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Black Candle, Meat Puppet, Insane Dancers

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Most of you know The Blue. He drops off Unbidden Presents. If you’ve been writing a long time, you’ve figured out that it ain’t you who is so fine – all your original stuff was plunked into your sky by The Blue. Anyhow, The Blue and I have been pals for so long I forget the beginning. Of late he’s vouchsafed me the beastly and sublime Digrif, a clown with a humor so dark I had to coin the phrase “obsidian humor” to describe it. Of course there’s Frolic, the plush silver Burmese cat.

I can give you a tip or twain. The Blue is way partial to appreciation. And yet more partial to Surprise. Being deftly intent works well. The Blue hates to have the little in-between presents missed because you are a boor and a yawner. The little presents in-between the Smashing, Jaw-Dropping Presents. I’ll tell you more another time. In the meantime, notice. You must notice everything, lest you miss a present. The Blue will sulk if underappreciated. Happiness is not increased by a sulking The Blue. Do your part.

This evening’s presents were a poem by friend Loden in which she “stood at the door with one black candle.” One black candle is how we spectrally wander the halls of our dismay with Dick the dick, the Inquisitor from Mordor who slouched toward Washington and was born again. One black candle with its obsidian flame; we have to learn to see in the dark.

Tom Tomorrow, comicstripist, did a piece the denouement of which is that George2 is Cheney’s “meat puppet.” The phrase is new to me and grisly in its blood-dimming truth. Pipsqueak and ghoul. You can feel your blood paling as you are impaled by more sursurreal news of The Ventriloquist of Vice and his Meat Puppet. How did we come to this pass? My Thanks I Gave a few weeks back were that Dick the dick hasn’t incinerated us yet. We could never have guessed These Times. It was supposed to be Gore instead of gore. But apparently Fat E means us to deal with the shadow (jungian, among others) before we can be released from the Asylum into the nail-biting cosmos: “Will they get kind to their kind? Won’t they get kind to their kind? Will they? Won’t they?”

Dear Rob Brezsny, astrologer extraordinaire, delivered a Nietzsche quotation for The Blue: “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” So for those of you who dance to a gallivanting belief in a quirky and amused and illuminated future anon if not apace, I hear that music too and don’t let the leaden bastards tarnish your dear and brave dance.

By the way, if you’re still locked into linearity, quantum out of it quick. Astrology is the collected wisdom of the ancients according to Jung. Not the daily predictive stuff so much, but the mosaic patterns of personality and possibility. It is depth psychology comparable to the great Indian and other Eastern mind maps. All tidbits which can nudge or bludgeon us to the appreciation of individual differences are profoundly to be embraced.
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