“…existence seems not to be what it portrays;
sensations relay idiosyncrasies, more and more, day to days,
week to weeks, months to solar cycles…
roaming, roving, seeking sources, subjects, sensitive seers
who speak out the living of life
where a world of myriad global discrepancy, dreamlike,
disguises true and real from the species that is
in treaty to encounter an unmasked reality
of Mother Earth as home in the galaxy,
serial writer, ambrasia kurtz
locates acerbica ”
Conversing 8 -
“Managing School Time Material”
In a précis preface to what had gone before, pan, editor at WOoden ‘O’ wrote*1 :
‘Wednesday, 16 May 2007 P.C.E., 12 Ix :
This is a tale.
A tale of proportions.
A telling tale; a tale telling the epic travails and trails of a domestic entity.
A little village. Its tribe. A tribe of four, Urth, Rock, Wild, Roar.
This Tribe got to, and then also got to go through doors,
to see and touch many solutions that many may seek
and many may be looking for.
It all began when, well…It began with Urth and Rock finding each other. Then along came Wild. But, all sorts of disquieting things appeared to be around, on the rise; all over the globe signs of forebode and sounds of alarm were growing; in knowing that something was not quite right with the world and in asking questions about what was wrong and believing in fixing and through looking for answers, just when Roar was about to be arriving, the seeking, and seeing, from a large, robust city, uncovered and discovered a planned place for thriving: Ark 12.
That was in 1994 C.E.
Tuesday, 24 April 2007 P.C.E., 3 Eb, 23:01:22, in ‘The Mulísa Tribe Update’ – which she hadn’t written in a long while – Urth was relating:
“Plot No.12-Ark! The plan and the place were one – an exercise, an experiment, our creative life on land. From one thousand kilometres away we located 31 hectares of pristine wilderness with the Southern African Coastal line on the horizon. We acquired her, relocated to her and the name came by intuitive letter, word play for her to be called ‘Mulísa’.*1 Moving onto her and into The Mulísa Project was a thick plot to start with which then thickened during perpetual detection of how thick the plot was to begin with. Which is my way of speaking in one sentence, the 500some sheavish things on the project and its findings that pan is expectantly brushing together, clicking through and putting in, on and out. Virtually real? Pure seeds in collection and sprout are actually all I want to be on about.”
There’s count towards how many of what list to navigate the thickness and dimensity of why, in the face of a truly forever commitment to Mulísa Wilderness Studio, The Mulísa Tribe finally, sorely, saw only to bring to closure their 13 year project in order to depart the arena in which it was situated. Graciousness and patience we must have, to explain the pain, to air, examine and view reasons; pace, to present and traverse too, laughs, pleasures, joys, treasures and errors. Adventures in learning can be true, in living back towards a way for the Mother of life, Earth, to live too.
Upon existential quests, an uninformed woman was once heard to proclaim pejoratively, ‘UNsivilizt!’?
Well, my dear, of what has become, much there is to do, to UNdo that which has been done…
greetíngs 2í !
Penelope Aíne Noblé
ChiefSweep, genral’s broomRoom ‘
From Mulísa, great are the distances the tale moves. Through remote Europe. To acerbica.
Wild and Roar are grown. Are men. Are tall. Rock, by all, in all, always, is gabhafuaime, SoundSmith; and Urth? Her names? They roll many, by multi-task flux, a mother, authentically individual, of Earth mindful, consumption conscious palette, a diversely myriad and integrated creator, an artist/e, see-er and implementative thinker, “She”, producing saying, songs, speak. She…
‘…lives without the experience of compatible talk to call on…her telling habits have been prescribed, patterned by indifference that has come from understanding that parts and whole are irrelevant without each other; she meanders perimeters, pausing upon knowing streaming from interiors, she fumbles the fetch of fragments, tosses them out, disjointed, bits that don’t mean much unless a listener, a true listener with capacity for investment and resource of perception to navigate internally, acquires picture and says ‘go on’.’*2
The village tribe continues to tend trends, twists and turns of exponential time. In silent, surreal snowscape at 1 Muluc,*3 Northern Winter Solstice 2010 P.C.E. comes with significant, astronomical alignments; it transits, *4 then is gone. Yet nothing remarkable reassures that the tilt will cure cold out of a jaded January and worse still, worrisome weather may set a fearful February lingering; though perhaps, just perceptibly, more day infringes where night was engulfing the diurnal run.
The South Atlantic exhibits signs that Earth may be in the process of a magnetic excursion or reversal, Greenland sees the sun two days earlier than usual at their Northern Arctic Circle, globe-wide, reports accrue of birds falling from flight in mass, flock death and, in the sky, 1300 light years from the Mother planet, a constant, familiar, twinkle of night appears to be going supernova, whereupon it would shine the constant day of a second sun by 2012. Or, in 100,000 years still to come?*5
The BP oil rig fiasco*6 was. Is. It threatens the Gulf Steam current essential to regulating warmth on the Atlantean coastline as it swirls ocean waters near their doorstep. Conscious of the sad ravages upon Florida, projections of intense reparation mark thought with intent online, as they research recipes for ‘Key Lime Pie’ to infuse the culinary repertoire of the recently inaugurated ‘Jazz Kitchen’ enterprise. But it is the delicate bite of ‘Lime Layer Lambada’, a moist, icing sandwich, which zings piquant, after tasting cake of the day.
An adjacent room in the aluminium dwelling can be described as a cell, a closely condensed, compact administrative, library, research, reading, creative, producing, I.T., laundry, sleeping hive, of shelves, boxes, books, files, papers, images, cards, calendars, bags, an authentic, brass cannon casing vase, a solid brass frog, a miniature, papier-mâché puppet head on a wooden stand*7, stones, speakers, a stack of suitcases, briefcases, hats, hanging clothes, a heater, a drying rack, a double bed with multi-coloured, cotton throws, a flight-case housing shoes, a printer, two little, furry lions, piles of folders, documents and leaves, with a surface area supporting bottles of tincture, aromatic oil, stark red nail varnish, pencils, a rubber and sharpener, two fresh-cut roses in a Portuguese Port bottle and, for fan efficiency, balanced back and front on W.B’s ‘Completed Poems’ and Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass,’ a large laptop.
Beguiling dominion, it hosts a concentrate of passionate processing: emotional examination, labyrinthine exploration, cross-section comparison and collation, data dissection and delineation, information investigation, rational recapitulation, supposition, speculation, probability planning, prospect projection.
In earlier days, ‘how do children learn’ would have been predominant question, with the answer to, ‘what is parenting’ setting the tone that then flowed through everything. ‘What is the future, what do the boys need us to do, what do they need exhorted from themselves?’. This enquiry still grounds and interposes all that is negotiated, pondered upon, calculated, analysed, scrutinised. “Summits!”, she says, “before you can start teaching your kids you can climb your whole life, just to get to where you can get the book you need to begin teaching them from the beginning but, meantime, while you’ve been trying to scale heights and then go back down with the book you’ve found by which you’ve found your way to near the beginning from where you can teach them, they’ve climbed up and you’re scanning the foothills.”
Forums, discussions, infinite conversations disregard clock hands ticking rotation through dark till dawn’s chill in reticent rays of ambiguous sunlight. “In our first, redolently, radiating rosy hue, we floated off light in the air of having found each other to do business in the Zulu, Indian, cane sugar producing coastal region. At a large, mall-type, shopping centre in the city, we went to a coffee shop, our most exuberantly favourite pastime. We could smoke in those places then and we ordered coffee after coffee and spoke and spoke. I can really say it really felt like knowing the knowing of ascent. Panorama, calm, timelessness, motion continuous effervescence – like a doccie we’d watched on dolphins seeking natural air vents in the ocean for play in the bubbles, simple, pure, sensual innocence. We’d held each other and wept together that night, realising mutual resonance with natural life sacredness.
So from the coffee shop, eventually we wafted off to the car in the park garage and pulled up at the boom gate, expecting a bill of one or two; but the attendant asked for seven Rand. That was a lot of money in those days and we said, ‘WHAaaatt?’, conclusively, utterly convinced that we were being totally ripped off big time. The guy handed us the slip, looked down, vacantly scratched the left side of his nose with one finger, then stared through the glass of his cubicle at the street outside, nonchalant, particularly not looking at anything in sight; a queue of cars was building up behind us and he was just waiting, while two people in a car were calculating their own, micro mind-fuck. We hadn’t noticed, we really hadn’t known, we hadn’t anywhere near been in a zone compatible with time keeping. The parking bill was correct. We’d have to relent, cough up seven hundred cents to pass across the counter if we wanted to exit, because we’d been sitting talking in the coffee shop for seven hours.”
The cell is a miniscule, circular, conceptual collider. Accelerated, notional particles conjecture energy head-on into each other, creating escalating components of aesthetic conception. Scribing tracks, systematic: Wednesday, 26 January, 2011 – 11 Chicchan
‘All these in the symbolism soup, like chicken noodle pasta alphabet, farinaceous ABC; staring down into the bowl steaming, it’s what I want, when I’m sick, warm, comforting, on the spoon going to my mouth, down my throat, swallowing gulp.
But was I supposed to READ anything off those engorged, little, gluten letters bobbing the surface of my food all randomly gooed together in haphazard, globuled clump? (Float-illa) Let loose, a few mutineers swirl the perimeters, ‘F’, ‘Z’, ‘O’, – oh, there’s an overturned, upside down, backward ‘P’ -so now that makes what kind of word? ‘FZOP’. Or, is it, opfz. Or pfzo. Or pozf, or ozfp, or zfpo, or fpoz, zfop, fopz, opzf pzfo ofzp fzpo zpof, pofz fozp ozpf zpfo, pfoz pzof zofp, ofpz or fpzo. Options. ‘To the power of’. A wonderful mathematical formula, a vitally important calculus system everywhere pertaining to everything. But why, for what?
Word, word! word. WorLd, wHorLEd…in the bowl when it’s stirred, yellow, scummy, hard bits of freeze dried veg and bard that don’t want to hydrate sufficiently when boiling watered, going into my unconscious, young tum with aspartame and MSG. What’s feeding me? Who’s feeding me? Why? “Ye are what ye eat.” Metaphoric speak. Symbolism Soup.’
The note taking swirls lined, circular, sideways, tabulated, arrowed, asterisked, scrawled, da Vinci-ish mind tracking : Friday, 28 January, 2011 – 13 Manik
‘DATA : DNA :
- take away the dash in ‘A’ and the dash on ‘T’ and push the ‘T’ back onto ‘A’ and ‘DATA’ spells ‘DNA’;
numerologies, English language Gematria,*8 fiction, science, magic, science-fiction, alchemy;
look at the words: ‘WORD, CELL, KNOW, GOD’.
ALPHA-BET : WORD : LANGUAGE :
‘O’s’ and ‘l’s’, round and straight, hole and rod, male and female, two create new;
‘0’s’ and ‘1’s’ round and straight, hole and rod, male and female, synthetic rendering;
realities are the arrangement of DATA to the extent of and by DNA consciousness;
where did language come from to be the medium by which to say the consciousness that pronounces realities which are only variant arrangement of DATA that can produce versions of reality which are not, necessarily, actually, fact or truth, especially since lies live in the languages of many equations? ‘
Monday, 24 January, 2011 – 9 Akbal, she’s scribbling, conversing back and forth with the SoundSmith:
‘Oh for a Language Frequency that opens and releases our brains, cerebellum, cerebrum, literal grey matter, the hardware, the operating system; can we write something that will transform us when we read it, because literature is ART and ART, by its being of ultimate creation, its magic of intuitive, aesthetic word structure, will effect, through us, instantly stimulating, infinite insight, consciousness update, our seeing, hearing, breathing, sensory, intuitive perceiving? – (Ancient Bardism. Hmmm?!)
Languages!!!!, mostly only English! Trapped at a loss in handicap, stuck, not only just to one, but to one, bloody alphabet encryption. Curricula should be forced to explore exploring calligraphic source, the beginning ‘morse’, the symbols, the pictographs, the pictures, the ideograms, the ciphers, the glyphs, the pictograms, the hieroglyphs…epithets scribed on enigmatic, epic, colossal structures, on walls, on pillars, etched on stella’s, drawn on tablets, carved into rocks in Australia, South Africa, Peru, Mexico, Colorado, Cambodia, China, Egypt, Yemen – we shouldn’t expect ourselves to explete da-dit-dit-da combinations of 13 signs in a long-combed, autarchic system of expression if we don’t get to beholding the originating vision, construct and action of the function we are mimicking?’
She serves light lime coloured Lambada and groans, “for months I’ve been searching for a word that will convey description of the frequency recurring implicit in physical structure patterns inside of all things, like a snowflake; fractals; what’s the smallest particle? Atom? No, there’s something smaller isn’t there? Are protons, neutrons and electrons inside an atom and then, what’s inside of them? – myoscopica”, she grunts a squinted eyeball humph, “I’m trying to get real science sorted out; I want to discern to know, I’m discovering people like La Violette, Thornhill,*9 glorious, they really should be foremost in current curricula to take us back to what was bypassed, quashed, skewed by dogma agenda, to those who were specifically shunned for credible investigation, for viable point of departure, the people I should have been introduced to at school, Velikovsky, Reich, Tesla, forbidden, back room anthropologists, theorists, poets for Earth’s sake, voices of neutral understanding; I want a list of their names up on my wall, all of them who arranged the planet a much more familiar, functional place of sense for me to walk on.
The gaseousness of so much fake science misinformed and spastiked our language, so when we speak we are saying outward reinforcement of mal-formed, inward inaccuracies, which then define our brain patterning incorrectly with erroneoucies.
Tongue. Tongues. Where does it go back to? Babel? That was relatively recent and what was that all about really anyway? People refer to ‘… the serpent…’ having something to do with all of this, but when was that, what was all that about – where’s the beginning? What’s before the foothills? What were ‘we’ like before language? How did it happen? When was it given, by whom? Why did ‘they’ ‘give’ it? Where did ‘they’ get it or how make it? Inference of… ‘a gift’? Or, was language imposed? What’s the Mother’s Tongue? How to contain, control, utilise, master, integrate WORD into and for our now selves?
In the meantime it’s about using words and combinations that’ll make do as they pass through, so it’s a communication journey of thought voice formulation, a process of uphill UNsaying to get back down to reverent, resonant, sooth saying. I s-s-s-wEAR, I’m going to find a way to stop lingualising think-speak until I know what the heck it is I am doing by doing it!”
‘Friday, 28 January, 2011 – 13 Manik, notes :
- me at school;
- my kids going to school;
- school nowadays, bullying, prescribing inoculations, taking children’s biometric data, curriculum agenda, yahoo homeschool group parents exchange that child allowance is withdrawn, homeschool viciously illegal in Germany, now in Sweden, England bringing in stringent controls.
Disinformation Cramming. Programming. Parrot Fashion Regurgitation. Global Database Collation.
Amazonian Shamans have a unique set of lingual concepts for their own order of things; are we being used to formulate a prescribed reality by the way infiltrated linguistics control our neuro function?
- What do ‘they’ want? Power. Money. ? No. ‘They’re’ after KNOWLEDGE – KNOWING. Is the Arc found? Or, are ‘they’, ‘we’, still looking for Arc[k]s, (covenant, Noah). ‘They’ve’ been nosing around Sheba’s compound in Yemen. (Some say the trail leads to Ethiopia.) Are they after ‘Hearing’ (or Silencing) the ‘WORD’ of ‘GOD’? What were steeple spires all about anyway? Goes back to Babel. Doesn’t it? (That’s enquiring after what ‘their’ quest might be.) Then.
- Who are ‘they’? ‘Our’ Questions. About ‘them’. ‘
Evening curls the cell and converging co-conjecture escalates condensation on darkening windows:
“What is the essence of ‘their’ search? Somebody wants, and is attempting, to build a comprehensive database – all babies born are ‘catalogued’ (parents discover samples are taken from babies at birth, and they have to establish why, what happens to them, where their baby’s sample went)…”
“How is DNA fired? Strands are the same, ostensibly? ‘They’re’ looking for spiking DNA’s; there’s a particular DNA that has unlocked areas of junk DNA. Special spikes are a font of all knowledge…”
“…‘font’ – as in ‘type’ for ‘THE WORD’; baptismal ‘font’ – eternal source. ‘They’ are magnetically scanning for the magnetic, cerebral ‘fingerprints’ of certain brains. ‘They’ want all the all-knowledge.”
“‘They’ were losing track of DNA, which is all-knowledge; religion has had a key role to play in ‘their’ quest. Down in the Vaults of confiscated record, there’re records of everything, but daily, it’s UNfiring.”
“What is the essence of ‘their’ search?”
“The Whole quest is NOT to have to have control. Looking for the knowledge to be able to realise God, ‘their’ godliness – after which, they can play anything any which way they want to…So, it’s like the concept is, it’s way beyond the Anunnaki, they were small fry, now these ‘they’ are limited by the need for vehicles, weapons, politics…‘They’ want to turn themselves into G.O.D. ‘They’ then wouldn’t have to control anything. They’ve got it all. The problem is control – they don’t want to control. They want to minimize having to control. They want to fuck organic women and be brought gifts every day, but these other fuckers got too individual, too independent, wouldn’t tow ‘their’ line automatically…”
It’s a seven year long discussion which has planned the composition of a co-authored novel. “Finally, we’re getting down to working on transcribing the plot. Imagination?”, she flounces a finger flourish of long, red nail polish, “it’s a debatable concept – we’ve touched on this before, I’m sure, I think, haven’t we? When I am reading a rush of fiction, what am I putting into my head?” Characteristically her chin lifts ceilingwards as she lights and draws on a smoke she’s been rolling meticulously.
“If any of your characters can say, ‘The same laws of nature that produce the music of a flute or a harp govern the motions of the stars’,*10 good grace please take responsibility for what you make come out of their mouths. Greg Keyes raises the huge subject of polarising conspiracy, Science vs Magic, Reason vs Superstition, Physics vs Religion; he throws out suggestive tale and then evades onus for revealing to the reader his intercepts with human story, whether by authentic or fabricated record of misrepresented, clandestine or actual event – the Masonic-ish Rosicrucians who usurped empirical – observed, pragmatic, practical, experiential – real science and subsumed that study into covert realms of black occult, the puritanical dabblers in piety who denied the possibility of intelligent, deciphered understanding of natural laws by imposing interpretations of witchcraft anomaly, religious leaders who deny omniversal rights to comprehend matters of the omniverse, by facades of obedience to blind faith?
Just because it’s ‘fiction’ shouldn’t mean that the writer is exempt from positing reference to imaginative, suppositional source. The reader’s discernment should be facilitated with data to be able to filter the writer’s innovative intentions. ‘Fiction’ forays on fine lines. Story is never ‘just story’. Storytellers, in some way, must reference an acknowledgement of inspirational data.
Writers of imaginative, hypothetical possibility seem duty bound to skirt conventions otherwise reserved to be applied to ‘science’, fact, scholastic essay, monograph, non-fiction. Why? Why curtail the form of one’s work by fact versus fiction categorisation limitations? Virtual Reality has opened doorways to admit alternative reality premises? For instance, I’d be sad to see that Hancock submitted ‘Entangled’ to the formulaic rules governing works of fiction and thus omitted a bibliography which would ordinarily be standard inclusion in his output? I’ve yet to get my eyes on his latest book.
I’ve just gluttoned myself on a binge of pulp novels from the little, local library. The boys cycled off and picked up a random selection for me. The titles span thirty four years to 2007,*11 but all of them, in some way, treat the plot of small groups of higher echelon, insider enclaves, pulling the strings to manipulate everything from behind an insular, untouchability of greed, power intrigues. Why such commonality across ‘fiction’? The Guthrie portrays the upshot of all of this, viewed from the bottom end, a grand, historical city, everywhere abandoned scaffolding awaits non-funded repair of falling masonry which you are not going to see coming down on your head because your eyes are busy negotiating your feet through the dog turd all over the pavements, with the rabble jostling to come to terms with childhood, drug, pharmacological and institutional abuse and survival amidst economic privation and social breakdown, whilst ruling aristocracy is silent and conspicuously absent from the scene.
The details in these books, the characters, names, faces, places, may be figments of authorial construct capacity, but the scenarios, – sinister academic clans, stealth ops, stinking rich senators, politics, lobby groups, law enforcement, intelligence agencies, abduction, torture, murder, secrets, the military, eco scandals, unscrupulous, avaricious ‘business’ men, henchmen, the glittering highlife, destitute lowlife… people with tragic baggage to sort out…- all of it rings confident of erstwhile realities. We don’t need imagination to write stories. Reality is the fantasy, it’s science-fiction-fact; perhaps we need to imbue imagination with a view to envisage the true, unbelievability of fact, realness of realities in which children have to learn to distinguish what they see in order to be? That’s how Dr Judy Wood deciphered nine-eleven. She switched off the sound on the broadcasts telling what should be seen and she just watched the actuality of what actually could be seen.*9″
Notes in continuum, ‘Friday, 28 January, 2011 – 13 Manik:
What is education? What is schooling?
What is at the centre of all of it? What’s the impetus behind it? What’s the goal?
Learning, knowledge, knowing. Of what? For what? For whom? Each person for themselves surely, so that they can ride the tide of their life as it is for them, through their incarnation on The Blue Planet? So then each person has distinct needs about what they need to discover, encounter and learn – are those needs, and education per se, different from each other? What do we need to be fulfilled on this planet? Fiction, Science, Imagination, what’s in the curriculum, who decides, how far up to the top is it going and who is at the top? And what do we do down beneath all of it? ‘
The Soundsmith’s been relating his readings about central Asia initiatives and Greg Mortenson’s expedition to climb K2. Coming back down off the glacier he gets lost and stumbles into the Korphe village that befriends him as they host his weeks of recovery. During the exchanges that ensue in remote, high altitude, northern Pakistan, Mortenson makes promises which will embark him on an adventure that will ultimately see him find funds to facilitate building many schools in the area.*12
“Did the Baltistanis reckon what they were getting into? Was it really ‘school’ that their villages needed? A solid room in which to be productive is glorious, heroic provision. And the desperate desire to read, that the eye could cajole that dancing code into meaning, ah, yes, can the literate begin to empathise with that rending yearning? But in far reaches of African landscape some schools teach rural children only to sit desk-bound. While waiting for the building to become ‘education’, they could be tending the herd at the kraal, fattening it, growing it, figuring how to prevent persisting palls of winter scarcity. A demise and loss of genuine, organic, functional, buoyant, flexible, jubilant, respectful, positive, diligent, dependable, committed, age old, indomitable, self sufficient village community is saddest of all.
Education is punted as a basic human right, sold as an humanitarian aid imperative, as if, without it, there can be no learning, no life, only blight. But where cultural and political domination may motivate manoeuvring, it is essential to question who will really benefit from… ‘education’. Rather than assuming supply of a stock, chain outlet concept, it’s a serious rethink that is needed. ‘School’ is a relatively recent reliance in the long story of human achievement; the word has become jargon with its own associated implications. Maria Montessori had good things to say about the finest place for children to learn – outdoors, in the sand. ‘Conceptual Identity. Strategic Identity.’*1 That’s what’s vital.”
The Mulísa project was engaged in exploring needs, nurture, nature, ‘science’, to decipher, decode and understand what makes things tick, see how they work, to run them smooth and properly, at optimum best, most efficiently, aesthetically, simply, consumption consciously*1 and many issues were exposed through this endeavour; “but ‘school’ was the biggie”. It caused a witch-hunt, an actual one, like Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ and the puritan, Salem event it was based on. With her head filled with fallacious tools by a school that taught her to rule the neighbourhood with the ‘fact’ that ‘Jesus made the Earth’ [sic], a little girl spoke intentional inflammation into an intellectually medieval, fanatical situation. Cries went up, of ‘Wiccan!’ – ” ‘Wicca’ wasn’t anywhere in the formulation – strange where uninformed, bigoted posses get their wild, obscure persuasion”; metaphorical fires were burning great hullaballoo that was encroachingly blowing a billowing through the long, waving grasses where myriad species of fauna and flora inhabited the rough, rugged veldt that encapsulated the domestic precinct. “The traditional, Xhosa doctor who lived on Mulísa with us would walk over from her mud hut to my dwelling and say, ‘hulle het my kop’,*13 and so we became aware of the threat on the winds, the intent of which was later confirmed to us by a ‘whistle blower’ in their midst. That was the first time we left. Just for a while. To douse a dangerous, diabolical delirium of spurious drama. We had a festival to attend, gigs to do, music to perform.
The type of learning experience we were seeking for our children was to know and understand from the beginning, in an ordered, methodical cycle of progression – water, food, waste disposal, shelter and clothing, washing, temperature regulation, energy, cultural progress, product and diversity, society, trade, a thriving process. If you’ve chosen to facilitate your child, er, differently, if you’ve exercised a right of unique variety, interpretation can infer suspicion of variance and things can get fiery.
My current feeling states it craves to glide blank, spit it all out, head vacuum, clean it, purge, not listen to another word, nothing, not anymore anything anymore, be emptied, be empty, start good and fresh, seeing, hearing, saying all over again. Minimally. Lucidly. With clear, flat clay. (Or papyrus. Or wood. Or leather. Or stone, or sand or some fancy, ancient, techno gismo. Again) Or with a stand-up mic.
When I started to perceive that we were somehow becoming UNschooling parents, without knowing or seeing anything of what I now see I don’t know, I took myself back down, to pre-grade, to sort out what had been jumbled up, to get what I didn’t get and hadn’t gotten the first time. It was a candid UNdoing, an intuitive pulling apart because I couldn’t locate the beginning to transmit sequentially to my kids. I played with letters and numbers for a very long time until I could distinguish the 13 components of the western alphabet. Then I began to compile comprehensive lists of two and three lettered words in English. I’m still only just heading back towards the foothills. A valley would be so nice. Or the centre of the galaxy…just for a clean slate learning while.”
While in ‘discovery and transmission learning via comprehensive parenting in the domestic arena’ at Mulísa Wilderness Studio, one of the songs she wrote, 2004 P.C.E. :
Log on the Frontier
How dare they call it ‘snail’?
It’s heavier on the scale.
It flies up high in a bird of steel
or on the sea sets sail.
It’s slower, has leaves, leaves a paper trail,
it’s deaf – nit- ly not!, snail-mail!
it couldn’t wait for your reply life was hurry
ing me by away and thru’,
- from here.
Log on the fron – tier
I lie in my ob-ser-va-to-ry,
far away from where you lie I lie, and see the view,
- from here…
behold, forsooth the countryside is truth
lo the Fruit…
not wire see root and fire, fie!
Log on the frontier
Just in from the frontier not far a way from near the
mouth a great fish goes out south
I’ve bin thru’ the crossing brave I bin right thru’ the border post
what waits to view cries out so grave
Oh City, CityScape glinting anew
Safety so vaporous quaking ensues And I want to run right outta here, go very far but
the valley a walk from here says you know where you are
bin passed the border bin passed and thru’
out from the ob-ser-va-to-ry you saw what to do
far out in the wilderness the way came back so dear
the fruit, lo, the soil the fire the root
the rules so clear
Log on the frontier *14
conversings in acerbica – a satyrical citing from the site where sighted artistes see from
*1 collected, collated, edited, transmitted by pan, WOoden family publishing, 2010, all rights reserved:
The travails, trails and tales of The Mulísa Tribe – mulisa dot coza, describing early habitation inception, system & garden inauguration, building process & lifestyle escapades on Mulísa. Also cultural & educational activities & service, social scenario discovery, experience, revelation, comment
‘Conceptual & Strategical Identity’ is central to the domestic organisation – a d.o.
THE UNIVERSAL CELL OF THE GLOBAL SOCIAL ORGANISM, a commercial and academic research document from: bio-diverse conceptual property and field data of Mulísa Wilderness Studio
The Mulísa Project, 1994 C.E. – 2006 P.C.E. – Rural Self-Sufficiency exercise in off-grid living
Zulu Sanusi, CREDO MUTWA gave translation of ‘Mulísa’ from Nguni: ‘a young girl, a young girl who reaches an age when she is celebrated by her parents because she is a treasure’
*2 the mutation, September 2010, ‘Conversings in Acerbica 4′, “Managing Meta Physical Material” http://themutation.com/south-african-writing
*3 The Mayan Calendar and the Transformation of Consciousness, Carl Johan Calleman, Ph.D
Bear & Company, Vermont, 2004 http://www.calleman.com – calendar calculator download
*4 The simultaneous Full Moon Eclipse for example; astrological commentators were noting more portentous signifiers for December solstice 2010 than for solstice at 21/12/2012 . . .
*5 British Geological Survey: Magnetic reversal may now be in progress, 2011 01 23 :
The Sun Rose 2 Days Early in Greenland, 2011 01 22, by Wynne Parry :
‘Birds may be able to ‘see’ the Earth’s electromagnetic field as they fly through the sky, scientists have suggested…’ The Voice of Russia, Beijing reports mass bird deaths
‘Two Suns? Twin Stars Could Be Visible From Earth By 2012, 2011 01 24, by Dean Praetorius
Betelgeuse, one of the night sky’s brightest stars, is losing mass, indicating it is collapsing. It could run out of fuel and go super-nova at any time.’:
http://www.news.com.au . . . twin-suns . . . betelgeuse
*6 Deepwater Horizon Rig Explosion & The BP Oil Spill – Ian Crane: http://www.redicecreations.com
*7 Artist : felicitas gross, http://www.pflog.eu
*8 Dennis Fetcho
*9 Paul A. LaViolette – Earth Under Fire, Galactic Superwaves & Subquantum Kinetics;
Wallace Thornhill – The Electric Universe
Dr Judy Wood – Where Did the Towers Go? http://www.redicecreations.com .mp3 download
*10 Adrienne de Mornay de Montchevreuil, in Newton’s Cannon – BOOK ONE OF THE AGE OF UNREASON, Greg Keyes, Tor-Pan Macmillan Ltd, London, 2004, first 1998
*11 The Matlock Paper, Robert Ludlum, Orion Books Ltd, London, 2005, first in 1973;
Boat Troop, Johnny ‘Two-Combs’ Howard, Orion Books Ltd, London, 1998, first in 1997;
Two-Way Split, Allan Guthrie, Polygon (Birlinn Ltd), Edinburgh, 2005, first in 2004;
The Payback, Mike Lawson, HarperCollins Publishers, London, 2007, first in 2006;
Whitewash, Alex Kava, MIRA Books, (Harlequinn Enterprises Ltd) Surrey, 2008, first in 2007
*12 Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin, Penguin Books Ltd, England, 2007
*13 translation from Afrikaans – South African Dutch, “they’ve got my head”
*14 ‘Log on the Frontier’, a noelle song, The CláinWellian & The SoundSmith, instrumentation numin
from the compilation ‘before blue’, eco music factory, 2010, all rights reserved
*15 ‘art by angela’, exhibit: ‘Saved from the Fire’, series i-xiv:
Series iv : dénouement in 12, Anatomy of a Gestation
(early 1990’s through 1994, Johannesburg, ‘Gauteng’;
including the ebullient emergence inspired by theatre set design studies)
featured February 2011 : iv1 opening sequence [water colour on paper, 64X50]
series pic: iv10 Tintagel from Silbury [ink, pencil, pencil crayon, water colour, pastel,
on paper, lighting gel, papier mâché, building insulation sheets, 29X21]
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