Posted in Answers, Cool shit, Rants, Reality, Stupid-heads by waldopaper on April 30, 2011

Manifesto Incognito

+ mindofasnail.org


Moving into Slipspace eleven thousand words in store if you dare read

You are in Slipspace/now.  Slipspace is all the space around you that is not being used.  There are fine points here about molecules, but Slipspace is where certain ideas get you more easily.  Yes, ideas get you… not the other-way around.  Stand on the center-line of a great 20th century interstate highway… or a runway… on a cool deserted moon-lit night.  Slipspace hugs the earth on a string straight to the dawn-star horizon.

Moving into Slipspace can be easy as taking a step, but not likely.  We are usually stepping toward our next space to occupy.  Slipspace can not be occupied… only moved through.  We move through it in occupied bubbles as large as a ship or as small as a bicycle.  In heavy traffic, the greater Slipspaces seem to be occupied, but this is an illusion, a cavitation due in part to the velocity of the occupied bubbles.

We are seeking the electrified Slipspace, where the thoughtscape is less occupied by direction and drone of engines.  This is where one more easily senses the string of life-span and the thin thread of space-time.  It is said (just now, that is) that great practitioners of meditation are able to become Slipspace.  We are seeking to join creative energy in Slipspace, occupied by ideas in their purest atomic form.

Closer to occupied space, ideas tend to clump into memes… like molecules. OK- so far, we have Slipspace, Uspace (space that’s being used), memes and molecules.  Let us now steal outside of the sleeping house and slip into a still night with a bright .45 caliber bullet-hole moon and stars all the way to the end.  You could read a newspaper out here and no wind would ruffle the pages.  You have no newspaper.

The scent of night is soft and harness is cool to the touch.  Technically, it’s illegal to do this… just like it’s probably illegal to pee in your yard.  But nothing gets wet except maybe your palms as you apply power and leap off the ground.  Now you feel the small invisible currents as the house-top slides aside at a safe distance.  Other darkened houses fan out below.  There are a few lighted windows.

But no one is up tonight.  To the moonlit horizon in all directions, there is nothing but the stars and a turn toward the nearest thermal.  There’s one.  Way out there.  Another night-hawk, in time you are wheeling opposites a thousand meters apart in the rising column of air.  You have formed the diad, the self-and-other.  Fear of the “other” stills before the idea that it’s an “other” just like you.

The other turns toward the big-box parking lot below, acres of moonlit asphalt with bright patches under the dangerous light-poles.  You form the vertical helix.  There are probably other night-hawks down there, whispering like school-girls in the shadows about a forbidden thrill on Blueberry Hill curfew violation.  Now you are in the triadic state, aware of the interactions of “others” just like you.

“Others” is a tricky word, because what is the “self” but temporarily-occupied space?  Whether it is being “used” or not is a value-judgment to be avoided like a light-pole.  Assume that it is.  Like snowflakes, all supposedly different, but ever-so-much the same; things like “difference” are of little account in Slipspace, save the difference between the craft and Uspace.  The stars close into a dome and the air whispers, “…vorbei.”

The barn roof is a bright black patch below.  The porch-light shows a wide strip of gravel driveway.  Over the barn and aim at the spot.  Stop behind the car and get out of the harness.  It will be safe here for now.  The dew beads on the grass like memes.  Memes are the thoughts and actions we learn and repeat almost unconsciously… a crazy mix of patriotism and backward-ballcaps, macro-economics and mudflaps.

Now the dew beads on the boot whipping noodle grass circling a pass from Uspace into Slipspace and back.  The door squeaks, and the smell of coffee means someone else in the house is awake.  “Wake up and smell the coffee!”  It’s a meme… and it’s the sort of plops said when somebody thinks they are certain about something.  Things like “doubt” and “certainty” are almost meaningless in Slipspace.

Slipspace has its place in myth and meme.  It’s where Dick Van Dyke danced and nobody sees it but the birds, stars and chimney-sweeps.  Good Luck will rub off when I shake hands with you.  All that poot-wheedle has no place in Slipspace.  One has to carry it there like baggage… or fuel.  Second star to the right and straight on ‘til Morning.  Pan and Poppins and plops dew off in Slipspace.

Slipspace Manifesto 

Slipspace should always be part of The Commons.  No individual can own or occupy Slipspace.  We intend to move through Slipspace to heal the illusion of “self” and “other.”

Where Slipspace touches personal Slipspace, we shall be kindly and at peace.  Slipspace is the corridor between individual and collective, and as such is not only a physical space but a mental and spiritual state as well.

Personal Slipspace is our portal to our Uspace.  As such it is due respect but it must intrude as little as possible into Slipspace.  We shall promote healing in Slipspace to sustain the well-being of all aboard our planet.

We endorse the Comedy of The Commons. 

This is where you hear the horn and the pie.  The band hits, “How Ya Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm,” everybody does a “take” and exeunts, elbows a-bobbin, at the nonce for a place that aint onstage.  We are going to move into Slipspace like our great-grandparents did.  Instead of barnstorming, something else… like barning down the house.  Times are going to be interesting.  They always have been.

Write with grace from Slipspace.

Remember the folks at home. 

Hard to go to a big city and not think of a snowstorm.  Or if luck really sucks, experience both at once.  Even without snow, on the streets below human Uspace swirls through Slipspace, inches from each other and going in opposite directions, sometimes nodding—sometimes avoiding eye contact in great canyons of occupied Uspace.  We are crystal structures like snow– with our own configuration of much of the same memes.

It was beginning to blow harder, and the barn doors bowed inward away from the pushy vortices whirling around household Slipspace, clad only in snowflakes.  The big city is far away but it lies heavy on the space-time rubber-sheet, drawing distraction down the sagging grid.  Uspace usually takes a convergent trend, while Slipspace takes a divergent one.  In such cold, the old Germanic bonfire offers false comfort.  Wolves avoid all fires.

Customs of ingress and egress must be respectfully observed along the Slipspace capillaries because we must be able to flee the conflagration or move toward the light, whether by foot or by flight, by wheel or water, when we gotta get where we otter be, we are not really in Slipspace.  It’s more like tube-space.  There are no wolves outside.  Coyotes, maybe.  But there’s a fire inside and plenty of wood.

The path to the woodpile is tubespace.  It cracks the temperature portal and empties out in front of a nine-pound maul and a pile of wood.  Beyond is Slipspace, now slapping with cold wind and snow individuals, far from soft summer night-hawks above the mall.  Our self-myth is a spimey, spiky thing unlike the memetic blobject we think we imagine.  Crystalline, with sharp edges to be sure.  Feather-like in other places.

In that snowstorm dance there is one flake by chance, caught in a glance among millions of others.  It winds a same pattern with sisters and brothers, porch-light the spotlight and wind-chimes on sound.  It does the Hokey-Pokey and it fades into the ground.  That’s what it’s all about.  So an armload is enough, for the stove is small but efficient.  No good to split wood in a storm.  Crack the temperature portal slam.  Somebody’s making coffee.

Hardwood bones clatter into the cradle, one soul is selected and coals flare red in the bed behind closed doors.  It is time to wake up!  We leap like a fire given fuel and oxygen, for we hold our own heat source as long as we live.  In Slipspace we see the tubes connect, and that is kindling and draft for our ashen spirits.  Like walking the waterline beside a great sea, scouting and surveying Slipspace is a usually solitary slip.

Generally Slipspace craft now weigh 254 lbs. or less.  The day is coming when they will weigh nothing at all.  There is harvest soup in the kettle.  No meat in it, but it doesn’t need any.  It has potatoes and carrots and squash and onions and all kinds of stuff.  A local diet and more time in Slipspace are cultural courses focused on harvesting energy.  Light comes from LEDs when windows are inefficient.

You can write, draw, work, play or dream from Slipspace without being there. 

Moving into Slipspace is moving out of tubespace.  Slipspace is along the edge of every highway, the margin of every page, the thoughts that come when meditation replaces mediation.  Power down the phone and the pod and all tendrils reaching out from tubespace.  Solitude is almost essential to peep the paradox in the Commons’ heterodox black box orthodox tube socks picklocks.

It all goes to show.  It goes on within and without us.  We awake in Slipspace to read the program instead of watching the show or we can even leave the theatre without missing an act.  The “Autographed Copy” is only a prop for the real prop on the air machine bundled in the barn awaiting calmer days.  Now the harvest stew simmers and brews scents of free herb… and it thrills this old house.

The Future will be Green, one way or another.  The Future Green is Truth.  It’s where we walk with Jesus.  It is the Eightfold Path whereKrishnaand Rabia Basri move in Slipspace.  Prophets are more important here than profits and it’s just about the only place the Cluetrain makes deliveries any more.  Don’t wait for it.  It’s here now.  Take your copy, read it and think about it.  You can autograph it later.

We all need to “retire” now, and that includes people who have not even started “working” for a “living” yet.  A non-harmful livelihood seems damned impossible to the awakened, so we have to invent our own.  Do what you are good at… and if you don’t like it, do what you like and get good at it.  If you are good enough, a “living” will come to you.  This is not Rocket Science… unless you are a rocket scientist.

The hard rain drummed on the old roof all night long, patterning troubling dreams of Hungry Ghosts unaware of Slipspace.  The rocket scientists must stop building ICBMs and start designing starships.  Who will pay for it if they do that?  Think of who will pay for it if they do not.  The dawn-stars are burning away, and the birds are beginning to tweet the first performers in Slipspace.  Somebody’s making coffee.

Over the rising column, there are people who live plain and simple.  They live much closer to Slipspace than more “worldly” folk, and they use their Slipspace craft almost exclusively.  Both craft and folk are uncomfortable in tubespace because they can see the Hungry Ghosts.  It will be a “Signed Original” for them, so make a new sign.  Maybe they will help fund the next prototype.  Thoughts for a fine spring morning.

The Good News lands near souls who watch from Slipspace.  Unbundled by lantern light in the barn, the sail now smells of wind and stars and the waning-summer night-hawk encounter memory spark.  Once aloft, there is the night-hawk playing morning lark.  The craft and path are similar at least.  Will it follow to the South or turn to the East?  The sun has arisen to losing sight turning toward his face.  Morning fields dew-pearled.

They will write about power by battery hour… now coming off-line in Slipspace.

It is an agile craft of antique design.   

Slipspace is like a beach set on its edge.  As you face the water, your perception of the beach changes depending on the size of the water.  If it’s a farm pond, maybe not so much.  But if it’s a great sea, ah then you have an immense picture of two dimensions.  We like to remove our shoes and allow cold water to ebb and flow over our bare feet and bare-brain the flat horizon.  We rarely expose our skin.

The sea is above and land underfoot, eddy and wind ebbandflow over toe and the water and sand (or mud) is now beyond the blue horizon.  You can still feel it, wonder.  Ah, but turn around!  Where once was woods and cabin, farm and field or even municipal pool is now atmosphere—transparent and heavy like safety glass, and beyond that… the stars!  There is the origin of life, and it descends all the way to your fingertips.  Slipspace!

The craft turns in to the rising sun, difficult to see.  Full power climb to the north and with new altitude shallow dive heading 120, and there it is again, now climbing and headed toward the nearest thermal column.  She is configured like a sailplane, so a climbing contest would be a waste of time… besides we are both now well into airspace.  Wave away, and lower into Slipspace and solitude like a warm bath.

Easing into Slipspace is just about the only way to get into it, unless you are thrown from a wreck and have to walk home, that is, assuming one has a home.  The homeless are the only human population in Slipspace.  Everyone else is either a visitor or a traveler, and most travelers do so mainly in tubespace, an insulated pipe through Slipspace to Uspace.  Slipspace is Holy Ground.

Truly ground has very little to do with the Holiness of Slipspace, save as a positive pole in a negative atmosphere.  In Slipspace there is only the presence of God; the everything and no-thing, the Alpha and the Omega.  Yet it is the path through the milling crowd that every city-dweller learns to see.  It is the high cathedral of air and temperature and water that every country-dweller knows.  Thunderhead bond is surly a slip of God.

Glide by the men in the field and wish them well.  They are doing God’s work.  They are farming.  There is a great mass of theology bundled up in that book brother, and most of us English do the same.  Few of us are fully aware of all we sow and harvest.  The nighthawk, upon closer inspection, looked more like an antique than a sailplane.  The color of your kinship in morning light is a black aircraft.

Laughter inside helmet to think of the nighthawk originating from the plain community.  She was electric to be sure, and did look old-fashioned.  Tubespace is crawling below now, even with the cost of fuel and the lack of destinations.  Now, the lack of origins… places for folk to call home.  Scouting through Slipspace has revealed no gypsy encampments so far.  Are other black aircraft looking for them?

On this fine morning equinox, there are two or three gliders working the thermal above the mall.  One is a hang-glider trike, the others appear to be electric- a gyro and a proper little aeroplane.  The black harness is not quite like any of them, and it is best to avoid the thermal Common for now.  There are others passing the column, and now it is tubespace straight to the patch behind the barn that is screened by trees.

Like the Janus-faced trees, in Slipspace we see past our branches to the stars and roots into the earth.  The dew-pearled buds slide by at an angle, the clear air in the yard is beginning to warm and dry.  The wings make the whup-whup sound in the sheltered space.  Free now of helmet and harness, tow the little black wagon to the drive.  Aircraft live in airspace, where you could jump into it with a parachute.

Slipspace is way below chute-level, even when the chute’s on a rocket.  Slipspace is just above the corn.  On a Halloween night with a bright harvest moon, there’s no better place to be but since night-flight is strictly forbidden, one can only imagine it.  And lo, the winter is past.  Slipspace is just above the water too, but you gotta watch out for boats.  There is death hanging on wires at fence-post and house-top level.

The sensible and natural defense against the wired world is low speed.  Slipspace craft can cruise at bicycle speed to walking speed.  So can a car or buggy, but neither has to watch out for boats and are limited when crossing rivers.  Haul the kite off to the side, bandy old legs slipping in the grass.  The doors are open, and it smells like the kids are doing potatoes and onions in the iron skillet.

Ln 21 pg 6 11/21/10@4:46 pm  


You guys have probably thought of this.  What I propose to do is build an all-electric LittleWing Autogyro.  I will be retiring as a college English teacher soon, so I should have both the time and the bread.  I haven’t flown in years, and have maybe 1000 hours in a Grumman AA5A.  Noise and expense, along with family and work ended that dream about 20 years ago.  The electric powerplant may be the phoenix.

I believe I can fund R&D on the powerplant.  There is a good source locally (Fort Wayne,IN), and I’m guessing they can meet thrust and weight requirements along with the engine/ battery combination.  Choice of prop is probably best left to the great Herron and his experience with the craft.  I am guessing most people (including me) cannot imagine electric flight until they see it.

I suppose the first thing to do is join PRA, get over to Mentone and get some time in a rotorcraft.  Some taildragger time probably wouldn’t hurt either.  I hope to use the craft to promote a book about the Slipspace Manifesto, which may include the adventure of getting the LittleWing aloft, which I guess could take five years or so.  Could somebody send me an email and tell me where we might begin?

Thanks for your time!


The boys like to cook breakfast, but they’re usually not up at this hour.  There was something strange out there in Slipspace this morning, the presence of something unearthly… in an angelic sort of way.  It has something to do with the nighthawk in that black Bleriot-looking thing.  It has been just over 100 years since Louis Bleriot crossed theEnglish Channelin a similar-looking monoplane.

Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.  They made over 800 Type-XI Bleriot monoplanes, and what came later was the emergence of air machines from Slipspace and into airspace where they have been ever since.  It’s not that Slipspace doesn’t exist in airspace—it does, just as on the face of the deep and in this room right now.  Like God would need a highway to begin with.  “Davon Jesaia sagt,” of which Isaiah spoke.

The highway is for us and it takes us toward the infinite like money across the yard, growling belly whiffing snorts of onions and olive oil, speck und garlic.  Screen door slam, and the crack sizzle just around the corner means eggs.  The sign of new life we seek as children, dressed up like Sunday dolls, behind chair legs or even in bushes, eggs wearing Easter colors peeking back to ancient Pagan times.

Messengers had an audience then, approaching in Slipspace and speaking with the voice of many waters.  They spoke to The People who lived on this very land thousands of years ago, on the edge of theBlackSwamp, by the side of the great sea with the mountains of ice to the North.  They slipped in their canoes and watercraft, following the grounded capillaries through reeds and branches.

Upon reaching tubespace, the water would sing and you would see many others on the surface or beside the liquid highway to the great sea.  A messenger would arrive among them and tell of exchange with other messengers throughout Slipspace.  Prophets and angels move through Slipspace, as do jackals and vagabonds, on a way known by Hermit and Holy since the very first on the African Savanna, standing upright into Slipspace.

Messengers have an audience now when we stand upright and look into Slipspace, seeing it as perhaps we have not seen it since those first days on the Serengeti.  Our nostrils flare and our eyes narrow, peering into the distance from whence there will come a sign.  It says, “Signed Originals: $50,” and they are given to the folk in exchange for conversation.  “Er ist keine ander Gott,” they have their own specifics.

It is good to learn the Ordnung.  Chop wood, carry water, that is Zen.  It is in the pins instead of buttons, it is in the speech.  Where the embryonic prairie slammed into sky on edge ofBlackSwamp, where the water could carry you from Europe toJapan in 1910.  It still can, but the ships are gone.  That is how many of the German immigrants came to be here where the great-grandchildren now farm on the edge of Slipspace.

It is time to plant and sow, and sew so the Manifesto.  Grind it and garden it into sheaves of text to be sold like cabbage-heads in Slipspace or given to those who may appreciate a small gift.  It is scattering petals before the Buddha just over the horizon, just outside the event-cone.  Or maybe it’s just littering the cattle-chute.  If it helps the plain folk embrace Permaculture, we will all be ready for Jesus, sure as thunder.

Storm clouds roll in Sommerwunder… 

The sky is black and forked lightning darts out of the base of what has to be an anvil-head.  It’s as bad as thunderheads get, troping-out between forty and fifty thousand feet where it’s forty-below-zero and you will die without oxygen and heat.  It is difficult to imagine the majesty of such a natural formation without being a pilot.  Sailors have seen it, but few are sucked directly to heaven.

Perhaps there were some ancient mariners, like Gregory Peck, caught up in pursuit of “…ye damn-ed white whale…” in the flicker of theatre and the deserted swells of the south-Atlantic.  Caught up in a waterspout, perhaps they meet the future shades of the new electric slip-spacers, sucked into a floating Everest of wind, water, and yes—electricity.  The Leviathan swims among us now—turning and diving in provocation.

Electricity… over the cables and over the air and over the heads of plain folk who see and hear the Devil in the high-tension lines.  There is just enough time to secure the harness tightly grounded as possible.  A Blitzer lights up the world followed a millisecond later with a crack like a bomb.  An upward glance is almost involuntary.  The black craft darts silently overhead, barely above top of the barn.

May God wonder it all, these conditions are certain death for electra-flying slip-spacers.  The black wings dip and flut like a bat in dozens of demon vortices over little prairie and its whirling car-wash brushes.  It turns and is gone just as the heavy drops start to hit.  Rain pelts and stings in sheets of Holy Tears on the way for the old house haven.  Such a flight on such a night is surely death-wish craven.

The summer passed in savage shine on melting blacktop dusty gravel wheel-tracks.  Jacob stopped the buggy and the horse lowered her head and snorted.  Catch a glimpse of daughter’s wide blue eyes before she lowers them behind her cap.  Jacob buys… yes—actually purchases with ten worn five-dollar bills, a “Signed Original.”  He thumbed through the pages.  He asks, “What’s it about?”

“It’s about you, one would guess.”

“That must be why she asked me to stop.”

“Your daughter asked you to stop?”

“Rachael.  She is a willful girl.  And I character Jacob.”

“Thank you for buying an original. Jacob.  You have the only one.”

“Ja, I do,” he smiled, lightly touched the horse and clopped down the heat-wave road.

Maybe that was the one that needed to sell.  In time, expanding permaculture plots could be seen growing from the garden and into the fields.  Livestock is tended more closely now that more fields could be grazed because of high-density garden yields.  “Organic” too, and it sold quite fair.  We should never have left the Garden for the fields.  Too soon old and too late smart.

Summer fell away and exposed the Herbst heart.  Pumpkins could be seen crowding the doorway at the food outlet in the mall below.  You could see them in the daytime, anyway.  At night they probably took them inside to discourage pumpkin rustling.  It is hard times when people rustle pumpkins.  Just as hungry was the new harvest moon, although it was full-phase away from its own celestial rind.

Has it been over a year since first encountering the nighthawk?  It is doubtful the pilot survived that terrible summer storm, but there is no word of it in Uspace, tubespace, cyberspace or Slipspace.  It had to be the same craft, there are no other Bleriots in the area and the only other black slip-spacer is the one at hand, probably for the same reason.  Night flights are forbidden.

They don’t get much darker than this one, a new moon behind overcast.  Push the Q-beam into the rubber harness and think about it.  Sure, you could pop through the overcast like a Jack-O-Lantern where there are fighters and armed helicopters.  To record, no pure fool had ever done so.  It must be in the dark and well below the deck, fading night vision to boot.  Almost on cue, there’s the nighthawk.

Buckle in, leap into the air and engage.  Out-climb her as she turns south; lose her in the dark fields beyond the mall.  Find her with a few sweeps of the Q-beam and hold her in the light as she flies straight, silent and low.  Begin to realize that holding her in the beam will make both of you highly visible.  She turns sharply to the right.  The ground is less than 100 feet away, and rising briskly.

It may be too dangerous to climb out of here.  Recollect there are power lines—big ones.  The Q-beam must be used to avoid sinking into a sea of crash-ink.  Reel down with the beam and stop behind nighthawk.  She is standing in the root of the wing, blue dress and white cap, large eyes wide with all the starlight in Slipspace, focused on eternity.  “I see you,” she smiles.  Her teeth are crooked, tall skinny young wisp of a thing.

There is a lantern light to level high starboard, and the Q-beam goes off.  Feel the heat as the light goes back into the holster.  The wind smells like ripening grass.  Age has made the eyes adapt to the lantern-light slowly, and father and daughter stand like apparitions in Holy Fire.  The daughter turns and fades to black.  “Is that you, Jacob?  Do you have space for your land and my landing, Meine Brudder?”

“Ja, I do.” he smiled with the dream-face from the heat-wave oil-smelling dusty summer day.  It was the same face and flatly echoing “Jaaaa… eye… dooooo…” flitting among the troubling dreams under old roof with the summer rain a-drumming.  Now in the calm of the Second Coming she is clearly some sort of Madonna.  She passed through the storm.  “Your daughter should not fly on a night so dark, Jacob.”

“My daughter has been blind since birth.  Would you like some coffee?”

Feel very very very strange.  Like some kind of cold Holy terror spreading from the inside out, the heat drains from the center of the face.  Blind.  The Amish girl is flying blind.  Somebody is always making coffee.  Jacob steps back into the light and hands it over.  Time passes like nothing suspended in dizzy think-I’m-gonna-pass-out strange.  Tin cup burns the fingers but it is good and strong.  It’s like getting vertigo.

“Do you mind if I sit inside it?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Will you hold my coffee for a second?


“This looks like a perfect replica of a 1910 Bleriot type-eleven model.”

“It’s not a replica.”

The vertigo feeling again.  It makes no difference how dark it is.  The girl is blind.  But what about the power lines?  How does she find her way back to the same place she started?  Probably the same way she finds thermals…

“I can see things,” says a still, small voice in the dark.  “I just don’t see them the same way you do.  And we don’t see the same things.  I can see the wind.”  Vertigo feeling again.  “I see you,” she said.  Vertigo really bad.  Slump onto the gunwale of the Bleriot and meditate on barfing, but decide it will not happen.  Insist on staying with the craft that brought us here, and the words are in-a-dream difficult.

“Ahhhm eyeee a shhhpirit nowwww?”  wow. Wow. Wow.

“It is we who are shadows,” the Madonna-voice offered.  “Didn’t you ever read Charles Dickens?  All my scholars read Charles Dickens.”  She is a school-teacher.  Jacob brings a blanket and says the airplane was purchased by his own great-grandfather in 1912.  It is one hundred years old.  It did not disobey the Ordnung at the time because nobody had ever heard of an airplane.

Besides, grandfather believed there would soon be another way to drive it rather than the loud, devilish and verboten gasoline engine that hunched on its nose like a gargoyle.  The old people say he got it into the air one time behind horses, and came down with good advice on how to tile the fields.  That’s what they say, and Jacob’s voice drums in and out of the lantern light, like summer rain drumming the Hungry Ghost dreams.

The air is ripening grass and the dawn-stars are still in a brightening sky above the blanket and little flying machine.  Take to the air with sunrise at two o’clock low.  The lantern still burns in the yard below.  “Be careful of fire,” said Jacob, but it would use too much juice now to spiral down and blow it out.  It was said that grandfather even tried clockwork with springs.  Did Jacob say that, or was it in the dream?

There was witchcraft.  Something about witchcraft.  And it was all false… all because of the black airplane.

Vati Jake’s letters

Become an event when the trees grow bare and the wind is too rough to slip.  Naomi died giving birth to Rachael on Reformation Day… or Halloween to the English,,, exactly 100 years after Jake’s great-grandfather purchased the section, sight unseen, from Ixheim.  Scarcely five slip miles away; the father and daughter send papers from a dream-world.

Jealous of juice that runs the printer could be diverted to slipcraft, the gum stamp-glue on tongue and buffeting walk to mailbox become a slipstream bridge.  Slipspace craft can be vehicles or thoughts… and thoughts use words just like our bodies use Slipspace craft or slipships. Jake has launched a flurry of slipships, and filling them with return cargo has been time-consuming.  The air is cold now.

Jake says the black-clad Bleriot flies of its own accord at least once every generation.  Naomi somehow managed to launch it, presumably by horse, on a dark Reformation Day evening and Old Man Scheiber looked her in the eye as she came gliding over the Scheiber outhouse toward Jake and Naomi’s place.  It was known that Old Man Scheiber was fond of strong drink, and few believed his outbursts of Naomi’s witchcraft.

Still, Naomi died bringing Rachael into the world on the same day the following year.  The idea that Rachael was somehow “touched” has made her both admired and feared by her scholars ever since.  Rachael is the connection to the reformation taking place now among the last of the Flock… and the last shall be first.  The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast.  The folk must lead us into the new way, or so many more will die.

A Slipspace Signal   

my dear brother jake as you see i have already broken ordnung.  No capitals.  No punctuation.  Incomplete sentences.  Ordnung is not in our heads, it’s on the paper.  We put it in our own heads.  It is probably not a “miracle,” any more than it is “witchcraft,” unless you apply metaphysics.  Are you not glad you looked up that word?  There is probably a perfectly Welt explanation in Cognitive Science.  Look it up!

Rachael can fly because, as she says, she can “see” things we can not.  My guess is that she has not been exactly “blind” since birth, but that the physicians misdiagnosed the function of her eyes based on their (her eyes’) response.  Somehow Rachael developed a memory in her visual cortex, which I would imagine is very active (if you would only let the English doctors examine her).  I still respect your decision.

It would not be honest to say I agree with it.  Aber, you are probably right about the goy, so I understand why you thought I was one of the black helicopters.  I believe you would not have known about the black helicopters unless you had really seen one.  Our LW-4 is the kind of thing they use for the kind of visit you describe.  Such an examination should be her choice as a way of helping others who have not developed her Sight.

And I would not disagree that her Sight is her Faith in Jesus Christ.  I am just saying that He has a neurological phenomenon (please look up) as one of His instruments.  I do not think that Rachael’s knowledge of this will affect her judgment in matters of faith at all.  You are His instrument as well, and you asked for advice.  You are quick to say you do not have the answer to everything.  I, as a Weltkind, believe that I do.

(Insert The Answer to Everything here

I dare say you have gotten good at what I call Permaculture and you call Gardening, how goes the discussion among your congregation as to whether it is the same or different from farming?  More important, you have found a faith awakening that I also dare-say obliges itself to be shared with others.  You have turned Rachel’s Sight toward Energy, Environment, Economy and Peace.

I also dare-say… it is the Energy part that troubles the folk.  In my plain opinion, I do not see battery electricity as being tethered, and you will need to decide if it will drive your grandchildren into the world.  This is what I think, brother.  Your prayers are welcome and I appreciate them!  I would beg you to speak more on Gardening to those who would listen!  Many have told me your talk strengthens their faith.

Aber, it is Rachael who touches their hearts!  She need never speak of flying nor say anything about her other skills.  As you know brother, I give little thought to metaphysics or causality beyond the text.  She speaks her own words, and reading them transcribed fills me with God’s Glory, and I am unworthy to pay heed to such things!  I will watch for the sign in the time you mentioned… a visit would be good.

If I mail this today, it should reach you in time to talk about other times and places, depending upon God and His weather.  Give my blessings to the girls and my thanks to the boys for their hearty greetings at the store because “Vati Jake says you’re okay!”  Nur die Wurst hat zwei… when I mention a case of beer!  Ah, zu spat schlau, my friend.  The usual blessings and greets until we speak, (signature).

By now it is dark and the air is a swirling cloud of the season’s first real snowfall.  It is about a mile to the neighborhood mail box, much safer than leaving it in the driveway box with the flag.  The crystals weave Rosetta stained-glass in the air, as in the nose of Notre Dame.  All this metaphysical lotion is one notion toward the stars.  Mailbox door bangs closed, and the wind cries Mary.

Jacob stunned to think that anyone would consider the real physical existence of Jesus Christ “unimportant.”  To regard the angels and shepherds and Magi as a charm-tale for children does not diminish ein particle from the goodness, beauty and glory of the story.  It carries the same message whether it took place at some speck on time in the “carbon world” or not.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believed! 

Jacob could not get beyond the idea that if the events were “false,” then the Gospel itself would be false, which cannot be possible.  The structure crunches underfoot and dark winter night orbits through Slipspace.  The story, like the Ordnung, exists on paper and we put it in our heads.  It is not in our power to make it real, only to keep it real.  Why would we let the events eclipse the meaning?  Are they one and the same?

Speck on time in the carbon world sizzles in iron skillet and scents warm inside with harvest onions and potatoes and Season spirits.  Was there really a Säemann who threw all those seeds?  Did anybody ask the Lord if the story was “true?”  Only those who would not see for the seeing or hear for the hearing!  There is cinnamon in coffee celebrating message scent to us.  We bay at the rum.

Jacob can no longer regard them so harshly, those who lost the sent and pay at the room.  Paid to stand on barren Land any try for sky-lies belie them.  They are taught to take pride in winning, so humility in cooperation falls on them hard.  It will end by wrath in vintage thorn as it does on the trampling path.  Not far down the wheel write gambling road no chickens scratched the yard.  The suburbs starve and shiver byLivingRiver.

This house has vegetables.  The Lord commanded neighbor to help neighbor.  “Cyberspace by nature feels very big from the inside,” says Joe, but nature by cyberspace feels very small.  More slips to the carbon world started gatherings, slipcraft landing like crows in a field, ducks on a pond or gulls at a beach.  Many folk become accustomed to turning a blind eye toward the wood lot.

There is always plenty of help in the gardens, and the gardens grow.  Panels grow up here, Freedom Shelters there, and in this season of wanton hunger an unknown population is filled with a New Gospel, source unknown.  “True be green,” they would say, often to recognize each other.  TBG in text.  Every young green motor-head is working on their rotor or controller.  Velomobiles whirr quietly in slip.

Air buffets gently this still night under a cold Christmas moon.  Few lights blaze below like the magic Star in the East.  Even above the flapping wind and whirr of electric motor, the sound was unmistakable.  Scores of human voices, not all male, are singing.  “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” drifts up from freezing darkness.  Voices are young and strong.  Yes, they are coming from everywhere.

They arrive quietly and disperse quietly, traveling silently for hundreds of miles each day in all directions.  There is food and shelter and juice at most stops on any slip.  Stops beyond the County are pure conjecture and second-hand information anyway, so turn back toward the glow on frosty edge ofEngland.  With night fighters over the Channel we mock the Prince of Peace.  Jettison de Havilland daydream and land.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear that we can not create energy, only transform it.  Stomp snow off inside breezeway and peel off propaganda only the Pharisees.  We are not running out of time.  There is time enough.  The old slipster wonders if it is like the old days, when for a brief time we all recognized each other.  We may be running out of slip in this space.  Do not disgrace a stopping place, the stars our destination.

Neue Amish Nation! 




“Oh the foe will rise with the sleep still in their eyes, and they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’ ”  –RZ Dylan

Now that we know Slipspace goes beyond physical space as we knew it, and we are aware that slipcraft is more than a vehicle… it is also a skill.  Willie the Bum became awakened to slipcraft in a railroad tunnel through the Cascades in 1933.  Wilhelm Machen came from Rimschweiler as a boy in 1910 and worked on the Slagle farm for almost twenty years.  When the Depression hit, he lit out on his own.

It was somewhere in northwestern Oregon where Willie was hoofing up a railroad grade, rounded a bend and went into the tunnel.  That’s when he heard the train.  He could have backed out of the tunnel, but heading toward the train seemed wrong.  Willie saw the light at the end and began to run.  Sure he could make it, whistle screamed, Willie became aware of headlight over shoulder, threw against the rock wall.

Every crag and stone surrounded Willie like water.  There were inches of Slipspace between rock wall and freight train roaring in total darkness.  Willie was not aware the train had gone until he heard insects beyond the exit.  Willie stepped out into the most majestic silence on God’s world and smiled.  “This is a queer thing,” Willie said to himself, and he began to laugh.  Willie Machen laughed for the rest of his life.

Willie went back to the Slagle farm just aboveNew Haven and pitched in just like he hadn’t been gone for almost ten years.  There was not much difference between the Plain Folk and the English back in those days.  Everybody did what they could, and most people had horses.  Then the War came along, and so did the cars.  There were German prisoners to help with the chores.  Trains brought them.  Cars took them away.

“Mother, I am so sorry for your loss,” said Willie, “have an apple.”  The scowling woman laughed… the first time, said her husband, since Horton was killed atAnzio.  Baggy pants flapping men snatch a slouch-hat gusto whip Nineteen Forties grittyAmerica war wind wrapping skirts around leg make up.  Fresh calves with eyebrow-pencil lines and powder trample a man not doing his bit for Uncle high-heels.

Few people ever noticed that Willie had slipped at least two great wars.  Willie was just not the kind of man you could ever imagine killing anybody… or helping anybody else do it in any way.  You could say he was wherever the war was not, but not true,. Willie married Gunde after the war and never joined the church.  They say Willie could hear what you were thinking sometimes, even when he got old and blind.

Willie is gone since Jake was a boy, but Willie told Jake about the wagons.  Gypsies, Roma, Tinkers, Travelers… every culture has a name for them.  Now these people are new to it.  You would see the slipcraft gathering like crows, and then the velos running like deer.  Then the wagons come to catch Rachel’s Holy Fire.  She never gives “sermons,” and it is unseemly to hang around their garden uninvited.

Jake’s simple solution was to invite all… to prune, pick, shape and mend.  There was enough work, and time at days’ end for Rachel’s lessons.  She has scholars of all ages; shows them how to can sweet potatoes, and sometimes (it is said- just now) that the halt would walk and the blind would see.  This is hearsay, having never witnessed it personally.  Jake does not mention it in his letters.

The Wayfarers have some of the best horse-whisperers and mechanics you’ve ever seen (we are told).  More are retiring to Slipspace now. Living is a gift that needs no “earning,” but work keeps you warm and dry and fed.  Rachel is off now, visiting relatives, a congregation out west (it is said).  Faith is no longer a Christmas tree ornament; stories are witnessed instead of read ink.  Tubespace now beginning to shrink.

Rachel’s letters arrive like a grand-daughter home from University, and while they do not make much sense now, they will in time.  She says they must wander in the wilderness like the Hebrews in the Story, “The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth:” presume she means the Wafers with their Freedom Shelters, panels and slipcraft, their livestock and wagons days behind… or ahead… depending on the scouts.  Just guessing.

The homeless are slipping among us and whispering signs on the trellis and gateway and yard.  The ones who have heard the ones who have herd will be leaving it there like a bees nest card flopping love in a glove on a silver tray hey– brought in by sorcerers and their appendixes documentation;  vanishing nation, gnat-sifting air and despair.  The diatoms die and the TV sets lie and still people find it depressing.

It is not hard to imagine Willie somewhere, a few smiles away as the crow slips between the words on the edge of a page.  Rachel writes of a small angel Corn Chip, growing in Slipspace and finding her age.  Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap are hanging around for the paradigm snap because slip is around Willie holding a sign it is yours at the mine not bankers and cheatings.  Slipspace is a State ofGrace sign of the time sending all to you.

Reason’s Greetings. 

The Enlightenment took 220 years to get here… but with cities like forests… buildings like trees are a no-brainer.  Medium-of-exchange is still “…too far in for even a pinprick of light from either side,” but Clue Train rounds the bend.  Nobody knows how it will end. Readingof signs and divergence of lines and yours and mines:  Permaculture trend.  “Argue as much as you like, but obey.”  That is what they used to say.

Foucault comes around today.  A rare communication says that is what the scouts are talking about.  Clip on the wings and twist and shout and hit the sky-bound slipspace.  Climb for all the juice is worth to see far horizon curve and there it is:  an airship wearing a bright-green envelope like the Foucault with her technology and bloggers.  She is miles distant, easy to out-slip her to Jake’s farm where Rachael is said to be.

Foucault is not a noisy smelly TV helicopter, nor does she seem to be military or “government.”  She is a true Slipspace-capable airship, whisper-quiet and likely powered by electricity.  Rumor has it the higher-performance scouts attempt to track her, and she takes refuge at insanely high altitudes well into restricted airspace.  She has been known to slip out of a dark field-fog and announce her presence with only her lights.

It is blogged that there is nothing unusual inside the gondola; just a set of controls up front and a deck strewn with sleeping bags, computers and phones, outside a small spiny array of antennae.  The Foucault arrives above a picnic in the yard where Rachel is speaking with someone who has a phone.  She stares off at nothing.  Rachel is blind, you know.  The barn-size airship is housetop high, but none take hold of the line.

Another line falls and two descend airship weathervanes into light breeze, pilot works hard to compensate for ballast.  One drives a pylon; the next wears a cyber-hat.  Rachel gives Foucault the slip, witnessed live across the internets.  Is she in the tent?  Approaching the back door, is she in the house?  Slipcraft of every description are streaming away.  People are cordial, but know nothing.

Women of same description are crossing fields.  What will you do if they surround you by force?  What will you do when the trooper yields paths and roads and woodlots with blazing lights and armed slipcraft?  How was Foucault to know?  Rachel had slipped the troopers once, obeying an Ordnung appear at the nonce.  Rachel says armed slipcraft can not be.   Tethered to weapons is weight to slip free!

The green Foucault begins to rise, sucking in cables like noodles and turning her nose to the wind and upward turn arc in round air green gondola noting the crew zipping into their bags and the pilot is changing the heading and course and seats and direction in all a reflection of brave mountaineers.  They will bolt for their sanctuary up in cloud-Everest leaving below won Vale of Spimes.  Then turns again like a big green weenie.

Foucault is the wurst of times.  She turns and dips on a dime to slip full speed, fence-level hopping over woodlots dropping to slide refuge aside a wood unoccupied and looks like a sneaky gherkin trying to hide by a serving of broccoli.  Crew points up and military slice overhead at pattern altitude and are gone.  Wave to the crew and slip on home please.  Broccoli is crawling with 44 peas.

Brothers and sisters today we say The Awful Truth.

(Insert the Awful Truth here

Now we are conscience dreaming.  Now-un-embraced millions of boomers awake to a world way different. The “working world” fell asleep in the teens.  They slap down sock-money on recumbent tadpoles congregate in dark mall parking lots with sk8erz, lecturing from 30 kph lawn-chair instigators.  They have little but themselves to blame after 40 years of stuffing self-serving crap…

into their brains.

“There’s a breakdown at central control, blue midnight white thunder.  Will you dare to drive your soul where they gypsies wonder?”  –RD Curtis

It is a long, long highway out to your wishing star.  Not everybody gets to golf away their final spark at Boca Woods, most of us were not pointed that direction to begin with and the gypsies wonder why anyone with a soul would do such a thing.  Slower travel along tubes and capillaries revealed a world unappealing to Slipcraft and Freedom Shelters.  The hipsters are now slipsters, slipping to all the places where Disney World is not.

Cost that many had to pay to keep the few in fairyland never laid lash upon bare black conscience more than now.  The toilers and peak-oilers see golf course as garden trying to grow.  White coiffures in clown cars are relics of another age.  Their simulacra can not stand the sunshine. Las Vegasgives way to starship where all aboard are crew.  Players find it more difficult to slip.  Better be crew than one of the few.

Many black velos and wagons dot the yard as well as some familiar wings.  Turning down and on the ground, a teacher says farewell as Rachel slips away to saintly things.  Now it is said she has the power to heal while slipping along the tubes and capillaries where she is least likely to be known or recognized.  Foucault blogs about miracles along the road, but those lunatics will say anything to engorge a myth of an invisible culture.

Reason and light are hidden in plain sight.  All who get sucked into larger tubes with vacuum-bag twits tweaking toxic TV pews will miss it like a bus on the other side of the world.  That leaves the rest of us to operate on the edge, to check in with the home office as little as possible and to slip the home office as soon as possible.  The 44 peas in the broccoli could be military—deployed as a slipspace division.

The soldiers become detached in machines slipping five clicks a minute on nothing but night goggles and sunshine.  It got hard to tell who was commanding what or controlling whom.  Usually they would find the weapons stacked at the place where the tracker went dark, and soldier nor slipcraft were rarely heard from again.  There are exceptions, and among them the crazy contingent following the gas-bag Foucault.

Some keep their comm. gear and some discard it with the weapons, but nobody leaves a stove or a panel behind.  They (whoever they are) say some military have slipped armed and wired.  It is usually hearsay, and those who know do not tell.  Most melted away, slipping to stay in the sight of their blind Madonna.  The old house is quiet now, and the boys will slip for the light or a fortnight or twilight.  These days it is hard to hear…

Queer farmhouse near the ending in the air. 

I got this velo from my father, but my grandfather had the airslip built and now my cousins share it.  They say the first time my grandfather air-slipped beyond the county was when he heard a slipcraft had been taken down.  The GPS coordinates lit up Slipspace like lightning, and grandpa was determined to see for himself.  The wreckage was supposed to be where no one could see it from the ground.

They say Grandpa got close enough to see the fighters with armed helicopters and turned and slipped on home.  Dad tried to get close in this very velo, but ran into roadblocks.  They still used roadblocks in those days, so it’s a good thing the shell was not mil-surplus… although I suspect dad had some of these components even back then, could have got him in trouble, that is, until we started making them ourselves.

No, he never gave me any “advice.”  Dad used to quote Hemingway:

“Don’t enlist in armies; Nor marry many wives; Never write for magazines; Never scratch your hives.”  .I had no idea who “Hemingway” was either.  I thought it was like, “…don’t squat with your spurs on” or “…never kick a cow chip on a hot day,” which I actually did once.  I probably squatted with my spurs on too.  Hives are for bees.  Listen.

“Never pay a blackmailer, Never go to law, Never trust a publisher, Or you’ll sleep on straw”.  I know.  You are in a hurry.  I didn’t care about publishers either.  I was in a hurry too.  Look.  You can not be… that way… when you fly… that thing.  The air-slip is not for everyone.  Few of us belong there, some of us can visit, but most of us learn to bow out or get thrown out hard.  The Sky knows her children.

Respect her like a great sea, and never, ever trifle with her when She is angry.  Listen.  Here is the part to remember:  “All your friends will leave you All your friends will die So lead a clean and wholesome life And join them in the sky.”  It is a mulch fugue up there, and Wafer membrane human between heaven and humus is semi-permeable.  Rain falls on the just and unjust, but some people can not slip memetic horse exhaust.

Remember road apples when somebody goes down… even if it is you.  Now think.  Look, listen, think.  In the future, they will probably parse atoms and know every move we make.  Do them a shining thing and stop kicking cow chips.  They say there was a saint in that wreckage.  Weather or not, they keep on coming to show how chips and gardens grow… and even they get thrown out of the sky.  Country is same kind of wreck.

We are Unknowns, we drop out like they said generations ago… if you rely on false documents, you do not slip.  Youngsters try to slip out of the county… at night.  Do not clutter your head with that when you slip in the air.  Invasive species bounce through like tumbleweeds.  Superstition takes no root here, but metaphysics are macro-biotic, little religion and much spirituality keeps you safe upstairs.

Saints are anonymous here, face-dancers who shed the illusion of self.  Individuals ripen as egos die back because the Compost Modern garden carefully tends her memes and metaphors with digital guild stewardship… for true direction when the old moral compass loses attraction and accuracy.  They also serve who slip and wait.  The sky is your mistress and not the state.  Mulch the government.

Eigenstate may be the only state there is.  Sure there are probability clouds, then there is water, then there is ice.  The momentum is often opaque to us.  Until we understand more about weak forces, momentum is the only think keeping us above ground.  Time is an axis, just like roll, pitch and yaw, and all can be position illusions.  Compost Moderns know what memes are metaphor.

Truth is as basic to Slipcraft fliers as inflation and rotation goes around with tires, and you don’t need Punch and Judy to tell you what is True.  When governing bodies are toxic puppets, compost them into less-pathogenic material and grow something original.  As such, old governments can be used for bedding once splintered, dried, de-toxified and reduced to walking distances with locally-produced food and energy.

“Don’t expect anything original from an echo,” the saint would say, pointing to herself.  Slipcraft practitioners are phantoms to other phantoms, peace and conflict continue in parallel surges and the meme-stream diverges.  Vehicles slip efficiently from capitalism through libertarianism, socialism and on to the Green where cycles assemble and not militia, where social dominators are an invasive species good for compost.

“More rigor in your recklessness!  More ambition in your hedonism!”  The youth fidgets and waits impatiently for the velo code.  This activates the batteries, this one the nav and this one the comm..  Memorize the numbers and eat the paper.  Remember: “When you’re young, and it feels like you’re invincible, it’s because you are. From this moment forth, no one shall ever die.”  The youth fidgets and finally the velo trundles down the lane.

Ground Clutter. 

Who could imagine the lead technique these days is hiding in the ground clutter?  It is the tea, the water, the molecules.  Time is flat and there is no division between past and future.  There is a baby born yesterday and there is an old man in bullet-proof bronze skin buried inChicagorubble.  He still lives.  He thinks anyway.  He is conscious in an almost-invincible body, entombed in New Madrid slip.

There are souls of the dead and spirits unborn converge in the dark ground water.  It slips and sleeps, it awakens and seeps in a clear ground clutter below prying eyes where we sip tea and graze across slipspace.  Eyes to be born look back overLake Superior.  It is the blood pressure and the boiling kettle whistling in a change of state.  We blink in sun and grow in gardens remembering ages of ice.

It clinks in a glass of ice tea blending some leaves of grass.   Grow Whitman sampler box earth worms.  Ten years before the end of the Civil War we sip what we can not see.  We slip what we can not be.  Tomorrow we plant a tree and grandchildren friends dew wrest like shades in the forest.  Sing Halleluiah Chorus to keep on coming.  What is going on is awakening Compost Modern.  It is hear and now.  You have ears, Corn Chip.

Listen to serf boom high on a beach out of corn reaching deep depression.  Slight is the sent praying warm-weather wood smoke — picnicking Neue Confession.  Amish Reformation out of Ammann revival spreads loving hand unguent on feat of Christ, soul birth entropic profession.  Both Dude in the garden, and they were not a Shamus.  Wings thrill over just above barn top, like fire round ankles rich and famous.

She is bound for Nuremberg.

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,  Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl. —RZ Dylan

This is only a story and it is not meant to suggest anything in the real world.  This is an imaginary story about how imaginary characters dealt with the wicked few who ruled their world… or so they thought.  Neither this story nor this writer is advocating anything at all, and any references to what may seem to be real historical events are only to aid the reader’s imagination.  In this imaginary parallel world, the few rich got richer and the many poor were prey.  For every one who joined the ranks of the rich, one thousand fell into the ranks of the poor.  Of the thousand new poor, perhaps one hundred still had some income, property and a few small voices.

It only took a few neighbors and the lawn-and-garden tools most of them already had:  shovels, garden forks, and the ubiquitous tiki torches.  The remaining prop was simple to make:  a large banner with a message on each side.  On one side, great bold letters spelled, “NUREMBERG!”  The other side had a network address:  housewarmingparty-dot-org.  Mirror sites sprung up as fast as the originals were hacked and sabotaged, although all the sites carried nothing but home-gardening information and a system to contact selected readers of each address.  The Gatto Gorda, Gorgato– the rich- were convinced House-Warming Party actually existed.

In a way, The Club did exist.  At first, when disposed families were thrown out of their homes because it was in “foreclosure,” the last thing they left was a Molotov cocktail.  Soon, petrol is guarded and all evicted families escorted away from the property, but it made no difference.  Nuremberg Garden Clubs were planting memorial flower-patches in front of local TV stations, and every night vacated houses burned.  Soon, the suburbs were on fire.  The low-level hirelings who tried to maintain “order” were drawn away form the fire and either persuaded or dispatched… whichever was appropriate.  No kind of “organization” was necessary.

The Gorgato simply could not pay enough… because if a left-over libertarian nylon-bedded Remington 700 BDL did not serve to discourage the sausage-necked sycophants, a sharpened screwdriver would.  The Gorgats realized they created many people who were dangerous because they had nothing to lose.  They thought their hirelings could suppress them easily with their stable pay and war-toys… just like the plate-armored vassals in the Middle Ages.  They were wrong.  People who feel they were doomed anyway will resort to longbows, sleeping screwdrivers and suicide bombs to exit this world with dignity if they have no other choice.

There were not enough cops, firefighters or prisons.  There were too many desperate, homeless and hungry. NUREMBERG! Banners appeared everywhere, and beneath them people were peacefully planting gardens… vegetables and flowers.  In places where the peaceful planters were attacked, there were more fires and murders.  Where the gardens were allowed to grow there were more flowers and food.  The Gordats had seen the torches and forks… and they knew the meaning of the banner well enough.  The Gordat war criminals must be put on trial… sacrificed to preserve order.  It was not enough, and the fires spread from vacant houses to businesses and government buildings.

Rapidly-closing big-box stores refused to sell garden forks.  They usually burned a short time later.  The fingers at the end of the Gordat’s long arm… the Gorditos, “little fatties,” the bullying cops, the autocratic “managers,” the corrupt officials, the snitches and finks were sometimes found with the tell-tale four holes in them.  Graffiti appeared on buildings: “your tine is coming.”  Bumper-stickers were slapped on the fat vehicles of the rich and ostentatious: “ForkMe.”  Each individual community adjusted differently, as did each individual.  Folks just naturally went to where there were more flowers and food.  There are millions of stories, and it’s impossible to tell them all right now.

You look like you have a few stories yourself.  Where have you been?  This is all ancient history by now.  Guess you didn’t get much news out there.  It was probably hard enough just keeping body and soul together.  And, no offense, but you look like something the dog dragged in.  Never mind.  You are welcome here.  There’s a wash-tub out back right next to the pump if you want to clean up a bit.  We got everything you need right here.  Not much, mind you, everybody around here is poor.  Nobody needs more than two sets of clothes anyway.  We have plenty to eat and we stay warm in winter.  You can pitch in if you want… right after you get to know everybody in the neighborhood.

Oh, it was an inside job alright. The Gords even juiced a few of their own… but it didn’t do them much good.  By then, nobody cared much about that kind of stuff.  Say, you won’t need that rifle around here.  You can stash it here for the time being.  Oh, you can carry it if you want… but some folks might think you’re showing off.  That’s not a good thing for strangers to do, you know.  Best let ‘em get to know you first.  You’ll like most of ‘em.  Everybody that needed killing around here is long gone by now—and good riddance to their nasty asses.  Shot some of them, forked most of them.  It’s still going on some places, I hear.  We’re too busy to keep track of that stuff.

Whew.  No offense, partner, but you smell kind of ripe.  You might want to think about that wash-tub.  Rinse off your duds and let ‘em dry by the stove.  I’m going down the road about half-a-click that way.  Meet up with me there, and I’ll stand you some of the best grub you’ve tasted in a long time… and some good home-brewed beer if you like.  That’s right, real beer.  I knew that would put a grin on ye.  Good to see that smile again.  Smiles were in short supply for a while, weren’t they?  Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.  You’ll find the girls around here right friendly as long as you leave that smoke-pole of yours stashed away.  And take off that pig-sticker too.

Come down the road when you’re ready.  It’s a long shack with a great big garden out back.  It’s our regular gathering place long about sundown.  There’s a bicycle shop and a bake-oven… and, yep, a brewery right next door.  Just follow that fresh-bread smell until you hear the music.  Didn’t you pick a few strings back in the old days?  I thought so.  Welcome home, sister.  There’s plenty of work to be done, and there’s a laundry too.  Like I said, you could use it.  The fight’s gone out of this place, I hope for good.  I heard you were quite a scrapper for a girl… oh all right, I hear you. For anybody!  I hope those days are over.  Oh yeah– there are signs in the sky… you can’t miss them:

They say Nuremberg Garden Club. 

Mulch the fugue state. 

The sequel is easy to read. 


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  1. Parallel Universe. « waldopaper said, on February 13, 2012 at 5:00 pm

    […] Slipcraft;  tea die, tee doom and Newcomen Scotsman  piping on down  cos the boys are back in town… […]

  2. The Free World Charter « waldopaper said, on January 7, 2012 at 9:24 pm

    […] year, 2012 is going to be difficult.  The first post this year had to be “positive.”  Slipcraft was an attempt to imagine all this.  We are not alone.  We must share our vision of a renewed and […]

  3. #Fort Wayne « waldopaper said, on November 6, 2011 at 9:31 pm

    […] Why wait for it when you can slip it? […]

  4. Nuremberg Garden Club « waldopaper said, on November 1, 2011 at 7:45 pm

    […] into bullshit at least a decade ago.  Like a head-shot Brontosaurus, it’s coming down.  Slipcraft  is the art of getting out from under.  Maybe this is what Tygerlily realizes that our Public […]

  5. #Occupy Duckburg! « waldopaper said, on October 18, 2011 at 6:59 pm

    […] eggs. That dance will be a short one. Slipspace will be wherever the busy nut nut dance is not.  Slipcraft are already there. This is not a balloon-carrying sidewalk march.  This winter is the Valley Forge […]

  6. […] If we choose to go Compostmodern directly  Ω […]

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