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The reproducible human being has been in the literature at least since Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, which was written in 1931. Most of the humans in his imagined future were not born, but decanted from a vessel whose chemical mix and hospitability depended on the caste of its embryo. The lower caste zygotes were subjected to “Bokanovsky’s Process” which cause the fertilized egg to take twinning up to as much as 96-fold.

Much later there was a richly imagined story by James Tiptree, Jr. (the nom de plume of Alice Sheldon, who kept her gender a secret from the science-fiction community and fooled even Isaac Asimov, who corresponded with “him” and referred to “him” as Tip), entitled “Houston, Houston, Do You Read?” This was a future without men, and very few distinct women, who had to repopulate the Earth with their clones. Then three guys from three hundred years ago, time-warp slingshotted by the Sun, show up…

I’ve had a brief go at a clone story. The one new thing I was bringing to the party was the notion that if extensive human cloning was taking place, there would be a process called Twisting that would afford every clone something absolutely unique to her- or himself. The clone would then choose a unique name. I imagined, among other things, a Gary, Indiana populated entirely by Garys, who would jet off to wild weekends in Helena, Montana, poplated entirely by Helenas…

I have a feeling that DNA preservation is going to be big in coming decades; and, legal or not, high-profile folks (such as Mohandas K. Gandhi) might, willingly or not, be cloned, perhaps over and over again. Thus a semi-doodle of a person in lotus position bloomed into this weird Cirque du Soleil of cloned Gandhis.

Here are the words:

GreatSoul–Bapu–some roots vedic
All recordings are not vinyl
New-found tech from Chi to Vilno
Darkest dreams of Saint & Villain
Here we walk a gene-pooled vale
In our quest; seek verities

Would a cadre of Gandhis be helpful in saving civilization? I can ask that question, but I’m not arrogant enough to think I can answer it.

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I have known Jack Suda since early grade school. He was the first Asian person I ever saw, live; and my unknowing kid-brain thought there was something terribly wrong with him, just as it thought the air had been let out of my ninety-year-old great-grandmother’s breasts the first time I saw her. But back to Jack. He was a raconteur before his teens, which seems impossible; he could talk about the most pedestrian thing and infuse it with storytelling magic. Several times I had the privilege of sitting in the afternoon at Glendale High School, waiting for the late bus to come, listening spellbound to Jack spin the tapestry of recent days. And all I can clearly remember of all that talk, forty years later, is the phrase “Coke bottle.”

The photo source of this page is from shots taken at a mini-high-school-reunion a couple of weeks ago. Since we last saw each other Jack has been a bodybuilder and a resort-level chef. His vitality, and his face a little, reminds me of Keye Luke in the classic TV series KUNG FU.

 

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This is not a page decrying Protest, but a particular category of Protester. Genuine Protest–as practiced by Rosa Parks, Mahatma Gandhi, Cesar Chavez, and other fine folks who put themselves at risk for a greater good–makes the world go round. But the “protester” who wouldn’t have anything to show John Lennon when he sings “We’d all love to see the plan”–stop wasting your time and ours, is my advice.

The other side of Protest’s coin is Advocacy. It’s fine to Naysay, IF you can Yeasay as well.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get down from my ivory soapbox–and Actually Do Something. Thanks for listening!

It has been fun and frenzied, Friends. But today I decided that enough was enough, and that the one-time-a-day posting would end today. Hail, Farewell, and Goodby to that.

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(NOT April Fool! in the traditional sense. I ended the one-time-a-day posting by posting TWICE, for the first time, today. Ain’t I a Stinker.)

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Instrument/Expression

Ideas love to live–give them de Luxe
Nestiferous environments for flux
Suspend your mind in trans-galactic soup
To raise it from a flattened-worldly stupor
Refect, reflect, refract, rephrase, re-lase
Usurp a surface with that scribe which flays
Mount bold campaigns upon a sturdy chassis
Elongate meatafours unto kolbassi
Nu AveNews WILL, O PEN, up a rho
Tend rouse of crabbage till your crop is grown

Notes: “Kolbassi” is much better known as Kielbasa. Nu and Rho are letters of the Greek alphabet. Ave is Latin for Hail. A Google search of “nestiferous” yielded 23 results this morning, while “pestiferous” clocked in at over 136,000. “Crabbage” is in the Urban Dictionary.

Since the subject was Instrument/Expression, I threw in a whimsical review of two pencils I used recently. One is the Staples store brand, the other the Dixon Ticonderoga (Yellow in this case; I prefer Black, though, just because it looks more Darth Vaderish). The two cats and their surrounds are drawn by the pencils they’re labeled with.

This page came from the notion that since oceangoing vessels have traditionally been named after women, and thought of as women, and that airplanes are vessels that go into the ocean of atmosphere, those airplanes are women. Three terms specific to flight arrangements are therefore seen in a different, skewed perspective.

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Layover

Low means a Moo
Air is to move
You’ll be a groover

Overflow

Olga put the Off in Scoff
Vera put the LOL in Maillol
Ella got a boff way boffo
Rita went in heat at Heathrow

Overbook

Ouches w/Job
Voices like lobo
Emulate mayo
Rye is OK

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Every year a subset of America goes a little crazy-with-the-flow in a phenomenon called “March Madness.” This is the sixty-four best college basketball teams engage in an elimination tournament so that they become thirty-two, then the Sweet Sixteen, then the Elite Eight, then the Final Four. Alas, the team of my alma mater, the University of Arizona, just got eliminated.

But at least the tragedy was fodder for a journal page, and a deeply allegorical one at that. Even the acrosticization reflects March Madness in its wild interlocking of names and conditions.

When I was a kid there was a show on Saturday called “ABC Wide World of Sports.” Each show had an opening montage with an overvoice declaiming “The thrill of Victory…the agony of Defeat.” (RIP Jim McKay, who was really James Kenneth McManus, host of the show, who was at the 1972 Olympics in Munich when the brutal slaying of Israeli athletes took place. Not to digress, but I think MUNICH is every bit as important a movie to see as SCHINDLER’S LIST.)

This page is in two disproportionate parts: DAYBREAK (The Thrill of Victory) and UPDATE (The Agony of Defeat). Here are most of the words.

— D A Y B R E A K  —

UnDEFEATed is my college
EYELASH batting carnaL knowledge
LOTTEries are won & lost
Battles grim; IMPASSES crossed
Craft REENTERS atmosphere
Gazes STEELY show no fear
Phoenix/TEMPE/Mesa leer

— U P D A T E —

Buzzer-BEATen was my team
OLEO has smudged a dream
BoOKRAcks filled w/tomes of woe
cast aSIDE the Place & Show
Heartbroke horns of DiESEls blow

I’ll be okay in a few days, honest.

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expenditures

i spend a piece of paper
arresting vagrant thoughts
that soar and drip and caper
and sleep on Army cots
i also spend attention
on getting them undense
on aiding their ascension
on helping them make sense
but they’re so argumentative
that everything’s a joke
my editing is tentative
and thus i end up broke

sore sour crow came eros (quintuple acrostic)

saints & their eclectic mercies share
old metaphors that bring a cross to bear
recursion’s curves so sinners may then go
enjoy their shadows where they’re apropos

i mist you

i drop a fog
     of passing days
on what we had
     to give a glaze
to soften pain
     and angst to blur
and make the harsh
     ness disapurr

 

Breasts are many things. They are definers of mammals. They are enablers of the continued existence of human beings. They are life-threatening catchers of rogue cells. They are distractions, enticements, modified sweat glands, fabric stretchers, objects of desire, objects of derision, objects of adiposity, curiosity, virtuosity–but let’s get on with this post. Here is the page I made yesterday, which is about a specific type of breast, the enhanced breast, and about the instrument of its enhancement, the silicone implant.

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Here are the words to the tricky, brain-busting quadruple acrostic:

Stuff cabbage–check! Stuff sausage–yes! stuff silicone? Ten-four
Quick-bobble will make wobblers with more perk than neoprene
Unlike that I Love Lucy star with monogram VV
Implanteds get invited to the finest posh soiree
Some grace a this-month centerfold or ad in social media
Help adolescent boys get off and make a Grandpa swell
Enduring fame may not be hers but O the current melee
Delights that ditzy Jersey girl whose bra size is DD

For the most part I am against breast-enhancement surgery. It seems invasive, dangerous, and barbaric to me. But for a wonderful friend of mine, subjected to a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, and various other tortures of the damned, it may provide a semblance of normalcy and rebelonging, and I’m all for that.

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Here are the words:

the sky is greener
   than your eyes
the nitrogen the light
   ning strikes the sky
is greener than the moon
takes meteors
   and burns them up the
sky is greener than our ways
ionosphere dims cosmic
   rays the sky has
helped us come to be
breathe Oh-Two in
enjoy the dawn

Green means many metaphorical things. It may mean Inexperienced, or Jealous, or Envious, or Nauseous, or Fresh. In this case it means Environmentally Sound, of course.

But what of the sky? The sky is what we see when we are on Earth and we look away from the Earth. (Presupposing we are out in the open and uncanopied.) The sky as I write of it here is the Earth’s atmosphere and all it contains. That is not what Sky means, strictly, but “atmospheric envelope” could not be made to work.

We are not gentle with our atmospheric envelope, though it would be perfect for our sustenance if we were. Now a frightening number of environmental scientists say that the climate change our increasingly-unsuitable atmospheric envelope is midwifing will make ordinary life impossible in this century.

Can you help? Are you willing to help? Look in your heart and you may find that you are greener than you think.