Upon awakening abruptly.

Behind the face, the skull within

The organ pulses.

Beyond the brain, the mind: a place

Without substance.

Hear the keening of the wind there

Salty lips are whistling

Tunes arcane to any tongue

Unremembered.

Every grain of sand a mountain

Each drop of rain a sacred font

Is this the path through utter darkness

Or the highway to the blessed realm?

Halt!

Time does not march here.
Return now to the world.

Tarvu day.

An alien identity is not something easily maintained without means of returning to the state from which that identity originally sprang.  It gets diluted. All human people were alien to this Earth-planet when they were conceived and born into it.  They cannot return to that alien infancy just as they (likely) cannot rightly claim to be made up of matter that is not part of this globe.  Cultural ideas of a post-lapsarian (after-the-fall) world are tied to this loss of innocence; or rather, growth from perfect potential to something definite and fixed.  Fighting the "sinfulness" of growing-up, people have created systems of belief that further entrench notions of sameness and shared, common thought.  When their child is born, a parent has the wonder-filled chance of re-living the alien state through its eyes.  Everything is strange and new again.  This is marvellous and also very frightening.  How can this little creature survive in this harsh reality?  The best chance of survival is acceptance into the congregation, uniformity, an inalienable birth-rite.  The alien is not for this world.

The infant-alien is full of possibility, but perfectly ignorant.  It is a stranger, but this is primarily due to the fact that everything is strange to it.  It is not alien to its parents, at least, not on a basic level.  The alien-ness is mainly metaphorical.  Another type of alien to consider is the "outsider".  This solipsist strives to remain other and alien in the face of insurmountable odds.  The state to which this creature must return to refuel his flying saucer is equally hard to reach as in utero.  An egoist in a vacuum.

The Native American vision quest might be a used as an example of a cultural system grown up around the outsider.  The quest itself alienates a member of the tribal group and sends them off, alone, to seek for answers of the spirits.  Better examples are probably the criminal, the outcast, and the leper.  Perhaps the best-known alien creature known to homosapiens of the Earth spent most of its life among such as these.  He taught them how to refuel, and how to get back home.

mashed potato for Christmas dinner.

'Twas Christmas
And the lithe wee bells did gyre and jingle in the wabe
All nimbly were the stockings hung
While consulting astrolabe.

Frederick Peener's rant

O! Audience.  Hear the cries of this life-form.  All the world is a soap-box.  Strange figures stand over us flinging harangues, calling for us to climb up out of the dust and hold them on high that they might catch sunbeams in their horny hands.  They stuff their pockets with this gold and demand yet more.

All the world's a hound, and we are merely flea-bitten.  We traverse the emptinesses in a crescent moon made from the pared toe-nails of our prophets.  The heavy breath and moaning of inexperienced lovers fills our silken sails, blowing willy-nilly, whither-we-know-not.  Maybe our craft will capsize and sink, without reason.  Maybe it will run aground and crash through the shell of a shining white egg and we will live out the rest of our days in the land of honey-combs and breast-milk.

I lie before you in such a state as this in hope to find rest.  Rowing to the rhythm of a timpani has exhausted me.  Lying together we could solidify the foundation on which to erect a tower; a tower to house the beings to come. They could build their own additions.  The tower will rise ever upward into the blankness of the future: a pin prick opening the heavens and commerce with the stars.

Squidboy and Mr.Shark narrowly avoid Cpt. Falloon.

The creature cannot let go. Its jaws have long since clenched in rigour mortis. It has fused with time and become what is often referred to as 'inanimate' -- a not entirely accurate term.

Kelvin produces his scalo-meter and, upon measuring, finds the lifeless remains are still reading well North of absolute zero. "It has passed into a fractured state of multiplicity" Kelvin says, to which Fig rolls deep purple eyes and disguises a twitter of laughter with a chirp of song.

"It may appear whole, but the bonds that unite its physical presence have already begun to return to lonely one-ness with the universe" Kelvin continues.

"So, it's 'dead' and 'rotting', got it" replies Fig.  "Don't you find it strange that the little monsters tighten up like this in preparation for decomposition? Wouldn't it be more expedient for them to burst apart, scattering atoms and energy everywhere at death, as we do?"

"Well, there's evaporation to consider" Kelvin begins to reply when his antennae detect a waft above them.  "We might have to find another specimen, Fig" says Kelvin.  "There is something on the gases, and it has spotted us. It may be hungry. Let us return later".

on emotional pain.

A few days later...

We need to make some headway on the issue of head-space.  More precisely, it would be nice to find a better way to handle anger, resentment, and hatred.  These three monsters stand in the way of our progress to the heavens.  If the mind could be opened up so that inner-space and outer-space unite, the expansion would shrink the monsters nearly infinitely. Their power could be rendered insignificant.

There are artificial means of spacing-out, but they usually have a down-side that returns us to Earth too quickly, and we burn-out.  What we need is the transcendent power of progressive trance to loose the moorings of our mind.  The mind is the seed that impregnates space.  Everything that we are resides within its pellucid shell as it reaches up toward the truth.  May you hold your mind in balance, above the grasping vices, in high orbit.  Your eyes will glaze and the images they report may grow fuzzy.  You may hear thoughts as well as sounds.  Time could go funny.  Just learn to trust and love.  It is a gift the other species have not forgotten.  Angels we have heard on high….

Testing, testing, one, two...

Yes, and hello.  It is a hitherto unwritten rule that electronic biographical logs (blogs, for short), must start off with a brief reference to how much time has passed since the previous entry.  The better to fit in, we will now observe that custom.  Sorry, it's been about a month.

As we were trying to remember the name of the server on which the martian hop exists, we stumbled upon an internet segment entitled:  Mars rover photo reveals iguana, blogger claims.  Fossilized iguana. The discovery of the dinosaurs started out with a giant iguana as well.  Coincidence?  The thing is though, the Martians are already here on Earth, in our minds.  I'll leave that with you and make no guess at their origins.  Maybe one day we'll have more definitive proof. "Where you from, you sexy thing?" Do you believe in miracles?

As the old cross-dressing, sex-addict-actor once said: "I want to believe".  Did you know he was in Twin Peaks as well?  So many questions, so few answers.  That's why we love trivia here.  Nothing is too trivial.  Something's always better than nothing.

And practice makes perfect.  Does it?  My human sibling's now-deceased high-school band teacher used to say that "perfect practice makes perfect".  But since the intergalactic juries are still out on the existence of perfection, and high-school band performances continue to suggest against the possibility, we'll have to stick with "practice makes practiced".  Being practiced is far better than not, so we'll just keep trying to get better.

That's it for now. Keep your peckers up.

Zmz

...until next time.

A recent discovery: we at the hop are not the only ones doing this inter-web journal writing thing. There are hundreds of other people out there with personal computers writing on a wide range of topics! Isn't Earthling innovation marvellous? So, after having made this discovery, we need to think about how to stay competitive in a growing market. How can we stay relevant and worthy of your attention, audience? Are we sending these words off into the cold blankness of space, or are you out there with your radio-receivers, picking up the message? What would you like to read about? Any and all suggestions will be greatly appreciated. Until next time....

inflammation

Waifu and I have determined it is time to cut down on our consumption of sugar.  No more cookies for breakfast.  There is some anecdotal evidence that skin problems such as psoriasis can have their effects reduced when healthier eating habits are adopted.  Carbohydrate-laden foods such as white flour, rice, and potatoes increase inflammation. But none promotes disease and decay like processed sugar. Replacing these ne'er-do-wells with a variety of different shaped and coloured plant-life, olive oil, and fish oil can work wonders. If you or anyone you know has a problem with sugar, please know that you are not alone.  Together we can fight this terrible substance and an addiction that leaves millions sick, homeless, and destitute every hour.  Join a local addictions support group in your area. Practice transcendental meditation. Go for long walks on the beach. Boycott fast-food chains and candy-bar manufacturers. We can make a difference, and give the children of tomorrow better, healthier, more luminous skin.

Tonight is All Hallow's Eve. The spirits of those long dead cry out for release from the hell to which they have doomed themselves through unhealthy eating choices. I ask you not to obey these vengeful spirits by sacrificing the well-being of our young people. Refuse to give out anything at all, or if you must, stick with apples and carrot-sticks. The roaming souls may then find peace, and our little ones will have a fighting chance at avoiding the sins of their forebears.

Insects rule the Earth

Zmz has been desperate to do something useful, and in at least some small way important, for most of his years on this planet.  Doing is the predicate and vital part of a being.  Anxiety grew out of the clash between this fundamental sub-creative urge and the weakness of fear.  The fear is often of  embarrassment; of the loss of perceived control; of the opinions or ill-will of others; of the shifting, shadowy non-entity "Failure".  These fears so often coddled what appeared to be an infant, but was, rather, an ancient, immortal man shrunk to the size of a beetle whose name is Cowardice.  The myth of this creature is similar in some ways to that of Tithonus.  However, while Cowardice rolls a ball of faeces forever up-hill, Tithonus shrank to a wizened cricket and made music in the night (pining for his love, the Dawn).  Anyone who has had a new-born human in a household can attest to a similarity with this latter creature's sleep habits.  Also, a babe does not know fear until taught it, and is brave to a fault.  Everything is new in its innocent eyes, everything is there to explore, experience, and put to use (or in its mouth).  If someone claims as an insult that a fellow is being childish, it is actually an unintended compliment.  Of course we cannot all be children all the time. But everyone has their brave, innocent, childish self within them to protect against forever rolling in shite.

Now for something a little more serious...

Hello spacemen and spacewomen,

Have a look at this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_trSIBCgF0

It seemed like just the thing.

Love,

zmz

Alasdair Roberts and friends, post-show thoughts.

As mentioned in a previous jotting, there were recently several "materialisations" of Alasdair and Friends this side of the pond.  We were fortunate enough to have the chance to see him do his thing on stage when he came through town after performing at the Calgary folk-festival the week prior.  This was a "big deal" for Zmz, to say the least.

There were some misgivings in the back of the mind that the night would be another case of dashed expectations.  Waifu came along, aware of the significance, her first-born sharing a name with the singer, but herself not too enamoured of Mr. Roberts' body of work.  She finds his music, in the main, depressing.  This is understandable: he does transplant a fair few dark notions and traditions from Scotland's brooding past to the present-day.  But for me, the chords he strikes recreate a world and people beloved by my father, with a history taught to me with love and earnestness since as far back as I can remember.

The venue was run very professionally and had the feel of a small cabaret or jazz club.  The sound quality was top-notch, and when the opening act encountered problems with a cable, a working replacement was quickly produced.  There were no such issues during the main act.  We were the youngest people at the show, with two possible exceptions; however, this was not all that surprising as it was a Monday night.  From the banter with the local opener it appeared as if a number of the city's seasoned audiophiles were in attendance.

Just prior to the performance I got a chance to exchange a few words with Alasdair himself.  I felt keenly embarrassed upon approaching the soft-spoken, unassuming young man and starting to blabber.  I am acutely aware that most of the talking was done by the "fan" in this situation.  Anyhow, the moment felt surreal: all synapses were firing at once.  He was gracious and gentlemanly; I was pleased as can be, and probably came off as manic and strange.  I should have chosen what I wanted to say more carefully, but blurted out what came to mind, that my son shares his first name by no accident, that I feel akin, being born in Scotland et cetera.

The opening act served to warm up the audience quite well, generating some back-and-forth and calming the butterflies.  Alasdair and Friends (electric guitarist/harmonica player and up-right bassist; the drummer and violinist having been refused entry to the United States for one reason or another) started off with a song about the Highland clearances from the new album A Wonder Working Stone. The rest is rather a blissful blur.  There was a generous helping of both old and new songs. He had audience participation on "...the sun shines down on Carlyle wall/... and the lion shall be lord of all", an old Scottish (well, of course) folk-song about infanticide.  Only a few days earlier in this city a woman drowned herself and left her two infants to die in a bathtub.  Quite the opposite to being inappropriate, this dour ditty's call-and-response felt like an act of catharsis.  It's hard to know if this tune was chosen for the set-list especially for this reason.

The man really pours himself into his art.  His finger-picking is astonishingly nimble, his voice clear and ringing, and he was soaking in sweat after only two or three tunes.  His bassist has arms like the limbs of an old oak tree and fingers you'd be thankful to have had the limp-fish handshake from.  His guitarist looked a bit bored for most of the set, but livened up when getting the chance at singing vocals or playing the mouth-harp.  I put it down to being tired near the end of a long road trip playing the same material time and time again.  The inclusion of his noisy, atmospheric touches helped recall The Night is Advancing and some tracks from Spoils.

Alas, all good things must also come to pass, but not before a terrific instrumental piece followed by "Riddle Me This" from The Amber Gatherers for an encore.  Then it was over.  I walked out feeling inspired, more aware, and jittery with creative energy: not a bit let-down, and with fresh album of new tunes in hand.  Waifu seemed content, and I'm so glad she came as well.  Certainly not a night soon to be forgotten.

Some attempts at philosophy of a morning.

If "knowledge is power" then we have to have an understanding of what it means to "know" something. Having data is not enough. Being able to assess that data, make accurate assumptions based upon that data, and even to manipulate that data or how it is seen by others will open the avenues to influence, and thereby, power. The individual will is crippled if that given individual is not free from the manipulation of data.

Presently, we are in an age of data proliferation. The communication of data far out-paces a given individual's capability to process and to "know". Power is reliant upon the biggest and best computer servers. The fuel to run these comes from conglomerates (governments, companies) who are in turn reliant upon the biggest and best computer servers, and those who run them. In this symbiotic relationship, power is balanced. As an aside, this is similar to the balance of church and state in the Western world's past. The physical limitations are now measured out less in human suffering (warfare, physical struggle, oppression) and more in the capacity of the planet to endure humanity en masse. But the old demons still abound.

As things are, security would appear to be of utmost importance. However, security is a limitation. Access is most important of all. Those who have access set the restrictions imposed by security. To be powerful is to have access. To have access requires a short-cut to the biggest and best computer servers and the data stored within, the capability to process this data, and the ability to use this knowledge to some end. Even if "all data" were attainable at a given time, knowledge is dependent upon an individual mind or will. Conglomerates are an attempt at creating an individual will in numbers. For example, a democratic government is elected by the majority of people who ostensibly share the same views and vote accordingly. Of course this is sloppy, but the point is to gain power by sharing the same individual will. The sloppiness that arises from attempting to focus a group of individual wills into one united conglomeration of shared knowledge as power can be quite ghastly. It can also help to serve the common good of a people. But knowledge remains strongly dependent upon the individual, and the knowledge of power itself the key to how an individual behaves.

Well, if you have read this far, you can recognize a struggling brain when you see one. Socrates, after all these thousands of years, was an original individual for stating "I know that I know nothing".

The next post will have to be the Alasdair Roberts follow-up.
Bye for now!

Sagat's Wheel

Hello world!  Is not electricity wondrous?  This human brain, these muscles, cells glued together by tension, attraction, spark.  Today, life is inspiration.  It is time to make a donation of blood to help preserve life.  For some reason, here is the sound-track, brought to you by the electronic extension of the human mind and memory, the web:

http://windworld.com/features/gallery/savarts-wheel/

The most annoying instrument in the world should be re-named "Sagat's Wheel".  But then there is this. It looks like it might be something one could make for themselves:

http://windworld.com/features/gallery/musical-siren-built-by-bart-hopkin/

Let us know here at the hop how the construction of yours goes.

Alasdair Roberts

Zmz is going to see his minstrel-hero play tonight.  It seemed like a good idea to take the trickle of time available to me before the event to gather thoughts and consider feelings.  Perhaps afterward I can use the data comparatively to determine whether I am feeling disappointed, elated, inspired, et cetera.  I have been aware of the musical contrivances of Alasdair Roberts since very late last century.  The Appendix Out group stuff, and especially "Tangled Hair" and "The Grey Havens" from Daylight Saving, came to me in a troubled time. I rediscovered these slow, fragile, and beautiful songs some time after a number of intense personal relationships had withered. The music was a balm that worked healing magic, especially when heard lying on a bed under a window with the midday summer sun pouring in. The Night is Advancing and Farewell Sorrow, when I finally found them, worked on me in like manner, but of an evening: these were faerie tunes from the distant gloaming of my ancestors.  They caused me to happily swoon and retreat from the over-hyped modern world.  Roberts sang with passion and earnestness of things close to my own heart though far from my present reality, the history of a people severed by the sea.  So, this will be a special opportunity and a chance at refreshing the Gaelic psyche within the space-cadet.  I hope it goes well.

For a wee bit more information, and some music, feel free to check his artist page at Drag City Records:
http://www.dragcity.com/artists/alasdair-roberts

The album Spoils is particularly wonderful, and the newest, A Wonder Working Stone, well, we'll just have to find out now, won't we?

This is a skinny little post, in hopes that the apophthegm "you are what you eat" might nicely adjust to "you are what you write".  Zmz just recently found out that old worries about high blood-pressure were well and good, but distracted from the real concern: very high cholesterol from eating all this rich Earth-food.  He immediately re-joined the Order of the Carrot (you can too):

http://www.theorderofthecarrot.com

His colons, as you can see, are still functioning very well, thank-you-very-much.  He has quite taken to a little spinning disc with sound pictures etched in, which can be found on the electric web here:

http://yellowjacketavenger.bandcamp.com

Zmz still thinks of music as having a physical aspect, like one of those saucers journeying to new worlds simply by spinning, or Mr. Young's silver seed, or Mr. Morrison's Crystal Ship.  The Achilles heel is Achilles' shield in this scenario. The former becomes the latter and vice versa when the latter fails to protect the former. The idea spins round and round like the many-pictured protective disc from the old Greek poem which, for all its beauty still could not act as proof against death.  When we go, we may bite the dust, but the dust devours us soon afterward leaving us very skinny, indeed.

See you in the future, dry bones!

Just a little worm-hole journey away, but time is relatively fleeting. Never enough time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=qL5SXTJ3e_A

Here is the original by Sun Ra, via YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ugv_q8vQYq4

more space pop.

Just a quick link this time, friends and foes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZOSum8M8kM



Off to sleep among the stars now.

Last night I had a dream,
A garden party with Radish Moran,
In which I wore your dress.
At the end of the night
People were jumping from the stratosphere
And floating down to us from above,
But you were unimpressed,
I failed to win your love.

It's time for another cartoon:

Harry hasn't any job, but he has an interview lined up. He's afraid, what with the recent cut-backs by the incumbent governing bodies, that there will be no safety-net to catch him if he just says "fuck this" and decides to become a full-blown street-person for a while. He has caught a number of powerful waves of lethargy on numerous friends's couches over the recent months and saved up a bit of dosh for a closet-sized space in a cramped rooming house. Harry hopes to be able to start fresh, salt some cash away month by month, and become a regular, upstanding member of society.

Well, sort of. When he's being honest with himself, the only time he takes this sort of initiative is when he's this close to going under. For some reason the idea of desolation on all sides, with just happy Harry in the midst of it all, balancing there like a busker before the gaping jaws of the public, is more in line with his idea of living than being gainfully employed and plucked from the tree of bachelorhood too soon by the out-stretched hands of someone's biological clock.

Only a few minutes before he's out the door and selling himself to the manager of the pet-store chain at the corner of Ogden and Fitzwillard. He's pretty sure that's where he's going. Christ, better double-check on that, Harry m'lad. Good God, the next bus is in five! Harry squeezes a dab of toothpaste onto his tongue, grabs his hat and heads out the door.