Brovic - Blogging Since 1903, Then Quit For A While, Then Started Up Again
November 2011
Thank You, Water
PINE RIDGE Indian Reservation, SD - HEY! WHERE YOU BEEN AT?
I don't know about you, but me, myself, I've gotta be in 'my space' to write. A coffee shop or airport lounge doesn't cut it. Sure, you can zip off a quick confused, incoherent message amidst overloud distracting chatter and espresso machine...how would you describe that sound?..KRRRRRRRRRRRTT....but for focused writing, like, to you, like, now, I've got to be in my space. From here, I can produce a clear and focused, concentrated, incoherent message.
That would be right here at home. Just got phone and internet. Only took 2011 years and eleven months. Just got water after a six-year wait, and electricity after two years of off-the-grid solar, four years of candlelight and batteries when the solar attempt failed, and after four months ago when I swallowed my eco-electro energy independence dream and went over there to Martin, SD and humbly requested service from Lake Creek Electric Company.
"You got a special deal for vets, or retired people on fixed income?" I asked the efficient and polite middle-aged lady like the kind you see working for years at a rural electric company.
"No," she said.
"How does it work, then?" I asked.
"The way it works is, you give us money, and we give you electricity."
They wanted a signature on a ten-year contract, just short of marriage, so I scrawled 'Peter Larsen' on their paperwork, laid down about $700 bucks up front for the poles and the deposit and the survey and the crew lunch and office party and gas and whatnot, and here about a month ago, they came out the very same day the tribal water crew installed the long-awaited yard hydrant, and run the lines and set the poles, telephone poles, inadvertently cutting through the Mini Wiconi water line with that bigass hydraulic auger when they drilled the holes for the poles. I had water for fifteen minutes.
"Couldn't have hit it more dead center if they'd laid out tobacco and prayed," I told Bo and Misty, who were over here drinking coffee and getting some kinda way, hearing the story three times. "There's only one place those lines (water & electric) intersect, and they nailed it."
Thinking maybe it was just me, I asked the guy, "This has happened before, right?"
It had. Not alll the time, but it had, like the time they went through a, wha'd he say?, a four-inch line? and had the truck submerged before a bigass wrecker pulled them out of the sinkhole they'd created. It happens, he said with a shrug of resignation. Fortunately, the water crew was still here with their backhoe and bobcat, and repaired the water line straight away, as the gecko likes to say.*
Anyway, I've got water and lights, lights on all over the place, and just here last night, phone and internet.
Maybe city and off-the-rez folks take all that for granted. Like, a shower and indoor flush toilet. After all this 3rd-World time doing without, hauling water, out of communication, and sleeping on a Meadowlark's schedule, I can just say I'm pretty happy about life here in Slim Buttes.
Soooo, just because you haven't heard from me doesn't mean I don't care, or haven't been thinking of you. I have. And it may sound cliche', but I've been meaning to write. Really. I've got notes, notes out the ass.
Let's see...let's see here. Yeah, I've just been out here checking my traps, managing air traffic control up in here, and waiting for contact from the Pleidians. That's what I told Jack and those Red Cloud nephews when they came out here, none of which seemed to register, because they just said, 'Uh huh'.
So to make an imprint and see how much attention they were paying, I shouted out, "TO HELL WITH THE HOG MARKET REPORT! WE WANT SOME FUCKING FOOTBALL!" as I went over and changed the AM station on my little battery-operated radio, tuning in the Cornhuskers at home in Memorial stadium over in Lincoln.
They didn't laugh at that, either. I don't know what it was. Maybe they didn't know what to expect.
They seemed a bit apprehensive, staring at all the planes.
Mouse traps. But they didn't ask. Didn't ask who the Pleidians were, either. Just kind of nodded in agreement that they'd prefer the game over the price of pork bellies.
Here, on Pine Ridge, it would be a fair guess to say most Indians don't give a shit about livestock reports, but just down the way in the panhandle of Nebraska, from which the local station broadcasts, the price of grain futures and bulls and heifers and hogs dominates the noon news. Around here, the people become excited when water comes to the 'ville.
___
You see where my predictions came true? Shit falling from space? ('Alarm Raised Over Shit From Space' 07.03.09) Yeah. And I've got another one for you - things are going to get better before they get worse. Like that? That's what Reagan told us, and you can see he was right. Get government off our backs, he said. Trickle down economics. Um hmm.
So yeah, I'm trying to elevate to where y'all are at. Ipod, Ipad, GPS, palm pilot, cell and mo-bile device, text, twit, and triangulate, tweet astral realm and ascended light body, but things happen slowly out here, everybody knows. TMI, man. ixnay on the x-rays. Give me a hand search. Still trapped in human body. Still working without a net. Contact me by ESP.
Gotta elevate. Soon. Before 2012, they say. Before Armageddon. Before the rapture. Before Niburu. Gotta start working out. Gotta have some dreams. Gotta have some ideas. Where you going to get your ideas? Copy somebody else's? Join somebody's circus? You're going to need some hiking gear.
Double universe, parallel universe ain't nothin' but a theory. Just think, there's a person over there just like you, doing all the same shit, making all the same choices. Would they look over here, through the mirror, and ask you to cut 'em a break, cut 'em some slack?
___
The nephews understood the comment about air traffic control, seeing as how the air space here is becoming crowded, the home strength of the Slim Buttes 335th Tactical Aviation Squadron at fifteen aircraft. Yesssss. Fifteen. Eight new 7th ed. tri-wing Fokkers went out over the summer to some retar...special needs kids down in Colorado, with production working by candlelight filling back orders from before the economic downturn and later, a shutdown after that slut Li An took off to China with my templates** last summer, and after layoffs everybody knows its hard to get up and running to full steam once again. Even then, once you see a profit, it's hard to take on new people and not put that cash in your pocket.
Anyway, as of last quarter, end of July, the 335th experienced twelve downed aircraft from pilot error, six prop damage, ten landing gear failures, five strut and wing damage, one tail section mishap same same Reno air show, two downed from enemy fire, and one downed from cat playing tetherball.
Internal Affairs has taken over the investigation of the purported attempted sale of a squadron aircraft at Cubbies convenience store in Oglala for $4.99 by one of our pilots whose name is being withheld because of her age. A witness stated the pilot was unable to sell the aircraft.
Note to pilots: For minor damage, such as props and rudders, fix it in the field if you can. For more extensive damage, haul 'em in for general maintenance. And...no more flying over the grandstands! Period. No more horsing around. You see what can happen.
Ok. Mixing up a little work with play here. Play with work. Work is play. Work is play, they say. Work is play if you love what you do, and you're not working for an asshole. Gotta get the word out. We've got 86 pilots now, with No. 129 rolling out off the assembly line just last night. That rate of production over six years may seem anemic by Boeing or Lockheed standards, but for a one-man operation since the Myanmar girls got pissed and quit, it's not too bad.
**I'm going to deal with this here, as opposed to a footnote at the end of the story. Li An, you may recall, was my hateful English-speaking Myanmar crew boss. First, she incited the crew against me, then while I was home for the summer, she absconded to China with my templates, which she claims was her idea, and the result was my plane appearing on the street six months later as a cardboard cut-out with some assembly required. All of 'em blue. Mine are one-of-a-kind. Theirs are cheap, mine are $499.99. Theirs are made in China and stamped out, mine are handcrafted, made in the USA. Except for the ones that were made in Thailand, then shipped back to the US. Mine are limited edition, they've made a blue million of them. You can get theirs at Wal-mart and on the street; mine, you can't. They also produce a punch-out aircraft carrier; I don't.
So, there.
____
You ever experience the 'hurry up offense', caught unaware perhaps, where plays are coming at you so fast you haven't the time to organize a defense appropriate to the alignment on the field? Its later, when reviewing the events and replaying the tapes that you can get an accurate picture of what occurred, how it happened, what you could have done, what you could have said.
A person needs a generic, knee-jerk, off-the-shelf, reptilian, reflexive, prevent defense, some kind of preparatory instantaneous survival mechanism. Fight, flight, lie, deceive, cajole, manipulate. Catch 'em napping. Stop 'em in the red zone. Keep 'em out of field goal range. Make 'em punt.
____
Did I give you the results of the croquet golf tournament, the 1st Annual Slim Buttes Invitational Croquet Golf Tournament? I won it. Ballanco took silver. Ted Ebert got the bronze. That was Labor Day Weekend, following a last-minute agreement between the owners and players arriving at a settlement, which means the 2012 croquet golf season is BACK ON!
Back in July we held a weekend 'Zero-Tolerance' Advanced Fly-Swatting workshop for adults, focusing on long-term vigilance, long-distance recognition, interdiction and elimination. There were breakout sessions on fundamentals and techniques such as the feint, the overshot, the no-look backhand, fade-away, the ceiling slapshot, and 'coming out of the sun'.
Upon completion of the program, participants were presented with new, vinyl 'Nevva Miss' swatters in the shape of a hand. We made a video. You can check it out on UTube.
Maybe city and off-the-rez folks don't have to deal with flies the way we do, either. Out here, it's a basic fact of life, and we take it seriously. Quite seriously.
____
Do you have a personal trainer? No offense if you do. Complete the sentence; A person who has a personal trainer is someone who...
Just wondering. How about a hero? On the radio an ad for returning vets said at the end, something to the effect of...'let's help our wounded warriors...let's help our heroes...' which sent me seeking a dictionary definition of heroism. Yes, like you'd suspect...'above and beyond...without regard for one's own safety...courage...sacrifice.'
Sure, many of the vets are heroes, without a doubt, but it requires more than putting on the uniform. There's nothing heroic about getting blown away by a roadside blast. Not everybody who takes a hit was doing something heroic at the time. It is more a matter of unfortunate circumstance, a wrong place and time, no hero in the humvee, no extraordinary measure of valor. Can you be a hero just going along for the ride? Can you just toss the word around?
The reason I ask about a personal trainer is, why? We had personal trainers, too. It was called a swing set.
____
Waterboarding couldn't have been worse. About a little more than halfway through the appointment, I had as much as I could stand, the breaking point, I flashed the girls a timeout signal and literally leapt up from the dental chair. I HAD to swallow. I HAD to spit. They recoiled in surprise. I asked them, "You ever have people jump up like that?"
"No," they said, shaking their heads.
"You're kidding me!" I thought it to be a common occurrence. I told them I could take it, but only for so long, then I had to get up. Same with an airplane seat in coach. Same with this computer screen. Know what I mean? I told them that when I die, I want to be cremated because the thought of being closed up underground like that in that claustrophobic casket would drive me absolutely crazy. I wouldn't be able to stand it. I've seen it happen.
In fact, any type of confinement bugs me - rat cage, prison cage, handcuffs, chem class, jock strap, sweat lodge, peyote meeting, human body, my own delusional thinking. The rez. That dentist's chair.
Wow. Got me to thinking...were you a 'squirmy' child? Or were you okay with being held and snuggled? How long?
No, I don't think it's that, some kinda Freudian shit. It's probably Dr. Sardonicus being buried alive, a horrifying movie I saw decades ago and have never been able to forget. And just when I thought I had the notion completely suppressed, here comes 'Kill Bill II' where she gets buried alive. Ohhhhhh God. Just cremate me, ok? Just be sure I haven't got a pulse.
Okay. Enuf talk about dying. It's winter here on the rez, everything dead, geese gone south, but I've got water and light. Coffee, too, and here comes visitors.
- end
*yeah. about that gecko. a gecko is a lizard, right? a cousin to a snake. you're going to buy insurance from a lizard? a cousin to a snake? On the surface, just think about it. Just for a moment. Isn't there something primeval about not trusting reptiles? Not just Genesis, but deep within our DNA? And on top of it, he's speaking with a British accent. You're going to buy insurance from a lizard with a British accent?
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Monday, May 09, 2011
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Coming Out Of Retirement, Maybe
Brovic - Blogging Since 1903
4.30.11
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Some people use the words, 'washed up,' or 'burnt out' to describe those people, usually athletes, but not always, who are considered retired and whose years of greatness and productivity are behind them.
You can think of a number of stars who have retired, and then 'laced them up again', 'returned to the court', returned to the ring, the stage, the field, government, gunslinger, or corporate world to see if they 'still had it', resurrecting some of that old time magic to once again fulfill somebody's wish.
Could be the money. Could be the money. Probably could be the money. Big contract, big offer, big incentive, big crowds, big ego, everything big, so big it will make an over-the-hill retiree think he or she can still go out there and show those young pups a thing or two. Still got game. Lookit Ali, George Forman, Michael Jordan, Newt Gingrich, Whatshername.
What one may soon learn, especially if you haven't done much more heavier lifting than a fork, is that you've lost your edge. Timing is off. Way off. Things, like muscles and mind, might move a bit slower. Reaction time is too late, went for the fake, didn't catch what was said, lost me in the innuendo.
The mind, and maybe some of your friends and most ardent believers will tell you, 'You can do it! You can do it! Go back out there and show 'em how it's done!' and maybe you can, but after a long layoff, the body can be an unwilling or reluctant performer. And sometimes you forget.
It could be any stage of performance; actors and comedians tossing out lines, politician making a run, third-string philharmonic flautist, substitute teacher, got called at the last minute, asking if you could fill in on the trapeze act, second semester, come run the offense, the CIA or State Department, pull the corporation out of the tank, help out weekends on the check out line.
It happens all the time, you've seen it plenty.
So, I've been testing the water.
Yeah, I'm thinking of 'giving it another go', 'tossing my hat in the ring', and yes...coming out of retirement, making a comeback. Why not?
After the last time, people said, 'This is it. He'll retire after this.' And even beforehand, there was speculation, ok, consensus that I should've have considered permanently 'hanging it up.' People shook their heads, saying I was too old, or didn't have that ol' magic, that edge, that touch, and razzle dazzle, like the old days.
They say not to let doubt enter your mind, and move forward positively toward your goals. Ok, I can buy that in theory, but one need consider reality, as well. Sure. For instance, there won't be Manny to help with the necessary training and rigorous rehab, and not because he swore he'd never work with me again, but because he's dead.
If he was living, I think under the right conditions, the right offer, I could move him from his avowed position, and the lights just now suddenly flickered twice, which could be a 'yes' or a 'no', if it was in fact a message from Manny from the spirit world, which I am inclined to believe it was, given his temperament, so, given his temperament, I'll take that as a 'no', he won't be on board.
Manny, Mr. Ferguson, and most of those guys from the old crew, the inner circle, the 'goon squad', are either dead, doing time, or reformed and found Jesus, so I'd have to tap some new talent, new ideas, fresh faces in the places.
Gotta get your people together, people you can trust, people who'll back you, some goons, some lap dogs, some yes men and a couple of complete idiots, the best possible team behind you, whether you pulling a heist, running a monestary, or making a run for the roses.
You'll need an outline of your scheme, and a big sack of money or how to get it. Right up front, people like to talk about the money. Got to get the money straight, who gets what, what the expected returns will be, how a share will be divvied up if someone dies, get the unofficial, off-the-record nods from the folks who prefer to stay in the background, out of sight, out of the press.
Then there's a whole bunch of hard work, the heavy lifting to be done before you step back out there. That's a lot to consider, and you've got to ask yourself if you're really up for another go at it, and if you are, whether you've still got what it takes. Gotta walk before you can crawl, and you gotta crawl before you can backstroke, or whatever. Could be a long shot. Could be pathetic. Could be glorious.
- end
4.30.11
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Some people use the words, 'washed up,' or 'burnt out' to describe those people, usually athletes, but not always, who are considered retired and whose years of greatness and productivity are behind them.
You can think of a number of stars who have retired, and then 'laced them up again', 'returned to the court', returned to the ring, the stage, the field, government, gunslinger, or corporate world to see if they 'still had it', resurrecting some of that old time magic to once again fulfill somebody's wish.
Could be the money. Could be the money. Probably could be the money. Big contract, big offer, big incentive, big crowds, big ego, everything big, so big it will make an over-the-hill retiree think he or she can still go out there and show those young pups a thing or two. Still got game. Lookit Ali, George Forman, Michael Jordan, Newt Gingrich, Whatshername.
What one may soon learn, especially if you haven't done much more heavier lifting than a fork, is that you've lost your edge. Timing is off. Way off. Things, like muscles and mind, might move a bit slower. Reaction time is too late, went for the fake, didn't catch what was said, lost me in the innuendo.
The mind, and maybe some of your friends and most ardent believers will tell you, 'You can do it! You can do it! Go back out there and show 'em how it's done!' and maybe you can, but after a long layoff, the body can be an unwilling or reluctant performer. And sometimes you forget.
It could be any stage of performance; actors and comedians tossing out lines, politician making a run, third-string philharmonic flautist, substitute teacher, got called at the last minute, asking if you could fill in on the trapeze act, second semester, come run the offense, the CIA or State Department, pull the corporation out of the tank, help out weekends on the check out line.
It happens all the time, you've seen it plenty.
So, I've been testing the water.
Yeah, I'm thinking of 'giving it another go', 'tossing my hat in the ring', and yes...coming out of retirement, making a comeback. Why not?
After the last time, people said, 'This is it. He'll retire after this.' And even beforehand, there was speculation, ok, consensus that I should've have considered permanently 'hanging it up.' People shook their heads, saying I was too old, or didn't have that ol' magic, that edge, that touch, and razzle dazzle, like the old days.
They say not to let doubt enter your mind, and move forward positively toward your goals. Ok, I can buy that in theory, but one need consider reality, as well. Sure. For instance, there won't be Manny to help with the necessary training and rigorous rehab, and not because he swore he'd never work with me again, but because he's dead.
If he was living, I think under the right conditions, the right offer, I could move him from his avowed position, and the lights just now suddenly flickered twice, which could be a 'yes' or a 'no', if it was in fact a message from Manny from the spirit world, which I am inclined to believe it was, given his temperament, so, given his temperament, I'll take that as a 'no', he won't be on board.
Manny, Mr. Ferguson, and most of those guys from the old crew, the inner circle, the 'goon squad', are either dead, doing time, or reformed and found Jesus, so I'd have to tap some new talent, new ideas, fresh faces in the places.
Gotta get your people together, people you can trust, people who'll back you, some goons, some lap dogs, some yes men and a couple of complete idiots, the best possible team behind you, whether you pulling a heist, running a monestary, or making a run for the roses.
You'll need an outline of your scheme, and a big sack of money or how to get it. Right up front, people like to talk about the money. Got to get the money straight, who gets what, what the expected returns will be, how a share will be divvied up if someone dies, get the unofficial, off-the-record nods from the folks who prefer to stay in the background, out of sight, out of the press.
Then there's a whole bunch of hard work, the heavy lifting to be done before you step back out there. That's a lot to consider, and you've got to ask yourself if you're really up for another go at it, and if you are, whether you've still got what it takes. Gotta walk before you can crawl, and you gotta crawl before you can backstroke, or whatever. Could be a long shot. Could be pathetic. Could be glorious.
- end
Post-Bin Laden
Brovic - Blogging Since 1903
5.5.11
Khuk Khak, Thailand
You say these same people have nukes?
- end
5.5.11
Khuk Khak, Thailand
You say these same people have nukes?
- end
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
It's A Party!
Brovic - Blogging Since 1903
4.13.11
KHUK KHAK, Thailand
Facebook Question Party.
Think about that for a minute. It's a party. You're invited. It's a party where you're going to be asked a lot of questions. What kind of party is that? That's not a party. That's called interrogation.
What, something short of Gitmo? That's a party, too, they say.
Maybe it's just me, and my naturally occurring suspicious and paranoid ways. So I checked into it; I'll play your game, following the link, the pathway through the electronic labyrinth that eventually led me to a page requesting 'allow' or 'don't allow' access to personal information, ID, gender, web address, list of friends, contacts, and all other information posted to all others.
Whhhhhhaaaat?
Give 'em that right, and you can open the magic box.
I thought about it for a minute, 'Nah, I don't want to play the game that bad...got things around here I could do...' and then hit the 'don't allow' button, thinking I can contact people via another avenue to see what they want, or what they're up to. I really don't need a Facebook personal info data-dump going to someone's holding pen, a datadumpster.
'What do they want to do with all that?'
Sell it, use it against you...tell you it's for your convenience, your tailored needs, your benefit.
So, I hit the 'don't allow' button, and the same page came up four times in a row, almost insisting I change my mind and hit the 'allow' button. Seeing no change in the program's behavioral response, and provided no other choice, I exited the site, my suspicions further substantiated, my paranoia compounded and reinforced by the programs' catty intransigence.
It's a game. It's a game. A fun game. Lighten up, wouldja? Millions are playing it. Play along.
I can see where a person might be coming from, saying something like that. 'Don't be so daggone paranoid,' but seeing how there's so little out there in the consumer/marketing world that would be trustworthy or reliable to convince me otherwise...
hunter/gatherer, hunter/killer, gatherer/killer. we haven't moved too far in 7 million years. ever since Lucy learned how to do 'The Locomotion.'
Lucy, then Little Eva, Grand Funk Railroad, and Kylie Minogue, all hits a decade apart after that long stretch following Lucy.
'You can't walk like that
talk like that
go on the attack like that
Share something with you; a partial something, and then maybe tell the whole story later, but a portion of it involved a dream resulting from an inquiry about a certain artifact, a stone, an atlatl point, to be precise, of speckled Jasper. In the view presented, two cave people were sitting around a fire after an apparent dinner, joking around in an extremely rudimentary language and working on their weapons.
There was more to it, for me to extrapolate any personal meaning relevant to the atlatl point, estimated at six to ten thousand years old, but the connection here being, that ever since Lucy and maybe before, we've been at war.
Some kind of war with something...the environment, that wooly mammoth, that big-ass boar. Then soon the arrival of the Spaniards, air raids over London, AIDS and resistant bacteria. Only thing that's changed over time is the enemy and the weapons systems.
Sure, you could say the cave people from the, what was it, upper paleolithic, only used their spears, clubs, and atlatls for hunting...like you could say the same thing about a semi-automatic weapon or a Predator Drone.
Further inquiry in the archeological academic and intelligence worlds demonstrates that even your best guess, or what you think could be real or accurate, is only a theoretical pinpoint in what could in fact be a vast universe of difference and erroneous to what the truth is. Erroneous intelligence. Erroneous targeting.
Are you sure?
Give me a Ballpark Guess. Ask any cave man, shaman, priest or general.
Good news is, everything is becoming more refined. Everything. Your phone camera, more pixels till they flip it over; your personalized nano-doctor; our view of distant worlds; the laser-guided, real-time, smart bomb; your dining habits; advertising.
Sittin' in the drone zone
waitin' for a ring tone
should have kept your ass at home
and now they gonna make a crater
on the news we'll see it later
you and your meeting high command
composed of
disposed of
terminada
eliminada
from a console in Nevada
It's a game! A fun game. Millions are playing. Come play along.
- end
4.13.11
KHUK KHAK, Thailand
Facebook Question Party.
Think about that for a minute. It's a party. You're invited. It's a party where you're going to be asked a lot of questions. What kind of party is that? That's not a party. That's called interrogation.
What, something short of Gitmo? That's a party, too, they say.
Maybe it's just me, and my naturally occurring suspicious and paranoid ways. So I checked into it; I'll play your game, following the link, the pathway through the electronic labyrinth that eventually led me to a page requesting 'allow' or 'don't allow' access to personal information, ID, gender, web address, list of friends, contacts, and all other information posted to all others.
Whhhhhhaaaat?
Give 'em that right, and you can open the magic box.
I thought about it for a minute, 'Nah, I don't want to play the game that bad...got things around here I could do...' and then hit the 'don't allow' button, thinking I can contact people via another avenue to see what they want, or what they're up to. I really don't need a Facebook personal info data-dump going to someone's holding pen, a datadumpster.
'What do they want to do with all that?'
Sell it, use it against you...tell you it's for your convenience, your tailored needs, your benefit.
So, I hit the 'don't allow' button, and the same page came up four times in a row, almost insisting I change my mind and hit the 'allow' button. Seeing no change in the program's behavioral response, and provided no other choice, I exited the site, my suspicions further substantiated, my paranoia compounded and reinforced by the programs' catty intransigence.
It's a game. It's a game. A fun game. Lighten up, wouldja? Millions are playing it. Play along.
I can see where a person might be coming from, saying something like that. 'Don't be so daggone paranoid,' but seeing how there's so little out there in the consumer/marketing world that would be trustworthy or reliable to convince me otherwise...
hunter/gatherer, hunter/killer, gatherer/killer. we haven't moved too far in 7 million years. ever since Lucy learned how to do 'The Locomotion.'
Lucy, then Little Eva, Grand Funk Railroad, and Kylie Minogue, all hits a decade apart after that long stretch following Lucy.
'You can't walk like that
talk like that
go on the attack like that
Share something with you; a partial something, and then maybe tell the whole story later, but a portion of it involved a dream resulting from an inquiry about a certain artifact, a stone, an atlatl point, to be precise, of speckled Jasper. In the view presented, two cave people were sitting around a fire after an apparent dinner, joking around in an extremely rudimentary language and working on their weapons.
There was more to it, for me to extrapolate any personal meaning relevant to the atlatl point, estimated at six to ten thousand years old, but the connection here being, that ever since Lucy and maybe before, we've been at war.
Some kind of war with something...the environment, that wooly mammoth, that big-ass boar. Then soon the arrival of the Spaniards, air raids over London, AIDS and resistant bacteria. Only thing that's changed over time is the enemy and the weapons systems.
Sure, you could say the cave people from the, what was it, upper paleolithic, only used their spears, clubs, and atlatls for hunting...like you could say the same thing about a semi-automatic weapon or a Predator Drone.
Further inquiry in the archeological academic and intelligence worlds demonstrates that even your best guess, or what you think could be real or accurate, is only a theoretical pinpoint in what could in fact be a vast universe of difference and erroneous to what the truth is. Erroneous intelligence. Erroneous targeting.
Are you sure?
Give me a Ballpark Guess. Ask any cave man, shaman, priest or general.
Good news is, everything is becoming more refined. Everything. Your phone camera, more pixels till they flip it over; your personalized nano-doctor; our view of distant worlds; the laser-guided, real-time, smart bomb; your dining habits; advertising.
Sittin' in the drone zone
waitin' for a ring tone
should have kept your ass at home
and now they gonna make a crater
on the news we'll see it later
you and your meeting high command
composed of
disposed of
terminada
eliminada
from a console in Nevada
It's a game! A fun game. Millions are playing. Come play along.
- end
Arm Libyan Youth
Brovic - Blogging Since 1903, sure
4.13.11.
Most Agree To Arm Libyan Youth
'....and this is live ammo, kids, so for God's sake, Allah's sake, be careful!'
.
4.13.11.
Most Agree To Arm Libyan Youth
'....and this is live ammo, kids, so for God's sake, Allah's sake, be careful!'
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)