This post, a poetic treatment of the dilemma posed by the title, i.e., On
Celebrity and Anonymity … Prison … Vis A Vis … Freedom,
is, for the co-authors, a uniquely fascinating one;
the irony in … freedom … from … prison.

Arthur, a wannabe co-author, adds a verse daily to the tweet-suite, blog-log that’s a joyful labor
-of-love-manuscript in the excruciating … making. See
blog logs at chachomanopapa.wordpress.com and tweet-suites @chachomanopapa on Twitter,
(its analog) … a how to … save the planet … wannabe.

How excruciating is it? Painfully, yet blissfully, so. The co-authors once drank to forget.
Now they don’t … to remember. They traded their jackets and ties for
knee pads and slip-resistant shoes, in exchange for an impossible mission … to get
a deaf, dumb and blind planet to hear … hard knocking … at the door.

Alas, NaPoWriMo is over. However, there’s an exceedingly brilliant bright side to its termination;
for there is no good reason not to go on writing poetry, so emotive.
Accordingly, Arthur and his inter-galactic critter pals may continue on their impossible mission;
a mission … so creatively … palliative.

In prayer, Art has asked God if he’s gone freaking mad? He’s asked about you too. Really,
who’s sane? Was only he, mad? Or, alternatively, are all of you, too?
Really surreal ironies, across the ages, are clues. Nazca, Casee, eerie
ancient lore … and more; all … are clues.

It’d all begun dreamily; a precursor plan, unceremoniously panned, was an event
that led to Art’s asking God for a sure Way to a movement, invent.
His spiritual intervention came nightly in Arthur’s dreams and meant
that a Crew, in dreams, easily … came … and went.

A wretch fully as wretched as Paul and as regretful as Augustine, Arthur’s dreams
implausibly brought him some critter friends to make a silk purse out of a
sow’s ear. With the help of His spiritual intervention, in nightly dreams,
they conjured there … chachomanopapa.

Who, or what, is chachomanopapa? Chachomanopapa’s a means to an eminently desirable end.
Viral, not physical, it is less a who, than
a what. Moreover, it’s many things. One is a symbol of an idea whose time is at hand,
amongst them questions like, “What’s the plan … Stan?”

Chachomanopapa’s every two syllables are the Spanish diminutives for, boy, brother
and father, fashioned into an evocatively provocative single
word. The transcendences we undergo from boys to fathers and from girls to mothers,
mirror our lives… our challenge-laden crucibles.

Chachomanopapa’s meant to both noun and verb be; to be both that place on the net
where we’re reborn, learn, earn, and transcend to views that come
into view, from atop the mountaintop from atop which Dr. King (who can forget),
dreamt of a world … more like … His Kingdom … come.

Notwithstanding implausibility, the Crew knew exactly what to do, when to timely
do it, and how best to do it. Art gaped … dumbfounded. “See …”
they said, “… what you’ve done is good; for very good, expand it artfully, into epic poetry.
Write something honoring our Almighty … to forge … (wo)man’s destiny.”

Given a preference for the order in which to become apprised of mixed news, one
often opts for the bad first in the hope that the first
news will be mooted or mitigated by the latter. So what, when all’s said and done,
shall be … our good news … and what news … our worst?

The Yala Young Leaders facebook group is convening Sunday. Uri Savir, a former Israeli peace
negotiator, and the founder of the movement, has them,
for the third straight year, in a forum focusing on reconciliation online, and an elusive peace;
for only the online young may forge a new … nonfiction.

That is, for modern (wo)man some very good news for it is of the utmost importance
that all remember: “It’s not about me … It’s not about you. It’s only
about Him, or, as the case may be … Her. No one’s free until all, in transcendence,
live in peace … as (S)He … shall … in time … have it be.

That’s a loaded title. This tweet suite turned blog log is too, a manuscript, in evolution.
The maddening human limitation of being less than able
to do more than but a single thing at any given time makes (wo)man’s noble intention
of putting all into context is … as non-sequitur … logical.

That’s the God-given limited nature of our humanity. Notwithstanding multi-tasking,
at any given moment, we are capable of but a thought at a time;
one letter at a time; one word at a time; one action at a time. That notwithstanding,
and notwithstanding appearances, we may yet … act … in time.

One letter at a time; one word at a time; one action or omission to act, at a time. It’s maddening,
alright, both clinically, and colloquially. For while one is not clinically
mad if (s)he is just mad about any one of the seemingly infinite tribulations (terrible or trivial) in
life, being mad is just … part and parcel of … his or her … humanity.

That’s a loaded title. This tweet suite turned blog log is too, a manuscript, in evolution.
The maddening human limitation of being less than able
to do more than but a single thing at any given time makes (wo)man’s noble intention
of putting all into context is … as non-sequitur … logical.

That’s the God-given limited nature of our humanity. Notwithstanding multi-tasking,
at any given moment, we are capable of but a thought at a time;
one letter at a time; one word at a time; one action at a time. That notwithstanding,
and notwithstanding appearances … we may yet, act … in time.

That’s a loaded title. This tweet suite turned blog log is too, a manuscript, in evolution.
The maddening human limitation of being less than able
to do more than but a single thing at any given time makes (wo)man’s noble intention
of putting all into context is … as non-sequitur … logical.

Surrealism, derived from the French for “beyond realism,” is defined as dreamlike
and distorted. Conceived by the French poet, Andre Breton,
it hailed the conscious transformation of values through the dreamlike
liberation of the unconscious … Dream on!

A more practically promising and demonstrably easier mechanism toward transforming
values and behavior is neuroscience. Rather than ‘unlocking’
the unconscious mind, it focuses on strength-training the conscious mind. Strength-training
of the conscious mind, (like the physical strength-training …

… of muscles) is not science fiction any more, but rather, present-day nonfiction.
The offspring of B. F. Skinner’s behavior modification
techniques of a century past, neuroscience’s promise to humanity is in the edification
of a species … specious; and that too … is no nonfiction.

Profound thought, at first individually, then collectively, may set in motion
forces far greater than those that may be mustered by
any lone individual. We have learned but not yet mastered, said incisive lesson.
Best we act forthwith, and not … by and by.

God’s intent is patently clear. Our pluralistic Scriptures expressly make of all of humanity,
a single community; all (wo)men, free to believe, or not.
Leave judging to the Creator. Ask questions. Conduct inventories. Tear down the walls surreally
immuring us. Connect with all … or not.

Absolutely leave the judging to Him. In all things, don’t substitute your puny human
judgment for His. The spirit of chachomanopapa is in its
evangelism, sans proselytism. All hear what everybody’s got to say. Every man
free, (within the law), to do … as (s)he deems fit.

Wisdom’s prism’s revelatory. God’s Scriptures, the stories of peoples and prophets i.e., our history
and man’s sum knowledge, through his books, may conjunctively
relegate red-herring controversies to their place i.e., academic debate. Surreally,
heavens, flora and fauna hint that we can do this … easily.

Art stepped on love’s toe. Love punched Art squarely in his face, a bleeding heart, a-breaking.
Anatomically perhaps, it makes but little sense, but the common sense
that Arthur was a-lacking then during an awful alcoholic affliction is now inspiring and serving
to instill in Arthur … perhaps, belatedly … an uncommon sense.

Chachomanopapa, and the power of ones that it touts, the letters and numbers
that by His Grace, bless mankind; including apiece
too, such human wisdom as may be deemed helpful, are the Way to proceed to prosper;
for, on Earth … only prosperity … promises peace.

In dreams, the Council conjured @chachomanopapa to communicate with everyone,
that they’ve left Margaritaville, to Jimmy and its fate;
and that their unlikely return from, notably, forty years under deserts’ searing suns,
evidence that, faith and prayer, sometimes do … forge fate.

Finite resources, whether or not, accompanied by catastrophic change,
and innate drives to compete, considered jointly,
along with other surrealistic perceptions, limit humanity’s range,
to fights at the drop of a hat, not ably …

… fixing, what needs fixing. To transcendentally best what ails you, emulation
of the communal conduct of lower forms, plainly
alluded to in The Plan make conceivable that, given computer connections,
augered are … algorithms … to higher planes.

An enhanced capability to communicate with one another is the alchemical key,
to achieving a semblance of peace, prosperity,
and a benevolence borne of love. The net may transform confining ubiety,
to a semblance of … God-like … ubiquity.

Thrown away: Baby shoes, never worn. Thrown away, moreover, by Arthur the author,
a home in the country, the wife he shared it with, and,
indeed, an entire God-given life. Such is the cost of being lost, of being tossed asunder
without … any purpose; without … any plan.