Sunday, January 29, 2023

Pockadoodle: 2023 Badminton at the Pine Straw dome.

Juan was "The Middenorf Badminton King".  He would enter on an El Camino, play a few rounds to appease the fans, then get craned out like an emperor, he would even scale the boom of the thing, with some rope looped around his arm, and wave like Errol Flynn.

It was Hunter S Thompson that observed of the lights of Las Vegas, "this would be ever Saturday night, if the Nazis had won the war."

This was not, of course, every Saturday night, at the Pine Straw Dome, but a rarified, annual event, something marked like rings in the circumference of a tree.  Pockadoodle.  "It's been a good year."

Juan's son was a porn star in Tijuana, and much of the year, Juan was scarce, too, working away at whatever it was that Juan and his handlers hid from the general populace: things that made money, dubiously or not, no one could rightly say.

It was a brilliant stroke of non-marketing, kind of a Velvet Fog, the way subversives talked in Free Mason code using popular sources, and no one ever caught on; they had even programmed the chat bot to talk the "dialeck", so it was not polyglotis or something, not a "dialack", but an open conversion that at once seemed an empty musing, until the Toyota TuRD Tundra showed up with the yellow flags, the foot and the snake.

Then sh*t would get solid, and no former Obama Czar had the unction to even imagine his own righteous indignation and moral relativities, equivocations, or simple knocks on the wall across the way, as if they were scurilous children at play.

They sold hot dogs, sausage dogs, grilled onions plenty, and you could watch the little slivers sweat and then brown, like fish jumping at the empty glare of the sun.  Juan was hitting at it a long, and the line at the bathroom got longer: something about food storage temperatures, something DHEC would have just loved to hate, but it was all empty calories of enjoyment, and the true emptiness of those calories was that we quickly ejected all of that carrion that came from the pull-behind grill.

Badminton, of course, near Blizzard Branch, was only the upscale cousin of Bottle Toss.  Everyone knew this, accepted it, and gave the game a little space for which to abide its time in comfort and joy.

Lionel Rothschild was preparing an excavator it was told, to upstage the boom crane, the modular home crap Juan's publicity department had trucked-in with the promoters stupid child-like glee thinking of the mountains of receipts and the end-all of reality and compunction itself, the vaunted Gate take.

They were all Ric Flairs, one would reckon, and we were all the hapless onlookers at time and circumstance run unfurled at large across the thoroughfare.



 

Thursday, January 26, 2023

Clyde Devlin 1b.

Walking upon Robert Macnamara Square, every one of those Little Miracles assailed, hundreds upon hundreds of souls, teeming, piling over one another like hungry kittens, and those Little Miracles were become somewhat insistent: low thunder in the distance that shook him such that he felt it in the bottom of his stomach.

Greer was somewhere in the buildings beyond, and Clyde was hoping to touch base with him one more time, that with an insistence of its own, them having kind of what the magazines called a "Bromance", something of spermless anal sex, and kissing without holding hands, or watching the news at 11 at night without bothering to cover the nakedness--and yet they barely tolerated one another, a kind of see-saw motion of personalities shoving against one another in a kind of drunken rhythm, and a comraderie that bespoke something of loneliness rather affection.

MacNamara Square had been initiated sometime in the 1980s, sometime when they say things were kind of civil, more civil, it was said, but there were cowboys in charge, and agency people patrolling around, and all sorts--big contracts and important contacts and deals that congealed, solidifying at once, off-the-books, without the awareness of the Nobel Committee.  Nixon had spent much of the decade in China before his health went down; Carter, likewise, failures, maybe, jumping on the grenade of coming hopes, flinging themselves into the electric blue of the bug zapper once more, as to the breach, so it was said.

It had became a safe world, once upon a time, for a kind of ambiguity that erred toward the side of homosexuality.

Not that either was, or particularly wasn't, for that matter, but that it was just not a box that had a check mark on their paperwork, the same way they were not of Hispanic origin, nor Protected Veterans, nor declaring a Disability.

If they were, as Clyde speculated, Little Miracles, he was in a deluge of them, a brilliant day-lit cave of them, in a claustrophobe terror of being overwhelmed by the light of so many hundreds, and to make that even worse, more terrible, they kept on coming and going, even as he was moving along, so many of them, such that in a given span of seconds, no two could be mistaken for another, such that the whole thing was an existential confusion that smelled of pine trees, flowers, all the stuff of commercial soaps, sweet fruit, and herbs, those assholes and armpits generating a kind of ocean of odor about the whole place, finding no purchase in the concrete ground, or the black top, assholes and armpits innumerate, a Clyde's hair, his dark scalp, making a kind of marker point from an overhead view, such that he marked himself out without even knowing it, singled-out himself.


Yes, Virginia Woolf, there is a Claude Raines.

"Such a rapture--for by what other name could one call it?--made Lily Briscoe forget entirely what she ahd been about to say.  It was nothing of importance; something about Mrs Ramsay.  It paled beside this "rapture", this silent stare, for which she felt intense gratitude; for nothing so solaced her, eased her of the perplexity of life, and miraculously raised it burdens, as this sublime power, this heavenly gift, and one would not disturb it, while it lasted, than break up the shaft of sunlight, lying level across the floor."

-Virginia Woolf

"What is the meaning of life?  That was all--a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years.  The great revelation had never come.  The great revelation perhaps never did come.  Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.  This, that, and the other; herself and Charles Tansley and the breaking wave; Mrs Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs Ramsay saying, 'life stand still here'; Mrs Ramsay making of the moment something permanent(as in another sphere Lily herself tried to make of the moment something permanent)--this was of the nature of a revelation.  In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing(she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability.  Life stand still here, Mrs Ramsay said.  "Mrs Ramsay! Mrs Ramsay!" she repeated.  She owed it all to her."

-Virginia Woolf

Dick Virginia's fake novel To The Blighthouse.

Mr Ramsay circled the house muttering of failures, things stagnating and dismal pools of the water under the eaves, things begging, positively dying by the minute, waiting to be taken unto the air.  Along came Verne Gagne and Mr Ramsay tossed his own ball onto the ground, like a challenger, Equatorial Guinea or Ancient Nippon, these things spoke to them, stupids they were.

But what was it?  Chris's Better Angels, right?  Yes, there was always that at the offing, a sacrificing, pure Camelot, Dulce De Leche poured into our unwitting ears, any excuse, the lesser of two weevils, always an excuse, a prevarication, some precept that weighed more and need more of a place on the trailer; "hell with the couch" they said, and tossed it aside.  They were going for an easy chair, somewhere in the grand scheme.

Kierkegaard the Broken Sequel completed his circle of the house, coming all the way back around, having seen the whole thing, proved his health, and showed something of his own permanence and immovable quality, that preposterousness illustrated by his taking the full survey of the home, proper, the old home place.

Mrs Henderson sat and watched, haunched, and watched in kind of an empty joy that surpassed ball-flinging, and went to some undiscovered province beyond Chris's Better Angels.  She was a widower, and sort of a silent friend to all, bound to them in silence, and standing at their elbows, however that worked, and she made it work just the same; she may as well have been a Glade plug-in or a singing bass without batteries, but her silent friendship gave off in that quietude a kind of low warmth that set in after a time, her just taking to the corner and sitting there.  One didn't know if she were buying drugs, meeting a man, hustling pictures of her bare thighs or something, but she hovered just the same, like an early brisk fog, and her low magnitude of electricity and warmth tingled.

Paypal giving i.d.: kaneroseup@gmail.com

Movie: Clint Nosterham's Flags of Our Feathers, "Towers to Tunnels" Edition.

 

In the little "c" catholic sense, unholy.  Positively unholy: an unbroken surface of things flopping and flipping around, a kind of life spirit flicker that mimicked the energetic flashing of television screen on a back wall.

Said the Tunnel, directed to the Tower, in the indolence of late Summer, "for the flags of our fathers, we commend ourselves to posterity."

Virgil Effstein, and others, Johnathan Silverman, Andrew Kevinsly, and introducing Reynolds George as Corporal Oreilly.




Wednesday, January 25, 2023

The Little Miracles part of The Brown-Eyed Medusa, an old unfinished story of minesown.

     “They’re all Little Miracles” said Clyde Devlin, staring at the waitress’s ass as she worked the plates on one of the tables across the room—the elastic looked uncertain, and this bemused Clyde.  “Each one, markedly dignified, with a right to exist and choose freedom. What was it Doctor Manhattan said?”
    “God bless these Southern States?” said Effie, in a fog of induction, a kind of stew of words with the meat of the thing strangely absent; one could go hopelessly mad in conversation with Clyde Devlin.
    “Thermodynamic Miracles” said Clyde, turning back, a kind of resumption in his face and clarity in his eyes.  Effie shuddered, but looked at him, not quite at all able to match his sudden intensity.  “In all the universe, we put to questioning probability, but we are each, a billion-and-one shot, each so unlikely as to be perceived by each other, that we are, each and every one, miraculous.”
    “Ketchup for your hashbrowns?” said the thinner waitress, taller, meandering over and holding the bottle awkwardly, ready to set it down on the table.
    “For my eggs” said Clyde.  The waitress winced.
    “Oh shit, not this again” said Effie.  She was an old hand at these gatherings with Clyde at the little diner, and she had seen this, suffered through it before, but that did not mean she would sit today, by any means.  The first time was novelty enough to last a lifetime of lost musings, and today was not specifically a day for those lost musings, so she shunned it as per her want.
    The bottle made a click against the plasticized covering of the table and the waitress ambled away again, kind of a walking broomstick.  Effie marked that Clyde gave her no amount of scrutiny, and one could argue, matching ketchup with eggs may have even been an attempt to scare the lady away from his strange habitations.
    It was the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, away from the eyes of Clyde and Effie, as if the stick waitress had a bad foot, her torso pulsed this way and that as she walked, as if one hip were giving way when she put weight on it, a kind of swing left, swing right, swing left, and what would have been easy entertainment for Clyde Devlin, went hopelessly ignored, as if maybe there were no sore feet or aching knees, worn hips, allowed in the daydreams of the man Devlin, only a kind of uncertain perfection, as of underwear elastic being made visible outside a suit of clothes, seen by any that wanted to see.
    “You get a lot of your philosophy from comic books” said Effie, putting down her fork, and it kind of slid on the glass plate.

-From an unrealized novel called "The Brown-Eyed Medusa".

wakey-wakey ray: the I-7 killer.

The blessings had flowered and went into the wind so long ago, much earlier in the season, and possibilities hanged from the branches, beginning to rot in the summer swelter.

Meghan Meade had perched beside the highway, neatly on public property, still, bestriding the line between truth and evidentiary proofs of the human state, torrents of vomit and other bodily fluids.

She told the nation what was known that day, the popular line between the department press officer and Fox, what was between a packaging foreman, hitch hikers, the alligator sent away, set neatly aside, stomach cut open to hunt for evidence, scat parsed like scripture fragments.

In the heat of that summer swelter he had disappeared nine into the back of his Nissan Juke.

(Paypal link kaneroseup@gmail.com)

Pockadoodle: 2023 Badminton at the Pine Straw dome.

Juan was "The Middenorf Badminton King".  He would enter on an El Camino, play a few rounds to appease the fans, then get craned o...