting collectivism. It seeks to enforce the dependence of the individual human on a collective group and the priority of group ideologies over individual life paths. It is, at the base level, the very heart of socialism, communism, fascism and totalitarianism. It employs nationalistic impulses to setup polarities of antagonism that exclusively benefits a set of ruling elites. At the top level, the elites fully comprehend that there are no distinct nations, ideologies or cultural imperatives to speak of. To them, there is only power and no power.

Real human culture, the natural expression of the individual at the pure creative level, always emanates a degree of uniqueness, spontaneity and asymmetry that is infeasible to manufacture or mass produce. It does not lend itself to reproduction or packaging. The value of real culture is therefore to be observed in that which is handmade, distinct, crafted, skillful, and is a profound representation of an individual, not an organization. It is anti-commercial to its core.

...

When we hear of the important news items that are ‘the talk of the nation’, what we are witnessing is the self-referential narrative of the Control System. These headlines are not the news of the individual, or even echoes from the communities that are composed of individuals. The media’s ‘hot topics’ of the day, are collectivist memes that are set against the natural path of the individual. The exercise of turning off the TV and discarding the newspaper, demonstrates just how utterly irrelevant the news is to the progressive human narrative. The most profound, revelatory and exhilarating moments in our lives are always manifested by our own hands. They do not arise out of screens, institutions or ideologies. When we extricate ourselves from the mediaplex, we regain that which is our heritage – a knowingness that we are here to explore, to grow, to love and to experience. Nothing more and nothing less.

See, I can be mellow about my disagreement with him because, while some of his stuff sounds honestly too damn relax-have-a-pickle and would tend to ensnare people really only looking to get out of the blare of the ugliness—until the ugliness blows up the planet, of course—I mean I'm sure they haven't forgotten that part, right?—it is crystal clear to me that his understanding is such that he will never harm for a living. That is huge. That is RARE. And he is generally trying to get at the perfect elucidation of the OTHER way out of this hell for the masses.

The one where we wake up and cease empowering the sociopaths.

I think there isn't the time for it, but know that it is of the sort of phenomena that can turn on a dime, really can shift with the beat of a butterfly wing... only just extremely unlikely to happen no matter how many Neil Kramers we drum up to beat their butterfly wings. It would have the benefit of vaporizing the dread poison taffy river of Kevin Zeese Energy that is bombing children to pink mists in their sleep and which no amount of violence could ever erase. So I'm still in Kramer's corner, even if he doesn't give the beauty of Assange's action enough attention... yet.

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love, 99
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just going oceanic with whatever comes to hand

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I had myself one hell of a dream today and it was at once perfectly clear and deeply opaque. It being my father coming back to kidnap me and drive me with all the recklessness of a Hollywood abduction scene into a world of great scholarship and creativity and spirituality, and me not being able to make out whether he was asking to come back or telling me I couldn't come back or he couldn't come back, or what, I'm kind of a mess.

In any case, staying stuck in fear is for totally worthless nitwits, not true humans, so whatever....

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love, 99
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i had started to listen to this

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When suddenly my father kidnapped me and took me off to a museum conference room and a bustling coffee house and we sort of lost track of what was being said. So I have to start over.

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Here's a lecture from 2001....

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And here's one from 2010....

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love, 99
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no criminal investigation?

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That tears it! Those Russians are corrupt bastids and I'm goin' after Putin in my dreams tonight. Gottammitall to heck! I ain't stannin' fer it. Nossir. Prosecute the living snot out of the miserable fuck or I'm gonna make you sorry!

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love, 99
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they all wanted to take the wrong turn

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I was in a carload of them and I had to get them to take the right turn, but it always seemed to be the very last thing on their minds to try. They were all agitated and blathering away and I needed to interject. It was a left turn and we were going to pass it, not be able to get back to it if I didn't clear their decks and make them see where my finger was pointing.

I'd had a hard time keeping left and right straight as a kid. Took me way longer than most people to get that one down. They kept saying, "Right is the hand you put on your heart in the Pledge of Allegiance." This didn't help. I didn't know which hand I used for that either. Poppa would become vexed when I was trying to give him directions to someplace. I was an ACE map reader, the world's greatest navigator from an extremely young age, impeccable sense of direction, but I couldn't SAY the correct direction for him to turn. So, he finally said, "Just point."

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love, 99
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you

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The little solar systems or atoms at the beginning of this video look something like the geometries being enlarged and shrunk when I woke up with that Blitzer business yesterday.

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love, 99
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the passphrase of the day is "wolf blitzer"

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Sometimes I think I should put a Passphrase of the Day box in my sidebar. So many mornings I awaken with the distinct impression I'm supposed to say a certain word or phrase on my blog, as though my teacher wished to confirm that sense was pouring into my sleeping mind, that I'm actually receiving the dharma flooding my way. For all I know, it could be a demon trying to break in. People can cloak themselves when doing this transmitting. So the downside of this psychic ability is that I grew adept, used to letting it just roll off me like the proverbial water from a duck, very early due to the ridiculous amount of inputs from lust-sodden men. I feel utterly unthreatened by received transmissions from out there, and it's pretty much automatic to just let them evaporate into fumes that waft off into the ether. Some people are driven mad by this action. Doesn't faze me... and I think this has been a stumbling boulder in my full awakening, helpful as it has been with the Sex Object crap in the past.

Anyway, I decided today to acknowledge the passphrase. "Wolf Blitzer"... which is an utterly alien term that almost certainly would not pop up here unless circumstances somehow became outrageous enough that I felt the need to deal with his bullshit on my blog, in front of you. It was NOT one of those things where the phone is ringing or an alarm going off and I'm filling in the obnoxious noise with nonsense words screaming in my dreams. There was a glowing sacred geometry going on in mid air, a little neon sketch floating before me, and its dimensions were being condensed and expanded between someone's hands and "Wolf Blitzer. Wolf Blitzer. Wolf Blitzer." was ringing in my own voice right before I woke up and went, "Wolf Blitzer? Gimme a break."

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love, 99
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a staggering juxtaposition of inputs

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I went from the nap you knew was coming, with doors slamming and feet pounding down halls, cats showing up everywhere, one clinging to my forearm with claws and teeth and me just telling it that it was useless, waiting for it to lose energy, and then dreaming I'd awakened and gotten up to pee about eight times, each time just catching myself before I actually peed my bed. I was mostly dreaming I wasn't asleep and had one hell of a time coming out this end of the tube.

So first thing I finally really got out of that nap, I resolved to watch this Drunvalo fellow, and then went over to catch THIS at al Jazeera, and then THIS at Antiwar. I'm making myself a motherfucking cup of strong coffee now. Okay?

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pregnant dreams

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86 was at the grocery store, coming out from being inside. I had too many unread magazines. I was trying to give them to him because I know they are his favorites, but he was ignoring me. I think I did one of those cosmos-ripping barks of the old masters and he saw the magazines and took them before sinking immediately back into his thing, his life. He got in the MG Midget I drove as a very young woman. Agent 98 was in the passenger seat, but he got in the passenger seat and she miraculously slipped over to the driver's seat. I was impressed. But they were bickering and 86 was back out of the car, and she was arguing with him about what the hell did he want... it sort of backlit my impossible project of getting all the garbage that had escaped the dumpster back into it, and I just cleaned it up and started back to my car that was a long way across the parking lot, almost off it.

There was a cat, an incredibly beautiful cat, with long hair and the color of a Burmese, the dark part of a Burmese, who took a sudden avid interest in me. We were in many rooms and I was holding and petting and hugging the cat. The cat was jumping in my lap and slinking around doorways, once squooshing through a skinny slit to get out and I thought, no! come back, and it immediately did, disappearing as it did so.

I opened a door without knocking and there was a man of about sixty in the room with his feeble mother. I apologized for intruding and he started to be testy about it, but was so consumed with the care of his mother that he just went back about doing that, talking about it loudly as he went.

Then it was all manner of iterations of pregnancy. The great no one again showing me the ropes, going from a belly full of twenty-five or thirty to one to a kind of none that was still coming out of the womb, giving birth to myself. I woke up today on the subject of giving birth to myself.

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my 'morning' has not measured up to my transcendental dreams

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Guess what! I am again victim of experimental upgrades in my commenting system! I have already botched it... not too badly... but it's going to add quite a few steps to my daily blogging regimen, that's for sure. At least we know BB2's comments didn't fall into the void. They fell into a black hole. Blogger doesn't like his little editor gizzy he uses to make comments and it called him spam. I was not alerted until today that there even IS such a thing as a spam folder and comment management now happening on my blog. I deleted a whole page of comments, thinking I was only taking them off a list, not deleting them from my blog. Sheesh.

It has to be karma that they like to do this to ME. Use ME as their guinea pig. They probably think that if this DITZ can get the hang of it, anyone can. But, not having had enough coffee yet today, and still swooning from my recall of bits of a long adventure in my sleep, I didn't realize Blogger, aka Google, is making a big effort suddenly to emulate Wordpress, give us some of the features enjoyed by those who use that system. I did not switch to Wordpress because they won't let me customize my blog. I have to pick one of their templates and do that. I guess this is not true if you have your own domain, but for us plebes who blather away on free blogging platforms, no dice in the customization gig... or at least last time I checked. Mayhap they are trying to accommodate people wanting to shift from the Evil Google now. I don't know.

So I was on a long trek, or pilgrimage, or escape from disaster, leading a bunch of people. Someone important, all important, was at my side. It didn't even get through my plastic wrap who was with me until we cut away to a scene where there was no ignoring this spectacularly lovable fact. So completely had I given up on this one coming to me, there was a need to kind of GET my attention. I feel as though too much of it has drifted back into my fog banks, but at least I know it was there, came with love, and I wish I could describe to you the kind of love I mean by "love" here. It's cosmic.

I have put the Shadow Stats unemployment graph in my sidebar and shall try to remember to keep it up to date. That video of that mob coming for a couple openings for HUD housing has broken my heart and powderized my bones. I am, of course, unsure and mistrustful of ALL stats, hate statisticians and the plagues they have brought down on our heads, but as far as I can see, all the most truthful people rely on Shadow Stats. If you look at their chart, you will IMMEDIATELY see why. They make an effort to estimate actuality instead of to cover up performance deficiencies.

Basically, the way you read that graph, the unemployment numbers from the beginning of fudging the stats for political relief, is the red line is TOTAL bullshit; the gray line is somewhat less bullshit; and the blue line is closer to not being bullshit.

Anyway, Hospice has been called to come help take care of my Poppa. This is a horror and a relief. Now he will be clean and the injuries caused by unskilled caregiving will cease hurting him, will heal. He won't be getting out of bed anymore, I don't think. I'm in the middle of freaking out about my mother and countless others insisting children should not see their parents in this shape, should be allowed to remember them when they were hale. I do not know who to kill. I have never heard anything so asinine in my life. It's akin to the incogitance of farming our incapacitated loved ones out to some institution when we have the means to help them at home. Everyone agrees this is the right thing to do... and it would be if you could not get the relief at home. I'm not saying anyone needs to be Superman to be decent. I'm saying that if it is possible to maintain any measure of quality of life while dealing with this stuff, YOU DO.

I can't kill my mother. She can't cope and in her inability to cope she is causing this to be exponentially worse, but she's like a wild animal whenever any fault might be lit for her consideration. She and everyone in her circle think this all has been the very best that could be done.

I am from another planet. This is way beyond just family baggage, but there is plenty of that too.

I bellowed, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM LIKE THIS'!?! HE'S BEAUTIFUL! HE'S GORGEOUS! HE'S STILL HIM!" But that's as much as I could bellow at her because she's going to snap. I don't want to call my wonderful second cousin again to vent, because it really just boils down to us congratulating ourselves for not being emotional midgets, but I might have to call her anyway because the intense frustration of being so powerless in this just doesn't ebb. Actually, that's another thing I don't understand about consensual reality! People say you get over this feeling in a couple weeks. BULLSHIT. If you are a HUMAN you do not. If you are a delusory version of yourself I guess you THINK you do.

I was in such a state that I almost missed the help that came in my sleep.

Maybe I oughta go over to my big chair, balance three sets of cheaters on my no nose and read the sutra aloud for a little while. Or maybe I should have some more coffee before I do another thing.

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could somebody read this for me please?

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Tell me if it would send me screaming naked off a cliff?

I'm sorta preöccupied with trying not to go kill my poor mother at the moment and, well, I don't want to resort to dumping cups of brandy in my blueberry smoothie... defeats the purpose of drinking all this water and nixing bread and stuff... ya know? I really have to be a THIN raving old bat.

I've been meaning all day to tell you about John Lennon descending in a helicopter to take over the DRUMS for a rock band with a HUGE stadium full of screaming fans this morning... and... the fucking filthy state of the world and our "civilization" horned in, and then my much-anticipated new sweater, and then more fucking filthy "civilization" status evidence, and then my mother on the phone, and all the things I can't tell you about or you will go screaming naked off my cliff with me... OMG, OMG, OMG!

I hope you never let your kids think that being a good person will make life be fair to you.

Just don't tell me if you did.

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what a rude awakening

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Partied all night and slept like ten people, dreaming of passing some test or other involving a very smug plutocrat and then, kabam, the "real" world. I went off and felt my way to the shower... so actually look much more presentable than presented here to gross you out!

Found a dead link on one of my sidebar labels gizzies last night. This would be the downside of changing terms and consolidating various labels so as to thin it out a little for admin purposes. So if you come across one of those, please pipe up. It could get SERIOUSLY crazy here today. So I don't know how much I'll be around.

XOXOXOX

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chill with me

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I found the perfect background music for my rumbling stomach. I'm going to put myself into a reclining position and just let go.

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Finally drifted into the nap I've needed for a whole week now. This station REALLY does it for me. It's a keeper for sure. Beset by every incarnation of sleep disorder already, these middle of the night disasters end up subtracting the more. I don't think I go into Phase Four or REM when I'm so wiped. I think I just sink to Phase Three and stay there, a flipping and smothering contortionist with no consciousness at all, until some biorhythmic convergence gives the all clear for the restorative kind of sleep at last. I was dreaming of needing a color code and it was needing to be an impenetrable black with a very dark but still brilliant green streak in it. I'd've made you a representation of it but I can't seem to make that green happen... and if I ever do, maybe I can also get the depth into the black... and if ever I get it perfect for you, I have this feeling it will be too abstract to say itself to you.

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i went roiling off to bed before midnight

[click image, a fabulous actor I never knew could sing....]

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Had been drunk for a good part of the evening. I had THREE great big huge margaritas out to dinner with Mom for Dad's birthday. Luckily, she didn't drink that much and she was driving. Also, luckily, I'd had a very big chicken breast sandwich and fries so that much booze didn't kill me. But I was good and sober again by the time I hit the hay.

I was dreaming of Arthurian Knights and their gallant feats of right over might. I was seeing for the first time some of the secret deeds of deepest antiquity taking place and needing to translate the images into something that would bring you the truth. It was like being a movie editor. I was seeing these men and their horses and their deeds about which no one in the world knows and trying to transfer snippets of the sight into video, into imagery, into a workable presentation of the beautiful truth to give to the world.

I was becoming so joyful in the feeling of the power to do this that it woke me up and sent me in here to my mother's not-a-computer to tell you about it. I snapped wide awake from it at 3am sharp.

I was going to be able to TELL you the answer to life, the universe and everything in images instead of numbers. You were going finally to know the beautiful truth that was channelling through me from the depths of spacetime to save the world. I did not stop to marvel at it. AS it was being shown to me I was working already to to turn it into YOUR vision, YOUR sight, YOUR elation and release from the benighted bumbling of consensus. My only part in this beautiful truth was getting it from my eyes into yours... and I'd known how to do it! Was doing it. And the happiness was so intense it woke me up at the stroke of three.

I was splayed naked on the cement slab in the guest room and grinding my face into my pillow so hard I think my nose might have moved several inches closer to my left ear. I also sort of had myself in a wrestling move I believe they refer to as a "choke hold". It was very elegant and involved getting part of my pillow jammed so hard into my windpipe that I know for sure whoever gives points for that action would have marked me very high in the suicide slumber division of the Olympic Self-Wrestling Trials.

I got to hug my Poppa at last. He couldn't stay awake too long on his big day, so it wasn't enough for me, but it still felt like heaven to just be there, just take him out of the crazy ward and sit on the patio, eating cookies and helping him sip on his favorite soda... just sitting and touching him.

I also found out the completely fantastical hallucination upon which my younger sister's twenty-year quest to make my life miserable has been based. OMG! It may have been better NOT knowing all that time because at least then I could think I must have done something while in a trance that wounded her grievously. I certainly never did any such a thing of my own accord and while I was awake in my own skin and not transported onto some plane where fairy soap-opera bitches descend from their airwaves to loose their perfidies on their highly imaginatively vindictive little sisters, but I guess I never realized until tonight that it could have its "basis" in a type of revisionism SO transcendental that it no longer holds any congruence with actuality whatsoever. The power of thin air.

But I saw Arthur's Knights saving the world tonight.

I don't know if I can even get it all across if I become a great movie director or novelist. I think I need to be able to just blast the beautiful truth directly from this end of this mind to that end of this mind, so you can at last know.

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i'm moving to canada!

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A REAL bathtub... in a BARN... closer to polar bears.

UTTER BLISS.

Of course, DGPNorth may be toying with me, but, well... even just the idea makes me almost certain this is another one of my computer code, internet pattern dreams.

DON'T WAKE ME UP!

...[she screamed thirty seconds before doing it herself....]

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way past time for a nice cleansing cry

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I had a really good dream this "morning". I dreamed of agonizing stuff, of 86 coming back and a stultifying number of really awful floozies coming back with him, telling me in no uncertain terms that no matter what they were also in his life. It was really heavy. I just stood there as a sort of parade poured into a kaleidoscope of this action played out in front of me. At length, I pulled 86 from this crowd of awful moving into my life and told him gently but firmly that I didn't want him with me if the rest of this stuff was part of the bargain.

Immediately as I told him that the general atmosphere and attitude of everyone in this jumble turned intensely happy, intensely loving, where only a moment before it had been the very portrait of fundamentally awful.

I had so wanted this day to bloom into something sparklingly positive on that account, but, here, I think the cry is the most appropriate to our coördinates in space/time.

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