Category Archives: Cosmic Improv Group

The CIG Hosts Body Parts

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The Cosmic Improv(e) Group
hosts BODY PARTS
of katharineotto.planetearth,
independent country of one

 by Katharine C. Otto
October, 2005
(Updated February, 2017)

Seth* validates my deepest beliefs.

The only reason for suffering is to learn how not to suffer, says he.  So, I flop on the couch and send healing energy to my painful, throbbing left foot, but I haven’t learned how not to suffer yet.

My foot and gut are having an argument, because the couch flop followed a gustatory fest that made my stomach hurt, too.

“I wouldn’t hurt so much if you didn’t weigh me down,” says Left Foot.

“I would eat less if we could walk,” Gut replies.

“Hey, guys,” says my Total Self, “We all have to live in this body, so can we find a way to get along?”

Then I fall asleep.

Then I wake up, limp to the kitchen, and eat some more.

The Cosmic Improv Group–that gaggle of nags inside my imagination and unheard by others–steps up to the plate.

They remind me I’ve had a busy, active week, have spread understanding far and wide, and have penetrated the local Shape Shifting Alien Reptiles’** lair at their eminent domain meeting.  Yes, I lanced that abscess, burst that bubble, and shriveled those egos.  My foot begins to hurt immediately after that.  My heel, actually.

Heels that they are.  Heal myself.  I decide the SSARs in local politics sent a thought bomb to cripple me, aiming for my Achilles heel.

“Sure, Kath,” says the CIG.  “As if they care enough to hurt you.”

“I didn’t think so, because I was okay with it.  Yes, I unsettled them, but they are used to boring each other to death.  My departure should have let them return to status quo.”

“You know it didn’t.”

“I didn’t know they could get to me this way.  Seth says trust your impulses.  I say fine with me, but not if my impulses cause me pain.”

“You underestimate your power,” they say.  “This is why you must up-level it.  Your pain shows you are not ready to release your passionate appeal.  It will assume a painful timbre, and this is not your intent.”

“You’re right.  I want to uplift and inspire.  My foot pain is associated with many (possibly imagined) lives, in which it manifested in different contexts—shackles, mine fields, frostbite, gangrene.  Bound feet as an Oriental woman.  It is symbolic of my fear of entrapment, limitation, and imprisonment.  Burned as a witch, too, feet first.  Burned again as a monk heretic in the Spanish Inquisition.”

I talk to my left foot and discover it feels “left” out, ignored, and unappreciated.  It reminds me I have lived many lifetimes (possibly) with dysfunctional or missing left feet, and lifetimes with “two left feet.”  I’ve been “left to heal or die.” An image of a wounded foot soldier in Stalin’s army during a cold Russian winter comes to mind.

“You are crazy,” says the CIG.  “Don’t tell anyone but us this, because they will lock you up.”

“Not for long, because the jails are too crowded.  They won’t put me in a psych hospital, either, because I refuse to have health care insurance. Ain’t that swell?”

“Crazy like a fox.”

“Lack of insurance keeps me safe from hospitalization.”

So I decide to make a concerted effort to bring the foot back into the fold, to appreciate that it is a perfectly good foot this lifetime, and its pain is karmic memory.  Up-level the memories, release the grudges and resentments, and the foot will heal.

Same with sacrum, which I believe is associated with my lower body stiffness and pain.  Here, the root chakra blocks qi in a defensive strike position.

The female body is a symbol for humanity’s greatest creativity, passion, and fear.  I hated that my body was female, because I believed it disappointed my parents.  Both parents misunderstood and were unreasonably afraid of feminine power, but so is the world.  We have few role models for fully creative feminine expression.

My physical body is my greatest asset, on this material plane.  It is my science lab, an instrument of pleasure and pain.

If, as Seth says, groups of people reincarnate together, everyone on the planet shares past and future memories. Puritan Salem comes to mind, and Cotton Mather, when I think about the eminent domain meeting.  I was a witch or prostitute, or perceived that way.  Perhaps I was just too independent to be tolerable.  Either way, my contempt for them made a victim of me.

I want to play it smarter, this go-round, and the foot pain reminds me not to move too quickly.  I am more out of phase with the environment than I know, and it hurts me first if I try to try to force it.  I want to be a catalyst for change, a destroyer of limiting beliefs and outdated systems.  At the same time, people have to be ready to change, or you set them up to fail, and they become more afraid than before.

On October 4, weight is up to 143.5 pounds.  Ibuprofen, 200 mg came to my foot’s rescue sometime between five and seven a.m.  I’d taken it at 3 a.m., too, in obeisance to Western medicine, which does some things right.  Just took another one.

I just poured my third cup of coffee, complete this time with real half-and-half and brown sugar.   “No, no,” shouts the CIG’s Should/Shouldn’t Chorus.

“You should only have two cups of coffee in the mornings.  You shouldn’t put sugar or real half-and-half in them.  You weigh 143.5 pounds, remember, when you used to weigh 123.  Disgusting.

“And you know coffee raises your blood pressure, which is borderline high, already.  Remember your bleeding disorder?  You are setting yourself up for a stroke or a heart attack, like the one that killed your father, or pulmonary embolisms, like the ones that killed Rhea, your mother.  Dump a third cup of coffee in that mix, and we can’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

I take a sip of coffee and contemplate their suffering.  I have heard this song before and have learned my stomach will tell me when to stop.

“143.5 #,” say the devils.

“That’s only 65 kilos, another excellent reason to convert to the metric system,” I reply.

“Your stomach has its own agenda.  It wants to hoard fat fuel in the Greater Omentum.”

“Are you saying my stomach is an energy hog?”

“Just look in the mirror at the facts.”

“The coffee doesn’t taste that great, anyway, but it gives me an excuse to sit.”

“So do I,” says Left Foot.

“Indeed you do,” I reply.  “and I’m practicing taking better care of you.  I took 400 mg of ibuprofen this morning, because the pain was so bad last night that I thought something was broken.

“Drink less coffee,” it says.  “The caffeine causes vasoconstriction in your extremities and starves me of oxygen.”

“Thanks.  I suppose you’re going to tell me to lose weight, too.”

“It would sure take a load off me.”

“Fat cells have rights, too,” my Greater Omentum chimes in.  “We’re just doing our job.”

“How’s about shipping some fat to the bottom of my feet,” I say, “to add some padding on my heel and some lubrication in my leg joints?”

“We’ll vote for that,” say the feet.

“Us, too,” say all the lower joints.

“How much will you pay for my largesse?” asks the GO.

My other body parts and I consult with each other.  We don’t have a ready answer.

I speak first.  “I’m about ready to invite a stroke, heart attack, or pulmonary embolism, preferably three all together, so they take me out completely.  That would cure the foot pain.  But please, please, please don’t cast me on the health care system,” I beg.  I take a sip of coffee.

“Remember how hospital coffee tastes?” Fukyoo asks.  “It’s gotten worse.”  Everyone except me laughs.

I dump the last little bit of coffee that was doctored the way my taste buds like it.

“Thank you,” says Left Foot.

“At least you fed me some peanut butter and wheat wafers,” says the Greater Omentum.

“I want you to share that,” I tell the GO.  “And not with the Lesser Omentum, either.  Send that fat downstream to my legs and feet, where it can do some good.

“Oh, all right,” moans the GO.

“Make him dance, too, lying on the floor, so we don’t have to carry him,” say my lower body parts.

“That’s called sex,” I reply.

“Whatever,” say the feet.  “Make him have sex, then.”

“Other body parts may have something to say about that.  Vagina?”

“No way, Jose.  Don’t inflict any barbarians on me.”

“Well, I haven’t found anything else.  I respect your right to opt out, since you’re not overweight.  You don’t need to dance.”

The Should/Shouldn’t Chorus is grudgingly relieved I sacrificed the last of my coffee.  One looks at a watch.

“Well, she hasn’t gone overboard in her caffeine addiction yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”

“Sad, isn’t it?” says another.  “Tomorrow it’ll probably be five cups, then six, and the next thing you know, she’ll be in ICU with a Broca’s area stroke, unable to speak or communicate in any way, but understanding everything around her.”

“Not so different from the way things are now, if you ask me, only my living room isn’t as noisy or expensive as the hospital.”  I say.

“We didn’t ask you.”

“Nope.  Proves my point.  You just tell me, don’t you, then prophesy dire consequences if I put sugar in my coffee.”

“Want to step on the scales and say that again?”

“Nope.”

“At least you didn’t stuff yourself with peanut butter on salty wheat wafers, this time.”

“Right,” says Right Foot, which has been doing double duty since the left went out on disability.  Both benefit from the rest, I figure.

“I like walking,” says Right Foot.

“Well, you two need to get together and discuss your relationship,” I tell them.  I put my soles together so left and right feet can bond.  Toes of right touching heel of left, cold toes to hot heel.  “We can start by evening out the temperature gradient.”

Yes, my feet are connecting on a sole level.  They both feel good about it.
*Seth is the channeled entity of the Jane Roberts’ Seth series.
**The concept of Shape Shifting Alien Reptiles (SSARs) comes from David Icke’s Tales from the Time Loop, 2003.

GOD HELPS EVE BAKE APPLE PIE

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My back yard, Chatham County, Georgia.  Fig tree in winter.  Foggy day.  Live oak background.  Sago palm lower left.  Windmill palms lower center and right. Spanish moss on live oak, Georgia’s state tree. kco122716

From my journal, ten years ago today,Wednesday, December 27, 2006
(Why every would-be communicator should vent on paper)

            God:  I sure would love a piece of apple pie along about now.

            Eve:  What’s apple pie?

God:  Boy, are you dumb.  Apple pie is what you do if you want to earn your keep in the Garden of Eden.  This place requires upkeep, or haven’t you noticed?

Eve:  Okay.  I’m game.  Tell me what to do, and I’ll try to do it.

God:  Attagirl.  Now, go pick a bunch of apples.

Eve:  Oh, no you don’t.  I’m not falling for that trick again.  Picking those apples got Adam and me in a heap of trouble, remember?

God:  That was because I told you not to pick the apples.  Now, I’m telling you to pick some apples.  Times have changed.  Trust me.  I know what I’m doing.

Eve:  Well, OK, if you say so.

Eve picks some apples and follows directions for making apple pie.  First, she has to invent knives, baking pans, flour, sugar, an oven, and the other tools of apple pie construction. God looks on, giving helpful advice.  Adam has invented television and is busy watching sports.

Eve:  What spices should I use?

God cogitates.   God:  I like sage.

Eve:  OK.  Which one of these plants is sage?

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*

God:  It’s over there.  No, not there.  Over there.  Another step.  OK. Now lean over. Now touch it.  No! Not that one.  That’s the poison ivy.

Eve:  What’s poison ivy?

God:  You’ll see.  Just don’t scratch your hand.

Eve starts to itch.  She tries not to scratch.  The itch gets worse.

Eve:  Why not?

God:  Just don’t.

Eve:  I thought I was supposed to have free will.

God:  Fine.  Disobey me and see what happens.

Eve:  Got a better idea?

God:  Wash it off.

Eve:  With what?

God:  Soap.  Calamine lotion.

Eve:  What are they?

God:  You have to invent them.

Eve:  But my hand is itching now.
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*Sage, a perennial, by itself and with other herbs, here  monitored by the Squire-wire, aka S. Squire Rooster, Attorney for the Law of the Land .  Herbs pictured here, clockwise from lower left:  chives (perennial), sage, parsley (biennial), basil and purple basil (annual). Stevia, a perennial, is on edge of deck, flanked by milo plants (look like corn), grown wild from spilled chicken food.  Chickens love the green milo seeds.  Stevia, the natural sweetener now approved by the FDA for inclusion in soft drinks like Coca-cola and Pepsi, is easy easy easy to grow.  I combine stevia with chocolate mint and dry them together for great winter tea.  In the summer they make delicious iced tea, with no calories or caffeine.  kco122716

 

Rosaliene? Cosmic Balm?

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Iguazu Falls, Argentina, kco0295

Rosaliene Bacchus (rosalienebacchus.wordpress.com) is one of my favorite Double X Avengers in the blog world.  The Double X Avengers are those gifted with the most chromosomes, the most genes, the most sense, cents, and thus the most likely to survive in the future “Survival of the Fittest” paradigm.

In 1995, long before I met Rosaliene in cyberspace, I traveled to Argentina and Chile and took this photo at Iguazu Falls, Argentina.  It does not show the violent food poisoning I got at the fancy dancy hotel, probably from unwashed lettuce.  Shame on me for eating uncooked food.  Should you desire to live among those with Survival Skills Technology, do not eat uncooked food at the Olympics.  Take your own food to Iguazu Falls.

Having said that, I offer another “Lesson in Living from the Double X Gene Pool.”

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My all-time favorite instrumental, “Moonlight and Magnolias,” reminds me of Savannah. It is cut #12 on this CD.

Here at home, music is cosmic balm for me.  I first heard “Moonlight and Magnolias” on a jazz radio station broadcasting from Charleston (that’s the one in South Carolina, for those who don’t know, where the War of Yankee Aggression began).

The 20th century radio station went off the air before I learned the artists’ or CD name.  I searched high and low, finally finding it two years later at the “listen-stations” Barnes and Noble used to have but can no longer afford.  I ordered the CD.  Kinky.  “Moonlight and Magnolias” is not typical, and it shows what the group can do.

As you may know, everything is free in the Cosmic Commune, and money doesn’t exist.  Therefore, we spend our free time having fun.  Having fun includes swimming at Iguazu Falls after we clean up the water, and dancing to good music.  These are the two best exercises known, except for the third one, and they are free, as well.

Having said that, I add that when you’re tired of swimming and dancing, you may want to sit down and knit some socks, for fun and profit.  The Cosmic Improv Group, deprived of their own  opposable thumbs, likes to give me advice on how to do a more efficient job.

Cosmic Improv Group, Chapter 4:  “The Knitting Dimension ensnares katharineotto.planetearth.ind in Earth Plane Reality”

By katharineotto.wordpress.com, an alter ego of katharineotto.planetearth.ind, representing unlicenced freedom to be who I am.  080116

 

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The first socks I ever knitted. kco0105

January, 2005

The Cosmic Improv Group helps me knit, in its way.  Its unique way, should I choose to see it their way.  I’m to “attitude-adjust” as necessary to get what I want.

I finished knitting my first pair of socks, but the CIG–that contingent of advisors who haunt my imagination and worst nightmares–made it as hard as possible.  I was counting stitches to decrease, to shape the second toe, trying to figure out what the directions were saying, and having trouble reading the small gray print on the back of the yarn label, when the phone rang, startling me and making me lose count, my place in the directions, and my composure.  The caller hung up in the middle of the answering machine message, or so I thought.  But the fax machine made noises as if to receive a fax, and then it quit.

I figured it was Capital One trying to fax the bill I never received and requested two days ago.  Capital One can’t just send a fax then and there.  No.  It has to be processed through another office in another city, so I was told the fax would come before 5 p.m. on the following day, which was yesterday.  So I was awaiting this fax, which did not come through.  My mind runs through a list of worst-case scenarios, primarily that the impatient fax sender lost her job and hung up before recognizing the phone could take faxes.  I would have to call again.  Maybe the fax was out of paper or malfunctioning.  This is the story of my life.

Meanwhile, I hear the Cosmic Improv Group gossiping about me.  Fukyoo leads the band.  “See how easy she is to provoke?” he quips.    “It’s only a fax.  Let’s see if we can make her make a mistake on her sock, so that it’s not just like the other one, and she will have to live with the imperfection forever.”

“Okay,” say the others.  “That sounds like fun.”

“Oh no you don’t,” I respond in my mind, not mad enough yet to say it out loud.  I go back to work.  The phone rings and hangs up again at the same place.  The fax starts and stops.  This happens a third time, and I pick up the phone but only hear fax tones.  I hang up.  I check the fax for paper, and it seems to be okay.  I rail against these angels, who, I decided, have caused my machine to malfunction.  I worry that the overworked, underpaid, stressed out sender at Capital One will give up and I’ll have to call again on Monday.  I change the fax machine to fax only mode so the answering machine will not pick up.

I hear Fukyoo and the others chittering in the background.  “Let’s make her lose her knitting needle.  That worked yesterday.”

Yes, it did.  I took my finished and unfinished socks to a meeting, but when I got home, my fifth double pointed needle was nowhere to be found.  Never mind that I was only using four needles.  I had bought five needles, and my sense of order dictated (yes—dictated) that I should be able to account for all five of them.  I searched high and low and finally decided it fell out of my bag at the meeting.

I had been losing and finding these needles since starting the socks.  Usually they fall in the crack between seat and arm in the recliner, but my cat was sleeping there and I didn’t want to disturb him.  I felt around the sides, to no avail.  When Bud finally moved, I found the needle in the crack behind him, but by then I had been fifth-needle-less for over two hours.  I had gone through a temper tantrum with a good yell or two at the sprites who plague me with their games.

So, I’m still concerned about the fax Friday morning, the toe of my sock is begging to be finished, my feet are cold, and I sit down to refocus on the project.

But I can’t find my fourth needle.  Yes, I know I have a fifth needle, but that’s not the point.  (Pun.  Ha, ha.  Get it?)

“Where should we hide her needle this time?” say the sprightly spirits.

“I know.  Let’s hide it in her hand.  She’s so upset now that she has forgotten how to count to four.”

Yes, the needle was in my hand, but then I couldn’t find the pattern, and when I found that, I was so insecure, that I plodded super attentively though the last few steps.  And a perfect sock I have.  And the fax finally came through.  Twice.

It probably helped that I’d let loose with a belly buster of a temper tantrum at the Fukyoo crowd, at the top of my lungs, somewhere in the middle of this emotional intensity.  “No, you can’t make it easy,” I screamed.  “You have to make it hard.  Why can’t you people get lives of your own so you won’t have to mess with mine?  Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“But you’re so much fun,” they say.  “We enjoy playing with you.”

“Mere flattery,” I say.  “If you think my ego needs sycophants like you, you are wrong-O.  If you really want to have a good time, you’ll do things to inspire rather than infuriate me.”

“She’s hearing voices again,” they tell each other.  “Voices inside her head.”

“Yes, and she’s talking back to them.”

“You know what that means.”  They all look at each other with great concern.

“Maybe we should back off.  She might really crack under the pressure.”

“She cracked a long time ago, if you ask me.”

“Don’t tell her that.  It will only upset her.”

“Good thing she has no neighbors.  If anyone heard her scream the way she does, they would surely have her committed.”

“At least she doesn’t scream or talk to those voices in public.”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

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How America looks from Bali, 1996

 

 

Dr. Kathorkian Spotlights JP Morgan

Satire/Humor

by Dr. Kathorkian,

an alter ego of katharineotto.wordpress.com

bkschermorgan1990The Cosmic Improv Group

brings JP Morgan to

Dr. Kathorkian’s Spotlight Therapy*

Chapter Three:  Cosmic Improv Group Series

 

Friday, January 18, 2008 – I assumed a mountain of debt going to medical school and into private practice, then the bottom drops out of my stock equity, and I’m stuck with the debt.  That’s how they do it.  It was a direct economic hit on my financial freedom, engineered by a stockbroker and banker I thought worked for me.  My wrath over the betrayal was like a nuclear reactor in meltdown mode, so the Cosmic Improv Group, that gaggle of personalities inside my imagination and unheard by others, decides to hose me down before I get too hot.

Always eager for good entertainment, the CIG invites JP Morgan to a Spotlight Therapy session, so I can tell him off.   I’ve done my homework.  I’ve read The Creature from Jekyll Island, The Robber Barons, None Dare Call it Conspiracy, Democracy in America, Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, the US Constitution, and other tomes of epic wisdom.  I am armed.

My inter-dimensional travels through print media have revealed how JP Morgan and his international banker friends, like Paul Warbucks . . . er . . . Paul Warburg, engineered the federal income tax and the Federal Reserve Act in 1913 to enslave American taxpayers in unrepayable debt.  Congress gave itself the power to obligate present and future taxpayers to the Federal Reserve System for perpetual interest payments, on debt assumed by Congress. Not only are taxpayers expected to pay interest until the sun burns out on money that’s worth nothing, but Congress uses the fake money to lay waste to the nation’s natural resources and neighborhoods, and to create conflict around the world.  It funds its enormous bureaucracy and the pension and benefits plans for all those government employees.  It funds Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security with money stolen in payroll taxes.  These electronic dollars are invested on Wall Street.  Congress also pays the Department of Offense to make life miserable at home and abroad.  Congress further believes it has the right to obligate taxpayers to pay an army of no-bid federal government contractors. Congress sets its own salary, pensions, benefits and other assorted goodies, by obligating unborn taxpayers until the time the country officially declares bankruptcy.

As all this fiat money floods the financial system, the increased money supply causes inflation and higher prices on goods and services, especially indispensable commodities like food and energy.  Those who can least afford it are hardest hit.

So back in 1913, the conspirators used freshman United States President Woodrow Wilson, whom they’d been grooming for years, to do their dirty work.  Ole Woody thought he was the second coming of Christ, so the bankers and other manipulators, like Winston Churchill, played to his ego and got him to go against every campaign promise he made.

This eventually led America into World War I, which was the long-term goal of the bankers.  The Brits owed the bankers a lot of money, and the bankers needed that money to lend to Germany.  So they figured to bleed America, too, to increase profits.  Thus did they conjure up the aforementioned double whammy on American taxpayers, to cover their foreign ass-ets.

Now in the CIG, when JP Morgan starts bragging about how they pulled this off,  I light into him.

“You asshole,” I fume.  “You deserve to have your gold chains tight around your neck.  No wonder you were such a lonely, bitter man, whom everyone was glad to see dead.  You left a legacy alright, dying the year you achieved the income tax and the Federal Reserve Act.  Didn’t even have the balls to go to the 1910 secret planning meeting at Jekyll Island yourself.  That’s how sleazy you were.

“I wouldn’t trade a good knitting needle for the likes of you and all your fawning pawns.  In fact, I would use a knitting needle on you real quick like, and not to make a sweater.  I would go for the balls, just to see if you have any.”

JP sits there grinning, as though he appreciates my standing up to him.  He thinks I’m cute.

He says if I had been at the Jekyll Island meeting, he would have gone.

He achieved his dream, and then he died.  His dream didn’t make him happy.  This is the lesson de Tocqueville anticipated.

If I had been at that meeting, we would have had a different history, I’m sure, because those boys needed to know who really runs things in this country, and it ain’t them.

JP is impressed that I cashed in my IRA.  I’m sending shock waves through the system, with my political statement.  No wonder the Wachovia’s investment advisor was so anxious to get rid of me.

Yeah, right, JP.  Can you do anything useful?  You’re not making much progress on that knitting.

He grins and tries to cast on a stitch, but doesn’t know how.  His hands are clumsy.  I show him how to cast on, but it takes several minutes, because he is not gifted in New Age String Theory and knitting dynamics.

In knitting, every stitch is dependent on every other stitch.  When you make everything and everyone dependent on you, you are the most hog tied of all.

“No preacher told me I would have to knit in hell,” says JP Morgan.  “If they had, I would have owned knitting, because this is a fast growing market with a captive population.”

“For some people, knitting represents a form of heaven, and no one can own that,” I say.  “All it takes is the right attitude and tools.”

 

*Inspired by The Robber Barons, Matthew Josephson, 1934, 1962

The Cosmic Improv Group Puts the Robber Barons in Stitches*

knitsocks2010

HUMOR/SATIRE

by Dr. Kathorkian, an alter-ego of katharineotto.wordpress.com
Inspired by The Robber Barons, by Matthew Josephson, 1934, 1962

Monday, December 24, 2007 – I speak to others’ souls.  This is why I can nab JP Morgan in the Cosmic Commune and discuss his debt to society.

“Are you satisfied,” I ask, looking up from my knitting, but only briefly, so as not to lose any stitches.

 

“No,” says he.  “I’m miserable.”

“Good,” I say.  “You’re finally getting honest.”

“I always was honest,” he says.  “I named my three yachts Corsair I, II, and III, after all.  ‘Corsair’ means ‘pirate.’  Everyone knew what I was doing.”

“And no one stopped you.”

“No one even tried.”

“You made their chicanery look innocuous.  You were used by the thieves to cover for their less evident dishonesty.”

“I showed how easy it is to corrupt everyone.  They can all be bought.”

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Twenty dollars in pennies.  A penny buys a penny’s worth every time it changes hands.  If it changes hands 100 times in a day, it stimulates the economy more than a dollar kept in a wallet.  Adam Smith, author of Wealth of Nations, recognized the value of a penny.

“You haven’t named a price that can buy this free market capitalist,” I say.  “What’s it worth to you, to help fix this mess?”

“Everything I have,” says he.

“Well, you are morally bankrupt, and in so much debt it will take several lifetimes to work it off, so it’s up to you whether you want to be a New York City bag lady next time around.”

I go back to knitting.

JP Morgan sits, sweating bullets, but too embarrassed to remove his jacket, because he has severe BO.

Meanwhile, Andrew Carnegie is hanging around, hopping from foot to foot, waiting to be noticed and invited to participate.  I see his ankle is in a golden shackle, attached by a golden chain to a bejeweled shackle around JP Morgan’s ankle.

 

I invite Andy to join us, but make it quick, because I need to leave soon, to pluck the fruits of my cosmic garden, tax-free products that have grown without government help and in spite of favoritism to people like them.

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Pecan tree and Spanish moss

I know John D. Rockefeller is listening from a table on the other side of the honeysuckle hedge.  He is sneaky, doesn’t want to admit he’s interested.  He is slowly getting drunk and justifying his actions to himself.  Besides, he hates JP Morgan and doesn’t like to deal with him at all, if possible.  He merely wants to sabotage him.

So I count rows and stitches while JP and Andy unburden their weary souls. Rockefeller’s presence is known–he is bound to the others by his own shackle and chain–but he is not acknowledged.

Other Cosmic Communists are coming and going, but the three souls within range don’t see or hear them.  They feel alone and abandoned but for each other and me.  This makes our discussion semi-private, for their purposes, which is fine with me, because it eliminates distractions.

Andy is the most heterosexual of the bunch.    JP and JD prefer to sublimate sexuality to imperialism, so lust after domination for its own sake.  Because they are cowards, they make a show of being otherwise, in true reaction formation style.

“You become what you hate,” Buddhism states.

“Or what you love,” I add.

Suddenly JP and JD realize they spent their lives symbolically sodomizing each other and everyone else who crossed their paths.  Now they wonder why no one in the Cosmic Commune invites them to parties.

“You’re boring, that’s why,” I tell them.  “What can you do that’s useful?”

I hear JD comment on Rockefeller Plaza. I remind him he didn’t build it, it’s an insult to the people who paid for it, and it’s ostentatious.  Ditto for donations to the Met, Carnegie Hall, and Carnegie Mellon.  “You people wanted to buy love and respect with other people’s money,” I say.

So now we know Rockefeller is participating, too, even though he remains at his table.

“What about abolishing income and payroll taxes and the Federal Reserve System,” I ask JP Morgan.  “Even though you have no credit with me, if you help undo that tangle in this time knot, it might improve your seedy image and win you a friend or two.”

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JP gets restless and starts looking at his watch.  He hems and haws.  Andy looks on.  He has suddenly become very quiet.  Rockefeller pours himself another drink, and I hear the tinkle of ice against glass as his hands shake.

“Well, you boys think about it. These are my terms, for the moment, but no promises.  Things are likely to change any time.”

I poof out of their milieu and return to my cosmic home, where everything is free, and money doesn’t exist.

 

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Knoxville, Tennessee City Market, with Tennessee Valley Authority twin towers at far end. Kco0206

Tuesday, December 25, 2007 – Later, I revisit the area in the Cosmic Commune where JP Morgan, Andrew Carnegie, and John D. Rockefeller are chained together by golden chains.  This place reminds me of the “revitalized” Knoxville, TN City Market.  It is a wide, concrete wasteland with no human beings in sight.  The twin towers of the Tennessee Valley Authority loom over one end.

I have poofed myself a garden in this heat sink.  The garden has grown since my last visit.  Now, there are trellises and vines of roses without thorns.  Confederate jasmine, wisteria, and the like.  There is a water fountain, where birds drink and splash around.  The mass of vegetation creates the effect of a giant atrium, open to the breeze but protected from the sun.

 

I see Clarence Thomas’ higher self happening by, so I invite him to join us.  The older boys are impressed and a little afraid of ole Clar, because he is a Real Man, a black male, Supreme Court Justice, and Southern gentleman, despite what Anita Hill claims.  They want to impress him.  I show the chain gang I mean business.  CT is on my side, whether he knows it or not.

JP starts kissing up to Justice Thomas, explaining how taxpayers weren’t ready to manage their own money back in 1913, but he thinks they may have matured enough by now.  Ole Clar says don’t talk to me.  Talk to your boys on Wall Street, like Rupert Murdoch.  If you people can shape up real quick-like, we won’t have to embarrass you in front of your international friends.

So all these men start telling me how to pull this off.  They tell me to mail some of my improved-upon news clippings to Paul Gigot, editorial page editor of the Wall Street Journal, specifically my GE cartoon of CEO Jeffrey Immelt.  I should include a copy of my letter and GE’s 43-cent check SunTrust bank wouldn’t take.

So I say okay.  I’ll do it when the spirit moves me.  I’ve already started making copies.

Meanwhile, women are beginning to show up, because they like rich, influential men.  I’m fine with this, because I’ve solved enough of their problems for one day, and I have homework to do.  I poof myself back home, while they hang out and chitchat.

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The Cosmic Commune

Intellectual property of
katharineotto
* independent country of one  *
$ world’s only free market capitalist  $
(Updated, March, 2016)

The COSMIC IMPROV GROUP (CIG) lives in the COSMIC COMMUNE, which exists outside time and space but contains it all.  In the Cosmic Commune, everything is free, and money doesn’t exist. People and other life forms work because they like it.  Inhabitants of the Cosmic Commune come and go at will, catching my attention or imagination on the fly.  A few members offer their perspectives below:

coscomchar0316COCKROACH THINKING – Friday, January 12, 2007 – I feel like a cosmic secretary, the writer who is busy transcribing the Cosmic Improv Group’s take on humanity, like a cockroach, with antennae ever quivering, wanting nothing other than to feed off debris and live in peace, like it was before God decided we weren’t entertaining enough by ourselves.
So She invented people a couple of minutes ago – by the way cockroaches measure time. People have this attitude that they are better than cockroaches, so they poison themselves thinking they’re beating back the insects, not realizing they are indirectly increasing insect food supply.
Do I claim special powers for reading an insect’s mind, or the mass mind of the insect population?
No. I claim common sense. Who is most susceptible to these poisons – especially in the long term? If you poison the ecosystem from the ground up, you will suffer a slow, agonizing, death.

COMMUNISTIC CAPITALISM – Sunday, February 11, 2007 – I am the ultimate communist in the communal sense, a true capitalist, in the individual one. Shared resources go further and spread responsibility. Private resources, earned and maintained, grow in direct proportion to the individual’s personal investment.
Capitalists with a communistic spirit understand voluntary community involvement keeps taxes low and government within boundaries. In true communistic capitalism, public and private balance out such that each supports the other without taxing anyone unfairly.

fungusdb0107DEAD BODY FUNGUS
Friday, January 19, 2007 – Day before yesterday, just before it rained, I took pictures and dug up some extraterrestrial-looking fungi that smelled like decomposing flesh.     Hauled in with some of the wood chips from a tree trimming job, these loopy cage-like structures were up to 10 cm (four inches) high.
The four orange arms were spongy and fell apart to the touch. They were joined at the top to house an inner sanctum of oozy black and white jelly.
They smelled like dead animals rotting. The stench carries a long way, so it took awhile to find the source. I dug up about 25 liters (seven gallons) of the things, along with their unhatched, subterranean eggs. Yes, their unsprouted pods look like soft, mushy eggs, gel-like, maybe a turtle’s egg. They were repulsive, though interesting. I dumped them in the river, vaguely wondering if I were poisoning it.
I looked for references in various books but saw nothing like them. I wondered if they are mutants. They are the same color as the plastic tree marker tags used in timbering. (Later found them in the National Audobon Society’s Field Guide to Mushrooms. They are “Columned Stinkhorns, “Clathrus columnatus”.)
Maybe they are derived from plastic breakdown products, think I. Maybe all these plastic breakdown products and other environmental toxins have created a food supply for mutant life forms and works of art like this. Born of landfill, looks like landfill, smells like landfill, feeds off landfill?
In our minute human existence, as science explains it, and our dominant role, as religion explains it, we have only lasted longer than the mutant life forms we are creating. Does this mean we are the culmination of life, God’s glowing masterpiece, her raison d’etre, her creative life work?
If so, God is suicidal. The poisons accumulating in the air, water, and earth provide a much greater threat than the so-called “greenhouse gases,” the hot air exhaled and farted out by political scientists.

LIZARDO – Saturday, January 6, 2007 – A young lizard, only about 10 cm long, has showed himself on my deck railing over the past few months. Lizardo just greeted me briefly and now has disappeared vertically.
Lizards take crawling on vertical planes for granted, as if it were normal. There he is again, facing downward about a meter, with no apparent fear of falling ten times the distance of his length. For a human, this would be fatal, or at least damaging, but not for a lizard.
So what’s so smart about human beings if they can’t do things that are easy for lizards and birds? Humans probably learned from birds that flying is possible. And insects. And they learned from fish, maybe, that you can swim.

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WIND AND THE COSMIC IMPROV GROUP – Thursday, February 1, 2007 – The wind has started, signifying qi movement, unblocking my imagination. It makes me jittery and insecure, unsure where the wind will take me.
The Cosmic Improv Group speaks through the wind. “Relax,” it whispers. “The qi is restless and moving. You are being swept in the winds of the moment, and you need do nothing except allow yourself to flow with it. You are fine, but for your own uneasiness. We will not allow you to fail.”
Wanna bet? is my first thought. We’ll see about that.
This gives everyone a chuckle.
“This isn’t about you,” says the ever-so-practical CIG. “This is about the larger plan. No matter what you do, you are part of it. How you do it is up to you.”
I’ve been thinking of the peace the Americas knew before the Europeans arrived. The North American Indians touched the soil lightly, leaving few traces. They left fewer monuments behind, perhaps a sign of the greater tribute they paid to nature. The Europeans thought them savages, yet history has proved the opposite. The most peaceful and honest people are the most gullible, so are easily tricked and exploited.
I don’t know why. Because it appears to work, from the warring and slaving point of view? The bullies and cons who believe they win by treating others so cruelly? Reading Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid, and Cuba:  A New History have deepened my questions and profoundly disturbed my beliefs about religion and the atrocities committed in its name.
The promises of later rewards prevent balancing today’s books, but the accumulated debt from centuries of religious persecution weighs heavily now.
Do people get their just deserts when they pass on? What might those be?
This is a non-issue for me. Behavior in the present predicts future behavior, unless something changes it. If you don’t practice your beliefs in the present, how can you know what you truly believe?

UNIFIED FIELD THEORY – Tuesday, February 13, 2007 – The dark, plutonian forces are mere pawns in my hands, in the strategy of life.
Why? I believe in qi, that’s why. Life force, the great, universal energy field that Einstein couldn’t fathom, because he took life for granted.
The great organizing energy force – life – defies entropy, the second law of thermodynamics. Modern science assumes that matter and consciousness are separate, merely because man does not speak the language of matter, or of animals, or of other manifestations of the divine.
To assume that consciousness is based on size or presumed status in the cosmos is merely man’s hubris at work. The Cosmos will live on; man has a choice.

INTERNET – Wednesday, July 4, 2007 – The internet may be the most freeing concept to come along in quite a while, maybe leading to a real democracy. I believe this is the secret fear of the control freaks, who are terrified of the technology that has grown beyond their control. Poor Bill Gates.
I am a witch doctor, self-immolating at the stake, lighting my own fire, using the rubbish under my feet to fuel a revolution in consciousness that proves victory over death.
Let’s all burn together, shall we? If I go up in flames, I’ll take you with me, and we’ll see how you flare in the great beyond. It’s not so bad, once you rise above the smoke and ashes.
If my job in life is to wake people up, as it seems to be, I will use the tools at my disposal to accomplish the task.  By pondering later, and by writing in my journal, I reinforce the lessons learned in day-to-day routine. Those with high emotional valence hover in my aura, and I use the energy to reinforce the message on etheric planes.
Since science refuses to recognize the validity of this technique, it puts me at an advantage, and I can communicate with higher selves beyond limiting beliefs. Thus do I communicate with the higher selves of people whose lower selves dominate the daily news.
We all are good guys, according to Seth (of Jane Roberts’ “Seth” series), and I believe it. I always have felt kindly towards mankind, who is doing the best he can, despite appearances. Seth simply reinforces my inner knowing. It’s hard to find people, these days, who admit to man’s good intent. The “us vs. them” mentality predominates. The nation’s spokespeople talk about conflict versus compromise, but nobody mentions cooperation.

 

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TV AND LOUD BAD MUSIC  – Monday, March 26, 2007 – I spoke with the cashier at Piggly Wiggly, and asked if anyone complains about the loud bad music and insulting ads for the Pig. No, she says. Is it too loud?
I’m leaving, I say, but you have to listen to it all day. I mention TV as mind pollution that manipulates people by their fears and insecurities. I don’t have a television, I say. I’m a reader. She seems amazed I don’t have a TV.
Smart lady, she comments, when I say I read. Trying to get smarter every day, I reply, or so I remember it.
Karl Marx said religion is the opiate of the masses. Now TV is the opiate, and people are dulled by it into a stupor of style over substance that blocks inner wisdom.

LIFE PHILOSOPHY – Sunday, June 10, 2007 – How have things come so far? I wonder at the progression through the centuries of virtues gone sour. Literature reeks of the lonely and bored, the violent, thieving, misguided, downtrodden. Even the moneyed are miserable. Happiness is illusion, and those who get a glimpse of it are quickly punished.
How strange, think I. Everyone uses the right words, and for a long time, I believed them. I have taken lots of heat for my unwillingness to compromise on principle. It makes me suspect and dangerous, a threat to be ignored when possible, trounced when necessary. People treat me with studied indifference, if they notice at all.
I try to reconcile my observations with Seth’s teachings. He speaks my beliefs and carries them further, a refreshing oasis in the emotional desert that my life has become.
You create your own reality, he says, and the universe is cooperative. Humanity has a spiritual problem, he says.
We are burning in the fires of hell, I claim, resigned to the idea that it will only get worse, thus creating the future we fear, so invested are we in being right. I feel like an alien among humans, more attuned to the animals and plants than people.
Animal wisdom consists of the innocent amorality man has forgotten. Man funnels god through religion, not recognizing true religion is merely applied common sense. People are more likely to be nice to you if you are nice to them, honest if you are honest, kind if you are kind. At least that’s the theory, but lately I’ve doubted that. Lately, it seems these are invitations for abuse, and it has made me insecure and afraid. Thus am I becoming more withdrawn, self-contained, and reclusive.
The Cosmic Improv Group tells me it’s okay. It provides balance, an opportunity to recharge my spiritual batteries, by giving of myself where it’s appreciated, watering plants, feeding birds, hugging my cat.

BUBBLES GO UP – Wednesday, July 4, 2007 – Seth makes an interesting comment about belief systems involving the sexes. He says women represent humanity’s creative, intuitive side. I believe this is the message of the Garden of Eden story: humanity’s awareness of itself and its creative ability. The fear of consciousness has led people to sap women’s strength through childbirth.
And along comes lil ole me. If you think a man is going to save you from yourselves, ladies, you have another think coming. Look at what men have done so far, and tell me if you want more of the same.
Don’t blame the men, because mothers raised them to disrespect women. No one is exempt from the groupthink, the mindless polarization that has tilted the planet so far off balance.
Edgar Cayce referred to a polar axis shift, a reversal of north to south, perhaps, but it’s not clear. What would that mean, if the lines of magnetic force were reversed? Would it turn our thinking upside down? We do have iron in our red blood cells, after all.
If the magnetic poles were reversed, who would know it first? Maybe this is why highway signs and directions are so confused. Nobody knows which way is up.
Like being in deep water, you only know by watching the bubbles.

budsleep0395BUD THE AWAKENER – Wednesday, July 4, 2007 – I sometimes fantasize that I am destined to be The Awakener. Pretty funny, that, as I sit eating chocolate chips and walnuts, drinking coffee, writing whatever comes to mind.
Hahahahaha, think I. What a joke. Me the Awakener? My cat, maybe. He wakes me up, did this morning. Then he goes back to sleep and sleeps all day.
The Awakener by delegated authority? “You do it,” he implies by his attitude. “I’ll lie here on the ledge, semi-conscious, and wish you luck. You’ll need it.”
Little white angel that he is. An angel of punk, pierced ear and all. The punk angel, disguised as a cat, mute, directs by mind melding, without flicking a whisker. Open my window, he says without saying. Feed me. Play with me. Love me. You’re doing better. Keep up the good work. Clean the gunk out of my eyes, but do it gently, or I’ll hurt you.
Even angels in bodies can feel pain, and fear, so don’t rush me. Physical bodies are sensate, better to materialize beliefs and their consequences. Feel your pain. Heal your pain by changing your beliefs, your actions, or both.
Mental and physical pain go together. Anyone who has a neck has a mind-body connection.