Friday, November 24, 2006


Once upon a time, forward-thinking people came up with a far-fetched plan to connect all persons on the globe by netting them together in a fantasy called Cyberia.

Unlike other plans, this one moved with celerity and it did, indeed, come to pass that many people made the right connections and found answers to questions they didn’t have.

Soon, companies saw a way to increase their bottoms and became involved in outputting items which succored this idea. They became known as hot coms, part of an overly exuberant bubble.

Ordinary people gazed into a crystal screen and found books, toys, clothes. Clicking on a rodent-like device and bartering their identifying numbers for pictured items ensured the items would be on their very doorstep within three priority days. And, even, they could order food from the farms.

Alas, small brained people capable of only one thought, began sending smut and spam to righteous people who complained to their protectors. The protectors didn’t know what to do, for sure, so they passed a lot of laws that didn’t have any teeth. The sleaze continued as did the zany laws and bewildered protectors.

Kings of countries-within-a-country saw that if their subjects ordered goods from shops beyond drawn boundaries that would be bad. To make sure there would be full coffers for their golden parachutes, the big powers declared tax on Cyberia which was virtually a figment of imagination anyway. At least, it had no bricks and mortar.

Cyberia meant that the average peon could reach out and touch his friends and family without getting his hands dirty, so antiquated phone firms dipped their fingers into the pie and pulled out a lot of plums.

The Pony Express rode into the Cyberarena and charged a wooden nickle for each message sent without their smoke. The straw was added to the camel’s back.

It came to pass that because of so many governances people couldn’t afford to stay in Cyberia so they returned to watching smut and spam on their other screen and dialing toll-free numbers to buy stuff.

Thus went the best laid plan of mouse and man.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Feast of Thankfuls

A long time ago, escapees from a high-tax kingdom packed their tea and took to the sea seeking a new country in which to muck about. When they arrived they slipped off their ship onto a rock named for a heavybodied car. The males wore high-heeled shoes and short pants later known as capris while the femmes hid inside drab voluminous gowns that trailed in the dirt and broomed chips that fell from animals.

They called themselves pilgryms and claimed themselves to be good and fine for bringing their high-sightedness to heathen otherbodies. Alas, none knew whose foot the shoes were on and a lot of fighting did go on. Some people lost their hair on the end of sharpsticks while others did gain it.

Time passed. The escapees became at home, discovered themselves still alive and very hungry. They named that a good omen and planned to cook up a great deal for one historic dinner of thankfuls. Those under the heavy dresses began preparation many days in advance by swinging big birds by their heads til dead and then flinging them into fire to clarify the feathers. They dragged out huge cauldrons, dug corn and other vegetables to boil and mash as sides to go with the fowl turkeys and an assortment of animal parts. It came to pass that the pilgrymesses worked nonstop for some big period of time until they sagged, just as the table boards did sag beneath the weight of all the delicacies.

Lo! The big day arrived and the men stood around outside the cook shed sampling the vatted grain drinks and telling tales of no truth. Their revelry was interrupted by the cookers who called them to feed. The long dresses then returned to the pits where they became cleaners of the muddle brought on by the marathon cookout. The men ate all they could, then outdoored for a napping and a game of pass the pigskin.

That was on a Thursday and by the following Sunday the women’s work still wasn’t done but it was time to make trink-ettes and bead things for all the otherbodies to celebrate the next feast which would come about in 26 days.

And that’s how it was in the days before takeout.

Nitewalker, Fractal created in Apophysis by Sue

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Once in the Bad Basket...

There is little within my control even though I rebel at that very thought. Several times in recent years, physical control was wrested from me and more recently I find my mental well-being is not being enhanced by the lies and ugliness that permeate the current state of our affairs. And more frightening is the fact that this is being absorbed and re-spat by people I know. Anger and division are signs of the times. (Un)Civil war could come again.

I'm puzzled that we hear so little about the planned highway through the US, the size and construction of the embassy(ies) in Baghdad, the source of and spending of political monies. So little about the faultiness of the Diebold machines. So little about the planned union of Canada, Mexico and the US.

While inundated with verbiage dedicated to this current do-little congress, the fact remains that it has been anything but a do-little. Laws passed in the dead of night with little fanfare and less input are difficult to track down but when one spends the necessary time, it turns into a scary proposition.

The herrings thrown at us have little to do with real life. Those laws that control real life are being swept under the rug.

Corruption and hypocrisy have been around since the beginning of time but never have so few been allowed to do so much.