Word of the Day: AUTOCHTHONOUS


No wonder English speaking people have developed the need for jails, psychiatry, and The God Who Is Other, amongst a myriad of other spurious social functionaries, in contrast to Native Americans who just had shamans (people with a talent for ESP), warriors, and extensive family membership to deal with most problems.

How to Sustain Action without Falling into Catatonic Trances

Figured something out. I’ve been constrained from the needed all-out action in Reiki and clowning by some inchoate obstacle, and that has become apparent as a failure to understand how Reiki and clowning fit into my commitment to world peace. Well, that’s not to hard to figure out, at least the first few steps. First, get moving in both projects, and then while doing so, think about how to structure my Reiki and clowning as Barclay so as to have the biggest world peace-conducive impact on my clients and audiences. And perhaps that may involve less specific structuring than I immediately imagined. Perhaps the biggest impact in my practices for world peace would be to simply appeal to and support people in imagining and being the most empowered and loving human beings they possibly could be. After all, who am I to think I know some specific direction to prod them into?

Other recent directions: forgiving myself in the moment; remembering that I want to be a loving person all the time, not just when it’s circumstantially convenient; reframing self-care as loving activity, rather than submission to invisible coercive forces (now that Mom is gone).

Have some fucking fun!  Geezum.


Repression of Native Americans

5 Ways The Government Keeps Native Americans In Poverty

September 3, 2016

By Shawn Regan

Imagine if the government were responsible for looking after your best interests. All of your assets must be managed by bureaucrats on your behalf. A special bureau is even set up to oversee your affairs. Every important decision you make requires approval, and every approval comes with a mountain of regulations.

How well would this work? Just ask Native Americans.

The federal government is responsible for managing Indian affairs for the benefit of all Indians. But by all accounts the government has failed to live up to this responsibility. As a result, Native American reservations are among the poorest communities in the United States. Here’s how the government keeps Native Americans in poverty.

Indian lands are owned and managed by the federal government.

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Chief Justice John Marshall set Native Americans on the path to poverty in 1831 when he characterized the relationship between Indians and the government as “resembling that of a 


Continue reading.

What Are You, A Martian?

I’m willing to try to explain almost anything.      W

Sha____, seriously?  What are you, a Martian?  The illusion of separation is still an illusion, no matter how hard you cling to it.  We are interdependent, and there’s no way around it.

The shared perspective involves sensory perception and consciousness.  We all have emotional and kinesthetic (touch) feelings, we all see forms and images, we all hear sounds and language, we all taste and smell.  Arising from perception and consciousness, there are hunger and thirst, and other profound needs that we all have.

Sure there’s nothing wrong in thinking you can ask for whatever you need whenever you want to without any cultural guidelines for reciprocity, if you’re willing to accept the ceaseless damage to your relationships this is going to cause, and very often damage to yourself.

You want to say there’s no shared perspective?  Then why did people unknown to any of your family members call to inform us of your dramatic and incoherent struggles in _____land?  The basis of their call to us was the shared perspective of a threat to well being emerging from your behavior:  your well being, and their well being.  This threat, once discussed, was an instant shared experience, even though no one out here had ever had prior contact with those folks.  There was no extensive exploration period required to understand it.

Sha____, a lot of people in your situation have one option:  find some kind of paid work.  Unfortunately this doesn’t always succeed no matter how assiduously we try to keep working, we have seen that with P___, among many others.  This is definitely a flaw in our culture, but we still have to try in the absence of another option.  The reasons we must try are coercion through universal land and resource “ownership”, law enforcement, and homelessness and/or prison.  Yes this sucks and propagates injustice, but it’s still the way it is.  There is another category of people, dependents (children, elders and the disabled), among whom you and I number, who have another option, which is to receive some kind of support from others; in our case, disability payments.  It’s not quite proven in your case, but I’m pretty confident.

Yes, there are charity and the gifts of others, but almost none of these options come without a requirement of reciprocity, and even if they do come without that requirement, the freedom from it usually doesn’t last very long before a requirement or request begins to be made (which is the moment moochers tend to split……).

These are the rock bottom common features of life on earth, Sha____.  I mean, honestly, there’s one more option, which is to be a completely self-sustaining hermit living outside of human knowledge, but that’s not you or I.

So, are you a Martian, or a Terrestrial (i.e., human)?

And what are you going to do about it?  Seems like you’re running out of options.  It’s sure not working to keep asking/demanding money from your family.  Did Sy____ come through on their “promise” yet?  It seems to me that breaking one’s word is an option everyone has.  And if you want, you can invalidate them and say they’re wrong in some way, but there’s another interpretation, which is to understand that the promising person decided that abandoning the integrity of their word was less damaging than staying in relationship with you.  And you can pretend to not understand that until you die, if you want.  The thing that sucks about that is you usually die sooner if the people around you feel this way with any frequency.

What are you going to do?  Keep it secret if you want, but that will prevent me from being any support to you.  We are interdependent.




This evening I had the good fortune to learn something about my clown, Barclay.  For most of the last two or three years, my mentress Nettie Lu Lane has been my clown teacher and my clown tether, however tenuous, to the Earthen place where I and Barclay cohabit.  This is normal, everyone needs a clown mom, or a mom anyway.  Clowns need clown moms.  But tonight something special happened that I had been missing, which is Barclay found his own narrative, and some aspects of his character that had long remained recondite to understanding became clear.

Barclay is an alien. To say he is that is a bit misleading, because alienation, even for clowns, is an unstable state due to its endemic inertia in the search for a resolution outside of itself.  Have you ever known a baby that wouldn’t cry if left alone for more than 10 minutes?  To be two months old and to lie, inarticulate, untouched, and not eating or defecating, is to face a howling wilderness more infinite than the Pampas or the windward side of the Matterhorn.  Where O Where is the succor, the relief, which had appeared so long ago and disappeared so shortly after?  COME BACK!

Well, as any adolescent bear worth his salt knows well, the relief will eventually disappear for good, and you better remember where you and Mom found all those grubs last year, or you’re fucked.

Welllll…., that’s where Barclay and I have been.  We tried working with a cactus, Freddy, but he died at the hands of a disarmingly fiendish clown called Pistachio, and a little while later I stubbed my toe during a biographical skit, and I haven’t seen the clown stage since then.  It took six months for the nail to turn black and for a new one to grow under it so the old one could peel off.

It has been a worrisome time.  My human Mom, who could never get me to call myself anything but my nickname Wat or root for a different baseball team, died also, and things have been eventful since then, especially in that Barclay seemed to disappear over and over again, perhaps to the subterrain of postural idiosyncrasy that is the birth dimension of clowns.  Clowns walk before they can talk, generally.  If the clown is exceptional to this, prepare to be bored, frightened or confused to death.

I had intended to begin at a point of potential demise.  A friend I have known for a long time is mortally ill, and may not recover, partially due to an unacknowledged alienation; perhaps they are a clown that was aborted before it had a posture.  I’m not sure, but they gave me the gift of understanding of Barclay, and I am hoping he will come back to stay for a long time once I get his pajamas on again.

In addition to being an alien, Barclay IS an alien.  There’s nothing else he can do.  He and I have tried many different postures, narratives and positions but they all ended up corrupt and wrong unless we embraced, however reluctantly, a basic alienation and desire for surcease of it, neither of which would ever surcease.  Clowns are forever, I guess, although they may depart, and woe to the human who attempts to follow.  There are no flagstones that will form as a permanent path.  Even the best ones, completely glowing moments on the stages that are the only place where a clown may truly appear, and which can be laid over and over again, will fade into the mists of clown time if the concretization of any kind of permanent path is ever attempted.  Welcome to the quandary of the clown:  Carpe diem quam perdere.  Seize the day and lose it, little tit sucker.

Did I say Barclay can be a little nasty?

Where’s Lucy?

Well, perhaps the time has come.  I have shared this seldom, so most will not know that the political articles I’ve been posting here were merely placeholders for the time when I would be ready to write.

One of the main purported reasons I have been delaying is because so much has happened since I first decided I needed a blog, and in the decade(s) before then, that it might be impossible to unpack it all.  Just for a few highlights, I’ve been evicted at least three times, fired three, robbed, mugged, swindled — and the stolen bicycle count is over 13 now.  Time to talk, perhaps.  Meanwhile, teeth were decaying one day as I lay in my red Dodge van with a lame 7th cylinder, baking in a supermarket parking lot in July 2009.  I had cracked the rear French doors open, in hopes that a breeze from the driver window would wick away just a little of my sweat.  I heard a teenage boy exclaim as he and his family walked past me, unaware of my audience:  “Look Mom, it’s the Down By the River Van!”  I did know who Chris Farley was, but had no familiarity with his famous skit.  Nonetheless, I had a sinking feeling, the feeling…… of tooth decay.  Soon enough I would learn this feeling had metastasized to include leukemia.

Okay, chemo tomorrow, and I’ve been late to the clinic too often.