Random Photo

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A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Random Photo: Smile, Tho…

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A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.


Random Photo

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Click image to enlarge.

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

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The Jesus Silo

The Silo is a very odd, very large (67 feet tall) statue known as the Christ of the Ozarks, erected on Magnetic Mountain in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I call it the Jesus Silo because it reminds me of a grain elevator or silo. It reminds some people of a giant milk carton with arms. I like to imagine, in event of the Rapture, the head and shoulders split down the middle, tilt open, and the Thermonuclear Missile of Salvation emerges from the top wreathed in smoke and fire, streaking to Heaven along the souls of the elect.

I was married to Mrs. Dr. Omed at a scenic turnout on Magnetic Mountain overlooking Eureka Springs by a woman minister who had altars to Buddha and her Guru on the dash of her old Volkswagen Rabbit, in which we rode to the turnout.  When I was a kid my family often drove through the Ozarks on Fall “Leaf Tours” and we usually passed through Eureka Springs on these trips, sometimes staying overnight.  The Jesus Silo impends in my childhood memories of fall vacations, a clunky white plaster souvenir, along with the taste of the first hush puppies I ever ate, at a catfish restaurant down in the valley below.

Thought Balloon: No One Expects

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*Living with bipolar disorder is like being trapped inside a Monty Python skit. Instead of a British twit dressed like a Catholic cardinal bursting onto the set and pronouncing the punchline “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” doom enters the room at the end of the mind and announces, “No one expects the Existential Despair!

Except… Living with. I don’t live with bipolar disorder, I am that disorder. I am not the one suffering from the disorder of manic depression, I am disorder. I am the Monty Python skit. I am the doom that knocks.

Random Photo: Give not sleep to thine eyes


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A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Tight crop:

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Bonus King James Version:

Give not sleep to thine eyes, nor slumber to thine eyelids.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:
Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
Provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest.

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How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard?
when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?
Yet a little sleep, a little slumber,
a little folding of the hands to sleep:
So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth,
and thy want as an armed man.

Proverbs 6: 4, 6-11

Thought Balloon: Mere War Of All

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*In this our virtual panopticon the cyborg hash of ghosts often seems to be fighting Hobbes’ “mere war of all against all.” Everyone has an opinion. In the pulpit of the text box, it’s bully or be bullied. Hot cognition uber alles. But online “discourse” is not so much War-of-All-against-All. It’s more War of All Those Who Can Dish It But Not Take It, against All. And in that war all have equal right unto all whinge.

Ostendo primo conditionem hominum extra societatem civilem (quam conditionem appellare liceat statum naturae) aliam non esse quam bellum omnium contra omnes; atque in eo bello jus esse omnibus in omnia.

I demonstrate in the first place, that the state of men without civil society (which state we may properly call the state of nature) is nothing else but a mere war of all against all; and in that war all men have equal right unto all things.

Thomas Hobbes

Steal This Meme: Dead Labor Day

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I would like to propose that the first Tuesday of September be declared “Dead Labor Day.”  I think we all should acknowledge the victory of Capital over Labor in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. The victory of corporate personhood over persons. The victory of debt-based fiat finance over everyone else.  We built that.

Labor, in the sense of doing real work making real stuff or providing real services for non-corporate real people, is almost dead. Modern capital, unrestrained free enterprise, has almost sucked us dry, sucking more and more jobs from the economy. Unions have been reviled, weakened, co-opted, destroyed. The dwindling number of people doing real work are generally ill paid and looked down upon. Just ask a teacher. Ask the immigrants who harvest and prepare our food. Ask the people who take of the elderly in the warehouses for dying. Et fucking cetera. The rest of us either have no job at all or are ourselves partially vampirized minions like Renfield in Dracula, feeding flies to spiders, spiders to birds, on the grovel for a cat. Confined to the cube farm like inmates in an asylum. We want more life. A bigger cat.

“Making” has become a hobby. An accessory to the lifestyle. Cosplay with tools. Very few of us are doing, as Gary Snyder put, the common work of the tribe. In this twilight in which we find ourselves, labor is fetishized, not celebrated, even on Labor Day. Let us remember that on Dead Labor Day.