[ExI] openness on the internet, was RE: Destructive uploading.

[kellycoinguy at gmail.com]

Thanks Jeff your life's history is inspiring! 

Yours most sincerely,
-Kelly (fellow traveller in the turnip truck of yore)


-- Sent from my Palm Pre
On Sep 10, 2011 8:17 PM, Jeff Davis <jrd1415 at gmail.com> wrote: 

On Wed, Sep 7, 2011 at 12:11 AM, G. Livick <glivick at sbcglobal.net> wrote:

<snip>



> Boy, what rock did you grow up under?



In my tykeness, my parents chanced to drive of an afternoon along one

of the many gently arching skyways that skirt the edge of the box.  As

the road curved gently to the left, a turnip truck directly in front

of my parents, filled with young Republicans, swerved uncontrollably

to the right.  Striking the guardrail, it resumed a reality-based

trajectory, but the shock of impact and the sudden unnatural movement

to the left, triggered a spasm of ideological purity in one of the

occupants, who threw himself out of the truck, bouncing and

cartwheeling along the roadway until he disappeared under the front

bumper of Mom and Dad's psychedelically-painted vw bus, affectionately

dubbed the "Karmic Comet".



Deeply engrossed in a discussion of the iconography of Rankian

Philosophy and its parallels in the works of Eric Hoffer, the folks

hardly noticed the momentary turbulence as Rocky the Republican

Raccoon, rolling beneath the bouncing Comet embossed his body plan in

the warm asphalt.  Only later, did the dots connect, when a Reagan for

President "68 bumper sticker was discovered affixed to the Comet's

undercarriage.



["Sad.  Sad and tragic", you might say, but fear not.  Rocky suffered

only minor scrapes and bruises, protected by an elephant's hide and a

cranial vault of near solid bone more robust than those of Icelandic

poet kings of yore.  In fact, the experience set him on course for his

successful career as human speed bump in a nearby gated community, and

later as a Fox News traffic reporter.   In retirement, he retreated

from public life, plagued, as he described in his memoirs, "Turnip

Spelled Backwards is Patriot ", by an unshakable fear of Vegans.]



I was not so lucky.  When the Birkenstock Baby Trailer behind the

Comet -- my assigned transport vehicle -- met the future professional

speed bump, yours truly, my perambulator, and the bedclothes made

entirely of organic, free-range, 300-count, homespun hemp fabric, went

airborne.



Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I topped the windswept edge of

the box with easy grace, and sailed with dizzying uncertainty through

the Mists of Maya into a future of authenticity and boundless

optimism.  Then, as the wheels of my baby carriage struck the earth

with a jolt, and the whole she-bang plunged ballistically down the

rocky slope all Odessa steps, my life of mere months flashed before my

eyes.  Several billion years of ontogeny in the warm, weightless dark.

 A tightening embrace, the light at the end of the vaginal tunnel,

uncalled-for extrusion, bright lights, loud noises, and breasts, ...

gigantic breasts.



Then another rude impact.  The front wheels of my carriage crashed to

a stop against a rock too large to be impressed by my momentous

self-absorption. Once again, on wings of hemp, I found myself

airborne.  Luck, my life's protector, was again at my side, as I

landed, the blow softened by a loaded diaper, and skidded (believe me,

you don't want a detailed explanation) gradually, but finally, to a

rest in the shadow of a very large rock.



There, beneath that rock, I was taken in by the locals, two moles, had

as friends a squirrel, and a moose, and in their fellowship, far

outside the box, grew to robust -- howsobeit feral -- adulthood.

Across all those years, in the evenings, before sleep would overtake

me, I would gaze intently into the distance at the pale blue light

flickering on the canopy of clouds above the box, and listen for

distant, attendant murmurings.  But I was too far outside the box to

make any sense of it.  To this day it remains a mystery.



Sadly, regarding your original question, the distance of years has

erased from my memory any particular name or number associated as an

identifier, with my sweet sweet rock of home.  Of course, I remember

with deep affection my adoptive family: the two moles -- Russian moles

actually -- were Comrade Boris and Natasha, my squirrel friend was

Rocky, and my moose buddy Bullwinkle.



If that's of any help.



Best, Jeff Davis



 "We don't see things as they are,

       we see them as we are."

                  Anais Nin

_______________________________________________

extropy-chat mailing list

extropy-chat at lists.extropy.org

http://lists.extropy.org/mailman/listinfo.cgi/extropy-chat


-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.extropy.org/pipermail/extropy-chat/attachments/20110911/81cef461/attachment.html>