Tag Archives: humor

A Quark’s Life

Seven years ago this month, I wrote the following in my journal.  Journalling is my therapy, and I advise everyone to try it.  A blank page doesn’t argue, criticize, judge, talk back, interrupt, gossip, or try to control.  Also, it’s virtually free.  I prefer writing by hand, partly because I sometimes draw or scribble in the margins, but also because it frees me to pause and stare into space, without the constant whiny noise of studiously patient electronics.

My only rule is to be as honest as possible with myself.

Octtober 30, 2009–If even every quark* has consciousness and is immortal, as my disincarnate friend Seth (of the Jane Roberts’ “Seth Series” fame) says, each carries memories of having  been part of Queen Elizabeth I’s body, or of the beggar on the street or of  the tuna in the great blue sea.  These were re-incarnational lives, so to speak.  Each individual quark has joined others in multiple arrangements to form matter of different substances.  The quark is so versatile that it is welcome in any neighborhood, presumably, unlike something like the silver atom, which has fewer opportunities for exploration.  A quark can be part of a silver atom, but a silver atom cannot be part of a quark.

And so it goes.  A quark sees the silver atom from a higher perspective, in a way, because it also knows what it’s like to be part of a gold atom.  Carrying that memory into the silver atom also enhances that atom’s understanding of worlds outside itself.  Each of the silver atom’s quarks, while joining with its fellow quarks in the grand structure of the atom, joins the consciousness of the group to a higher purpose.  Individual quarks are free to come and go from the atom, because they are replaced effortlessly by other quarks looking for silver atom experience.

It may go to a quark bar and tell stories of its lives as part of larger gestalts.

“Did you like being part of a toad?”

“Not as much as being part of a neutron star.  Being part of a magnolia blossom was nice, too, if you like that sort of thing.

“Don’t go near human beings, though, if you can help it.  They are atomic bombs in the cosmic symphony.”

“So why are so many quarks making humans?”

“I figure it’s because there are so many quarks making television sets and computers.”

“I did that.  When I was part of a silver atom, I was part of a computer circuit.  It was hot.  I got out of there real quick-like.  Now I just want to float in space and be part of the great cosmic cell.

“Can’t blame you a bit, bud.  If you’re only a quark, you don’t have to work very hard, because you are so replaceable.”

 

*Quarks are sub-atomic particles.

I Smell a Rat

September 8, 2016

by Dr. Kathorkian
an alter ego of katharineotto.wordpress.com

rat090616I am a murderer.  In defiance of my lifelong aversion to killing–war, capital punishment, abortion for me or by me (others have their own choices to make), physician-assisted suicide–I starved a rat this week by trapping him in the pantry.  I had already protected my edibles in a large metal trash can, because of the rat/mouse infestation that has plagued me for more than a year.

I’m the type of person who apologizes to blood-sucking mosquitoes before swatting them, but I’m absolutely opposed to the government spraying the marsh with malathion to kill mosquitoes at large, or the farming industry spreading pesticides willy-nilly over farmland.

I eat so little meat that I might as well be a vegetarian.  I like bacon but couldn’t kill a hog, even if I knew how, so that makes me a hypocrite. I have been known  to kill shrimp.  Blue crabs, too, but they are too much work to eat. Fish?  I’d rather not and don’t know how to fish.  Since I got chickens eight years ago, I have not eaten chicken.  I wonder these days how many people have even seen a live chicken, and if they had, could they kill and eat them?

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S. Squire Rooster, Attorney, for the Law of the Land

As methods of murder go, poison exists in the same category as bombs, because they are generally non-specific.  I actually bought poison to control the rodents but took it back.  My intention was to feed the river with rat remains, thereby alleviating my guilt, but poison would have made that rat’s body dangerous for the wildlife I like.  Traps are messy, unreliable and non-specific, too. I have a cat and rooster to protect.  The main reason I have rats is because my rooster, Squire, lives in the house and the cat lives outside.  Rats really like chicken food, I discovered, especially sunflower seeds, and they leave husks, shreds of clothing, mouse turds, and urine wherever they go.

In the past couple of years, rats have eaten through refrigerator wiring, a washing machine drain hose, sofa bedding, clothes, walls, packages of food, drapes, and even through a hard plastic cat food container.  They have taken up residence behind the stove and eaten through and urinated on the insulation at the bottom.  Like the human rats in government, I’ve learned that if there is something you have that they want, they will find a way to get it or destroy it, and leave the stink behind.

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Socksie by the marsh

Rat stink was making me sick, I decided, and cleaning up after them was pushing me to re-evaluate my excessively high moral standards.  I had visions of getting hemorrhagic fever from rat urine, bubonic plague from rat fleas, death by asphyxiation.  I bribed and threatened my cat, who watched the rats while they ate her food, then moved outdoors and refused to come back in.

I looked into getting a rat snake.  I discovered the Georgia Department of Natural Resources has outlawed selling native snakes. (The DNR is another blog, another day.) The local reptile dealer says he could be fined $20,000 and shut down if he sold one.

I prayed for a rat snake, and about two months ago, a black kingsnake dropped from heaven (actually out of the attic when I let the stairs down). He may be a cotton mouth moccasin, but he disappeared behind book shelves before I could fully identify him.   He didn’t reappear until my birthday in August, then showed briefly on the bathroom floor that night.  I almost stepped on him, but as before, he began to charge at me then disappeared again behind a cabinet, not to be seen again.  I saw traces of rat-blood on the floor and was grateful for the surprise birthday present.

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The last straw

It took that rat about six days to starve to death while I deliberated about what to do.  The pantry became death row when I discovered a new three-inch hole, made by one of his friends, in a favorite antique wool rug. This sealed his fate, a scapegoat for my pent-up rage. I checked in on the prisoner every day or so, and usually didn’t see him.  The day before he died, or maybe the day he died, he was sniffing around the bottom of the door and seemed weak.  When I opened the door Tuesday and smelled dead animal, I knew he was gone.  I searched and found him inside an open box of plastic garbage bags, looking as though he were sleeping peacefully.  That was comforting, in a macabre way.  I took him outside and showed him to Socksie the cat.  She took a couple of whiffs and walked away.  I deposited him by river’s edge, and Wednesday morning he was gone.  I figure a racoon got him, thereby concluding the latest of my many scientific experiments on human and animal behavior.

 

 

 

 

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 initiates Dr. Kathorkian’s Robber Baron Knitting School*

Humor/satire:  Cosmic Improv Group Series

knitspread0116

by Dr. Kathorkian
an alter ego of katharineotto.planetearth.ind
and katharineotto.wordpress.com

Wednesday, December 26, 2007 – In the Cosmic Commune everyone is just plain folks, so it isn’t unusual for John D. Rockefeller or JP Morgan, Sr. to visit, even though they remain uncomfortable in a place where everyone ignores their pretensions.  People laugh at JP’s temper tantrums, and servants poof out of his employ when he throws food at them.

JP Morgan appreciates my willingness to be seen in public with him, because I am so civilized.  He wants to learn how to knit.

Really?  Go buy your own knitting needles, yarn, book, and other paraphernalia, and I’ll begin to believe you’re serious.

He says he’ll do better than that.  He’ll find a group of investors to buy a knitting needle manufacturer, a couple of sheep farms, and a publishing house.  He’ll get them to buy up all the cotton farms, too, so we can make more cotton yarn.

I say thanks, anyway.  Just learn how to knit, first, and maybe you’ll know something about the businesses you’re investing other people’s money in.

I can hear JD Rockefeller chuckling on the other side of the honeysuckle hedge.  I even get a partial smile from JP, and the hint of a twinkle in his eye.  Andy Carnegie says nothing, but I can feel his intense energy and interest.  He’s seeing a market for steel knitting needles.  JD, of course, sees a future in plastic knitting needles and acrylic, but I tell him up front that plastic and acrylic are low-yield investments for knitters.  I know he wants to sell cheap petroleum products, because no one can afford to drive, but give this knitter natural fibers and metal needles, and you can sell your transparent petroleum scam elsewhere.  Individuals need gas for power tools and other tools of survival, tools they can afford without going into debt.

JP becomes upset when I say this, but I tell him to stuff it.  Debt is what got us into this mess, and it’s your fault.  People can’t be free if they are in debt.  If you’re not free, you can’t have a democracy.

He threatens to leave.  I tell him that’s fine, but I’m not invalidating his job or career.  Banks still have a role to play in the Cosmic Commune, but banks need to reestablish their own credit and credibility.  By helping people learn how to manage money and get out of debt, both banks and taxpayers prosper.  You don’t get value for money with promises, whether from bank notes, insurance, or government, so don’t take it personally.  I’m a “pay as I go” kind of person, as I am immortal and a very lazy, selfish soul who enjoys freedom.

A financial debt is a karmic debt that must be paid sooner or later.  If I pay up front, I keep the books balanced at all times, unless I am tricked or otherwise maneuvered into untenable positions.

Cut losses, say I.  Whoever obtains money from me under false pretenses has his own karmic debt to pay.  Cutting losses buys my freedom from dishonesty.

So, I tell JP he looks good if he comes clean, to a certain extent, and recognizes that a debt-backed currency steals from the present to invest in an unpredictable future.  JP appears to take this in.  He doesn’t respond.  I go back to work.

After awhile, he looks up and asks me to show him how to knit.  I demonstrate the moss stitch, saying the knit and purl stitches are the foundation for all knitting patterns.  The technique is easy, but the strings of possibilities extend in all directions.

He asks if he can try, and I hand him my work. He makes clumsy efforts, drops a needle, then begins to get upset because stitches fall off, and yarn is getting tangled around his feet.

I tell him to sit still.  “Do not move,” I say.  “I’ll rescue my knitting and you in the process.”

So I grab the work before he loses too many stitches, untangle the yarn, and stow it all away for repair later.

I hear Andy chuckling, and even JD has risen and come around the honeysuckle hedge, grinning, to watch JP knit.  JP looks sheepish, but he is also puffing up his chest, as if he has accomplished something significant.

“It takes as much skill to be a good knitter as banker,” I tell him.  “A good banker can’t afford to lose credibility with his customers, because credit is his product line, just as knitters make socks.”

JP lights a cigar, and I poof up some wind to blow smoke away from the table and us.  I make it a light breeze, just enough to rustle leaves on the plants a little, to help them sing.

All three Robber Barons look astounded.  I don’t make a big deal out of asking the wind for help, but they glance at each other and me and begin to wonder what besides knitting I can teach them.

They also begin plotting how they can control the wind for profit.  I see them operating in boardrooms and Congress to build huge wind turbines, manipulating public resources with their misguided motives.

“You don’t control the wind,” I tell them.  “The wind is free.”  I say it will go where it will.  It only does your bidding if you approach it respectfully and in a cooperative spirit.  Ask the leaves on the trees to intercede, better to energize them into a flutter and explore their greater environments.

JP’s eyes begin to glaze over, and I realize I’ve said enough.

Fast forward to next day, and all three Robber Barons have bought expensive knitting needles, yarn – gold yarn by JP – and pattern books galore.  Andy wants to knit an Irish sweater, with complicated cables, and Scottish wool.  JP wants to make a vest out of gold thread.  JD wants a bright red crew neck sweater, simple but big, but he’s having trouble deciding between that and a pair of argyle socks.

While out shopping, they also bought a few knitting stores, textile manufacturers, farms, and other knitting tools.  Andy bought another shipping line.

The knitters are hot to trot, vying with each other to dominate knitting.  I try not to show my amusement, because so far, not one of them knows how to cast on the first stitch.

Meanwhile, they have brought so much stuff to the table that there’s no room to spread out, so I poof us a larger table and conjure up a coffee stand for me, to avoid spilling my coffee and damaging their stuff.

I suggest they start by knitting a swatch, and I try to show them how to cast on.  Andy catches on quicker than the others, because he grew up working with his hands and has more manual dexterity.

JD, who has now joined the table, sits next to JP.  Both have large hands and are clumsy, but JD manages to cast on 20 stitches first, then starts jostling JP’s elbow. This makes JP drop a needle and lose more stitches.  He explodes in rage and tosses everything on the ground.

By now we’ve drawn a crowd, and everyone starts to twitter and point fingers.  JP blushes and poofs himself away, leaving his assets behind.

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

 

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Dr. Jekyll visits Bethesda

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.”

pennies20dollars0707

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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Fiction: Belle, 0806

by Katharine C. Otto
Posted April 13, 2016 katharineotto.wordpress.com

“Help me,” cries the aging but still beautiful Belle.  Huge bejeweled rings sparkle on her liver-spotted hands, and diamond pendants drag cuts into her earlobes.  Her eyes are wide with pain and fear.

He can see that she is fragile.  She limps and leans heavily on the banister.  The modern Southern Gentleman takes her tenderly in his arms, soothes her sobs, and says he, too, suffers.  No one understands him.  People can be so cruel.  They gossip, tell lies.  He feels he can trust her.

But today’s version of the Southern Lady has 150 years of experience under her Oscar de la Renta sweatsuit.  She has thrown the corset into landfill, invested in liposuction, and now breathes a lot easier.

“Are you proposing?” she asks.

“Not exactly,” he stammers.

“Good.  I don’t believe in marriage.”

“Nor I,” he says, with a sigh of relief.  “I propose a toast, instead.”

He pulls a bottle of Chivas Regal from a shimmering sack and offers it to Belle.  She pours hefty dollops into crystal tumblers. They toast their mutual understanding with delicate sips.  He kisses her.

They toast their understanding again.  And again.  They lose count.  She pours more Chivas.

He pops a Viagra.  What they do the rest of the night is unprintable.

He promises to return for dinner that evening.  He blows a kiss goodbye from his convertible Saab.  She spends the whole day cooking.

At dusk, Gent gets lost on the way to Belle’s colonial townhouse.  He stops at the Oglethorpe Club, then the First City Club, or was it the other way around?  He stops at Johnny Gannem’s for directions.  He stops at O’Malley’s to get a cup of coffee, and doesn’t remember how he got home.

She waits and waits.  She tries to call his cell phone and gets a voice mail.  The dinner overcooks.  She cries.  She takes a bite of the salmon in white wine and dill sauce, decides it’s awful, and throws it away.  She finishes the white wine while staring into the glass, an antique, engraved collectible that she bought for too much money downtown.

She goes to bed, worrying that Gent has been killed, or worse.  She must find him.  She must.  But she’ll worry about it tomorrow.  She falls asleep and dreams of stock in Pfizer.

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.

 

Bicycles and Public Domain Technology

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Courtesy of Libby Belle
an alter ego of katharineotto.wordpress.com
January, 2016

Ride free as the breeze,
If you please,
Escape noise, fumes,
Death and taxes,

Proving scientist Ben Franklin wrong.
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Ben didn’t believe in patents,
But Tom Edison did,
And look where it got him.

Incandescent light bulbs,
Where did they go?
Outlawed by Congress,
Awhile ago.

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What does Tom think of that?
His best idea, going flat?
Mad as hell, and that’s that.
He wants revenge so tips his hat
To his mentor Ben, the diplomat.

Tom and Ben plot a course
For the power of the horse.
Abandon patents, they decide.
Make the product, then let it ride.
If folks like it, they’ll copy you,
But you’ll have the first, so
they can’t sue.

GE Corporate trembles and quakes,
“What?! No patents? These are high stakes.”

Libby Belle shakes a feather.

“A lass and a lack, we’ve changed the weather.
The sun has come out, while you were in boxes.
The sky has cleared,artfolkbiketurt0715
The grid disappeared.

Direct current from sun to you,
This is all you need to do
Tom has shared his tale of woe,
Says DC is about to show.
Let the sun be your source,

And Wall Street turns to Trojan Horse.”

Photos, top to bottom:  1.  Tybee Island Fish Camp, Tybee Island, GA.  This restaurant’s entire railing is a bike rack.  Tybee is great for biking.  2.  Bike rack at Brighter Day Natural Foods Market, Savannah, GA.  3.  The city of Savannah’s version of bicycle parking.  4.  Folk art at Gallery By the Sea, Tybee Island, GA.