A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Public Service Announcement


14 April 2014

Visible is moving home April 15th 2014.

At the same time, all his blogs - including this one, will be relocating, too; this means that soon this page will disappear - as will all other pages on Vis' sites. The move (the blogs' move that is, not lord Visible's) is expected to take somewhere between 3 and 8 Earth days so should complete some time between 18 and 25 April 2014.

The blogs will remain accessible however, on their old blogspot.com URLS, and here is where you are going to find them - so please bookmark the following links!


Reflections in a Petri Dish
Smoking Mirrors
Visible Origami


Please also be aware that although all the existing blogs' content will remain accessible, many image links and other bits and pieces may look a bit tatty for the duration of the move (not that anyone visits Vis blogs for pretty pictures anyway, but it's just polite to let you know)



Thank you for bearing with us during the move!



Visible Blogs


Monday, December 17, 2007

Mea Culpa

Sometimes you have to clarify, if only in your own mind so that you can show yourself what you think. Then again, later on in life when you’re being considered for that important secret government mission, it’s a good fallback in case your loyalty is questioned.

I don’t hate America at all, sometimes I think I should but I don’t. Unlike others, neither America nor Baiseball has been berry good to me. In fact, during my time in America my country treated me pretty poorly because of my foolish assumption that the amendments to the Constitution meant something. Sure, I acted out under the false impression that anyone wanted to hear the truth to begin with and my idea of guerrilla theater probably pissed off legitimate theater the same way my Socratic annoyances pissed of the Scientologists. But still, it didn’t work out well.

All of that aside, I love America. I love the idea of America anyway. America isn’t really a country. It’s an idea. The problem with ideas is that they are hard to translate into material conditions. It was the same thing with Communism. Some of my happiest moments were living on communes. It worked there. It didn’t work in Russia or anywhere else that I know of so far. The reason it didn’t work there and the reason that the idea of America doesn’t translate into the America that you see is because people got involved in interpreting it to the advantage of those looking to take advantage.

America is the idea that anyone can make it if they work hard and play by the rules. It is supposed to favor the entrepreneur and the Horatio Alger prototype. It’s supposed to exemplify freedom and other ideals long cherished in the human spirit. It’s been a failure at that. It is, in fact, not so gradually, mutating into tyranny. Things turn into their opposites. It happens. Now, in order to protect freedom, freedom must be sacrificed. What it comes down to is that someone doesn’t want to share. Someone missed that part of pre-school and kindergarten. That’s what happened.

That’s what happened to Communism too. Someone didn’t want to share. Both systems are beautiful ideas. You’re just not going to see them any time soon.

All the other explanations from the most simple to the most intricate are mostly bullshit. It comes down to people not wanting to share. This leads to the belief that there won’t be enough to go around and that leads to people being trampled in their efforts to buy a cheap laptop.

The thing is, there’s always enough to go around. There is always more than enough to go around. If you have an apple tree and that apple tree is healthy it is going to give you more than enough apples to eat. That’s Nature’s way and that extrapolates into all of the other areas of existence. There’s always more air than you need to breathe and more water than you need to drink. I don’t care what anyone says about this, there’s always more.

So when I rail against what I see America up to it doesn’t mean I hate America. I’m just disappointed. I also don’t like seeing people get hurt for no other reason than that people don’t want to share. That’s what’s behind Iraq and all the other bloodfests. That’s what’s behind the genocide in Palestine and that’s what’s happening in The Congo and Myanmar and anywhere else. People don’t want to share.

They don’t want to share power or resources. They don’t want to share the stage. They don’t want to share the fruit but would rather feed it to cattle that drink up all the water and account for a whole lot of not sharing and lead to some fat-cat braying over his martini glass something like, “How do you like those apples?” He’s not talking about tree apples, if you catch my drift.

So all of the people who don’t want to share come up with the most creative explanations and theories; like ‘trickle down’ and privatizing social security. They create charities where the money disappears. They respond to disasters and create new disasters and nothing is ever anyone’s fault. It’s certainly not the fault of the people whose fault it is and it’s definitely not the fault of whatever stooge they set up; whoever they hired on the basis of his incompetence to take the heat for what ‘they’ did.

This is the same thing with war. Wars are created because people don’t want to share and then the blame for the war is placed on all kinds of circumstances and people who are only momentarily connected to it. When I say people don’t want to share I should add something else. That’s not the only thing; not wanting to share. Not only do they not want to share but they want more too. This is the state of Israel today where not sharing and wanting more has been turned into an art form.

This is the state of America today where not sharing and wanting more has led to a whole lot of other people wanting more because they hardly have anything at all. That’s why you see all those homeless people and why you have all that crime and why people are unable to get medical treatment and you can add just about anything here. It’s all about not wanting to share and wanting more that you also won’t share and wanting more still that you will still not share.

So, when you hear me go on about America, or Israel, or ‘The City’ in London or anywhere those who don’t share and want more get together to squeeze a little more out of whoever has less than them well... remember. It isn’t because I hate anyone. It’s because it’s wrong and because it disappoints me to see it when I know it doesn’t have to be like that. It also shames me to be an American.

I was at a dinner last night that was attended by people of various nationalities. At one point I was speaking to a group and I noticed that some people were staring at me with their mouths open and something that was either shock or surprise on their faces. So I asked, “What’s wrong.” This woman said to me. “Nothing, it’s just that I never expected to hear an American say these things.” Others chimed in as well with pretty much the same response.

How do you think that makes me feel? First off I have to live as an expatriate because I couldn’t live as I do and say the things that I do in my own country or they would put me in jail. They’ve already done that several times before. Then I have to live in other countries while my country is behaving badly and killing people because they don’t want to share, while also bullying their supposed friends into going along with it. It creates resentment. Meanwhile, I am one of the very Americans that doesn’t have any connection to this bad behavior. Man... it just ain’t fair.

The killing truth is that none of it has to be this way. Why all of the people who don’t have enough or are pushed up against the wall by circumstance allow these people to go on as they do is a mystery to me. Stranger still is why so many of them support people who are in the business of taking away still more of what little they have to begin with.

It’s past tiresome to watch all these silicone slick faces telling the same old lies about what they’re going to do and then watch them do none of it. In a real world where the idea was the reality these Teletubby monster pigs would have long been driven into the exploding hog lagoons that they’ve turned everybody’s landscape into. They’d have been dealt with according to the laws and principles inherent in the idea of the place that- unfortunately- does not have any recourse to the laws and principles upon which it is based.

Well, there it is. If we could just find our way back to understanding and acting out of the things we should have learned as little children I wouldn’t have to say the things I do. Until that happens I can’t see as how I have any choice but to continue to.

Visible sings: God in Country by Les Visible♫ Pure Sweet Love ♫
'Pure Sweet Love' is track no. 8 of 11 on Visible's 2001 album 'God in Country'
Lyrics (pops up)

God in Country by Les Visible

Monday, December 10, 2007

Launching a New Blog and Tripping through the same Bog

This site is supposed to be about cultural things and it has been. Lately I’ve used it for more poetic offerings... stream of consciousness and whatever I was feeling or thinking about that didn’t fit in the other blogs. So... I’m going to create a blog for that; poetry... random musings... purely creative things that don’t ‘have to be’ about anything but will always be about something.

So, I’m going to launch that new blog here today. I don’t know what I’m going to call it yet but doing this will provoke me into following through. This is just a once upon a time thing here. Next time this will go back to being a cultural blog and we’ll try to focus on the varieties of bacteria that will show up depending on the particular glass slide under the microscope. It won’t always be bacteria. There are other life forms.

I’m going to post a series of short poems that may or may not be about anything the reader imagines them to be about. Poetry is hard to define. One thing you can say about poetry is that it is either inspired or constructed. Most poetry is constructed because most poets aren’t poets. They just want to be poets. Poetry can get people laid and it’s also a medium for personal definition. Everybody thinks they want to be Don Juan DeMarcos, as long as it doesn’t get them institutionalized. People want the flash without the pain. That’s why people will go away to weekend seminars and become Reiki masters or psycho-therapists. If they had to do something all of the time and it took a long time to achieve any degree of perfection they’re not as interested.

Saying these things doesn’t make me a poet. There aren’t very many poets and those who are, are not the happiest of mortals during their time here because they straddle two different worlds. One isn’t a poet in and of themselves. Poets are those who have found the favor of The Muse. They don’t write the poetry, they are merely the delivery system. If you have the favor of The Muse, you are aware of it. Otherwise it’s more like channeling Ramtha or something. If you look into the new age adverts in any major city you will find dozens of people channeling some strange agencies. You’ll find multiple incidences of people channeling Moses and other famous figures. It’s a mystery to me why Moses or the rest of them would need more than one faucet but... what do I know?

A few years ago, one of the worst poets who ever lived and who wasn’t a poet but was mislabeled as one; ...Rod McKuen, made six million dollars in one year. It is possible that he made more money than all of the other poets put together before the century he was in. Certainly no one else came close to that figure. No other celebrated poet was as execrable as Rod McKuen. There’s a message there.

Well... just a few things to launch the boat; untitled and undefined.




The old fellow
grew backwards
Each situation
Was a return
So that light
was
A bright sequence of mirrors
facing emptiness


Whether you are
or have been
I do not know
I
is the pivoting of mind
upon itself
A moment in view
of what has passed beyond you


The spirit of God sings through
everyone
but sometimes it
carries a tune


The fool
looked long and deeply
into the pool
where swim
myriads of enchanted fish
Millions of eyes lit the forest with life
while we were
light years away
coupling in God this morning


Graceful rivers edge you have become
the soul of nature in an unknown tongue
The nightingale of love
The softness of rain
The mist on the mountains
The heart of the flameAnd I lean upon your motion
like a wave upon the ocean


Raft of love
ride easy on the waves
you know what makes men slaves
And though you cannot
force them to be free
You will not leave the sea


Eternal
Forever eternal
Within the absolute
our destinies entwine
and burn
like candles of endless wax
A time traveled circle of events
Interchangeable
Creating God and man
To become each other


Tao
is the cat’s meow
in the magic forest of dreams


Under the deepest rock
in the furthest reach of time
God wrote his name
in little letters
In a fine hand
he wrote
God


Moments held together
by the web of interwoven motion
like one sad and secret ocean
heaving
We plaited fingers
on midnight beaches
in shades dressed
beneath the lightof eternity’s half sister
We closed our openings with each other


When your heart is broken
When the mirror in which you imagined yourself
has been shattered
and the glittering shards
of love’s greatest and most tragic illusion
lies broken
and utterly beyond repair
in the dust of some metaphorical street
Sweep...sweep...sweep

Monday, December 03, 2007

Caught Between a Bad Cake and an Earache

Bzzzt...Bzzzt...Bzzzt

I'm standing in the rain in Sin City. My Santa suit is turning into an Indian rain dance version of McArthur Park and the Man called Horse is dead.

Karen Carpenter still loves me. I wish Minnie Ripperton did; both dead...just me and Micky Rourke and this bad plastic surgeon standing here. I forget why. I feel sick. People tell me I am sick. It's still raining...my Santa suit...it didn't fit when I got it...now? Don't ask.

It's hot for some reason. I should be cold. It should be as cold as my heart but....

rain...

voices....

something is melting in the rain and I don't think it will ever be the same again.

I did everything I could. I did my vulnerable James Dean thing. He's dead too; not cause of me though. Not cause of me.

I reached out and

touched somebodys hand...wait a minute...is that another song?...no, McArthur's Park is still playing. It feels like it will go on forever. Last time I heard it, it did. How come? ...never mind.

I'm not Jason. I can't even skate all that well, much less play hockey. I could have learned though, if life hadn't gotten in the way...I...who?

Somewhere back down the road I wanted to do something. Now there's just that old Tarzan movie playing in the electronics store across the street...no sound...it's quiet except I want to kill Richard Harris. But if Celine Dion and the Belmont’s walk by right now, Johnny Wadd won't have to dress up like an Indian in that small house across the street in North Hollywood. It's strange... I thought he died on Wonderland Drive... no... that was the other guys. Anyway Richard would be safe if Celine walked by. I just want to kill someone but it has to mean something....there's this big multi-tiered cake...it's melting. I really don't think I can take it again. Elton's gone. One of the grooms is buried to his waist in mascarpone, the other one is just a bump in the icing. I don't want to think about what's going on...down there in the part of the cake that I can't see.

I asked somebody to play. I gave him a challenge... I waited. Wait a minute...keep waiting...nobody came. I would have done Shakespeare; Conan-Doyle, even R. Crumb but nobody came. Some lawyer broad from the ‘burbs made me famous for about five minutes on a dysfunctional message board...Shakespeare, Crumb...? Bzzzt...Bzzzt... that cake ...all the sweet green icing...moonlight. Old Man Moon...or is that River...no, he died outside that club. I had sex with Winona that night...later. Johnny Depp was tied up...no not like that...he and River were tight. Winona told me that people referred to her as 'wanna ride her'.... that was some really nice icing... Did that actually happen? ...I think so- the number she gave me worked. I know because it rang and rang and rang.

It must have been one of those things like that song "Patches"...down by the river that floats by the coal yard...floats by...shudders torn down...girl named...Patches...from Old Shanty Town. She has her friends after all...she could have been pretending or just hungry but...who would fake an orgasm 5 times? ...and it wasn't even for some kind of camera thing. But she's an actress...yeah, so am I.

I wanted to play...but nobody answered me and it was Christmas too...the sweet green icing looked like blood in the traffic lights. Why didn't anybody challenge me...what? did they think I couldn’t do it?....probably...it's no fun here. People throw dirty snowballs from behind parked cars but they don't let me play...

Sad, lonely...twisted guy...limp Santa hat in his hand...Hey guys!! anyone...? anyone?...sniff...sniff...

I've got this tight feeling in my chest...my father is going to beat me when I get home...even worse...he's been dead for some years...Steven King country....I wish my mom was still cute...

Bzzzt...Bzzzt...Bzzzt... fucking neon...so this is Vegas? You can have it. I still got money though. I keep getting more and more ...what the fuck am I going to do with it? Pay somebody to keep the icing from melting? Dig up Richard Harris and party down with John Barrymore...Errol Flynn is still biting the balls off of sheep from where I stand in fractured fugue time.

I was told what didn't kill me would only make me stronger but I can't defend my heart against the lies. All I know about myself is that I never ‘threaten’ to kill anyone....I’m more into apologizing after it happens. ...you and the green icing in the same box with Richard....They said I touched little kids...they said I hated Jews...what's next...commercials?...politics?...religion?....it took so long to fake it and I'll never have that...that....fuck...!

Dateline called...makes me think there might be hope... no... kidding myself ....stupid Santa suit...stupid fucking hat...friends gone....you're just a piece of shit...smack! Smack! Does that hurt? that doesn't hurt enough...no, ...I'm going to cut myself...I'll show them...they'll feel bad when I'm gone. They'll have to listen to all that shit about green icing and go to bed with Celine or even Barbra...yeah that's it...I'll make the whole world take acid and Yohimbe and go to bed with them ...and Elton and them will sing 80's duets all night long along with Lionel Ritchie's daughter.

I thought if I pretended to be Santa and pretended to be high they would....does that hurt? How about this you piece of shit...you dirty little piece of shit!!!!..... I look like Mother Teresa on her period exclamation point...it doesn't hurt and I won't cry....I'm not afraid...why wouldn't they play. I wanted to play...stupid Santa suit...poor bedraggled hat...broken heart....fade....


Merry Christmas! Hello? Anybody? Mickey? Richard?


Credits....


Bzzzt...Bzzzt...Bzzzt....keep on truckin....

What the Hell! Man... that was a bad dream. How come the bedroom stinks of ozone? maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe this is the dream or I'm actually in a coma in a hospital bed somewhere and... Well, I could be catatonic too- medicated up in some institution... Bzzzt... Bzzzt...

The bad thing is that I can still hear McArthur Park playing somewhere. I know it wasn't playing when I went to sleep last night. I'm really hungry now but I'm afraid to look in the icebox. I'm afraid there's a big green cake in there with tunnels eaten all through it and that I will see the red eyes of rats in parkas watching me from the shadowed interior of the tunnels in the cake. Look out for the bad stranger. Look out for the bad cake... melting in the rain.

I shoulda been a junkie in Samarkand... pipe-dreaming, hype injecting... watching rainbows explode on the inside of my eyelids... turning into dancing musical notes cartooning their way across the horizontal ...like ducks in a shooting gallery.

Well... it hasn't been real and it's not going to get real. I know that... I know it before I walk out the front door. But I've got my pretend face on and I should be able to fake my way through whatever happens until I get back home again. I don't really like going out but it's not the same as it was in Coleridge’s day. You pretty much have to go out at some point and then it's buzzing neon and strange people... Bzzzt... Bzzzt... At least here I'm not holding some wilted wet Santa hat and my feelings aren't being hurt. I'm way past that on this side of the dream... unless I'm in a hospital bed or an institution... or? Bzzzt... Bzzzt... neon buzzing... telephone ringing...