Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Tribute to Le Pétomane ~ and the Winds of Change! (encore)



In the cavern, shadows gather round the stew
or huddle in crannies (but only on weekends)
to hear Platonic oratorios rendered inoffensively
by descendants of Aristotle and his Orchestra of
Broken Winds.

(From "An Epilogue of Sorts" by Antares)




Joseph Pujol (1857~1945)
Le Pétomane (French pronunciation: [ləpetɔˈman]) was the stage name of the French flatulist (professional farter) and entertainer Joseph Pujol (June 1, 1857–1945). He was famous for his remarkable control of the abdominal muscles, which enabled him to seem to fart at will. His stage name combines the French verb péter, "to fart" with the -mane, "-maniac" suffix, which translates to "fartomaniac". The profession is also referred to as "flatulist", "farteur", or "fartiste".

It is a common misconception that Joseph Pujol actually passed intestinal gas as part of his stage performance. Rather, Pujol was able to "inhale" or move air into his rectum and then control the release of that air with his anal sphincter muscles. Evidence of his ability to control those muscles was seen in the early accounts of demonstrations of his abilities to fellow soldiers.

[Source: Wikipedia. First posted 9 February 2012, reposted 4 July 2014]

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Alex Grey and the Mind Parasites (repost)

Extracted from a fascinating 19-minute podcast published by Jonathan Zap at ZapOracle...

Alex Grey was in a loft in Boston where a colleague of Timothy Leary had given a group of 15-20 people, most of them quite inexperienced, LSD. Alex took a double dose. The social environment of Alex’s trip was extremely chaotic - some people were laughing uncontrollably, some were vomiting, some were groping other people, and there was no one who was managing the chaos.

Alex began to have an out-of-body experience, and found himself hovering above the weirdness of what was going on in the loft. On some different plane he saw deities drinking from a pool of “electric milk” a “vast lake of timpani,” of “vibrating energy.” Alex described the vision as follows:

“I had a vision of the group soul of humanity as a perfectly circular pool of intense living light. All around the rim of the milky pool were a complex variety of sexual rites, a metaphor for all social interaction. Translucent Hindu deities swooped over the group taking the excessive energy of the shimmering pool and passing through the group as ecstasy and pain. I saw that the reason we were all brought together was to provide a psychic energy feast for the Gods and Goddesses. I saw my heart as the axis of karmic, earthly, and universal energies, transected by and uniting the polarities of male/female, birth/death, good/evil, and love/hate. To maintain a balance of forces we all fed both Deities and Demons.”

This visionary experience eventually became the masterpiece: Demons and Deities Drinking from the Milky Pool.


A Vision of the Top of the Food Chain


The demons and deities were feeding from a pool of “vibratory energetic milk” created from human activities of all kinds, though Alex used sexual coupling to represent human activities in general. I suggested that that the couplings were visual shorthand of human energetic transactions of all kinds and Alex responded enthusiastically to that description. Apparently, the deities were drinking from a vibratory pool of the energetic metabolism of the species so that through the pool they were drawing energy from the entire species.

A reductive way of describing Alex’s vision is to say that it represents the very top of the food chain. The painting, however, is much more than that; it is a revelation of the human form transcending the food chain. Transcendence does not mean removing or floating above something. What you transcend is still present, and the transcendent state includes that which is transcended while new vistas of awareness are added.


Alex’s paintings are “forbidden seeing” - revelations of what is hidden but that the species desperately needs to see. Conventionally we see ourselves as the top of the food chain, but Demons and Deities… reveals this as a delusion convenient to those who harvest our energy. Another realization about this painting is that it is a classic illustration of the alchemical principle of “as above, so below.” We see the same range, if more polarized, of darkness and light amongst the deities at the cardinal points of the mandala as we do in the human couplings that form the perimeter. And there was also a similar dark/light range in the chaotic loft where some people were acting out dark compulsions while Alex was receiving this transcendent vision.

Sexual Chi as Food Source


Alex’s artistic decision to represent all human activities by a range of sexual couplings was no random choice. Sexual chi is a potent energetic food that can be harvested by human parasites and predators and possibly other types of parasites and predators. Orgasms can be viewed as energetic flowers blossoming in the collective human energy field.

The couplings are arranged in a kind of circular spectrum from loving couplings to atavistic, sadistic-looking couplings. Benevolent entities appear to be feeding off the energy of the loving couplings and demonic entities, one of which looks like a devouring vagina, are feeding off of the degraded (sex as a metaphor for power) couplings.

Orgasms, which are energetic eruptions into, and interpenetrations with, the collective human field, vary from the ecstatic unions of loving soulmates to the sadistic ejaculations of rapists. The couplings that Alex depicts in this image can be viewed as a circular spectrum of these possibilities oriented to the cardinal points of a mandala where there are also associated deities.

A Carnival of Lost Souls


The background of Alex’s vision is also interesting and instructive. He was in a chaotic boundary-dissolving experience with a group of people who were predominantly strangers. Socially dense environments of strangers and substances mixing together are likely to default to lowest-common-denominator factors of social parasitism/sexual predation/chaotic acting out of fragmented personalities - what I sometimes call a carnival of lost souls.

Everything depends on who are the particular people in a group that is having a boundary-dissolving experience or ritual. Naïve people frequently forget this. Such people think the ritual is what matters and take all comers, but this can be a disaster!

Generally, I think it unwise to have boundary-dissolving experiences (such as sex and/or hallucinogenic trips) with people you don’t know and wouldn’t trust with your life, because you are trusting your life with them. There are, of course, exceptions to everything and a visionary as great as Alex Grey was able to rise above the experience and receive a powerful vision about human energy and the entities that harvest it. (Though I have a feeling he wouldn’t choose to be in another such chaotic situation.)

Otherwise, I caution people about doing things such as going to a rave with a sketchy vibe redolent of prowling sexual agendas (in other words, almost any rave) and opening themselves to the toxic energy by taking a boundary-dissolving substance. Unless you want to internalize a carnival of lost souls it is probably unwise to blow yourself wide open in an setting of trance-inducing music/lighting and stoned people, many of them on the prowl for parasitic sexual encounters.

An Ancient Gnostic Text on Parasitic Abduction


The power of this image is that it shows those who harvest our energy, and yet at the center of the image is the human empowerment that occurs as we awaken to the food chain. The ancient Gnostics had similar visions and called the harvesting deities the “Archons” (see: A Gnostic View of Mind Parasites). Also, notice how closely the scenario described below parallels a modern alien abduction experience.

(The following ancient Gnostic text is excerpted from the superb metahistory.org website. Here’s the link to the full article.)

LISTEN TO JONATHAN ZAP'S PODCAST HERE.

Alex Grey (left) with Jonathan Zap at Cosm, in New York City
Paintings by Alex Grey

For more background on Alex Grey, go here!

[First posted 24 February 2011, reposted 24 October 2014]










Wednesday, January 6, 2016

To the feudal mind, anyone in favor of decentralized power, equality and social justice must be a Communist!


Somebody left a book in my van a few years ago. I stuck it in the glove compartment and immediately forgot about it... until recently when I spotted it just as I was about to drive to Tanjong Malim and catch a bus to Ipoh.

So I brought the book along to read on the journey. It was an illustrated "People's History of Malaya" titled Where Monsoons Meet - published in 1987 by the Institute of Social Analysis (INSAN). A socialist primer aimed at secondary students, the comic-style book was designed for easy reading and I finished it in less than an hour - but it had significant impact.

Looking at our recent history from a non-elitist perspective reminded me how thoroughly brainwashed my parents' generation was. I recall that my mother and father thought very highly of the Brits. In the early 1950s goods produced in Hong Kong still carried the imprint "Empire Made" even though the sun was swiftly setting on the British Empire. Where Monsoons Meet effectively demolishes all notions of a benign imperialism. The colonizers emerge smelling quite foul.

The "Independence" we were granted in August 1957 was but in name. Before leaving Malaya the Brits had rigged the system so that it would always favor the capitalist elite comprising the Malay aristocracy and a handful of Chinese entrepreneurs.

When the rakyat began to demand better working conditions and more rights, they were brutally suppressed through heavy-handed police action. The Communist bogeyman justified the introduction of a slew of repressive laws. The truth of the matter was: Malaya was a fat milk cow sustaining the Anglo-American economy and they couldn't afford to lose control of the country's rich natural resources.

In short, British rule wasn't quite as halcyon as it may appear to the present generation of middle-class non-Malays. Every dirty trick in the book of governance as practised by Umno was learnt during the ruling class Malays' long apprenticeship with the British Colonial administration.


In the time of the British, indentured laborers imported from India were paid 12 cents a day for their back-breaking work in the rubber estates and on the railway tracks. Even if the local currency in prewar days was worth two hundred times more than it is today, these debt slaves only received the equivalent of RM20 a day. They had to dismount from their bicycles and tabik (salute) whenever a White Tuan crossed their path. The ones who spoke a smattering of English were made mandors and were given the authority to horsewhip insubordinate workers. Rebellion against injustice in the form of trade unionism was roughly and swiftly dealt with. The word "rakyat" was as little tolerated as the word "Communist."

What happened in May 1969 with the coup d'etat masterminded by Abdul Razak Hussein (right), Harun Idris, Syed Jaafar Albar, Mahathir Mohamad, Ghazali Shafie and a few other young Turks in Umno was that a new breed of educated middle-class Malays managed to wrest a measure of power from the traditional aristocracy.

In doing so, they also adopted the self-aggrandizing tendencies of the hereditary elite, hence their fondness for unwieldy honorifics and exclusive "VVIP" treatment.

Forty years down the line, we are poised on the brink of another major coup - this time involving the overthrow of a diseased and dysfunctional feudalistic concept of leadership, in favor of a more decentralized, more democratic, more egalitarian, more accountable, more interactive form of management.

And we intend to accomplish this feat bloodlessly and through entirely legal procedures. However, this is easier said than done - because it has become more than evident that Umno/BN, under the rogue prime ministership of Najib Razak, won't play by the rules.


What is called for at this juncture is optimum clarity of focus and supreme resoluteness. We the people cannot waver for a moment in our desire to shake off the yoke of tyranny and reclaim our civil rights and individual authority as free citizens of a free country. Each of us now has a sacred duty to embody all the qualities we cherish - courage, honesty, compassion, integrity, wisdom, and the ability to love more and more inclusively.


Above all, we must take time out to look inward - realign our inner and outer selves so we can become fully integrated, conscious humans - integers, in effect - as opposed to being merely ciphers; faceless, mindless statistics hypnotized by the BN-controlled media into believing that issues of race, religion, and royalty are real and relevant.

We can endorse and lend our wholehearted support to leaders whose visions coincide with our own - but we must never become entirely dependent on them. Otherwise we will only experience disappointment and disillusionment when these leaders reveal themselves to be just as fallible as anyone else. No use pointing fingers, scapegoating and foisting the blame for failure on others.

We are the redemption and salvation we have yearned for throughout the ages. Happy Regime Change, folks! It can still happen, and sooner than you think... believe in miracles!

[Originally published  2 January 2009 under the heading "No Turning Back". Reposted 5 June 2012]



Monday, January 4, 2016

Home of Rainbows (revisited) ~ an excerpt from TANAH TUJUH

ABOUT AN HOUR’S HIKE from where I live there is a sacred waterfall whose virgin waters cascade 260 feet into a womblike cauldron. At midday with the Sun directly overhead, I once ventured into the seething cauldron. And there, trembling from the cold and from an overwhelming sense of awe, I found the Home of Rainbows. Dozens of baby rainbows - hanging magically in the misty spray - dancing with the sunbeams. A sight such as this transforms one forever. I felt the presence of the goddess Gaia - not as hypothesis, but as a vivid reality.

And when I gazed at the sky beyond the shimmering column of water and the rocky lips of the cauldron, I was struck by a vision of the Vesica piscis: the fish-shaped form of the primeval vulva from which all life issues.

MEANWHILE, in another Dimensional Universe not so far from where the rest of humanity lives, nine Orang Asli of the Jahai tribe from Sungai Manok (about 200 km from Kota Bharu, Kelantan) suddenly found themselves on trial for homicide. On 26 April 1993 they had been embroiled in an ugly struggle over land, which left three Kelantanese Malays dead. They had allegedly been shot with poisoned blowpipe darts. According to some reports, the Malays had shown up in a van one day to inform the Jahai that their land had been sold and that they were to leave their village within 24 hours.

The Jahai called called a tribal council and decided to stand their ground. Violence erupted when the Malays arrived at the village brandishing parangs (machetes) and one of them kicked the batin (headman). A young Jahai who rushed to his chief's defence was slashed.

In court the Jahai were defended by seven of the country's leading lawyers, all of whom donated their services and paid their own expenses. For months, Colin Nicholas of the COAC (Center for Orang Asli Concerns) was kept busy commuting between Subang Jaya and Kota Bharu, helping the Jahai cope with the disruption to their lives and looking after their personal needs. The legal proceedings took on farcical proportions with the prosecution tying itself up in technical knots. So much so the case was eventually thrown out after three years of senseless to-and-froing, without a single essential question being raised.

For instance: how did land reserved for the Orang Asli get “sold” in the first place? Was the Orang Asli Affairs Department completely in the dark? Or were a few officers in the know? Why didn't the Jahai headman report to the authorities immediately? And how do we reconcile the Asli concept of tanah pesaka (ancestral land) with legalistic definitions of real estate and private property?


According to lawyer friends of mine, the Orang Asli have absolutely no land rights as such - and they mutter something about Section 134 of the Aboriginal Act of 1954, which classifies all Orang Asli as “tenants at will of the State.” They explain that the Orang Asli have been occupying areas “approved for gazetting” since the mid-60s - but not formally gazetted yet (even as we enter the new millenium). In the 1960s the official excuse for leaving matters unresolved was “the Communist threat.” In December 1989 the Malayan Communist Party surrendered and dissolved itself. Until the designated areas are constitutionally gazetted as Orang Asli reserves, the only protection the “First Peoples” have against fortune-hunters and land-grabbers is the Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli or JHEOA (which later became Jabatan Kemajuan Orang Asli or JAKOA - although the Orang Asli still call it JOA - “Jual Orang Asli,” they hasten to add,“Orang Asli for Sale.”).

The question is: who can protect the Orang Asli from their own Protectors? The JAKOA officials I've met are hard-core, card-carrying Mahathirites and compulsive enemies of the environment. They charge around in Pajeros and hobnob with prominent loggers and daredevil developers. Orang Asli Affairs are perceived as their personal fiefdom and, in recent years, JAKOA appears to have turned into an extension of JAKIM (the federal government's Islamic Enforcement and Missionary Agency).

Bidar Chik in 1999
I WAS TALKING to Bidar Chik, batin of Kampung Pertak, about the difference between “tenure” and “tenancy.” Of course, our terms of reference were far more concrete.

“Our people have been living in these parts since time began,” Bidar said, “We belong here, but we don't say the land belongs to us.”

“The land belongs to Tuhan,” interjected Bidar's brother-in-law Nadi from the doorway, where he had been quietly listening to our conversation. “All land is God's. We're only the Guardians of this area.”

Nadi Pak Empok had a certain dignity about him and a friendly twinkle in his eye. I was impressed by his sincerity of belief. Bidar took this as a cue to get his wife to serve up some Milo.

Nadi & Lumoh
I told Nadi I was in full agreement wih him. I, too, felt it was my sacred duty to safeguard the wild beauty of the forest and the pure joy of its rivers. Many years ago, when I first “discovered” the invigorating splendor of the Pertak foothills, I had felt a profound sense of homecoming. When in April 1992 I finally moved to the area, I found myself living in a “heavenly hologram” where magic and mystery ruled.

THE VERY FIRST NIGHT I took up residence as Ceremonial Guardian of Magick River the jungle came alive for me. I shall never forget the solemn grandeur of the trees and the invisible assembly of spirits that greeted me as I stood humbly before the timeless power of raw nature.

I heard no voices, no flesh-crawling siren calls. I saw no wraiths, no fairies; only the starry twinkling of festive fireflies. All I felt was a deep reverence for and spiritual kinship with the elven folk, and the elementals, and the animal devas I sensed all around me like a fragrant mist.

The Ceremonial Guardian's official residence in 1992

The next two years of my life were the most idyllic I can recall. And I'm sure the hundreds of people who day-tripped at Magick River or who stayed a week, or a month, or three (so many of whom have since become “family” to me) will happily attest to that. It was during those heady days that I met and befriended the Temuan from the village down the road. So when it came time to shift house, my first choice was Kampung Pertak.

Rasid washing dishes in the river
First I asked Rasid and Indah if they liked the idea. They seemed delighted and honored that I should be so keen to dwell among them. They said they would be happy to build me a hut as long as I paid them for their labor. But there was a snag. There was no one in the village with the authority to welcome me as a resident. Rasid explained that one would normally approach the batin for permission - but the previous one had died the year before and no one had taken over the job. “Perhaps you should get clearance from the District Officer,” he advised me.

The D.O. was fairly easygoing. When I explained my interest in setting up a sort of cultural exchange with the Orang Asli and indicated my desire to live close to them for a while, he shrugged and said he had no problem with that. But I ought to check with the Jabatan Orang Asli first. So I did. The JOA officer in charge of Ulu Selangor heard me out and then declared that he had no objection to my request. However, I would have to seek permission from the D.O.

“I just came from the D.O.'s office,” I said. “He told me he had no objections either.”

The long-suffering “Encik Lah” (not his real name) forced a sigh and stood up to conclude our interview. “Well, er... in that case... er... if you have already spoken with the D.O., then I think... er... it should be all right.” Then he added triumphantly, “But you will have to apply in writing.”

About three hours later I was back in his office with my official application in triplicate. My friend and musical collaborator, Rafique Rashid, had helped me draft and type the letter in impeccable Bahasa Birokrat (Bureaucratese).

“Encik Lah” took my letter and nonchalantly chucked it on his desk. I reminded him that one copy of the letter was for him to “chop” and return to me.

When I asked “Encik Lah” about the letter a few weeks later, all he could manage was: “Huh? What letter?” He rummaged in his files for several minutes before concluding that no such application ever existed. Since I appeared reluctant to leave the matter at that, he suddenly remembered that I was required to report to the Special Branch before moving in with the Orang Asli. I said: “Okay, so who do I talk to?” The police officer he mentioned was on long leave.

By now a firm decision had to be made. The rainy season was approaching and Rasid had asked if work could begin on my hut. His motorbike was undergoing a costly overhaul and he needed a cash advance. I waited another fortnight before making another attempt to speak to the police officer. Couldn't be reached. Tried “Encik Lah” again. Not in the office. Left message. No response. Gone to Shah Alam. A whole month passed without a word from either the Jabatan Orang Asli or the Special Branch. I knew the move was mine to make and nobody else's.

I told Rasid, Utat, Diap, Indah, and Minah that they could start gathering bertam leaves and weaving them for my roof. I had identified what I felt was an ideal spot for my new “official residence” as Ceremonial Guardian. After six months of delays caused by prolonged rains, damaged atap (roofing material), squandered funds and petty bickering among the workforce while I was away for a few weeks, the realization grew that I would have to personally be present at the site or the hut would never be completed.

Finally, after a burst of intense work by Rasid and Utat (the chief architect), my home sweet hut was ready for occupation. Standing nine feet above the ground (which effectively made it a two-story affair), “Jabba the High Hut” turned out to be the grandest looking private residence in the area - and I now had the rare distinction of living in the only thatch-roofed traditional Orang Asli structure in Pertak. Was I in danger of developing an “Aslier-than-thou” attitude?


ABOUT A MONTH after I had become a de facto member of the Orang Asli community in Pertak, Bidar Chik, the newly appointed batin, introduced himself to me at the wanton mee shop. After ascertaining that I was indeed the fellow who had just built a hut near Lubok Pusing (a popular swimming hole and picnic spot), Bidar dropped a bombshell: “Oh, by the way, Encik Lah wants to talk to you about your hut. I think he wants you to demolish it. You should go and see him tomorrow.”

I looked Bidar in the eye and said very diplomatically, “I definitely would have gone to see you first before building a hut in your village. But at the time you weren't the batin. In fact I was told there was no batin. That's why I went to see the D.O. instead. Now that I know who the batin is, I would be grateful for your belated permission to continue living in Pertak Village.” I pressed on: “If you as the batin do not approve of my staying on, I will respect your decision and move out. Your Encik Lah can't tell me what to do.”

Bidar looked mighty pleased to be addressed as batin. He quickly declared that he had no personal objections, but “Encik Lah” had instructed him to pass on this message.

“He has my postal address and my friend's phone number on the letter I left with him. And he's welcome to visit me at the hut anytime. Please tell him that.” Needless to say, “Encik Lah” never did get to meet “Jabba the High Hut.” Pity, really. It would have been appropriate to serve him a cup of teh susu (milky tea) - straight from the river - since he was the key facilitator of so many logging projects in Ulu Selangor’s Orang Asli reserves.

TO BIDAR I must have seemed more than just “a new kid on the block.” Indeed I must have been (and probably still am) a complete mystery to him. Every other “outsider” who bothered to drop in on the batin of Pertak Village was invariably there with yet another tempting business proposition. All I had to offer was a bit of goodwill, genuine interest, and some idle chatter.

I asked Bidar if he had any plans or problems that I might be able to help him implement or resolve. I really did want to be a good citizen of Pertak Village.

“We want to improve our living standard,” Bidar said matter-of-factly. “And for that we need material assistance in the form of tools, vehicles, hardware supplies. We've been waiting for electricity and a telephone line for nearly twenty years, but they keep saying the budget for that hasn't been approved.” Kampung Orang Asli Pertak is about 400 meters from the nearest power and phone lines.

In the 1950s an Asli township was built on the edge of Kuala Kubu Bharu to encourage them to integrate with their more urbanized compatriots. After a few years and hundreds of trauma deaths, many Asli chose to return to the jungle, rebuilding their bamboo huts along the banks of clear mountain streams.

A special school was set up for the Asli - but after four decades, the number that can actually read and write is very small. I asked Bidar why this was so. “In the beginning the children are keen to learn. They put on their school uniforms and wait for the bus. But after a few months, or a few years at the most, they get fed up and drop out.”

I wondered if the teaching methods were custom-tailored to the needs of Orang Asli children. Perhaps they were unable to accept regimentation and external discipline, growing up free as birds as they do.

“So why did you stop going to school?” I asked Sembo, a bright and perky 13-year-old from Kampung Gerachi. She grimaced and gave me a graphic account of the difficulties she had encountered with the education system: “The other kids were fond of teasing those of us who were bused to school from distant villages. They would scribble in my exercise book when I wasn't looking and I used to get punished for that. Once the teacher tore a page off my book and stuffed it down my throat!”

It didn't take me very long to notice that a large number of Asli teenagers - some no older than Sembo - are forced by circumstances to stay home and look after younger siblings while both parents are out collecting bamboo or cutting grass with the bushcutter brigades. Asli literacy was hampered by a classic, vicious circle of poverty, exacerbated by inconveniences like not having any light to read by at night apart from kerosene pelita (wick lamps) that produced only a flickering glow. Very cozy, it's true, even romantic. But hardly conducive to reading and writing (unless one has pale green eyes).

None of the Asli homes I visited had any books. Perhaps a few crumpled pages from last week's newspapers, salvaged from the shopping. Was it really all that important for the Orang Asli to acquire literacy, I asked myself. Most people in the cities are literate - and yet the quality of their lives isn't significantly better. More comfortable, perhaps. My Asli hut with its springy bamboo floor and well-ventilated bamboo walls was to me the height of comfort - but definitely not designed for a middle-class lifestyle.

The big difference between my “lifestyle” and that of the Orang Asli was simply that my interest in books and my ability to read gave me almost limitless access to many different levels of the mind. Was that such a great asset, I often wondered, or our greatest liability? If I knew less, would I be happier? And if I spent less time in abstract thought, might I not find myself living more in the here and now?

This seemed to hold true for the Orang Asli. Even with only crackers and sweet black tea for dinner, they could enjoy a good hearty laugh among themselves. And when they struck paydirt - for example, after a bumper durian harvest or when someone caught a wild boar and roasted it on the spot with a sprinkling of salt - their life was closer to heaven than any urbanite could experience. Apparently, the secret ingredient in the Orang Asli recipe for good living was a childlike innocence that even the elderly retained. For the most part, anyhow.

WHENEVER LOGGERS muscle in on the Asli homeground, some of the Guardians' “guardians” make a fortune in unofficial commissions. All they have to do is appoint headmen they can remake in their own image. I watched with a heavy heart as this happened to Bidar Chik.

Ours was an ambiguous relationship, to say the least. He resented the fact that most of his anak buah (kinfolk under his “fatherly protection”) regarded him as bodoh (stupid) and came to me with little problems instead of him. (Perhaps they liked the way I served milky tea with my “post-Mowglian” metaphysics - but more likely they were fed up with the new batin's habit of threatening all and sundry with on-the-spot fines for their “transgressions,” mostly imaginary.)

Bidar certainly wasn't bodoh. Far from it. A bit demented, perhaps. But in view of the untimely death of his teenaged daughter (in a gruesome love triangle murder) the year before his appointment as batin; and the fact that his only son Bidin had grown into a sullen, uncommunicative, and friendless social misfit (people said Bidin was possessed by spirits) - it was difficult not to feel a measure of compassion for the man.


So it didn't surprise me to learn that Bidar no longer believed the land was sacred. He could see no real future for the Orang Asli and therefore became blind to his tribe's past. When he got involved in a scam to log the slopes of Bukit Kutu, I made an attempt to remind him that the future well-being of Kampung Pertak was in his hands. Bidar replied like a true pragmatist: “If I don't take this opportunity to make some money, others will. Why let the Malays and Chinese hog all the logs? Better the Orang Asli themselves get a share of the loot. After all, the way things are going, I believe the world is about to end. So why worry about a small patch of jungle?”

After a while I gave up trying to reason with Bidar. With his share of the logging profits he purchased a spanking new Honda motorbike, keeping the rest in the bank “against the day electricity is installed and we can buy all kinds of appliances.”

His younger brother Sem was very different. It was well known that the sibling rivalry between them had often led to fisticuffs, especially when both had had one drink too many. Sem had no qualms about putting his name to a police report we lodged against his brother's logging company. Nothing came out of it. The police interviewed Sem who said Bidar had breached tribal adat (customary law) by “cheating” his own people. On paper, it appeared that Bidar's sole proprietorship, “K.O.A. Enterprise,” was legitimate, and that his application for a logging permit was more or less in order.

Lawyers informed us that under existing Malaysian law, there was really no way we could win a case against the loggers. The crux of the problem, again, was that the area wasn't officially an Orang Asli reserve; and that even if it was, the headman had the right to “develop” it in any way he saw fit. The question of popular consensus did not arise. Participatory democracy had yet to arrive in these parts, and Kampung Pertak was a perfect microcosm of the entire country.

“Everybody thinks we're stupid,” Sem told me with a craggy grin. “We're not fools, maybe not so aggressive. That's the problem.”


It's true. I've yet to see an Asli parent inflict grievous corporal punishment on a child. Asli kids tend to be all over the place, laughing and joking with the adults, eavesdropping on serious council sessions. Do they stand a chance in the face of the competitiveness and ambition and rapacity that urban economies breed?

Sem said, with a trace of deep hurt in his voice, “Those who scorn and exploit us now will later be brought low. We believe that if the Orang Asli are wiped out, that's the end of the whole world. That's what our ancestors said.”

He could be right. The aboriginal peoples of the planet represent the roots of humanity - the point of deepest contact with the nourishing spirit of the Earth. The younger and more venturesome races - the ones that sailed forth to discover, trade with, and colonize distant lands - represent the branches and leaves. The planetary citizen is the flowering of the human family.

But will we bear the fruit of the Divine Child? The Earth-Star Child whose home is the entire Cosmos? Can the Tree of Life continue growing if its roots wither from neglect and forgetfulness? Must nature's amazing diversity give way to systematic homogenization in the name of Economic Growth? Surely the human imagination can come up with a workable, alternative scenario of “development” that integrates the best of both worlds? This is what spurred my decision to quit the big city and “live close to the land” for a while.


APART FROM finding myself in much more congenial surroundings, I've been through an unsettling spectrum of internal shifts. Initially I was prone to fly off the handle whenever I saw a styrofoam lunchbox or plastic bag in the jungle. I took on the role of eco-policeman, admonishing picnickers about the mess they were leaving and getting terribly worked up at the sight of graffiti. Soon I was an unpaid garbage collector, never venturing into the jungle without emerging with a bag full of litter.

After a while I realized that my getting pissed off with Malaysian “pig-knickers” and “the whole goddamned junk-consuming-junk-producing human race” wasn't really helping the environment at all. Truth is, the Orang Asli themselves are compulsive litterbugs. Their only excuse is that for hundreds of generations, the stuff they chucked on the ground was 100% organic. I regularly found myself sermonizing to them: “Things made by Tuhan (God or Nature) aren't filthy, you can throw them in the river. But things made by the Towkays (factory bosses) become rubbish, so be careful where you dispose of them.” Somewhat simplistic, I admit, but how else could I explain why I would conscientiously hold on to an empty plastic container till I found a garbage skip - while happily hurling rambutan skins and peanut shells into the river?

Another rude awakening: one day I mentioned to Utat the famous pig-hunter that I had spotted a pair of eagles nesting across the river. Utat's only response was, “Are you going to shoot them?”

“What?” I said, thinking I must have heard wrong. “In the first place I don't have a gun. And in the second place, why would anyone want to shoot an eagle?”

“They steal our chickens.”

Well, I don't know if Utat is partial to roast eagle. (When I asked if he would consider an eagle good eating, Utat shook his head: “Hardly any meat, and much too stringy.”) The Asli seem to feed on anything that moves and quite a few things that don't - like mildly putrid bamboo rat. Just as well, I suppose. I'd have monkeys breaking into my hut if the Asli hadn't hunted them all the way to Ulu Klang.

After Anoora and I were engaged, my family-to-be began offering me various delicacies they had trapped. I thought Diap's stewed python was delicious, though a little greasy; and afterwards it made me feel like coiling up and sleeping for a week. They kept the snake's semperu (gall bladder, hempedu in Malay) in a secret niche, waiting for it to dry before soaking it in drinking alcohol. Utat and Rasid assured me that I wouldn't be disappointed with the result. Alas, the precious morsel was spirited away by a household rodent before I could savor its promised delights. I also found the braised jawak (monitor lizard) fairly tasty, though a little too chewy for someone with limited dental equipment. Once I arrived too late to sample Indah's famous landak (porcupine) curry; and at my wedding feast, I pleaded over-excitement to explain why I only tasted a few atoms of the grilled pantim (leaf monkey).


IT HAS TAKEN ME an enormous conscious effort to mitigate my visceral dislike of industrial loggers and fast-buck “devilopers” - and the cynical power elite that fattens itself off their cannibalistic dark rites. So what if “Conquer, Penetrate, and Dominate” is their credo? So what if they are eco-rapists? They're only acting out a millennia-old scenario of anthropocentric self-interest, sanctioned by priesthoods created by the ancient colonizing “gods.” Their only real crime is that they have access to heavier-duty machinery than our grandfathers.

And since most concessions are granted for only three to six months, their eagerness to maximize profits leads to reckless, wholesale destruction of huge tracts of irreplaceable rainforest. (What I find even more disturbing, however, is that many, if not all, loggers are so used to offering “special incentives” to human officials to obtain their concessions and permits, they tend to do the same with the much-feared datuks or spirits of the trees.


In lieu of cash the loggers offer bribes of white chickens' or black goats' blood, which corrupts the elemental kingdom and results in many hapless humans being taken over by drunken and dispossessed datuks on the rampage. I doubt if any study has been done on the psychic after-effects of logging - but I personally am convinced that the physical carnage is invariably accompanied by years, even decades, of negative metaphysical fall-out manifesting as psychological and physiological diseases. The Revenge of the Jungle Spirits, as Utat would call it.)

Transmute that righteous rage into positive action, I kept telling myself for three months, even as I was being rudely awoken every morning (including Sundays) punctually at seven-thirty by the diabolical racket of revving bulldozer engines and the heart-stopping thump-kerumph-whump of logs being stacked up by the mechanical payloader. I confess that the compulsion to sabotage the loggers' machinery was almost too strong to resist. Friends who came to visit - and were greeted by the sight of freshly cut trees piled up like corpses in the loggers' yard near my hut - broke into tears or began to rant and rave. But anger doesn't resolve anything except itself. Indeed it can only divide the world further into Cowboys and Indians, Good Guys and Bad Guys, White Hats and Black Hats. And as far as I was concerned, that sort of dualistic stuff was Old Hat.

(Occasionally, while waiting for their lorries to be loaded with logs destined for the sawmills, a few drivers would wander up the footpath to my hut. I made a point of serving them tea, and most of them seemed at pains to convince me that they disliked helping to destroy the rainforest. “I've been driving log lorries for fifteen years and I have five kids to feed. Tell me, what else can I do?” One driver from Kerling was so keen to demonstrate goodwill he insisted on buying a copy of my book of poems in English - a language he couldn't read. “It's for my wife,” he explained. “She's a school-teacher and enjoys reading English books.”)

It dawned on me that most urbanites have been conditioned to fear nature in the raw. Orang Asli kids seem pretty spooked by the jungle after dusk, but for different reasons. Town-dwellers are fundamentally afraid of snakes, scorpions, mosquitoes, centipedes, and tigers (yes, Virginia, there a few still ranging the foothills of Ulu Selangor and Pahang). Forest-dwellers are more afraid of the bi'hiang - the unseen: hantu (ghosts, spirits, vampires), halus (elves), bunian (fairies), and the penunggu (guardian spirits) of certain power-spots, reputed to manifest as 60-foot tall specters when antagonized.

But their fears aren't paralyzing ones. Many of the older Asli still feel the periodic need to go on solo jungle walkabouts. Sometimes they return spouting gibberish and have to be ritually exorcized by the village dukun (medicine man). Most aboriginal peoples seem to be genetically predisposed to slipping in and out of Dreamtime (the Astral Plane or Fourth Dimension) - but that's probably because their reluctance to deal with written language frees them from the left-brain dominance the rest of us have to unlearn, if we want to fully comprehend the nature of our being.

Me? I'm afraid of fire ants. And the buzzillion other virulent varieties of biting bugs - some microscopic to the point of invisibility - that sometimes make me wish I was back in the permanent poison fog of the Klang Valley. But as I feel that chemical sprays are far more repugnant than insect bites, I've had to devise non-polluting ways of discouraging ants from building highways across my living space. Hot water and flaming newspapers seem to have done the trick. Nothing like a bit of fiery journalism to flush out the creepy-crawlies.

(My geomancer friend and star-sister Soluntra King once suggested I deal with the problem in a more enlightened manner, by reasoning with the devas of the “offending” insect or animal species. In other words, by striking a deal or coming to a special understanding with the gang leaders. Well, this approach appears to have worked with a few varieties of ants, especially the kerengga (weaver ants). The wasps rarely sting except when inadvertently sat upon. However, I've given up trying to be diplomatic with the ruffian rats of Taman Tikus (Rodent Park) who are my immediate neighbors!)

But there's another way of looking at it: perhaps Nature has produced these “irritants” in response to the irritation she must feel when humans burrow and blast and befoul the Earth with their unheeding busyness. Perhaps, as the sages of today would say, the external world is really a hologram projection of our inner states. Or, as the Dalai Lama says: “To live in a peaceful world, you need a peaceful mind.”


BEHIND MY HUT is a series of hills that bear the scars of human intrusion. In the 1900s businessmen logged the area (they used buffaloes to haul the logs in those days) and then proceeded to dynamite a 3-mile-long tunnel through the mountains, ostensibly to mine for tungsten (though I suspect they were after silver or gold). Huge landslips put paid to the mining operations, with tremendous loss of human life. Some say 300 died in the great tunnel collapse of 1907 - which the Temuan of course attribute to the wrath of the Penunggu of Bukit Suir, former residence of the langsuir or jungle sirens of Pertak.

In 1990, when Bidar Chik's father was batin of Kampung Pertak, loggers brought in bulldozers to finish off the surrounding hills. Today the terrain is one enormous scab - laterite baked to a crumbly black crust where only ferns and hardy scrub will grow. True, a scattering of young trees is starting to green out the view, but it could take another thirty years for these poor hills to regain the look of majestic jungle-clad mountains. And probably another three hundred before the magical vitality of the area is fully restored.

A most distressing sight is the proliferation of mud gullies - some nearly 60 feet deep - the result of rainwater rushing down old logging trails and washing tons of red earth into the rivers, which ultimately end up flooding the low-lying districts. So a few chaps get to be instant millionaires and Tan Sris (an honorific title equivalent to knighthood) - but who picks up the tab at the end of the ecocidal debauch? It's one thing to read about the deleterious effects of deforestation. Quite another to feel the desolation and ruin of a once-verdant ridge after humans have violated it.

Some evenings before dusk, I would climb the nearest scabby peak to bask in a panorama of ethereal beauty and serenity. The hill I usually stand upon and the ones adjacent are sad and wounded - but the faraway peaks still look pristine, at least from a distance. Ironic that such a vision of eternal promise can only be enjoyed from the vantage point of grim destruction - for if the brutal logging hadn't denuded the spot, I wouldn't be getting this 360-degree overview of heavenly perfection. Somehow I know that my being there, and feeling moved by the indestructible grandeur of it all, and sending the spirit of the place total love, must have a healing effect.

More and more I've become aware how painful and savage the history of this planet has been. It's reflected in our own lives. How many of us have escaped unscathed by the negative imprints of our parents - and their parents' parents in a sequence of trauma that can be traced all the way back to Adam? Expulsion from the Garden... The so-called Fall... Hurt and humiliation... Rejection...The Extermination Program... Revenge! We shall annihilate God's bloody Garden and replace it with one of our own making: 100% synthetic, air-conditioned, designer-landscaped at budget-boggling expense. And this time... NO SNAKES!


And no one can ever expel us from it - because we hold the title deeds. (Our lawyers have been working on it since Hammurabi established the Legal Code.) Show me your Secret Handshake, Boys. Long live the Plutocracy of Patriarchal Panjandrums!

The longer I live out here in the Wilderness, the more clearly I can see where my Shadow Self has been hiding. Fame and Fortune. Power and Prestige. Don't worry, we have everything under control. The land has been assessed, the property valuated, and soon it will be converted into Real Estate...

ONE SUNNY DAY beneath a clear blue sky, I sat on a rock, feet immersed in the fast-flowing, healing waters of my favorite river. (A rock of some distinction, I might add: a veritable Throne of Stone I had fondly named Le Fauteuil du Diable or Armchair of the Devil, after an obscure landmark in the south of France.) I was particularly receptive that afternoon, thanks to the lovely cup of black tea I had just imbibed. For the record, it was Boh tea - laced with the juice of freshly-picked sacred mushrooms (ritually used by shamans as a catalyst to enhanced awareness).

Soon I could feel my ego membrane dilate and my perceptual range ballooning out to include everything around me. I was now an integral part of the scene, a protean/protein extension of the Devil's Armchair. Indeed, I was the embodiment of the nature deity some call Pan. I became acutely aware of the ferns on the opposite bank of the river. It was like sitting in the center of a natural amphitheater. I nodded in acknowledgement of the ferns, and a gentle breeze rippled through them, making them wave courteously back in greeting.

We began to converse telepathically... and suddenly it wasn't just the ferns that were present. I found myself plugged into Nature's own Etheric Web and participating in a symposium conducted with multiple-channel, multi-dimensional, interactive hook-ups. The experience was sublimely insightful and uplifting, though very difficult to report in logical, linear terms. Let's say it is delightfully liberating not to be trapped in one's “skin-encapsulated ego” (as Alan Watts, my favorite rascal philosopher, once put it).


“Individuality” was the key issue. Neither ferns, nor rocks, nor fish, nor birds, nor worms, nor the wind and water dancing ceaselessly in rainbow spirals through cycles large and small, had any notion of being separate, discretely defined individuals. Only humans were blessed, or cursed, with this strange condition called Me-hood.

As such, we are perceived by Nature as an Ecosystemic Virus. But what exactly is a “virus”? A crystallized thought-form: a restructuring agent with the power to mutate and transmute and permute - in creative as well as destructive modes. Anabolic, catabolic... and now, with access to the 64 codons of the Genetic Code, we could wipe out eons of cellular memory with a mere toss of yarrow stalks, or the click of a mouse, or the flick of a balance sheet...

“No way!” the goddess Gaia spoke, her voice a gentle breeze on my goosebumpy skin. “I need you to plant the kiss of True Love on my lips, to wake me from my evolutionary slumber. You are the reflection of my spirit, the mirror of my beauty. I need you around to admire and adore me, and help me ascend to true Stardom.”

“Me?” I momentarily transformed myself into Robert De Niro (a pretty remarkable shapeshifter himself). “You talking to me?”

“Not you as a manufactured personality, silly. I mean YOU as a species. You, Human, are the completion of my neural circuitry, the quintessence of all kingdoms - mineral, vegetable, animal, angelic, and demonic. When wholly human, you are godlike.”

So what is God like?


IT DOESN’T REQUIRE very much. All we need to do is change our perspective, unify our polarities, shift our paradigms, reverse our priorities.

The untidy bits of plastic and styrofoam and rusty metal we can clear up and recycle in a jiffy. No problem.

Noxious gases and toxic wastes are a measure of the ethical and aesthetical inadequacies of those who produce them. Treatment is available for anyone who seeks it - and it's quite painless. Confidentiality assured. JUST TURN IN YOUR ARMAMENTS AT THE DOOR. No one will be punished.

And we'll introduce you to a bacterium that will devour all the pollutants and die of bliss. Or a new breed of super-yogis and wizards who can stuff industrial gunk in their corncobs and transmute it into multi-colored smoke-rings of divine incense (all the while cracking lewd leprechaun jokes).

Trees we may respectfully remove from the forests according to need (and our need will dramatically decrease when we discover that quality paper products can be obtained from swift-growing species of hemp and other fibrous weeds) - but we shall have to use heavy-duty tweezers, not bulldozers.

And the extraction of non-renewable resources will have to be supervised by independently funded ecoscientists - not the chief minister's sister-in-law (unless, of course, she happens to be a true-blue Greenie).

And the Orang Asli will let us introduce them to the joys of reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic - if we open our hearts to their spontaneous songs of freedom, and their genetic memory of Heaven on Earth... not in the Hereafter.

[Originally published in The SUN Megazine, 28 October 1994; expanded draft published in Men’s Review, April 1996]



Thursday, December 31, 2015

2016 ~ Extraordinary in every way!


MAY YOUR JOYS INCREASE &
YOUR SORROWS CEASE
IN THIS MOST EXTRAORDINARY YEAR
2016


Completing the Old for A New Beginning...


Sunday, December 27, 2015

THE SEVEN FORBIDDEN WORDS ~ by Robert Anton Wilson (repost)


OR: How George Carlin Made Legal History
by Robert Anton Wilson
(from Quantum Psychology)

Everybody understands that you cannot drink the word "water," and yet virtually nobody seems entirely free of semantic delusions entirely comparable to trying to drink the pixels that form the word "water" on this page or the sound waves produced when I say "water" aloud. If you say, "The word is not the thing," everybody agrees placidly; if you watch people, you see that they continue to behave as if something called Sacred "really is" Sacred and something called Junk "really is" Junk.

This type of neurolinguistic "hallucination" appears so common among humans that it usually remains invisible to us, as some claim water appears invisible to fish, and we will continue to illustrate it copiously as we proceed. On analysis, this "word hypnosis" seems the most peculiar fact about the human race. Count Alfred Korzybski said we "confuse the map with the territory." Alan Watts said we can't tell the menu from the meal. However one phrases it, humans seem strangely prone to confusing their mental file cabinets - neurolinguistic grids - with the non-verbal world of sensory-sensual space-time.

As Lao-Tse said in the Tao Te Ching, 2500 years ago:

The road you can talk about is not the road you can walk on.

(Or:

The way that can be spoken is not the way that can be trodden.)

We all "know" this (or think that we do) and yet we all perpetually forget it.

For instance, in the United States = an allegedly secular Democracy with an "iron wall" of separation between Church and State written into its Constitution - the Federal Communications Commission has a list of Seven Forbidden Words which nobody may speak on the radio or television. Any attempt to find out why these words remain Tabu leads into an epistemological fog, a morass of medieval metaphysics, in which concepts melt like Salvador Dali's clocks and ideas become as slippery as a boat deck in bad weather.

One cannot dismiss this mystery as trivial. When comedian George Carlin made a record ("Occupation: Foole") discussing, among other things, "The seven words you can never say on television," WBAI radio (New York) played the record, and received a fine so heavy that, although the incident occurred in 1973, WBAI, a small listener-sponsored station, recently announced (1990) that they have not yet paid all their legal costs in fighting the case, which went all the way to the Supreme Court. The Eight Wise Men (and One Wise Woman) thereon upheld the Federal Communications Commission.

The highest court in the land has actually ruled on what comedians may and may not joke about. George Carlin has become something more than a comedian. He now has the status of a Legal Precedent. You will pay a heavy fine, in the U.S. today, if you speak any of the Seven Forbidden Words on radio or television - shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits.

The words have been forbidden, "our" Government says, because they "are" "indecent." Why "are" they "indecent"? Because a certain percentage of people who might turn on the radio or TV experience them as "indecent."

Why do sombunall people experience these words as "indecent"? Because the words "are" "dirty" or "vulgar."

Why "are" these words "dirty" and "vulgar" when other words, denoting the same objects or events, "are" not "dirty" or "vulgar"? Why, specifically, can a radio station be fined if a psychologist on a talk show says "He was so angry he wouldn't fuck her anymore" but not fined at all if the psychologist says "He was so angry he stopped having sexual intercourse with her"?

As Mr. Carlin pointed out in the comedy routine which led the Supreme Court to perform their even more remarkable comedy routine, fucking seems one of the most common topics on television, even though nobody uses the word. To paraphrase Mr. Carlin, many guests on the Merv Griffin and Donahue shows have written books on how to fuck or who to fuck or how to fuck better, and nobody objects as long as they say "sexual intercourse" instead of "fucking." And, of course, as Carlin goes on, the main topics on soap operas, day after day, consist of who has fucked whom, will she fuck him, will he fuck somebody else, have they fucked yet, who's getting fucked now, etc.

Some say "fuck" "is" "dirty" and "sexual intercourse" isn't because "fuck" comes from the Anglo-Saxon and "sexual intercourse" comes from the Latin. But then we must ask: how did Anglo-Saxon get to be "dirty" and why does Latin remain "clean"?

Well, others tell us, "fuck" represents lower-class speech and "sexual intercourse" represents middle-and-upper class speech. This does not happen to accord with brute fact, statistically: I have heard the word "fuck" in the daily (non-radio) conversation of professors, politicians, business persons, poets, movie stars, doctors, lawyers, police persons and most of the population of sombunall classes and castes, except a few religious conservatives.

And, even if "fuck" did occur exclusively in lower-class speech, we do not know, and can hardly explain, why it has been subject to a huge and bodacious fine when such other lower-class locutions as "ain't," "fridge" (for refrigerator), "gonna" and "whyncha" (why don't you) have not fallen under similar sanction. Nor have we yet seen a ban on the distinctly lower class "Jeet?" "Naw - Jew?" (Did you eat? No, did you?)


The fact that some enclaves of religious conservatives do not use the word "fuck" (or are embarrassed if they get caught using it) seems to provide the only clue to this mystery. The Federal Communications Commission, it seems, bases its policy upon persons who believe, or for political reasons wish to seem to believe, that the rather paranoid "God" of the conservative religions has His own list of Seven Forbidden Words and will become quite irate if the official Tabu list of our government does not match His list. Since that particular Deity has a reputation for blowing a few cities to hell whenever he feels annoyed, the F.C.C. may, in the back of their heads, think they will prevent further earthquakes by maintaining the Tabu on the Seven Unspeakable Words.


The Wall of Separation between Church and State, like many other pious pronouncements in our Constitution, does not correspond with the way our government actually functions. In short, the Seven Forbidden Words remain forbidden because pronouncing them aloud might agitate some Stone Age deity or other, and we still live in the same web of Tabu that controls other primitive peoples on this boondocks planet.

Some light seems about to dawn in the semantic murk... but let us press further and ask why the conservative's Stone Age "God" objects to "fuck" and not to "sexual intercourse" or such synonyms as "coitus," "copulation," "sexual congress," "sexual union," "love-making," etc.? Should we believe this "God" has a violent prejudice against words which, in reputation if not in reality, seem to reflect lower-class culture? Does this "God" dislike poor people as much as Ronald Reagan did?

Perhaps the reader will appreciate the immensity of this mystery more fully if I ask a related question:


If the word "fuck" "is" obscene or "dirty," why isn't the word "duck" 75% "dirty"?

Or, similarly:

If the word "cunt" "is" unacceptable to the conservative's "God," why does the word "punt" not receive a 75% unacceptability rating? Why do we not see it spelled "p---" in the daily press?

To quote the admirable George Carlin one more time, "Such logic! Such law!"
Exercizes

1. Try to explain the difference between a Playboy centerfold and a nude by Renoir. Discuss among the whole group and see if you can arrive at a conclusion that makes sense when stated in operational-existential language.

2. Perform the same delicate semantic analysis upon a soft-core porn movie and a hard-core porn movie. Remember: try to keep your sentences operational, and avoid Aristotelian essences or spooks.

3. When U.S. troops entered Cambodia, the Nixon administration claimed this "was not" an invasion, because it "was only" an incursion. See if anybody can restate this difference in operational language.

4. The C.I.A. refers to certain acts as "termination with extreme prejudice." The press describes these acts as "assassinations." Try to explain to each other the difference. Also, imagine yourselves as the victims. Do you care deeply whether your death gets called "termination with extreme prejudice" or "assassination"?

5. In the 1950s, the film "The Moon Is Blue," became a center of controversy and actually got banned in some cities because it contained the word "virgin." How does this seem in retrospect? Discuss. (If anybody finds Mr. Carlin's paraphrased jokes offensive let them explain why the above film no longer seems offensive.)

Robert Anton Wilson © 1990


IN MEMORIAM: 
master of hilaritas, George Denis Patrick Carlin 
(12 May 1937 ~ 22 June 2008)

[Kindly brought to my attention by Steven Pratt. First posted 11 December 2008, reposted 16 November 2013]