Greak Grock

Ears open lately. Lioness and I identified the feeling we have, and she acutely of late: we are aliens. Full of enough knowledge and experience and visitations to other ways of the life that we don't fit. Upside: a strong sense that life can be artful and rich, that one is writing one's own story. Downside: the distinct impression that one is a dangerous freak. Alienation, in short. To this, Ken Wilber, that ubiquitous guru has a short speech. To sum up: there is a vast imaginative, decentralized conspiracy to make the world kind to humans and their fellow creatures. You are a dangerous freak, but not alone, not without agency, and blessed in your prodigality.

Consciousness, as we know, is constantly evolving through deeper and deeper waves of care and complexity, bringing our hearts and minds ever closer to the limitless depths of our souls’ potential. And as consciousness continues to evolve, there are always individuals who are riding the crest of that wave—which is actually not quite as glamorous as it may sound, as these people typically find themselves feeling alone and alienated in a world which simply cannot speak their language. Therefore, when these people are finally able to find each other, something truly amazing happens—like an intersubjective supernova, the Miracle of We is born anew as a new truly cutting edge culture begins to emerge, forging a path which may very well play a central role in the future of the human species.

Of course, Ken-Man sees II as the epicenter of that delicious earthquake. But, there are many such centers.

Like Mark Morford's column, which recently said this:

Here's what I find fascinating and somewhat sad about the crazily tumescent phenom of women (and increasingly, men) spending larger and larger piles of money -- a great deal more than four grand a month, btw, if you're truly wealthy -- on expensive high-tech spa treatments just to look like someone could walk up and eat raw sushi off your perfectly spotless expressionless wrinkle-free inhumanly porcelain face: It isn't about sex.

Which is to say, you'd think it would be about sex, at least a little, that most people who spend more than their mortgage payment on grooming and put that much effort into zipping from spa appointment to cuticle scraping to hyperbaric chamber are trying to look, consciously or unconsciously, at least somewhat hot, are trying to really enjoy their bodies and maybe attract a mate, or just get laid, with the added bonus of making others of their sex totally jealous of their overall, you know, staggering hotness.

Yes, you might think that. But of course, you'd be wrong.

Arabesques new issue is on-line and is chock full of international women writers. A big picture of life and thought amongst the gals there. I think you can read the whole thing if you sign up for the newsletter. Which you just ought to. Here's a couple of random tastes from mine: One and Two.

On Speaking of Faith (an APR joint) recently: Pastors of various stripes discuss marriage, and what it really means/is, which is just so Not what Focus on the Family has in mind. Heartening. And, to my happiness, very Irigarayan.

On Fresh Air recently: Terri interviewed fusion poet Sekou Sundiata, who died last Wed. This man was a walking, talking testament to loving the hard cold world. Listen up.

And Orion mag argues that the Hubble Deep Field photo needs to be every classroom for Copernican reasons. As well as that there's a not entirely unreasonable secession movement. I'm Hell Yes on the first, and too exhausted for the second. On that, I'm just certain that we have enough to work on, and that if we turn that energy to working on it will not be required, even of Vermont.

Here: I cleaned out the salt-lick for the horses and was rewarded with much large mammals standing with their heads over my shoulder and snuffing of my head. I feel much better.