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.

Oh, what a specious species are we! Given a vacuous veneer of civilization and an illusion
that, “That won’t happen to me,” we just keep on, keeping on,
collectively oblivious to the portent of ominous handwriting on the walls, in a delusion
of our leaders’ … collective … wisdom.

For that reason Arthur dreams nightly, along with a ragtag band of intergalactic misfits.
They’ve undertaken to see through … an impossible mission;
the magnificent obsession of tweeting to blog, to author, an epic poem, in the hope that it
tweets (wo)mankind … into submission.

The gist of it is that new breed leaders must step up; courageous but pragmatic leaders that
realize this nation-state fixation is taking us down. Some
day hence, it won’t be sunny; black ground and gray skies contrast at
somber horizons; nuclear skies … blot … the sun.

Notwithstanding that, unprecedented capabilities await what transcendental empowerment
offers. ‘Paradise Lost’ and ‘The Divine Comedy’
inspired this letter to all from Art and his Crew. Its call: for prescient
wisdom … and action … to forge … a collective destiny.

‘Miracles’ is intended to be more than just a howdy-doody to his brethren.
As ontology, it’s a self-help book. As sorry
apology, anecdotes from the co-authors’ lives are confessions
of gross ignorance … and … sad apologies …

… to all, especially those injured along Art’s tortuous and torturous way.
Furthermore, it purports to weave the Crew’s subjective
observations into contexts of world and cosmological history to lay
out a bigger picture than often we’ve …

… generally been able to appreciate, much less those generations that have
preceded us. The world is in a sense much smaller
and in a sense we know more than we ever have. Yet, we yet behave
in accord with the ways of forefathers …

… long gone. They and theirs, make it evident that we are the legatees
of ever more aggressive and, moreover, horrific
conduct, set over ages of competing for a stranger’s or neighbors’ free
use of his water, his kill, his saltlick …

… his camp-fire, cave, women, children, slaves, pelts, horses, livestock,
tools, land, currency, gold, oil, ideas and more.
Conditioned to behave selfishly, we act accordingly. Yet we’re shocked
as successive generations’ box-scores …

… set lower standards for truth, tolerance, and social justice, furthering
us from His Grace. There’s little doubt to some we’re near done;
a cosmic train wreck just waiting to happen. Ever better equipping
ourselves to just reach out and touch someone …

… Ma Bell would’ve been so proud of us. Would that the Crew were
only literally referencing telephones and the plethora of devices
to appear these past two decades. But drones, lasers
and, not incidentally, reliable nuclear devices …

… permit cleanly remote, bloody physical contact with perceived
antagonists, placing her ad-line of reaching out
and touching someone in a ghastly new light. Like lemmings to the sea,
headlong … we blindly follow … round about …

… our leaders of every ilk; for all leadership is but illusorily real.
Sargon, Hammurabi, Vladimir and Barack share with all
the rest of us the human frailty of reactivity to a very great deal.
Thus it … and fickle circumstance ‘oft call …

… if your fate’s to die young, eke an existence, or succeed in life.
But whether it’s the loss of many innocent lives
such as Hiroshima or at Twin Towers, or the loss of a single life,
as when the Arch-Duke was assassinated, loss of lives …

… increasingly ripple far and wide, so any single event all by itself, or
more likely, a series of events or confluence of
events shall likely trigger a conflagration unlike any ever before
imagined … much less seen …. Trumpets above …

… shall eventually signal the righting of things. But we digress; for
eschatological scenarios are many,
unknowable, un-probative and not subject to scientific inquiry before
the real McCoy … besets us. Any …

… purported intervention at that late date may be but a fanning of flames.
Consider the increasingly illusoriness
of American presidential power. It has eroded since atomic shames
cast over Japan … a pall of darkness.

Little Boy and Fat Man evolved into their vastly more powerful hydrogen kin
and a new kind of clock was invented, a Doomsday
Clock. For all its movement, the 11 p.m. hour that’s never been
likely … shall ne’er be; nor may …

… be approached, notwithstanding close proximity to a twelve o’clock hour.
Humanity’s spacecraft nears and is drawn into
a black hole of its own making. Its inhabitants sense it but sense no power
to avert … a black hole … being … sucked into.

Ergo, a magnificent obsession. Why epic poetry and not prose as the means of transmission?
It is because poetry is more lyrical than its prosaic cousin.
It better emotes, finding in motion and emotion, music to soothe the savage beast within
us all; it better evokes hindsight, foresight … and insight … in this epic … din.