12,000 years ago... 12 miles from Nazareth
"12,000 years ago... In a cave, 12 miles from Nazareth...."
I'm reading to the Ice Weasels again. Most stories, they don't like. This one, they're wearing it out. Or rather, wearing me out.
It's time-consuming, and a bit frustrating, because I know that they can read. For instance, just this afternoon I sat with Sir Charles Kerwallop-Bollock while he tabbed back & forth through the 87 plastic-encased pages of the "Operating Instructions for a Pioneer PDP-4360HD Plasma TV" (translated by one Sulaiman bin Bedlam of Kuala Lumpur), and lemme tell you, Chuckie's paws were a blur.
See, Tech manuals are easy, 'cause there's no emotional content. You see a Weasel reading one, and the only unusual thing you'll notice is an excess of drool. The only thing they "feel" is a straight-up surge of information on how to dismember these suckers. After the info's been absorbed, comes the metallic disembowelling, and devouring.
But stories? No chance. They won't touch 'em. When they want a story, they haul one over to me, plunk themselves down in a circle, hold each others paws, steady themselves, and ask that I read it to them. And then, if they like it, reread it. And reread it again.
The problem with them reading directly is that the Weasels respond, quite actively, to what they read. They'll act out the moods, the conflicts, the twists & turns of the stories. They call it "dancing," and sometimes it's got that feeling to it. They bounce along on their toes, little paws held up in front of them, bobbing up and down, and it's kinda cute - sortof B-52's, Love Shack.
But the dancing tends to "escalate" with the quality of the story. The more twists & turns, multiple characters & (better) multiple personalities, bad puns & cosmic haha's, made-up spacemen & inside-outskie parallel universes get thrown in - the faster they rev.
Most news stories, TV shows, sitcoms, Hollywood movies - to them, that crap might as well be a Tech manual. They get the message, of which there's always & only ever one per story, and respond accordingly. They spit. Throw old appliances. Hurl. Heckle. "Caaaaaaaake," they mock.
But a good story - well, those are dangerous. Huck Finn gets 'em running around in a circle, whooping like mad, doing this aerial somersault thing that's quite impressive, even if it does end up with a lot of blood & bandages. You escalate to Alan Moore, and they'll start gnawing themselves, then the neighbors, and by the end, I'm damned hard-pressed to call the sight of a couple of hundred Ice Weasels clawing at their own flesh "dancing."
And Tom Robbins? Forget it. I won't read that shit to 'em anymore. It's like crack meets ecstasy meets, I donno, naked Natasha Kinski in Cat People. They're ecstatic by the Foreword, leaping & piling-on in great fur-heaps when the pleasure hits, carnassials gnashing & shearing in despair if it looks like the joy juice is gonna stop flowing, and at the climax, all those anal scent glands release, and the level of sexual & sensual arousal reaches heights probably only matched by a Pentecostal Girls Choir watching Elvis in leather.
Thus, the need for prophylactic measures. i.e. Me. Doing the reading. To them. And lately, they can't get enough of this one story. So I read them version after version, from the original scientific report in pdf through the mass media coverage, even throw in a couple of blogs. (They hate blogs. "Reading that TPM gruel again, are we multigrain?" Once they start in on the nasty stuff about "wanting to be Josh's boytoy," I tend to give in & read 'em whatever the hell they want. On the plus side, it does mean I'm fairly safe reporting on them here. Not like they're gonna read it.) Anyway. A riff in Time they've taken a liking to:
"A new figure in humanity's history emerged last week when archaeologists announced the discovery of what could be one of the world's oldest known spiritual figures. After years of meticulous excavation just miles from Israel's Mediterranean coast, scientists from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem unearthed a 12,000-year-old grave that held the remains of a diminutive 'shaman' woman...."
"The grave is thought to belong to the Natufian culture, a nomadic society which existed roughly between 11,500 and 15,000 years ago. Located near other burial sites in Hilazon Tachtit, the woman's body was distinctly encased in a limestone enclosure, a tomb sealed by a rock slab that Grosman's team managed to lift in 2006."
Which
got them pretty excited. Picture a stuffed furry animal, 4 feet tall, titanium teeth,
Taser in one paw, blowtorch in the other, cartwheeling, and shouting in an extremely high-pitched chittering language. Now
picture 280 of them cartwheeling, blowtorching & Tasering - each other - in
perfect harmony, and you've got a show that would intimidate the Chinese
Olympic Organizing Committee.
That's the gist of the story. If you're up for a long ramble, there's more. And if you don't know what an Ice Weasel is yet, well, that's damned sad. And you can look here. But meanwhile, it'll cost you a Rec for the rest of the story. Life is hard.
Now here's the deal. Yeah, they're into the whole Jewish angle, plus the fact that the Shaman was a woman, plus they tend to like Archaeologists. Heck, 56% of the Weasels are female, and we got as many Orthodox Ice Weasels as we got cyberpunks, and Archaeologists - as in any sane community - rank right up there with astronauts, rich uncles & purveyors of really fine bottled water.
They're excited because... they knew her. Or rather, their ancestors did. The Ancient ones, Ice Weasels who came down off the glaciers, added a little color to the fur, and decided to mix it up with people after the last Interglacial.
So we got lots about the wing-tip feathers of an Eagle, the pelvis of a Leopard, a Gazelle horn, an Auroch's tail, the leg of a wild Boar, her Husband's foot... and most of all, about the shells of 50 live Tortoises that had apparently been brought to the site, eaten at the funeral, and then the shells thrown in. Better'n crusts from those little sandwiches, I guess.
Paydirt, baby. Two - count 'em, two - Martens buried with her.
The Wolverine, for instance, is custom-built to dominate the North. The Otters, and particularly the Sea Otter, are unreasonably cute on the surface... but underwater, savage as a Hungarian water polo player. The Badgers (borrrrrrrring, but good in the trenches); the Ekorus (of which only 59 remain, and none left in the Continental US); the Panserbjørne (or "Armored Bear"); the Ferret (banished from the Clan in 1500 BC not for becoming domesticated, but humiliatingly so); the nasty, brutish, short but well-coiffed Mink, Ermine and Sable; and of course, the Marten.
This one being almost the spitting image of the ones buried beneath the Shaman's hands.
Now, most of you have probably only ever heard of Martens twice. The 1st time being some story about how they break into cars so they can bite through the ignition wires & brake hoses. I would hope by now that you understand enough about the Weasel family to realize these are not random acts of vandalism, but rather, deliberate acts of sabotage. And yes, it is personal.
The 2nd time you've probably heard of Martens is in relation to Lyra Belacqua, the young Economic Historian of Jordan College, Oxford. There are apparently even some stories & a movie about her, her adventures up North, and the time she spent in the presence of Iorek Byrnison, the Panserbjørne King. Now, the movie made Lyra & her Marten friend, Pantalaimon, a bit cutesy (and forget that ending) - but the Weasels at least appreciated Pullman's central insight... that most Shaman hang with Weasels.
Now, I know you're keen to learn more, and this is a perfect opportunity, so I'll pass on what I learned about the Shaman & the Martens. It took a good many readings, and a few days worth of pretty exhausting chanting before they'd settle down enough for me to ask any questions, but here's the inside dope from Weasel-town:
#1. No, even though she lived between the Sea of Galilee and the Mediterranean, and just 12 miles from Nazareth, she didn't know Jesus. Your first thought might be that she should probably have made time & made tracks down Highway 79. But she didn't. And yes, that's a bummer. But it turns out they didn't connect mostly because Jesus didn't show up until 10,000 years after she died.
#2. Plus, she, and her whole people, didn't have any cars. Nor any cows. Not fat cows, nor thin cows, nor thin cows eating fat cows, no domesticated animals period. It gets worse. No domesticated grains. No pottery, much less pans. Look, these guys didn't even have houses to put stuff in, assuming you gave 'em stuff, just as a starter pack. This was, the Weasels remind me, a good 7,000 years before Stonehenge, before the Great Pyramid. Pretty much the only thing they came after was the Ice Age.
#3. Ok, enough dancing around. Here's the thing, the most important thing the Weasels told me. That how most of us see this time is wrong. That we still can't quite grasp that these little people in furs in any way consciously contributed to the earth-shaking innovations that followed - Grain, Animals, Pots, Pillars, Posts, Houses, Villages. That no matter what the scholarly articles say, our mass-media shaped opinion is still that these things happened largely by accident.
Instead, the Ice Weasel claim is that she saw it. In fact, that she saw all these things. Perhaps the most Modern of the Scholar Weasels, Roderick Who Once Ate Cake, put it like this. "She was on the path." At which point his acolytes chimed in to explain the great Weasel's cryptic words, saying that he meant that, "She grasped within herself, embodied, and then expressed to others, a way of being, a way of life, that was the path to a new world."
When I ventured to argue that maybe she didn't see all the specifics, Roderick plowed back in, in his scholarly way, saying, "What are you, some kinda idiot? Of course she didn't see the exact details, or know the precise time & date or recognize the individual face & place. Are you daft?" He paused and then stated, "Acolytes... This one fatigues me. Bring me refreshment. Pale Ale."
Ok, Rod was a pompous git. But. The Weasels were all quite insistent on this. The word had come down, across hundreds of generations, that it was, in fact, this one little Shaman lady who had been the visionary of her time. There's a level at which the group mind, or collective memory, of the Ice Weasel is pretty damned unified, and on this point, they were in lock step.
Old Rod's wife, Priscilla, Queen of (Pie-Based) Desserts, put it to me somewhat more emotionally. "You assholes think all those cave-people & hunters were as dumb as you. That's the thing, right, punk? You drive a car, flick on a VCR, and haven't the first f*cking clue how they really work. You go through your daily paces, numb & dumb, chained by the ankle to your neighbor, and by the balls to the Man."
Priscilla was somewhat more forthright than old Rod the Mod Scholar, and his approach was beginning to appeal more than it had initially, which thought apparently was expressed through my "outside voice," because she grabbed me by the collar & lifted me up over a distinctly yellow snowbank, fixed me with the one good rotating eye, and said,
"The problem with seeing early history as consisting of a series of accidents is that it fundamentally assumes that people were dumb. That they had no ability to search out or see patterns. That they couldn't compare & contrast. Couldn't remember what had happened or how things worked & look to splice or modify them. And then, that they couldn't think clearly enough, or concentrate long enough, to organize themselves or persist through the testing of a new course of action."
"Better," I said. "Too slow," she said, "and a bit pompous," depositing me 'midst the stain.
Fortunately, she went on. "Bald boy.... That woman spent her entire 45 years, walkin' the walk. She had a vision & she didn't back down. She walked it, son. And as the path grew clearer, she kept on walkin' it. And she did all that while draggin' that lameass foot, and those dumbass people of hers, behind. Including her husband, who, by the way, once kicked her for walking too slow. Which is why that foot showed up in her grave. Hehe. And that little Shaman woman paid attention. She may have had to walk slow, but it taught her something. And then, she taught them. 'Slow down and smell the flowers,' where do you think that came from? And while you're at it, how about you big cavemen look at this nice fat grass here, and that relatively more peaceful Auroch there, and look how the water stays cupped there in that mud, even though the mud's dried up? That woman thought slow & deep, and she dreamt big & wide. And when we talked to her, the Martens, she didn't half listen. In fact, she listened so well, we sent two Martens down, dig?"
Well yeah, I dug. But by this point she was off on some long & learned discourse about the ability of early peoples to select, identify & test early plants for medicinal purposes. About their incredible memories, not just visual, but extending right across the senses. Their physical abilities to tackle & manage unbelievably extreme, and volatile, environments. Their skill with stone, bone, flesh, hide, earth & wood.
By this point, she was sounding a bit too much like an old Soc Prof I had, one whom I figured had maybe dropped too much acid or had some nasty-hot same-sex relationship years back that she maaaaaybe pined for a bit.
Unfortunately, it seemed my "inside voice, outside voice" difficulties were recurring, because a talon of hers now appeared to have inserted itself in my forehead. It was interesting at least, listening to the rest of the lecture as the pain rose, and the blood dripped down between my eyes.
"Proof meet pudding. Tortoise pudding. Boy, you ever try to get 50 live, wild tortoises together, at once, for a meal? That takes knowledge, planning, storage systems. And organization." I nodded. But only the once before I figured out how that wasn't workin' too well for me. "And they buried her in a worked grave. Limestone, slabs, laid out, circles, casings, and it lasted. Too far for your brain to stretch, to go from constructing a home for the dead, to one for the living?"
By later that night, I was pretty out of it. Decided maybe I'd hang with a somewhat younger, more relaxed, crowd. Ok... stoners. These were the kinda people Priscilla woulda warned me about. Which was why I was there, as a matter of fact. They were lounging, doing a bit of teenage social grooming, you know, flossing their friends with razor wire and such. I wasn't partaking of the noxious, 'cause the second hand smoke alone was powerful enough to drive my mind on a fast scuttle out from between my eyes. But all in all, even with the smoke & the 4 of us jammed into the back of that VW van, I was pretty happy. Even though when they got stoned, they all affected an accent like Tommy Chong.
Bim the Blissful Idiot was in full... if confusing... flight. "She was an outsider, man. You know that? Yeah, Forced to marry off the ranch by her old man. That's tough, dude. She come from up North, originally. Long walk for a little girl with a bum leg. 300 miles. But her family were wheels, man. Big in Göbekli Tepe. That's like in Turkey now, heh? Urfa. Ur, dude. Remember that? That whole greater Ur region. I hope they test her bones to prove it, man. Feel like sending 'em the money to. Mebbe some big shot will. Mebbe Branson. He's cool."
JoeyJohnny D.D. tuned one up, and started riffing on life in a band.
She taught 'em, you know? About life. And how to get along. It's tough, man, I don't need to tell you, when you gotta spend longer & longer periods in one place. Like, the patterns of social behavior shift, right? Suddenly, everyone's in your face, got things to do & nowhere else to do 'em. But she just handled it. Smacked it down. Taught 'em all how to deal with it. 'Cause life on the road is nothin' like life at home....
Hey! Get this. Like... that cave they buried her in? That was hers, man. That's why she was the first one buried there. Didja know that? She was the first. And they had to haul her 500 feet up that hill to bury her there. Well, why would they do that? Like, there? I betcha she hung out there. A lot. Maybe it was like... Hilazon Tachtit was her studio. Man."
This made more sense. Somehow.
But JoeyJohnny D.D. was off on his tangent now, running hard. "Think about it. Right? She didn't have no paper or books. Couldn't store nothin' online. So what she learned about a tree, she had to keep in her head. And grasses. All them grasses........... Like, from back at her home too, up Göbekli way. Had to remember all that. And the rock woulda been different, and different clay 'n stuff, and she woulda had to constantly try to explain shit to people, and them thinkin' she was confused, what with the accent, and probably tellin' her to f*ck off 'cause she's a lousy stoner, and Northern scum. And such. I don't wanna grow up, man."
Long, unhappy pause.
"So what could she do, heh? I'll tell ya what. This little crippled kid with the accent, she woulda only had one way to communicate it, what she was seein', and comparin', and imaginin'. And such."
"Dance it, man. She danced it. I'll bet she danced the ass out of it. And if she had the pipes, mebbe sang it too. New songs. She woulda had to jam, right, mebbe fusion, right? Like, how long.... must we sing this old song? I'll bet she'd get 'em all to come to The Cave, Saturday nights, do concerts & shit. Mebbe they had trance stuff too. Like, to help with the memory. Like we do. And stories. Those are good. Man, I could use a couple of stories right now. I'm hungry as hell."
We broke for eats, and ended up at Timmy Rue laRue's unofficial little place, where they had stand-up storytelling. You know, just the two-minute spots, little bitty stories, just enough to beat back the pangs. I donno, I musta got caught up in it, I think I had a dozen Timbits myself.
Anyway, it was a couple of days before I really got my head clear, and the one thing I remember wanting to look up was that place she came from, up North, outside Göbekli Tepe. I donno whether she actually came from there, but when I checked it out, the site was impressive.
And the pillars all with carvings of Foxes, and Bulls and Boars and Ducks. Lions even. When I searched around the area, they had lots of statues, carvings of humans too. Some were women, Great Mothers and such. Some of men, holding Great Cocks. Plus ca change, eh?
But some of the statues, the ones with eyes, you probably won't forget. Like this guy. Obsidian Eyes.
But they were still afraid of her. Crazy, visionary, Shaman ladies get that. Respect, but the people're still afraid. So they weighted her body down. With rocks. Then weighted the whole grave. Sealed it. Some of the scholars say it was to help her. But the Weasels say it was because they were scared shitless.
Which is what I believe, because of what they did at Gobekli Tepe. Some of 'em had the idea for this incredible place. Organized the building. Changed the path. But after a while, once the big dreamers were dead & buried, and the locals thought it was safe, and mebbe didn't want to be reminded anymore... some of the people came back... and buried the whole place. Under 5,000 cubic feet of earth. Sealed & buried it shut. Deliberately.
The Weasels tell me this. Maybe they know more because they have better memories. Or just are more focused on remembering the stories. I donno. But I'll tell you one weird little thing they keep saying. It's that they... haven't stopped doing their job. In fact, they say there are more of them, today, tied up doing what the Martens did back then, whispering in our ears, more doin' that than there are Weasels tied up in the shearing & the slashing through cheap electronics.
Which would mean there are more of us dreaming, searching, concentrating, dancing our way along a new path. The way to a new world. More of us than ever.
I guess the only evidence of that would be in the amount & the quality of the storytellin' going on. I wish we could meter that, somehow. Some stories get sung, like Cortez. Some get dreamt, like Lyra Belacqua of Jordan College, with Dust falling through the evening sky over the Botanic Gardens, and the Rift, and the Panserbjørne and the Magesterium and Paradise Lost.
And some... we're digging up. Like old Obsidian Eyes. And the little lady Shaman with the limp from 12,000 years ago. Lying there in her cave.
Just outside Nazareth.
Feels a little like Daniel Quinn on acid, which is saying something since he was writing about a talking ape. But you Quinn, and that Quinn, have much in common, particularly the awareness that ancient culture means culture. That we'd be remiss not to pay attention. That part of the reason we're so fucked is because we stopped paying attention.
I think Quinn squared also share a deep, visceral belief in some kind of collective spirit, human and non-human, being and beings, that expresses itself in the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees and the moon up above...sorry, childhood flashback...dancing and dreaming to a new world.
Lovely. I'll hold on to that.
December 12, 2008 5:26 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks Dude. For clambering over 4,000 words worth of defences. You pretty much toe-tagged me in your last para. What I'm feeling lately is that not only is it a problem that our economy can't stand up, but our culture can't either. People here are working out, day by day, interesting takes on the economy... and the psychological wiring that goes into it. Which is trebly tough. You have to cut through the initial shock of what's happening... then the official way economists & financiers discuss it... and then get down to the deeper questions. Like... what is valuable? What do we want more or less of? How do we create it?
And I'm not sure how many of us are conscious yet of precisely how large this economic-cultural break point we're at MAY be. I say "may" because who knows, maybe we put Humpty together again. But I'm not convinced we can. And it's damn tough to imagine, to project ahead, to how people will react - us, now, our whole society - if things get nasty. The Depression was its own thing. This is different.
Like this. We know a group that's gonna be brutally hit, should this continue, are the isolated millions in exurbia. Construction workers laid off, retail clerks too. Family goes bust. House lost. So we're gonna have tens of thousands of isolated men, in trucks, with guns, feeling their life has been swept away. Add to that the fact that the last 8 years have taught millions PRECISELY where our infrastructures are most vulnerable. Like the Grid. And it is absolutely unprotected. One guy, with a truck, on a mission, can take down cities. For days. Hit the right spots, for weeks. Wanna see how our society reacts to that?
And the only way I see forward is to fairly dramatically re-see how we go about meeting our needs. The Ice Weasels in teardown mode (i.e. the harsh side of the economy) is gonna strip away a lot of chrome. But the only way to build something positive is to SEE it. And then organize with others of a like mind, and concentrate our resources on growing those areas. And since I don't mean simply returning to some "past" - whether the Depression or 1800's or stone age times, which are our usual mental models for this kinda nasty change - we have to revision it, positively. Think it through, a whole modern, electronic, economy, that is sustainable, built around a fairly dramatically retooled set of values.
The whole Shaman thing is just a way to say... people have done this before. We have this kind of ability within us. But it's not easily accessed. Not a simple intellectual equation. And more of the posts here are now making that explicit. When you lose your house, or your job, and it sticks, maaan, it shakes you. Tough to deal with the immediacy of that, and still find some positive place to re-dream it. But if we do... and we go deep... we're gonna find ourselves drawing on visions and values that have been around for a long time. I just imagined that little Shaman lady, sitting on the lip of that cave, bad leg bent beneath her, looking out across that valley, as they dealt with immediate pressures like hunger and cold and war... while also, trying to find a way forward.
Old story.
Too much said, by me. Thanks guy, for dropping in, and plowing through.
December 12, 2008 5:55 PM | Reply | Permalink
Oy, my kids started reading about Ice Weasels - "see, they're just like us!!!" Sleeping won't be the same. I'll find a nice crypt, either for them or myself. Thick steel walls that will at least dull their blades. The things kids learn quicker than adults. The Great Leap Forward, each generation, only to fall back by 30, dulled and senseless and numb. Ooops, gotta go, scratching on the window, "Kidneys! Kidneys!" Not mine, you little puke, I'm outta here.
We need a bone chapel, that's what we need.
December 13, 2008 3:37 AM | Reply | Permalink
Secret is, give 'em stuff til they're firmly on your side... then point them like little attack beats at external forces & personnel, cut the leash, sit back, light up a stogie, and periodically shout encouraging & vaguely parental-sounding advice. Try to contradict yourself as often as possible. They like that.
Oh wait. Just looked it up. Seems that theory of parenting was utterly discredited a few years back. What's it say here, hmmmm... "Tendency to produce unruly, unsocialized, tricameral-minded, yelping monsters. See: Bjork."
Best go with the T-shirt idea, then. Your idea below, maybe for the 2nd round, try "Weasels for Change." See if you can get some licensing deals with the Obama folk. They're gonna need some savage youth come Spring. Those young Mormon-types aren't gonna be of much help with a blowtorch.
December 13, 2008 1:20 PM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn, I want whatever drugs you're on.
Seriously, though, I loved this post. I even read the entire PDF. Extremely interesting and I love that your weasels knew her. So much of her knowledge is now gone, never to be completely understood by any of us supposedly more advanced creatures. Your shaman probably knew the cure for cancer, which probably didn't even exist back then.
On a slightly related note, my dad once told me that, if reincarnated, he wanted to come back as a sea otter. I asked him why, and he answered, "Because they hang out in the water all day and have so much fun."
This one's for you, Daddy. R.I.P. (Clink)
December 12, 2008 6:16 PM | Reply | Permalink
Lis! I was soooo going to say EXACTLY the same thing!
Quinn, if you did that stone cold sober, you are some kinda writer!
December 12, 2008 6:51 PM | Reply | Permalink
LisB. Thought of you actually, while hanging out with one character in particular... JoeyJohnny D.D. We'll see if we can flush out any other Ramones fans on the site. (And cheers, to yer Da.)
Hiya Still. As my friends know, I'm stone cold sober (and straight) all the damn time. My family (Brewer's roots) wore out their liver, not much left for those of us who followed. And drugs are pretty much wasted on me. My mind's got its own chemical balance, and doesn't appear to want or need much assistance. This, of course, may be helpful from time to time (e.g. writing about Ice Weasels), but in daily life... makes it a bit tougher. Anyhoo, Thanks you two.
And sorry 'bout the length. (Again.) I figure if I only drop these things every couple or few weeks, and people come to expect that they'll be long... shouldn't be too much harm done. ;-)
December 12, 2008 7:06 PM | Reply | Permalink
Actually, luv, it's the Clash I'm obsessed with. But the Ramones rocked too, and they came first.
December 12, 2008 7:10 PM | Reply | Permalink
Believe me, we ALL know about your Clash love, LisB! I just thought I remembered some Ramones reference by you in the past. Donno why.
It'd be interesting if there were Ice Weasels named Topper Headon & Joe Strummer. Names seem perfect.
Haven't met 'em yet, but I'll ask around.
December 12, 2008 7:15 PM | Reply | Permalink
Oh, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with the length of this post, and you at least know to truncate it with the "read more" link, so it's all good. Every word was worth reading and treasuring.
December 12, 2008 7:18 PM | Reply | Permalink
Hmmmmm. Knew there was something in one of their songs that kept racketing around my head. You probably guessed it.
"The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in,
Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin,
A nuclear error, but I have no fear,
London is drowning - and I live by the river."
And this, the kind of song that calls me back to the Big Smoke. London Calling.
By yer boyz.
December 12, 2008 7:27 PM | Reply | Permalink
"London Calling" is my ringtone on my RAZR, heh heh.
I might have made a reference to Joey and his brothers one night by quoting one of my fave songs of theirs: "I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on my drum all day".
Then again, maybe one of the female weasels in the back of the VW van who has blond/red hair and loves spliff reminded you of me. Who knows?
December 12, 2008 7:40 PM | Reply | Permalink
Hey, Mighty Quinn, have you started working on a Weasel Family Tree chart, yet?
I'd love to see it, if you have one.
December 12, 2008 7:34 PM | Reply | Permalink
Let's just say I'm only at the early stages of disentangling that particular little mess. As you may have noted, the Weasels are quadrasexual, and appear to have a distinct preference toward relationships built around "spontaneous formation of writhing, multi-weasel heaps."
I'll stop there, other than to say that the preliminary outlines of their connections are already clear enough that I can safely say the final result won't resemble any "tree" botanists have ever identified. I donno. Unless maybe tumbleweeds are trees.
December 12, 2008 9:50 PM | Reply | Permalink
Do you own a copy of Zappa's album, "Weasels Ripped My Flesh"?
http://www.science.uva.nl/~robbert/zappa/albums/Weasels_Ripped_My_Flesh/09.html
December 13, 2008 12:29 AM | Reply | Permalink
Under strict orders not to speak about any others who may or may not be here, or have been here. But I CAN say that FZ (the Master) would certainly NOT have been, whether he was or was not here amongst the Weaseltry, the first.
Although some, clearly, did not work out so well.
Awesome.
December 13, 2008 3:16 PM | Reply | Permalink
Gabba gabba hey!
December 13, 2008 2:50 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thank God you're hear Old Grouch. Was feelin' a bit lonely there.
Not only do the Weasels dig this one, it's not a bad picture of life with the Lil Bastards.
December 13, 2008 3:08 PM | Reply | Permalink
he IS some kind of writer!
December 12, 2008 7:22 PM | Reply | Permalink
kind of like a Thelonious Monk with a pen.
December 12, 2008 7:25 PM | Reply | Permalink
I promise I will come back and read the rest of this. But I rec'd it for what I've already read. (you ask a lot of reader!) Rec'd for that too!
December 12, 2008 6:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
Tru that!
quinn, I was just able to climb back in my chair from that floor laughing thing.
As Desmond Hume might say, "Outstanding Brother"!
This post was Great! AND it just made me laugh my ass off.
December 12, 2008 6:32 PM | Reply | Permalink
I doubt if I "get" this post. But I liked it. There are all those old stone circles . . . even in the Hebrides or Orkneys or someplace. Far older, by millenia, than Stonehenge. The only time I ever saw a marten, running around loose in nature, I was tripping on acid. We were maybe fifty miles from the known range of the creatures, but the state DNR guy told me their range is expanding. It was thirty feet up in a pine tree. Nice looking weasel.
December 12, 2008 7:02 PM | Reply | Permalink
Spent some time around the ones in the Orkneys. Plus some barrows and stuff elsewhere. Mind-blowing.
As for seeing Martens on acid... now you got me wondering what they'd look like in an alterred state. 'Course, they were probably tripping too... which is how they ended up so far outside their known range.
Great name by the way. ;-)
December 12, 2008 7:11 PM | Reply | Permalink
Looked just like the picture of a marten in "Wild Animals of the World" (Bridges & Baker, 1948.) Definitely not a fisher or a fox. Rarely have I ever seen anything that wasn't there, regardless of attempts to "alter states." On those rare occasions where reality disconnected, though, it wasn't fun. Understatement.
December 12, 2008 11:27 PM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn,
Just followed all the links!
Amazing Brother Just Amazing!
You might like to take a listen to the velvet sounds of a guy named Don Williams, a song called "I Believe in Love". Track it down you'll like it. Of course I am an old country DJ so be prepared. How old? you ask. I know what Willie Nelson looks like without the long hair and beard. from a Vinyl LP cover (That's how old).
EVERYONE if you have not followed all the links PLEASE follow them.
Wow, I want more.
December 12, 2008 7:21 PM | Reply | Permalink
Glad you liked 'em guy. I gotta say the Smithsonian article and the sketch of the grave and all that... pretty wonderful, eh?
My only disappointment is that the Rickie Lee Jones video at the end, which fits absolutely perfectly with the piece, couldn't be embedded so it'd play in the post itself. But the way it starts & ends, with the old shaman, limping own the road.... brilliant. anyway, it's buried under the word "limp" in the last para.
I'll check the Don Williams out. I grew up in an "All Country" kinda place, shot through with local Celtic/Fiddle-Folk stuff. So even though my tastes still run all over, there's a lot I love (on a Hayes Carll bender lately.) Anyway, here's Don Messer & His Islanders, from way back in the day. Yep, it was that kinda fiddlin & dancin'.
Also, pleased the Weasels made you laugh. They make me laugh like hell.
December 12, 2008 7:36 PM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn,
Don Williams - Lyrics I mentioned, enjoy
I don't believe in superstars,
Organic food and foreign cars.
I don't believe the price of gold;
The certainty of growing old.
That right is right and left is wrong,
That north and south can't get along.
That east is east and west is west.
And being first is always best.
But I believe in love.
I believe in babies.
I believe in Mom and Dad.
And I believe in you.
Well, I don't believe that heaven waits,
For only those who congregate.
I like to think of God as love:
He's down below, He's up above.
He's watching people everywhere.
He knows who does and doesn't care.
And I'm an ordinary man,
Sometimes I wonder who I am.
But I believe in love.
I believe in music.
I believe in magic.
And I believe in you.
Well, I know with all my certainty,
What's going on with you and me,
Is a good thing.
It's true, I believe in you.
I don't believe virginity,
Is as common as it used to be.
In working days and sleeping nights,
That black is black and white is white.
That Superman and Robin Hood,
Are still alive in Hollywood.
That gasoline's in short supply,
The rising cost of getting by.
But I believe in love.
I believe in old folks.
I believe in children.
I believe in you.
But I believe in love.
I believe in babies.
I believe in Mom and Dad.
And I believe in you.
December 13, 2008 1:48 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks for the Don. Here's Hayes Carll, Bad Liver & A Broken Heart.
Hope it'll play for you.
December 13, 2008 2:17 PM | Reply | Permalink
Brings to mind Daniel Dennett's view (from musings on free will and consciousness) that "Society gives us our souls." There has never been a solitary member of any species, all are populations. There is only an illusion of individual.
That can be tested by asking for examples of humans that grew up without the parents or village that is the unmentioned background. Guaranteed psycho.
Then remember what Newton said about standing on the shoulders of giants. And the giants stood on the shoulders of everyone else. All consciousness and intelligence, meaning and emotion, is found only in the context of society. Illustrative examples include the clustering on theoretical and/or technological innovations (Liebniz/Newton, Einstein/Mach). Also the arts always reflect the shared space of expression.
Finally, think that life and wealth have precisely zero meaning without a future, said future being children, and the passing on of knowledge and history.
"Tell me a story." That is human life.
December 12, 2008 7:30 PM | Reply | Permalink
I think you got about 3 posts right there, Tom. Wow.
You quote Dennett, and all I hear is Mad Maggie Thatcher saying, "There is no such thing as society." An attitude that produces psychos, indeed.
The clustering thing is another. I've studied it in Science, seen it lots in social & political thought, and - as a fan - watched it happen in music. The larger tides, at work in the mind, with no obvious trace in the external world, suddenly breaking through in a burst.
And 3rd, "meaning." I think a lot of us, who've been working & gathering "stuff," are beginning to have that question forced upon us. Always better, though, if we can ask it in some hopeful manner, rather than feeling it forced upon us.
Anyway, thanks Tom. Now if you could just write up those 3 posts....
December 12, 2008 7:52 PM | Reply | Permalink
It requires effort, for me, to always remember that all species are populations, and all populations have variation. Therefore there is simultaneously no true individual, and no normal version of the individual.
Vive le difference!
(And that other difference, of course.)
December 13, 2008 12:26 AM | Reply | Permalink
Gary Snyder used to talk about a world culture than was fairly homogenous (at least in its tool kit) and lasted 40,000 years or so. Very stable. Then something happened and here we are! Now something has happened again.....
December 12, 2008 7:34 PM | Reply | Permalink
I'm not one for some fairy-tale "going back," or even imagining it wasn't often brutal as hell. But I DO think we're gonna have to learn - or remember - a few things as we proceed. Some things, I just wonder if they aren't hard-wired into us, Lux. Like, exactly how much can you put human beings in flux, and then... keep the flux going. Absent family, friends, any kind of stable relationship to place. And again, as we wire our minds into this worldwide thing, it's a different kind of stimulation than we're used to. It's FAST, for one. And I'm not sure we aren't gonna have to counterbalance that somehow, so that we can drive down roots in one direction, while spinning our heads out over the rooftops. That, plus the 10-to-1 rule, baby, 10-to-1.
And Snyder... yes, the man. Wonderful stuff. I'm gonna have to go re-read, eh? thanks for the reminder. (And the kind words up above.) Cheers, Doc.
December 12, 2008 7:41 PM | Reply | Permalink
Set roots in the holy earth Q! Sense of place. I know where my spot is, doesn't change no matter what happens down here!
http://www.talkingpointsmemo.com/talk/blogs/mr_beebers/2008/10/the-wind-on-the-beartooth-plat.php
But this madhouse just keeps spinning and what does it matter if it flings a roof into space or the doors fly off and the windows too? It just spins and the walls go and the floor and there's nothing but a framework crawling with Ice Weasels wearing Doc Martens. But since it is a blinking cellular automata running, it just rewalls and reroofs because that's ALL it CAN do, and we traumatized occupants, the primary loci of change energy following our own inscrutable transition rules , run this thing until the sun burns down.
Do we wind up in windblown yurts? do we wind up in mile high glass cubes? do we wind up de-corporealized? The Buddha teaches the very nature of consciousness lead to suffering because all things are impermanent by nature and the mind wants to hold on, hold on. Hold on to retirement plans (mine is toasted) Hold on to shelter. Hold on to a predictable tomorrow. Amare sed non tangere. We just have to love the flux and what it tosses out, and just keep helping others out.
Whats the worst possible fate? Losing house, losing job, losing family, losing on the ponies?
Maybe going to Hell for real?
But if you wind up in Hell and all you care is to try and help others suffering there and forget your own burning sensation, then you'll be okay. Even There. And what fears can a measly Great Depression stir in someone who's ready to social work Hell itself?
Money isn't the cushion for this economic event. Compassion is.
And I bet they knew that at Gobekli Tepe.
Cheers.
December 12, 2008 8:12 PM | Reply | Permalink
Lux. That Beartooth post of yours is still one of my faves. And I'd highly recommend to anyone who wasn't lucky enough to read it, to wander by, drop a comment in, and yes, Rec it. It's one that hit me, just its tone, and stopped me. Deserves to stay alive for at least a few years yet, eh?
I know where my spot is too. I'm in a lovely one now, but my roots are in a different place. The best thing is, because of the tides there, even at that deepest & best spot for me, I can feel the changes, and... know it'll be ok. When you walk out across the mud, when the tide's out, you'll find old bits of wood, roots - real wood - sticking out of the sea's bottom. They're thousands of years old trees. Pre-pyramids, when the Earth down home was higher, and covered in forest. Now preserved, by the salt water. Always makes me laugh. Or the fossilized footprints of some creature that came waddling in, hundreds of millions of years ago.
I hope everybody has these places, because I truly do think their value - to us - has been dramatically underestimated. What an awful error, eh? To ransack a continent like this, that had such beauty. Worse than error.
And the risk now IS... that we hang on too tight to what we have, where we are, who we've become. Are too cautious, too wedded to a past that I'm not sure is gonna sustain. I had a bad time, health-wise, back in Feb-March. Which gave me a chance to figure out what I really didn't want to lose. The answer was so simple that, as it continued to show itself, over days, in some weird in-between state - that I don't think I'll lose it now.
It was just a half-dozen, simple things. And every one, a thing that gave me joy. The People I love. Sibs, nieces & nephews, lover. Water. Music. Trees. And the ability to Enjoy them, just enough health for that. A surprise, to be hit like that, out of the blue, while I felt myself to be young. But perhaps useful, coming ahead of all this nonsense & flying apart we seem to be in.
Write more, Lux, if and as you can. You do me good. All of us, good.
December 12, 2008 8:37 PM | Reply | Permalink
Well, its true I feel pretty much the same.
yo, I know that out of the blue feeling too. Its kinda sad to lose functions you've had almost since you were rolling in grass and the smell of it was in your nostrils and if you lay on your back and one of your (eventually) 8 brothers and sisters came over to stand over you like a giant, grinning little angel- you could see the clouds passing over like glorious halos behind their heads AND THERE WASN'T NOTHING YOU LACKED. all this future complexity wasn't even a dream.
Lux, you're getting sappy! Tone it down!
Hard to remember that feeling lying down nowadays! But I can still and that's a point of connection to Place. I remember when my stepfather died of cancer. He was really a big strong man. I grew big (fat) too eventually but never as farmer-strong as he. He just would come home from work and sit in his chair. He felt tired all the time--he had worked in the shipyards building destroyers in WWII and the insulation they used gave him mesothelioma but this was before the class action lawsuits and all the rest of it.
He told me once to be grateful to be able to simply stand upright. Just standing is a blessing he said.
So it goes. Lose blessings and appreciate new ones! Nothing has changed in 12,000 years. We are still the same old folk we always were and if this show comes down, we will all help each other up and take our turn at being called some complimentary name by a later generation who can use us an example when their time comes.
I don't want to jinx you Quinn since I haven't had the best of luck in health affairs myself, but I shure hope you are better!!! And Mr TheraP too, and all of you descendents out there of that cave lady buried near Nazareth! We all share membership in one big tribe and as Hrebendorf said once, "of that, I'm glad!" This time and place and culture may not last, but the tribe goes on, it surely will.
Let it be a loving tribe.
December 12, 2008 10:04 PM | Reply | Permalink
8 sibs. farmer-strong stepfather. "stand up straight boy, be proud of yourself." emphysema. same chair.
life. funny thing, eh Lux?
come on kids - one big tribe. THERE AIN'T NOTHING WE LACK.
;-)
December 12, 2008 10:22 PM | Reply | Permalink
North Mirror South Mirror
But at the time of my memory I was the youngest of three, the other five hadn't arrived yet. I take it you had 8 siblings!!?
My stepfather eventually died from the disease. The chemotherapy they had in those days was pretty primitive compared to what we have available now. He was raised by his grandparents as both his parents died of smallpox. He could tell stories of taking care of them and how neighbors would arrive on the farm in the winter riding horses! The farm got passed on to a brother and he went to work in the city. A fine man in every way, but jeepers was he strong!
December 12, 2008 10:54 PM | Reply | Permalink
I was the youngest of four. Three half-sibs came after me. Two step-sibs had already pretty much grown when I arrived.
That sheer physical strength, of those old farmers, it's hard to describe to somebody young. A different sort of strength than you get from the gym. Really. It came from years of everyday work, doing everything, working every muscle, handling pain, cold, weight, you name it. We kids watched it pass. Knew it hadn't gone carried on into us. We were all college bound. So the stories now - and these were all big men, 20-280 lbs, and solid - just sound bizarre. Legend sortof stuff. Picking up cars. Knocking out bulls. But we saw it.
Funny what you remember. My uncle, at 61, playing fastball. Pitching. They brought in a special rule, him being a legend and all, that you weren't allowed to bunt on him. In this league - a good one - pitchers "whip-pitched." Speeds of 90 mph and up. He walks onto the field, old shoes, size 17 or something outrageous. This absolutely huge man. And then simply pitches underhand. No whip. Just this effortless, slow backswing, then that hand coming forward. Like it was in slo-mo. But his hand big enough to wrap round your head.
And then it'd come out of his hand, with that last flick of the wrist, like a friggin' rocket. And curve so hard it'd pull the glove to the end of my fingers. (Yes, I was the catcher.) Anyway, he strikes out the first 5 guys he faces. Five. and they weren't kidding, didn't like being shown up. The crowd is roaring for him to get the last guy, 'cause he's only gonna pitch, special, for two innings.
Last guy comes up, and the SOB bunts. I'm so mad, I run out and grab the ball, wheel to throw him out, and then decide... to drill the guy instead. Hit him so hard in the back of the neck he goes face down over first base, damn near crying.
Umpire had to give him his base though. When my uncle says to me, in this massive booming voice, everyone listening, "Awwww now, you oughtn't've done that." And I'm waiting for one of his patented "peacemaker" speeches, the "Think about the other fella" speech & all that. When he says to me, for everyone to hear, "Next time... make sure you get him in the head. Where there'll be no damage done." Old-time humour, I guess.
December 12, 2008 11:20 PM | Reply | Permalink
A friend just sent me this,running in the NYT & New Yorker.
Fewer, Better Things
Our lives are full of things. Disposable distractions,
Stuff you buy but do not cherish, own yet never love.
Thrown away in weeks rather than passed down for generations.
Perhaps things will be different now. Wiser choices made with greater care.
After all, if the fewer things you own always excite you,
would you really miss the many that never could?
The De Beers Family of Companies
I think that pretty much sums it up.
Excuse me. I'm gonna hurt myself now.
December 12, 2008 10:11 PM | Reply | Permalink
I have had 39 mailing addresses in my 44 years of life. I've lost the letters my dad sent me when I was 13 to 15 years old. I've lost autographed books. Nameless record albums, all of them excellent ones. Stereo equipment, sofas left behind...
Through all of my many moves, I've kept two treasured boxes. One contains all of my mother's Story Book dolls (albeit in terrible condition, since I as a child removed all their hats and mixed and matched them up so I could try to comb their perfect hair). The other contains a child's size English Tea Set, handed down to my mother from her Scottish "godmother".
I plan on leaving both boxes to my namesake niece someday, when and if I ever die. They probably won't be worth anything at that point, but the fact that I've clung to these two boxes throughout all 30+ moves makes me proud.
That being said, if a substantial flood was to hit my current hometown to the point where my 3rd floor apartment was inundated by water, I'd ditch them boxes in a heartbeat and try to save my two cats instead. Oh, and me, along with 'em.
Things are just things. Souls are souls, and they are more important by far. At least, I like to think so, when I'm feeling soulful.
When I'm feeling OM'ish, I just figure whatever happens will happen and if I and my cats get washed away, we get washed away.
December 12, 2008 10:33 PM | Reply | Permalink
I figure your cats are in pretty hands, LisB.
And I think your flood references should probably stand as our new motto, should the economy get worse. We're not gonna repeat Katrina.
This time... No one gets washed away. No one gets lost in the flood.
Say hi to the cats.
December 12, 2008 10:45 PM | Reply | Permalink
You inspired me to write my own new post, ya lil nosetubed boy...
Thank you.
December 12, 2008 11:34 PM | Reply | Permalink
Total. Tour de force!
And in the end, we all go too.
And that's going to be a post of mine one of these days. How does knowing our own mortality affect how we live our lives?
As Lux said above, "let it be with love." That's how I recalled it, though his exact words were: Let it be a loving tribe.
December 12, 2008 11:03 PM | Reply | Permalink
I was just going to tell you you didn't have to read the whole crazy thing Thera, 'cause you're basically a one-woman support group for the bloggers here, and more than have your hands full!
But truth is, I'm glad you got a chance to read about the Shaman woman, and will have your own understanding of what that kind of experience must've been like, eh? With your work and such.
Thanks for reading, and commenting. As always.
December 12, 2008 11:24 PM | Reply | Permalink
I owe TheraP, WWStaebler, and so many others, so much.
She is our shaman woman, healer, and the true glue that holds this community together.
December 13, 2008 12:48 AM | Reply | Permalink
None of us would be where we are if it weren't for people being there.
Yes, the shaman woman. Yes. A loving tribe.
December 13, 2008 10:19 AM | Reply | Permalink
Excerpt from the Papyrus Leaves
There is no perfection, there's no perfect
life. Trying to obtain it will gather
naught but strife. There is only harmony
and some strange kind of balance. Life
and death together are perfection in a
dance. You simply can't have evil if
it has no good to fight. You can't,
likewise, have daylight if it doesn't
yield to night. There is only that path
between, but who amongst us can take it?
For the rest of us, there's life and death
and both are what we make it.
- Me
December 13, 2008 1:28 AM | Reply | Permalink
Dude, I think the ice weasels need to teach you about brevity. Pretend your post is a Krups espresso machine purchased with a home equity loan.
That said, I rec'd it because -- even though I considered printing it to read the entire thing -- I really liked what I did read.
And I think I might BE an ice weasel, which would explain a lot of things.
"But the dancing tends to "escalate" with the quality of the story. The more twists & turns, multiple characters & (better) multiple personalities, bad puns & cosmic haha's, made-up spacemen & inside-outskie parallel universes get thrown in - the faster they rev.
Most news stories, TV shows, sitcoms, Hollywood movies - to them, that crap might as well be a Tech manual. They get the message, of which there's always & only ever one per story, and respond accordingly. They spit. Throw old appliances. Hurl. Heckle. "Caaaaaaaake," they mock."
Seriously, ask my wife.
December 13, 2008 5:37 AM | Reply | Permalink
Brevity? Dude, I've been in Brevity School for decades. You must have seen me. Big kid, sits in the back. "Held back" every year. I got the one-liner down, but after that, it's 4,000 words or bust. "No Mid-Range" - might as well be my nickname. No, wait... it is.
I'd tell you about the early morning up here on the tundra, when all the Ice Weasels get up and hit their espresso machines as once. The steam, and the sound, all rising at once makes the place sound like a railyard, with a few hundred of those old steam trains arriving at the same time. But that'd be another few dozen pages. ;-)
Cheers, and thanks for dropping by.
December 13, 2008 8:58 AM | Reply | Permalink
Incredible.
But damn you Quinn! The last thing I need to be doing right now is going on a Natufian webquest. Well, I love the discussion here, but can't get my nose out of the science for right now. Did you know they had dogs as pets too? Insane. Ok. That's all I've got time for now. Really. But I'll be back later to spend some time with those weasels. ;)
December 13, 2008 8:14 AM | Reply | Permalink
Great link... and the grave sketch, another one of those moments, eh? Seeing the hand on the dog.
I'd love to have time to think through what happened as humans and dogs came together, and how that affected our relationship to wild(er) animals. I adore dogs, but there's no question, once they're around, a lot of other animals aren't. The great steps forward, with all that is added, so easy to lose what we once had.
And as for work, this is one of those nasty Working Saturdays for me. So I feel yer pain 99. Have a great day!
December 13, 2008 8:53 AM | Reply | Permalink
We are the Weasels we've been waiting for.
December 13, 2008 12:49 PM | Reply | Permalink
You gotta get your girls T-shirts with that, Des.
And while you're at it, get me a gross of 'em, willya? Got some friends I'd like to give 'em to.
December 13, 2008 1:07 PM | Reply | Permalink
I just can't believe you dissed Tom Robbins (and then spent a para copying his style! -- Pretty good apemanship, too -- he is hard to mimic with any success at all.)
December 13, 2008 12:53 PM | Reply | Permalink
Absolutely no disrespect intended. I think that guy is one of the best story-tellers - and joy-givers - I know of.
And I have absolutely zero chance of ever being able to write like he, or Vonnegut or my other writing heroes. But yes, it DOES mean you'll see their phrases and ideas and styles wander in and out of whatever I write. Which I think they'd enjoy. (Plus the fact that I usually try and make sure I put in a plug for 'em.)
Good to see ya, Cville.
December 13, 2008 1:11 PM | Reply | Permalink
I met him at a writers conference in Richmond a few years ago. He gave a couple of great talks that wound around just like his writing does. (He tells a great story about visiting Graceland -- you think it's true until he ends up on the shore of a lake after pulling on a clothes hanger in "The King's" closet!)
He writes a page a day, longhand and edits it over and over before going to the next page. He has a general idea where and how the story will meander when he begins, but is not held back by it. He considers the story itself the icing. "Words are the cake," according to Tom, and if you can't weave your words so that they grab on and won't let go, you end up with a plot-driven story that any kid could write.
Thought you might enjoy that little anecdote about him. He was planning a book on Africa back then, and I'm still waiting for it.
December 13, 2008 3:55 PM | Reply | Permalink
That IS a great story. I'll think about his writing advice too. Maybe spend more time on each bit.
Who knows... maybe even end up writing shorter blogs! ;-)
Thanks for that, Cville.
December 13, 2008 4:05 PM | Reply | Permalink
OK, one more Tom Robins story: He gave us a first sentence that we had to continue...
"Ants don't sleep." I had no idea where to go with this. He came up with a story about Michael Jackson sending a lonely middle aged woman an ant farm, and she was so amazed that she stayed up for several nights to find out that the ants worked all night long.
I ended up writing a long story about self-regenerating seals that found a hyper-oxygenating sea-cave. I wove it around a highway sign that is half-way between Richmond and Charlottesville "Louisa Ferncliff" and I have sent it off only to receive rejection after rejection. It is a great story if I do say so myself; maybe I let IT be the cake and didn't work hard enough on the words...
December 13, 2008 7:44 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks, Quinn, for the weekend awakening. Your posts are a catapult for the mind. There's such joy in being able to leap out of the familiar for a while.
December 13, 2008 1:02 PM | Reply | Permalink
Cheers, CindyMax. The catapult idea is pretty much what it feels like writing this stuff... it's just I can never figure out a time or place to come down. Which is why the damn things kinda go on and on for a while, and then eventually I have to drag 'em over to the side of the road and give 'em a ticket keeping 'em off the road for another week or two.
But for me, it's a Joyride while it lasts, eh? Thanks again.
December 13, 2008 1:13 PM | Reply | Permalink
Excellent Q! What are we gonna do? "Which would mean there are more of us dreaming, searching, concentrating, dancing our way along a new path. The way to a new world. More of us than ever". While some influential others have been chasing after the 'most fabulous object in the world'.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEenKy1S4S0
Lots of chrome and glittery stuff for the weasels to trash when they're not whispering in some of our ears. Time to alter the paradigm. Make it more inclusive, attainable, ....real. I'm liking the image of you up there hangin' with the weasels and maybe learning something we all ready know, (but perhaps have forgotten?).
p.s. Hayes Carl is very cool. Bought his album, 'Trouble in mind' after hearing it reviewed on NPR. Every song a winnah!
December 13, 2008 2:22 PM | Reply | Permalink
Just shifted my playlist around to put the somewhat more country-oriented stuff upfront. Love Hayes Carll, Whiskeytown (still think 16 Days is freakin' brilliant), Gordie Sampson (S/O to Big Pond, Cape Breton!) In the meantime, Jason Isbell's helpin' me out Brand New Kind Of Actress.
Time Bandits (& Brazil) are burnt permanently into my brain. Time Bandits has so much imagination it makes me laugh out loud even when it's not trying. And Brazil... just makes me want to be DeNiro. Though it can be seen as a documentary of a society where the Ice Weasels never get to dismantle anything.
As for what we're gonna do, well... we all have some ideas I think. But our openness to them, and the scale & rate of spread we feel is possible, seems to me to accelerating weekly. Funny though. I've spent about 95% of my time in serious policy-head mode these past 20 years. But now... when the crunch comes... I find myself wanting to head off more, to other times/places. 'Cause whatever we thought it was gonna be, and however we thought it was gonna unfold... it's not.
In short, I think there's a bit of a need for more of us to go Walkabout. Just for a while. Loosen some of the screws up. Spill the contents of these tin-can heads. Rearrange. And the Ice Weasels seem to be insisting they can help, so......
December 13, 2008 3:02 PM | Reply | Permalink
I'm thinking a giant ice weasel walkabout. Bigger than the Ice Capades. More like an ice weasel demolition derby without borders. Throw in a few shamans just to let the paying customers know it's not just about crumpling metal, glass, and plastic. It'll be... transformative.
Liked the Jason Isbell. Thanks for the heads up. Seems that nearly all of my country is not the kind I hear on the radio 'cept for some of the Man in Black. Bottle Rockets, Subdudes, Drive by Truckers, The tractors, Farrar, Tweedy, Webb Wilder, Jason Ringenberg. Lots of great stuff out there if you can find it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri2YW3mpyoo
December 13, 2008 4:35 PM | Reply | Permalink
Cool. Ringenberg, Wilco, Farrar, DBT's, subdudes - love 'em. And just checked a Wilder one, Human Cannonball, good stuff. While they really aren't country, my faves are the Damnwells - whose drummer in this clip is ex-Whiskeytown though, so not 100 miles off. I'm still playing the ass off this one, still, a good year after getting into it. I Am A Leaver.
Re: The Demolition Derby, why do I have a feeling that Des'll show up? Throwing gas on those recently knocked out of contention? And that somehow, this'll end up in a conflagration of our entire way of life? Hmmmm. Have to think about the desirability of showing up at this one. I'm keen on pain & conflict & all that, but.... you know, Other Commitments. Family Reasons. Dog ate my ticket. etc.
And BTW, who'll be left to be the "paying" customers?
But like you say - Transformative....
December 13, 2008 4:49 PM | Reply | Permalink
Those were the euphemistic 'paying customers'. Des, the poster boy for the "We are the Ice Weasels" school of transformative transubstantiation. A shaman not afraid of self immolation if it moves the pieces along the board. Damnwells are damn good. Checked out a couple more of theirs while visiting.
December 13, 2008 5:09 PM | Reply | Permalink
Very nice. Thank you! (That's all.)
December 13, 2008 3:01 PM | Reply | Permalink
Seeing as you're here, and clearly very good at brevity, and I'm (desperately) in need of lessons.... HELP!!!!!
Cheers, WC.
December 13, 2008 3:03 PM | Reply | Permalink
Since tpm has a bizarre thing about too many links - this will take three comments. Just some things that clicked for me as I read your post.
Quinnesque, what an amazing mythic/dreamtime presentation. I love the walkabout quality to it. Seriously. You get better and better. I love this. I love it. I think you're style is fascinating.
I love that she was an outsider. Shaman/witch, whatever. What would modern society do to an outsider like her?
I really like that Rod is a cake eater. As opposed to wimpy pie consumers... Heh. ;)
Nice commentary on patternicity
I have been thinking about what you said re: homogeneity. Every blow counts. My thoughts are too angry with regard to that concept, at the moment. I could never present, in my current mindframe, the controlled delivery you do. Maybe in a few months, as I get over some things and steer away from shoals and icebergs. Perhaps then, a full blown post on that. Thanks for your encouragement, however. I really appreciate it. ;)
December 13, 2008 3:48 PM | Reply | Permalink
I like reading your stuff because it always sets me thinking of other seemingly unrelated stuff
December 13, 2008 3:49 PM | Reply | Permalink
One more strange connection --
sleep">http://www.dana.org/printerfriendly.aspx?id=9364">sleep is always good
As always, Quinnesque, thanks! :)
December 13, 2008 3:51 PM | Reply | Permalink
Most importantly... congratulations on getting here before acanuck! ;-)
2nd, What a great batch of links. Brain candy. Mmmmmm.
- I laughed like hell at the X and Y story, especially the idea that men and women might be - genetically - further apart than humans and chimps. After the wave lasting through the 80's in which many of us were imprinted with the idea that there were (effectively) no differences... it's fun to see it stretched out a bit again. And that perfect closing line - "Nothing is as it appears." You can say that again. "Nothing is as it appears." Errrrm.
- The travelling X and Y genes story was also interesting, though I suspect if we added one factor, it'd pretty much melt. If we had a finer look at time - i.e. beyond averages - I suspect we'd see longish stretches when women moved (or were moved) greater distances than men, perhaps for marriage. But then we'd see these sudden streams of Y's headed out, for War. Spikes in our graph. And in-between, some intermarriage with men moving, but often, smaller numbers sending out spikes from Trade, Exploration, long-distance Hunting, etc. Not sure about this, but though the long-term aggregate impact might be confirmed, we might see more years in the series that had more X movement, than Y. Donno. Gotta think about that one.
- Patternicity Dude. Interesting, but again, a time shift moving us beyond the "micro" examples of selection might change the result. That is, day-to-day life under a powerful, but deeply warped belief system, might show sticking to the belief system "worked" better. But if the entire belief system faces a genuine crisis, or conflict with a competing system, the results get interesting. (That is, beyond individual or small group populations, whose beliefs can usually be "adjusted" to deal with anomalies.) For example, if you had a belief system that makes the use of some material, or technological practice, "anathema," and your whole culture is put to the test against others - or events - which use or require it.... the belief system may get shredded.
Which is not to say that the wider or truer-to-reality (God, hate these terms) beliefs are perfect, of course. Nor that we might not see whole chunks of beliefs lost during such a crisis or conflict; or that we might not see them temporarily submerged, until they can perhaps be alloyed to ideas that come along later... e.g. "Earlier" belief systems & social practices might fall under the axe (or plough), and then a look a couple of hundred years latr might find much of them seemingly arisen, but allowed into, say, science, in a different way. Of course, since I'm reading Neil Stephenson's "Anathema" right now, that might be affecting my view....
See? You could just have easily tossed these into a Post, and scrambled many more brains than mine! Anyhoo. These just first thoughts. And thanks again, Yva. Post soon! And acanuck will likely be by shortly, cursing. ;-)
December 13, 2008 4:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
B Is For Beer. Robbins new flavor, which you've inspired me to pre-order. But if B was for brevity I'd be able to just say "order". Having just been asked to pre-heat the oven, and noticing that there's a one knob fits all thing when it comes to heat and ovens, this seemed like it mattered. And so did your post, and the wandering spirited comments. Happy weekend, rent myself out as a field of daisies now.
December 13, 2008 4:51 PM | Reply | Permalink
You're a sick man.
Or daisy chain.
Errrr.....
I remember! Ta Da!
December 13, 2008 5:09 PM | Reply | Permalink