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20 January, 2016

Ceramics, Screens, and the Cunning Fennec Fox

Patient Reader!

All works herein are the sole property of Jon Proper and may not be used without expressed written permission . . . 

otherwise, Enjoy!

art by Robert Beishline, Fred Herbst, and Rick Love.  Photography by the Cunning Fennec Fox
















31 May, 2015

More Flora and the Cunning Fennec Fox

31 May 2015;

Patient Reader!

All works herein are the sole property of Jon Proper and may not be used without expressed written permission . . . 

Otherwise, enjoy!

(c) Properfessor


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(c) Properfessor

22 March, 2015

After a Great and Too-Long Delay; Spring Break; Two Essays, and the Cunning Fennec Fox

22 March 2015
1105 hrs



Patient Reader . . . Guess what . . .?

I’M BACK! 

"god is in . . . HIS holy temple . . . earthly thoughts . . . be silent now . . ."

     Yeah, that’s right Repubs . . . just when you

 thought I was gone and gone.  It’s been

 what?  3 months since y’all were graced by

 the Words of the Fox and the attendant

 humility of the author thereof . . .  You lucky

 bastards.




     So . . . how y’all been?  S’been a long time.  Me?  Not a whole lot has been going on.  Spring Break has sprung.  

aww . . . somebody's baby girls

     That’s always a nice thing, and that has allowed me to put these words to page, or electrons to monitor- whatever the case may be . . .

     I have a few things, so without further 

adieu, OR ado, I should get a-goin’ on the 

things I have to say.  Are you ready?  

Splendid!

            Personal life?  Are you fucking kidding 

me?  Fucked up as usual . . .  I need a Vesper.  

Vesper!  mon frere!  Where are you?  Call me!  

Haha . . .



            So I decided to post a couple of essays I 

have written, and they’re down below for your 

perusing pleasure.  There is ranting in one . . . I 

know you’re thinking, “No way . . .” but, ‘tis true.


            Scholastically, I think I did pretty well.  

Two of my professors felt that as many photographic projects were worthy  of submission 
to the Student Art Show coming up in June- y’all remember that one.  I had to work it last year and it was something about which I ranted?  Narrow it down enough for you?

            Anyway, I was and am flattered and in the show they will definitely go.  Fersher.

            I have to take off, but below you will find the essays about which I spoke earlier.  I have some personal stuff to reveal, but I still need to wrap my head around what I must discuss.  Meanwhile, talk quietly amongst yourselves and carry on . . . I’ll be in the vicinity all day.

            The story below in no way demonstrates a loss of belief in the Scientific Method long held dear as the truth it is by the author of CFF . . . just sayin' . . .

Contemplations

            I used to leave my body when I was a 
youngster.



            As I lay on my back in the dark, I would very slowly still my mind. Difficult at first, I relaxed my body starting at my toes and wiggle-working my way up, until my scalp tingled, then did not.

            As I thought of each part, I visualized its name and main function before I moved on to the next.  I never hovered over one part too long.

            At the top of my head was, and still is, a tiny door.  The . . . Astra . . . were the only ones beside myself that had a key.

            They, or perhaps only one of them, would crack the door open and beckon me, how I am not certain, and a starry, silvery me would pour out like licorice through an extruder at the candy factory.

            The first time I experienced Astral Me, I was not afraid.  I was exhilarated, flying without fear or pain of any kind.  Soaring without the sensation of wind, and I could feel my heart pounding with pleasure.

            I met my brother up there a few times.  He's the one who taught me how to do that.  Three thousand miles apart and still we could meet somewhere over the Rocky Mountains and fly about like the spirits we were.



            I would look down at my ankle and see the slender, silvery, gossamer thread that stretched across the vast distance and time at the other end of which I lay, surely wearing a smile on my face in the dark.

            The world I visited, this New Universe, was so much better than the world of my waking hours. The world where, on top of the terrors within it, I was encumbered by a body that was already turning on me.

            I did not dream these moments.  My brother and I would reminisce of these jaunts we took together via the letters we wrote to each other, each expounding on the visuals and feelings we both experienced.  These were not Imagine If letters; they were Remember When letters.

            As I became a man and put away childish things (as some old book instructs), I stopped projecting in this fashion.

            This is the way most lives become cluttered and jumbled, interfering with the way our energies wish to manifest, and I have been a sadder adult from this loss; an unfilled vacuum, seeking.


            The Buddha said, “There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way, and not starting.”

            I began meditating in my mid- to late- teenage years.  It was the cheapest way to leave a home life where the price extracted was far too dear.

            As I stretched and moved about in those days when my injuries from sports and life were fresh, where I and my body would have full-on arguments, exchanging barbs at one another, trying to hurt each other as if we were lovers.



            Over the years, as I tried to still the bear in my heart, the one of which my father warned me, I learned to listen to the stories my knees told me; the songs my back sang; the music within my cracked mind.  The shoulders’ whispered secrets . . .  


            I tried and still try to be the cunning fox my mother knew I could be.

            So I meditated a few times this last week, partly to better understand what it was that I was going to put to the warp and weft of this paper, and as I conversed with my body, I felt the lock turn on its rusty tumblers to the door in my crown, and I was startled back to the Me not made of silver and stars.

            What, I wondered, would I find now, 
thirty years later up in the heavens?  How much changes in the immutable yet constantly transforming IS?  How much have I changed, and would SHE recognize me, he who is no longer lithe and strong and young?

            Would The IS be forgiving of my tardiness, or saddened by my cynicism- no longer the boy full of the knowledge of pain and the burning desire to overcome it?

            Would SHE recognize my heart, no longer full of love but only with that which life leaves you as you moan and cry out on the battlefield?




            Would SHE see the promise of the Bodhisattva of Wisdom I was told I could be is just a silly fool?  That the Bodhisattva of Compassion feels only disdain at the humanity that has no humanity?  That I abandoned a society that needs me now more than ever, and that I don't care?

            So I aroused from my Awakened State and put away the Plane Key for the time being. The thought of visiting the place where I am tethered to the wheel of life only by a slender, silvery, gossamer thread is one I find too daunting and too full of hope.

            I began this journey, and I intend to finish it, whatever the cost, whatever the price of pain I fear may still be so dear.

            Just not today. Not yet. The fox is weary and needs to rest before the Hounds begin to hunt yet again.



Article 5
Juggling Journalism and Humanism



            My opinion?  Anything goes.  Sure, take the softballs you know the editor can use; you’ve got to eat.  But take the Truth that is lying in the pool of blood or is skewers on the fence post.  Take it all, for this is part of the record of our species, whether or not the photos see the light of day.  Perhaps in 5000 years, alien archaeologists can find them, nod sagely and say, “Um hmm . . . This explains much . . . “

            Fire away at the hippies jamming flowers into the muzzles of the National Guardsmen’s M-14’s; 



            Guardsmen who are fellow children themselves . . . But get close-ups of the kids they murder, a la Kent State, 1970, because that's what REALLY happened.


            Shoot rolls (or cards) of the weeping teens at Columbine 




or the weeping parents at Sandy Hook, 


but get shots of the blood and the brains and the bullet-riddled corpses- that's what all the fuss is about.






            Too graphic?  Fuck you.  You know where yor brower's back button is.  Outrageous?  Fucking right!  Murder SHOULD be an outrage.  The sight of dead and dying human beings; wasted lives and loved ones thrown away, should stir within us disgust and the loathing of atrocity.  We should find it so horrible that we vomit violently at the idea of harming another.

            Yeah, it's moving to see the police crime scene tape and the markers that are placed next to the spent shell casings. Great.  But it's quite something else when we see a torso riddled with the bullets that were once inert within those casings.

            We need to establish a record of humanity; our successes and our failures can chronicle our history, and perhaps future generations can learn from us and society can evolve.  Fuck it- it has worked so far, right?  I mean, a million years ago we were just a bunch of bipedal hominids running around and taking what we need from others to give to our own.  Aside from Republicans, look how far we've come!

            And until we learn that destroying life is wrong, we need those with strong stomachs to keep on taking pictures in spite of, or perhaps because of, our disdain for the graphic.

            And so it goes, Patient Reader.  (Linda Ellerbee, you rock.)


            I wish you all peace in your hearts, knowledge in and for your minds, and exquisitely pleasurable sensations at your groins.  Until we meet again, and very soon it shall be . . .

Always I Remain,

The Cunning Fennec Fox