Palettal Prose: Voices

From the quantum perspective,

all matter in the universe (multiverse, rather)

is essentially a collection of sound-frequency-vibration.

So to make effective change in the universe,

we must meet it at its base structure,

Resonant intentional hypnotic harmonics,

utilizing the internal instrument

of our voices to induce awakening.

This is how we rock it.

~Miss Ascentia, 2012, We’Moon

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Scrutinizing Script: Big Sur

Jack Kerouac is likely the best known of the beat authors. Up and risen in the 1950s, beatnik culture was considered fringe. Little was understood of it by the so called mundane outsiders. They reclaimed poetry by taking it “back to the streets” from what they considered stuffy, conventional living and sought freedom from what they considered oppressive, conventional culture.

Kerouac writes Big Sur after the success of his previous book, On the Road, which depicts a cross-country road trip of a group of friends. Not adjusting to his new found fame, he finds he needs to get away from the business of life, the city, and a very active party scene to recluse himself at his friend’s cabin, in Big Sur, California.

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What he doesn’t count on however, is his need to escape himself. Years of binging and an overly imaginative mind is impossible to set aside and this story is his narration of the following few months. Presented as a stream of consciousness with minimal punctuation (as consciousness is I suppose), you’re amazed at the many detours and distractions it takes.

So even that marvellous, long remembrances of life all the time in the world to just sit there or lie there or walk about slowly remembering al the details of life which now because a million lightyears away have taken on the aspect (as they must’ve for Proust i his sealed room) of pleasant mental movies brought up at will and projected for further study—And pleasure—As I imagine God to be doing this very minute, watching his own movie, which is us.

He takes a thought or idea, then shoots off so far from topic you wonder how he’ll ever find his way back or where he’s going, but the beauty of it is, he always does. It always falls together in a strange albeit uncomfortable clarity. The ramblings of a madman and a beautiful mind can sometimes be confused as they are so clearly linked. In reading Big Sur, a certain type of person (myself included) may think, ‘Oh ya, I recognize this. It is both totally mad and completely beautiful…humm, who would have thought’.

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‘You said in 1957 in the grass drunk on whiskey you were the greatest thinker in the world’—’That was before I fell asleep and woke up: now I realize I’m no good at all and that makes me feel free’

He slips into madness. You know it’s coming both because he tells you as much and because you see the signs. You see it in the mind-tangent that goes a little too far, getting stuck in the darkness just a little too long. You may see it coming because you recognize the patterns in yourself and see right where he’s reached the edge. The place where you normally catch yourself and pull back up for air—except he doesn’t. He not only allows you to join him in his journey down and back out again but invites you to. This, and his other reads, are not for everyone but those who would appreciate it, do so immensely.

Moon Day Musings: Monday March 14 2016

A long read but the best…

The world being just what it is, moving and passing through, actually alright in the long view and nothing to complain about—Even the rocks of the valley had earlier rock ancestors, a billion billion years ago, have left no howl of complaint—Neither the bee, or the first sea urchins, or the clam, or the severed paw—All sad So-Is sight of the world, right there in front of my nose as I look,—And looking at that valley in fact I also realize I have to make lunch and it wont be any different than the lunch of those olden men and besides it’ll taste good—Everything is the same, the fog says “We are fog and we fly by dissolving like ephemera,” and the leaves say “We are leaves and we jiggle in the wind, that’s all, we come and go, grow and fall”—Even the paper bags in my garbage it say “We are man-transformed paper bags made out of wood pulp, we are kinda proud of being paper bags as long as that will be possible, but we’ll be mush again with our sisters the leaves come rainy season”—The tree stumps say “We are tree stumps torn out of the ground by men, sometimes by wind, we have big tendrils full of earth that drink out of the earth”—Men say “We are men, we pull out tree stumps, we make paper bags, we think wise thoughts, we make lunch, we look around, we make a great effort to realize everything is the same”—While the sand says “We are sand, we already know” the sea says “We are always come and go, fall and plosh”—The empty blue sky of space says “All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don’t care, it still belongs to me”—The blue sky adds “Don’t call me eternity, call me God if you like, all of you talkers are in paradise: the leaf is paradise, the tree stump is paradise, the paper bag is paradise, the man is paradise, the sand is paradise, the sea is paradise, the man is paradise, the fog is paradise”

~Jack Kerouac, Big Sur, The Sea

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Palettal Prose: In Time to Blossom?

A large cloud swirlscanstock4709918

the uncertainty of spring so vast

it swarths the sun.

For millions o years on Earth

plants existed

endless varieties

of leaf and stem120201094923_1_900x600

and then one morning

114 million years ago,

it happened—

an incredible burst

of fragrance and color

the first flower.

Swollen and aching

like twig ends

all of us know the longingd5a83e6ecead395b5a41df567e755891

to let go

to open, to blossom.

It stirs within each of us

call us to grow

beyond our limitations

tells us there is more

tells us we are more

we are able to give

Water lotus flower blossom

Water lotus flower blossom

what is needed

we can undo

the grip of fear

out-love

the harshness of anger.

Will we take our next step?

The large cloud swirls

spring’s uncertainty so vastRobin calling song

it swaths the sun.

Against this marbled sky

a peach tree reaches

her tender twig ends swollen.

A robin sings.

~Cathy Casper, We’Moon

Moon Day Musigs: Monday February 15 2016

Moon Day Musigs: Monday February 15 2016

Since the late 19th century, when, beginning with electrons, we got down to manipulating the most fundamental particles of the universe, human life has changed very fast. One measure of how fast is that, barely a century ago—until Marconi’s wireless and Edison’s phonograph—all the music ever heard on Earth was live. Today, a tiny fraction of 1 percent is. The rest is electronically reproduced or broadcast, along with a trillion words and images each day.

Those radio waves don’t die—like light, they travel on. The human brain also emanates electric impulses at very low frequencies: similar to, but far weaker than, the radio waves used to communicate with submarines. Paranormalists, however, insist that our minds are transmitters that, with special effort, can focus like lasers to communicate across great distances, and even make things happen.

That may seem far-fetched, but it’s also a definition of prayer.

The emanations from our brains, like radio waves, must also keep going—where? Space is now described as an expanding bubble, but that architecture is still a theory. Along its great mysterious interstellar curvatures, perhaps it’s not unreasonable to think that our thought waves might eventually find their way back here.

Or even that one day—long after we’re gone, unbearably lonely for the beautiful world from which we so foolishly banished ourselves—we, or our memories, might surf home aboard a cosmic electromagnetic wave to haunt our beloved Earth.

~Alan Weisman, The World Without Us

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Scrutinizing Script: The World Without Us

Scrutinizing Script: The World Without Us

In The World Without Us, Alan Weisman poetically describes his well-researched hypothesis of what would happen if humans were to disappear, for whatever reason, suddenly. Similar to the TV series that came after, this version is much better. Beautifully described, he begins with the most basic of our structures: our weather-proofed, leak-locked homes. When the electrical grid fails, and back-up generators eventually loose juice, what happens to the pumps, locks, and holds held at bay by them? Where does nature first invade?

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by: El Mundo Magazine

Without humans to fight erosion or pull back weeds, how long will it take for our concrete spaces to turn green? What species would thrive, survive, or fail? What of animals? Our beloved domestics, how long would they last? And what of wildlife? Left to their own devices, without management or interference, would they do fair-well, or are we somehow part of their maintenance and well-being?

When we think civilization, we usually picture a city. Small wonder: we’ve gawked at buildings ever since we started raising towers and temples, like Jericho’s. As architecture soared skyward and marched outward, it was unlike anything the planet had ever known. Only beehives or ant mounds, on a far humbler scale, matched our urban density and complexity. Suddenly, we were no longer nomads cobbling ephemeral nests out of sticks and mud, like birds or beavers. We were building homes to last, which meant we were staying in one place. The word civilization itself derives from the Latin civis, meaning “town dweller”.

Weisman takes us to Africa (my favourite chapter), and explores the mass-extinction of megafauna and how it differs from what we experienced in North America (and why). He seemlessly and invigoratingly evaluates structures such as nuclear powerplants, canals, polymeres, and the oil industry.

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Somehow he does all this while keeping us engaged, curious, and extremely humbled. What is reversible? How long will it take and what of our conquering will endure through time? He looks at all of these and (so much) more in a compelling, spell-bound manner, capturing you well into the night.

Palettal Prose: Scribe of Sands

Sand, stones, salt, shells.                   What we each do,

Where I belong, in the dunes           according to call,

rearranging the world,                       husked of ambition,

carrying the elements                        to bring life

here and there,                                    back into balance.

listening for the music                       How we each pull

of relationship.                                    on the sheet of horizon,

Where else should I be,                     to remake the bed-rock,

but asking questions with fingers   to right the rock bed,

thrust into diatoms of silica?            that it may offer carbon

An infinity                                             to the trees,

of pulverized bodies                            that they may offer oxygen

speaks to my nerves                            to the birds. Tonight,

glistening millenial light.                   with paw-prints

I am a scribe of sands                         in these same

these hands                                           deep hills of sand,

related by tribe, by species                in the deepest spaces

to those that painted a pride            of night,

of lions on cave walls                          stalking these same dreams.

at Chauvet, 35,000 years past.

~Bonnie Morrissey, We’Moon

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