Contrast, if you will, with the Britt Blaser thing I linked to…

Mitch Ratcliffe: What is the Net, marketplace, commons or temporary autonomous zone?

Anyone who cites Oliver Wendell Holmes, is fine by me… and to invoke taxation, no less: you know, taxes being the price we pay for a free society and all that.

Mr. Ratcliffe is proposing that, instead of regulating the internet “commons”, we should actively set out to broaden that idea… oh, but he says it better anyway:

The Net is a means to increased freedom and free communication of ideas and opinion is an end in itself. Without the wider context of the question of an American dream of a better world for our children and an international dream of a better world for everyone’s children, free of hunger, ignorance and dogmatism, among a whole slew of human suffering that we might inflict on one another, the Net is just a distraction from the serious issues of policy that are reshaping the world as one where competition exists without cooperation.

More Gurdjieff-inspired writings…

Waking Up – Selections – by Charles T. Tart

I don’t have time to do more than scan this right now. He seems to be saying some interesting things about psychology and spirituality. Hopefully, I’ll read this later.

And…. Alex Burns’ dissertation on Gurdjieff: it’s fascinating and resource rich (just check out all that linkage!). I may have read this before, but it bears linking to and rereading, even so.

Molly Ivins is right on…

“Call Me a Bush-Hater” by Molly Ivins

I like that Molly Ivins. She’s got a nice head on her shoulders; some of that good ol’ Texas straight-shootin’; a good dose of that home-brewed Southern common sense:

It is not necessary to hate George W. Bush to think he’s a bad president. Grownups can do that, you know. You can decide someone’s policies are a miserable failure without lying awake at night consumed with hatred.

Poor Bush is in way over his head, and the country is in bad shape because of his stupid economic policies.

If that makes me a Bush-hater, then sign me up.

hiding the good china…

billowing voluminous rage, or maybe some kind of staccato, punchiness… (i should ne’er started drinkin’ coffee again) i’m finding only a great hollowness where my brain used to be and there’s no sixways about it. contrariwise, maybe my brain’s there, but surrounded by a great absence where my body used to be… feeling these fingers quivering like a nervous mirage, popping out for a beer to avoid the clutchy Old Man Winter.

that being…? how am i tapping out these… mandricles… of… and… where’s…?

felt, some kind of caterwauling, some kind of sea-rage. some kind of fabricated remorse (with patterns like you’d find on those paper towels… for what purpose? porpoises? you see>>>!~?) or rather, finding the limits of my capability of expression.

oh, cackles cackles, ho.

it’s like standing beneath a great heaving waxworks, gearworks, ironworks, heaving and scraping and straining and clogging above, it’s heavy earthenwork tonnage breaking the air… only to find the fucking linch-pin pinching beneath the shoe-sole… a brief second of… recognition? awareness? before the whole thing comes crashing down…

or, maybe, old man coyote’s done tricked me into holding up the whole world all by my lonesome.

feeling that futility. feeling that cold awareness, realizing that it’s all been sort of a waste of time. that that whole world’s been holding itself up forever and a day now. what use is that small part of blood spilled from a stone?

hey, maybe i’m just feeling the cold dread: the year’s dying, and the heaving gravestones are looming louder. and soon the whole clock’s going to tick over, in a slightly meaningless sort of way… feel those new year boddings rattle! watch those bloogyres spin and tortle!

item: the eyes feel pinched and swollen: are they red?
item: feel that warm bloom in the cheeks, the first sign of…?
item: this head is bobbling a bit too freely on its neck; starting at imagined sights at the corners of the eyes; watch this jackanapes gallylogging down the hallway!
item: feel the headhair standing; and all those neck hairs curling at some, slow creeping…
item: that knee just can’t seem to stop bobbing…
item: and why are the feet draining into pools of sweat?
item: feel that burning in the core, torso, self: is this rage? or some heated indigestion? and how does a body tell the physiologickal from the neurochemickally-induced alarums?

i’m no fucking hypochondriack. this is getting more difficult (as I said before): the depth of my feeling versus my disability to express same. feel that yawing gulf, that vasty wall. or whatever pit and pool, or snap and dragon that keeps those skeeving kinds apart. or what. or maybe. it’s more like: my disability to safely expunge or exorcise these things from down there, deep in the belly. anyone have a herd of swine i could run off a cliff?… but i jest, satisfying as that might be…