First was the house on the hill
with it's two giant elms on the top
and the rooms upstairs that gave some solace
because she was too lazy to climb the stairs
Everything was argument and fight
everything was on the edge of collapse
all the time
unending crisis after crisis
as she drank her way insane
I was trained to fight about everything
all the time
by a ruthless wordslinger
who backed it up with a wooden shoe
or a slap
or by kicking me in gut as I lay on the floor
trying to curl around her leg so she could not draw it back.
She tolerated being a mother until the day her daughter went away to college
and then she got rid of me.
First, she loaded me like a gun and shot me at my father
telling me that she might take me back if he said I had to go
but never just because I asked to come home.
And nothing in the world prepared him for what she had made me
and he was begging her to take me back in less than three months.
and I got what she told me I wanted: Her.
But if not a good mother, she was an excellent teacher
and she found that she was not winning the arguments,
not crushing me with her words,
then revelling in the impotence with which a child returns taunts.
She had sharpened me, and now I was starting to cut
and as her words could no longer beat me
it was hands, or sticks, or belts
and she knew I had to go before my patience for it ended
So off I went from the house on the hill
and she threw me out of the car at the private school
with a garbage bag full of clothes that had not fit in a year
a hundred dollars with which to buy textbooks
and an admonition to find somewhere else to stay for summer.
and it is, from this distance, my most shameful moment,
that as she drove off, I was weeping and begging to be allowed back.
I was 13
From the house on the hill to the castle on the hill
where nobody wanted to hurt me, fight me, beat me.
Everything changed, and I became insignificant
and I could not but hate insignificance
so I did the only thing I had ever been taught competently to do.
I fought.
I am 42. I have been married for half that time.
I do not hit, nor do I brutalize, and I do not drink.
But I have not managed to stop fighting for a single second.
I have managed to make rules that I follow:
I do not let myself win fights that I know I should lose
but it is not always easy to tell when I am right from when I am wrong.
And I can't manage to stop fighting, even while deciding.
There is a voice in my head that tells me that if I ever stop fighting
I can never again go home again.
But that is true no matter what I do.
that home is gone
the elm trees are long since cut for fuel
SO why fight?
Why fight, when the only person I really want to beat
has been insane, stupid and dying for years?
I seem to know nothing else.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
The lightness of invisibility
Nobody is reading these "blog" posts, and that is fine. But the fact that somebody MAY in the future read these posts govern how I interact with them. It is an odd calculation that occurs when I look at the "publish post" button. Do I stand by what I say? Well, I have yet to say anything too radical, so it is easy to say yes!. But once something hits this blog, it can't really be taken back. it is just there.
On the other hand, nobody is reading this stuff, and there is exactly one person on the planet that can definitively link this blog to an actual human being (that would be you, Shirls) so I can say anything I want and as long as I don't alienate that one person, I am untraceable. Sort of. But I have been using the "lizard" pseudonym so long (about 15 years, I think), and so many netizens have met Lizard online, that "lizard" is an entity in himself, sort of a full-body sock-puppet of myself.
Since I trust the one person who can attach an organic name to this digital creation not to do so unless I agree to it, I feel pretty safe.
Well, the shit in my head has to go somewhere. There are ideas I have that need expression beyond myself. I am not getting published as an author (after years of trying), and I have almost given up on getting published, but my brain is still telling me to put the ideas where they can be seen by others. So, they are here, where they CAN be seen, but probably wont be.
On the other hand, nobody is reading this stuff, and there is exactly one person on the planet that can definitively link this blog to an actual human being (that would be you, Shirls) so I can say anything I want and as long as I don't alienate that one person, I am untraceable. Sort of. But I have been using the "lizard" pseudonym so long (about 15 years, I think), and so many netizens have met Lizard online, that "lizard" is an entity in himself, sort of a full-body sock-puppet of myself.
Since I trust the one person who can attach an organic name to this digital creation not to do so unless I agree to it, I feel pretty safe.
Well, the shit in my head has to go somewhere. There are ideas I have that need expression beyond myself. I am not getting published as an author (after years of trying), and I have almost given up on getting published, but my brain is still telling me to put the ideas where they can be seen by others. So, they are here, where they CAN be seen, but probably wont be.
Fat Man
We were made by that Fat Man. We don't know who made the Fat Man, but it isnt important, because we dont know. You have to understand that, first. It happened before us, before we were ever here. ANd that old Fat Man told us everything we need to know about BEFORE us, and he didn't tell us that, so it ain't important.
The Fat Man was walking on the earth, among the wood people and the stone people and the Dragons who owned the sky and the islands. He was a happy man, and maybe he was a little bit stupid, too, because he didn't know not to eat too much of the berries and the Bison, and he got fat. In fact, he got so fat that he sat down at he mouth of the Aullee river and never moved again. ANd the river brought him food, the nosefish and the candlefish and the occasional Bison that got too close to him getting a drink, adn he was still happy, and he got fatter and fatter. And as he sat and ate, he sang. Now, the Fat Man didnt have a language, like you and me, so he just made up sounds as he sat, so he could sing. When he saw the white clouds, he made a sound, and that was his sound for cloud, forever. Because the Fat Man never forgot anything. He had so many different sounds for things, that when he sang, he sang stories about the things he saw.
That old fat man made us. We dont know how, but we do know why. That fat man was sitting under the dark black stormy sky, one day, and he named the thunder, and as he sang his name for the thunder, the thunder rang out, and it sounded marvelous, the two sounds together, his name for the thunder and the thunder, and he fell in love with that sound. That old Fat Man could not ever make that sound alone. The Fat Man was upset about it for a while, but he thought about it. Why can't you sing a harmony with yourself? And if there is only one of you, like there was of him, why is there such a thing as a harmony?
So the Fat Man made us. And at first, he made just one of us, First Man. And maybe the fat man wasnt so stupid, even tho he ate himself fat, because he figured that if he had to have somebody to sing harmony with him, maybe everybody needed somebody to sing harmony. So he made First Woman, and discovered three part harmony, and then first Man and first Woman made First Kid, and they ALL sang harmony to the Fat Man. and each of them had a different voice, and the Fat Man loved it.
The Fat Man made us to sing harmony with him him. And that, my boy, is why you are alive. To sing harmony with the Fat Man as he sings his songs. Can you hear them, boy? Can you hear the Fat Man's songs? You got to listen real good. I have been listening all my life, and I been here 50 winters, and I only just heard them recently. Now I gotta figure out how to make a beutiful harmony with him. And that is why I am telling you about the Fat Man. You are my harmony.
But remember about Fat Man, boy. Don't eat too much.
The Fat Man was walking on the earth, among the wood people and the stone people and the Dragons who owned the sky and the islands. He was a happy man, and maybe he was a little bit stupid, too, because he didn't know not to eat too much of the berries and the Bison, and he got fat. In fact, he got so fat that he sat down at he mouth of the Aullee river and never moved again. ANd the river brought him food, the nosefish and the candlefish and the occasional Bison that got too close to him getting a drink, adn he was still happy, and he got fatter and fatter. And as he sat and ate, he sang. Now, the Fat Man didnt have a language, like you and me, so he just made up sounds as he sat, so he could sing. When he saw the white clouds, he made a sound, and that was his sound for cloud, forever. Because the Fat Man never forgot anything. He had so many different sounds for things, that when he sang, he sang stories about the things he saw.
That old fat man made us. We dont know how, but we do know why. That fat man was sitting under the dark black stormy sky, one day, and he named the thunder, and as he sang his name for the thunder, the thunder rang out, and it sounded marvelous, the two sounds together, his name for the thunder and the thunder, and he fell in love with that sound. That old Fat Man could not ever make that sound alone. The Fat Man was upset about it for a while, but he thought about it. Why can't you sing a harmony with yourself? And if there is only one of you, like there was of him, why is there such a thing as a harmony?
So the Fat Man made us. And at first, he made just one of us, First Man. And maybe the fat man wasnt so stupid, even tho he ate himself fat, because he figured that if he had to have somebody to sing harmony with him, maybe everybody needed somebody to sing harmony. So he made First Woman, and discovered three part harmony, and then first Man and first Woman made First Kid, and they ALL sang harmony to the Fat Man. and each of them had a different voice, and the Fat Man loved it.
The Fat Man made us to sing harmony with him him. And that, my boy, is why you are alive. To sing harmony with the Fat Man as he sings his songs. Can you hear them, boy? Can you hear the Fat Man's songs? You got to listen real good. I have been listening all my life, and I been here 50 winters, and I only just heard them recently. Now I gotta figure out how to make a beutiful harmony with him. And that is why I am telling you about the Fat Man. You are my harmony.
But remember about Fat Man, boy. Don't eat too much.
Prayer to Discordia (Eris)
Discordia
I bend a knee to you, keeper of all things bent
I ask that you visit all things perfectly aligned
and gently rearrange them
so that their keepers must again strive to align
and in doing so, freshly examine.
I ask you to visit the slow, steady progress of many lives
and shake them,
that they may again attempt to discerne their direction
and perhaps see possibilities where once dwelt only routine.
I ask that you visit the aura of the Tarot's fool gently
upon all who own more than will fit in a bag slung over the shoulder
that they may again appreciate the carefree
and the visionary lightness of a lack of obligation.
Goddess,
make the easy and smooth
just difficult and ragged enough that I need attend my footing
but only for as long as it takes me to again appreciate the road.
P.S. Thanks for the apple
I bend a knee to you, keeper of all things bent
I ask that you visit all things perfectly aligned
and gently rearrange them
so that their keepers must again strive to align
and in doing so, freshly examine.
I ask you to visit the slow, steady progress of many lives
and shake them,
that they may again attempt to discerne their direction
and perhaps see possibilities where once dwelt only routine.
I ask that you visit the aura of the Tarot's fool gently
upon all who own more than will fit in a bag slung over the shoulder
that they may again appreciate the carefree
and the visionary lightness of a lack of obligation.
Goddess,
make the easy and smooth
just difficult and ragged enough that I need attend my footing
but only for as long as it takes me to again appreciate the road.
P.S. Thanks for the apple
Friday, May 25, 2007
purpose
I have never before felt as useful as I feel singing my son to sleep.
As an animist, I call these moments holy
(a word I am very uncomfortable with)
because they seem to transcend language
and defy, as tho intentionally, communication.
They ROCK.
As an animist, I call these moments holy
(a word I am very uncomfortable with)
because they seem to transcend language
and defy, as tho intentionally, communication.
They ROCK.
schism in me
I want to write a poem and it won't come out.
I am basing this action on a false assumption:
that I actually 'write' poetry
Rather, they exist as entities floating in my imagination,
separate from the thinking me,
perhaps written by one of those other me's
with which I share this space
and I can only write a poem if that me
chooses to tell this me
that there is a poem, and where to find it.
it involves a fragmenting of my perspective
which is chaotic, but more precise
many of the individual me's that combine into my life
see things differently
and they argue through imagination, dream and poem
and nobody in there bothers telling ME how things are going.
I am obviously the last one on the call list,
but I am the only way things ever get written, shown to the outside.
I am the gatekeeper, and it is a boring fucking job.
I am basing this action on a false assumption:
that I actually 'write' poetry
Rather, they exist as entities floating in my imagination,
separate from the thinking me,
perhaps written by one of those other me's
with which I share this space
and I can only write a poem if that me
chooses to tell this me
that there is a poem, and where to find it.
it involves a fragmenting of my perspective
which is chaotic, but more precise
many of the individual me's that combine into my life
see things differently
and they argue through imagination, dream and poem
and nobody in there bothers telling ME how things are going.
I am obviously the last one on the call list,
but I am the only way things ever get written, shown to the outside.
I am the gatekeeper, and it is a boring fucking job.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Sacraments: 2, Ayahuasca
It is really hot, 104 and rising, and it is only 8 am
and I am again dancing with the Snakebird
Chief says "yeah, but it's a DRY heat!" quoting Aliens
and the Warriors all laugh.
The wooden cup is empty, and I toss it onto the sand, waiting.
Chief, squatting, asks "what now, Lizard?"
And the half of my brain that does the thinking
wants to call an ambulance and get to some air-conditioning
but the mystic half simply says "dance, baby"
5 warriors, 5 hand-drums, circle, chant and beat,
Chief and I squat, awaiting the Snakebird
and Thinking Half says
"You couldn't just square-dance or collect stamps like a normal person, could you?"
as Mystic Half sways and waits.
The churning in my stomach heralds his coming, black Snakebird writhing.
Chief stands in front of me, her gentle hands on my cheeks, her green eyes staring into mine
"You okay"? her voice carries the slight distortion that Snakebird brings with him
Thinking Half wants to scream,
but Mystic Half smiles and sings "Oh Yeah."
The drumbeats stretch and distort into a black reverb wall of sound, casting the circle
and the dancers merge into heat-haze mutants,
limbs contorting and bodies flowing into a curtain of living, drumming ivy
Thinking Half says
"keep it together, Lizard, you know what this is.
It's a drug, that's all, none of this is real"
But Snakebird whispers to me in a voice that oozes out my pores like acid molasses
"Come to see me again, have you"?
Thinking Half's voice is a mockery of a voice,
lifeless computer-synthesised tech-support phone menu voice
"Dimethyl tryptamine acting in and around the visual cortex,
and an anticholinergic monoamine oxidase inhibitor to impede molecular destruction"
and Snakebird, thrashing in my stomache, whispers to Mystic Half
"I am almost here, shaman. Have you made your peace?"
and I drop to my knees in the sand.
Thinking Half knows he is doomed, but tries anyway
"Shaman, huh? Fat, unemployed white guy from Maine, a shaman? Laughable"
but Mystic Half has started the Song,
and Snakebird is emerging from my mouth in spurts of oily black raven feathers
as I convulse and vomit the the feathered serpent, writhing in the sand
as Thinking Half packs his bags and moves on.
Black as a raven flying on a moonless night he comes, and circles me as I retch on the sand.
He is all out of me, and he assembles himself, and rises up like a cobra and laughs
His eyes glow softly like lit cigarettes in the dark, and his fangs drip with venom.
"I see you, lizard. You come to me again.
Have you a question, or is this just a social call?"
"I have gone as far as I can go" I begin,
and I look upon him, knowing he already knows my intentions
"And you want more wisdom, more answers?" he hisses, angry.
"You want me to do it all for you?"
he wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and he begins to squeeze
He strikes at my throat, and I feel the poison in me as I mutter, dying, "I have lost my faith".
I can feel the life ending, draining, ebbing,
as the fangs of the Snakebird pump the poisonous answers into my blood,
melting my body away, from the inside,
leaving me a hollow cauterised shell of pink flesh over a liquid acid mass,
and I feel him squeeze, and my dissolved innards gush out and splash onto the sand,
bright red and steaming an acid cloud,
and Snakebird looks at the foul pool of my liquified inner workings, and laughs,
uncloiling from the tissue-thin remains of my shell
"I have given you my gift, shaman. You are empty" he says
"I am not here to give you faith, or wisdom, or answers.
I am here only for my own amusement
The Shaman used to know that. Now, they just come looking for handouts,
praying at me like I was a crucifued god who actually gives a shit"
"Next time you come" he says, his outline fading
"Come empty, and perhaps I shall fill you".
"No! " I try to shout, not wanting him to leave,
but he has taken my breath, too, and nothing emerges but emptiness.
As he fades, the red noxious puddle that was once everything I am
congeals into a shining red homonculus form.
"Am I you? or are you me?" it asks,
and then melts back into the sand, and sinks into it, vanishing,
and the black wall of drumsound becomes colorless,
and the undulating wall of ivy unmutates and resolves into dancers
And Snakebird, now nothing but a feathered serpent made of smoke, whispers as he unfurls his raven wings
"It is not the cup, nor even the wine, it is the drinking
It is not the steps, nor even the dancers, it is the dancing
It is not the question, nor even the breath that blows the sound out, it is, and always will be, the asking"
and I am again dancing with the Snakebird
Chief says "yeah, but it's a DRY heat!" quoting Aliens
and the Warriors all laugh.
The wooden cup is empty, and I toss it onto the sand, waiting.
Chief, squatting, asks "what now, Lizard?"
And the half of my brain that does the thinking
wants to call an ambulance and get to some air-conditioning
but the mystic half simply says "dance, baby"
5 warriors, 5 hand-drums, circle, chant and beat,
Chief and I squat, awaiting the Snakebird
and Thinking Half says
"You couldn't just square-dance or collect stamps like a normal person, could you?"
as Mystic Half sways and waits.
The churning in my stomach heralds his coming, black Snakebird writhing.
Chief stands in front of me, her gentle hands on my cheeks, her green eyes staring into mine
"You okay"? her voice carries the slight distortion that Snakebird brings with him
Thinking Half wants to scream,
but Mystic Half smiles and sings "Oh Yeah."
The drumbeats stretch and distort into a black reverb wall of sound, casting the circle
and the dancers merge into heat-haze mutants,
limbs contorting and bodies flowing into a curtain of living, drumming ivy
Thinking Half says
"keep it together, Lizard, you know what this is.
It's a drug, that's all, none of this is real"
But Snakebird whispers to me in a voice that oozes out my pores like acid molasses
"Come to see me again, have you"?
Thinking Half's voice is a mockery of a voice,
lifeless computer-synthesised tech-support phone menu voice
"Dimethyl tryptamine acting in and around the visual cortex,
and an anticholinergic monoamine oxidase inhibitor to impede molecular destruction"
and Snakebird, thrashing in my stomache, whispers to Mystic Half
"I am almost here, shaman. Have you made your peace?"
and I drop to my knees in the sand.
Thinking Half knows he is doomed, but tries anyway
"Shaman, huh? Fat, unemployed white guy from Maine, a shaman? Laughable"
but Mystic Half has started the Song,
and Snakebird is emerging from my mouth in spurts of oily black raven feathers
as I convulse and vomit the the feathered serpent, writhing in the sand
as Thinking Half packs his bags and moves on.
Black as a raven flying on a moonless night he comes, and circles me as I retch on the sand.
He is all out of me, and he assembles himself, and rises up like a cobra and laughs
His eyes glow softly like lit cigarettes in the dark, and his fangs drip with venom.
"I see you, lizard. You come to me again.
Have you a question, or is this just a social call?"
"I have gone as far as I can go" I begin,
and I look upon him, knowing he already knows my intentions
"And you want more wisdom, more answers?" he hisses, angry.
"You want me to do it all for you?"
he wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and he begins to squeeze
He strikes at my throat, and I feel the poison in me as I mutter, dying, "I have lost my faith".
I can feel the life ending, draining, ebbing,
as the fangs of the Snakebird pump the poisonous answers into my blood,
melting my body away, from the inside,
leaving me a hollow cauterised shell of pink flesh over a liquid acid mass,
and I feel him squeeze, and my dissolved innards gush out and splash onto the sand,
bright red and steaming an acid cloud,
and Snakebird looks at the foul pool of my liquified inner workings, and laughs,
uncloiling from the tissue-thin remains of my shell
"I have given you my gift, shaman. You are empty" he says
"I am not here to give you faith, or wisdom, or answers.
I am here only for my own amusement
The Shaman used to know that. Now, they just come looking for handouts,
praying at me like I was a crucifued god who actually gives a shit"
"Next time you come" he says, his outline fading
"Come empty, and perhaps I shall fill you".
"No! " I try to shout, not wanting him to leave,
but he has taken my breath, too, and nothing emerges but emptiness.
As he fades, the red noxious puddle that was once everything I am
congeals into a shining red homonculus form.
"Am I you? or are you me?" it asks,
and then melts back into the sand, and sinks into it, vanishing,
and the black wall of drumsound becomes colorless,
and the undulating wall of ivy unmutates and resolves into dancers
And Snakebird, now nothing but a feathered serpent made of smoke, whispers as he unfurls his raven wings
"It is not the cup, nor even the wine, it is the drinking
It is not the steps, nor even the dancers, it is the dancing
It is not the question, nor even the breath that blows the sound out, it is, and always will be, the asking"
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Deep Dark Secret
My deep, dark secret: I have a religion.
I am acutely embarrassed by this. I certainly don't WANT to have a religion. I wasn't in the market for one, and for a very long time I was in denial about it. Me? A religion? Absurd. I am on the side of reason and science. I don't even believe in God, Jesus, Santa, The Easter-Bunny, the Great Mind Control Squid, Aslan, Tom Bombadil or even Bob Dobbs.
I have no interest in the bible. I read it while I was exploring literature, (well, mostly science fiction and fantasy) and was entirely underwhelmed. The Bible simply did not stack up to The Lord of the Rings and if I had to have a holy book, it was more likely going to be written by Roger Zelazney than either dead ancient guys or L. Ron Hubbard.
The problem is simply this: I have experiences that cannot be put into words. I am a severe asthmatic, and have been very near death five times (and in one case, possibly technically dead for a very short time, but my memory and the memories of the others involved are all contradictory, so I may be wrong about it) and in the three that I remember clearly, something happened. I can't verbalize what it was, because I do not have words that fit, and I know a LOT of words. What happened was deeply meaningful, in an emotional sense. What I mean by that is it FELT meaningful. I had the recognition of truth, knowledge, gnosis. What that truth was, is incommunicable.
This incommunicability is not, by any means, unique to me. Almost every mystical tradition acknowledges exactly this state. Science does not speak to it in any helpful way. I am sure that a neurobiologist can explain WHAT is happening in every technical detail, talking about areas of the brain where the 'truth' button resides and what combinations of neurotransmitters push said button. But they give no hint as to why we should HAVE such a button, and why it gets pushed when it does.
Near death is not the only time I have gotten this sensation, but near death is the only time I got it that I wasn't looking for it. The only time I don't think it could be self-deception or wish-fulfillment or some other non-mystical rationalization.
Then I taught somebody else to have that experience. She told me I was her priest. I was horrified, but she meant it in a slightly different way than I thought. She meant I led the way, not that I 'was' the way. And our relationship was much more a teaching pair than priest-student. She used "Shaman" because she said it came closer than 'priest' but I thought that too 'new age'y.
Also, when I was 14, I watched "Cosmos" by Carl Sagan. Like a lot of others, I thought he was over-the-top passionate about science and the bigness of the universe and such passion was a tad creepy. Later, I realized why it creeped me out: When he was saying "Billions" in his geeky way, he was praying! That is, he was doing the same thing that I was doing, that I have no words to explain. Familiar ground for me, tho, because I am acutely embarrassed by it in myself, seeing it elsewhere was unwelcome. I would guess that Sagan himself would be horrified by how I am describing it, but if we could have agreed on the vocabulary, hew would understand what I meant.
So there it is. I have a religion. Don't tell anybody.
I am acutely embarrassed by this. I certainly don't WANT to have a religion. I wasn't in the market for one, and for a very long time I was in denial about it. Me? A religion? Absurd. I am on the side of reason and science. I don't even believe in God, Jesus, Santa, The Easter-Bunny, the Great Mind Control Squid, Aslan, Tom Bombadil or even Bob Dobbs.
I have no interest in the bible. I read it while I was exploring literature, (well, mostly science fiction and fantasy) and was entirely underwhelmed. The Bible simply did not stack up to The Lord of the Rings and if I had to have a holy book, it was more likely going to be written by Roger Zelazney than either dead ancient guys or L. Ron Hubbard.
The problem is simply this: I have experiences that cannot be put into words. I am a severe asthmatic, and have been very near death five times (and in one case, possibly technically dead for a very short time, but my memory and the memories of the others involved are all contradictory, so I may be wrong about it) and in the three that I remember clearly, something happened. I can't verbalize what it was, because I do not have words that fit, and I know a LOT of words. What happened was deeply meaningful, in an emotional sense. What I mean by that is it FELT meaningful. I had the recognition of truth, knowledge, gnosis. What that truth was, is incommunicable.
This incommunicability is not, by any means, unique to me. Almost every mystical tradition acknowledges exactly this state. Science does not speak to it in any helpful way. I am sure that a neurobiologist can explain WHAT is happening in every technical detail, talking about areas of the brain where the 'truth' button resides and what combinations of neurotransmitters push said button. But they give no hint as to why we should HAVE such a button, and why it gets pushed when it does.
Near death is not the only time I have gotten this sensation, but near death is the only time I got it that I wasn't looking for it. The only time I don't think it could be self-deception or wish-fulfillment or some other non-mystical rationalization.
Then I taught somebody else to have that experience. She told me I was her priest. I was horrified, but she meant it in a slightly different way than I thought. She meant I led the way, not that I 'was' the way. And our relationship was much more a teaching pair than priest-student. She used "Shaman" because she said it came closer than 'priest' but I thought that too 'new age'y.
Also, when I was 14, I watched "Cosmos" by Carl Sagan. Like a lot of others, I thought he was over-the-top passionate about science and the bigness of the universe and such passion was a tad creepy. Later, I realized why it creeped me out: When he was saying "Billions" in his geeky way, he was praying! That is, he was doing the same thing that I was doing, that I have no words to explain. Familiar ground for me, tho, because I am acutely embarrassed by it in myself, seeing it elsewhere was unwelcome. I would guess that Sagan himself would be horrified by how I am describing it, but if we could have agreed on the vocabulary, hew would understand what I meant.
So there it is. I have a religion. Don't tell anybody.
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