Guard dog of dream dispensation, a cerberus for the cerebral.

There would have been time for such a word hereafter, and so difficult to get back under control, fair pink lips of the despot, tyrant of dream dispensation.

A poor, pitiful public figure begging pathos, aching for pathos, such as it is, but a little space of kilobytes in which to dispatch time and errant notion, that of the anterior of the bull's eye, naught for the mark, but a mark nonetheless, like an error mark, a carat of some impune, that the blogger was not the paragon, no, not that, but perhaps more Mr Belvedere than Sherman Howard, more Bufort Justice than Bufort Pusser.

Of a truth, but a few short hairs across the middle of the hand, and a word on a quiet Sunday night, while Yuki washes her hair, and I wait to paint her toenails.  The life of a blogger: pictures of his fish, and such, his supper put digital for the world to inspect and hopefully approve of.

To an end to such, I suppose, there are times and places, and a stray report of Ace having put on age, which I scarcely believe, but then I intone, that when a man, I put away childish things, and I cleave to my wifi.

Why, its all gitterish and dimwittery, until they beg for a jest, then we bring up our garters and preach to them in earnest.

Not so easily brought off, or maybe so, but easily begged-off, the coming of age, and the decline and degradation and evaporation of responsibilities, witticism, and the seriousness, the marked gravity, of adulthood.


As I see, The Passion is aired so much in anticipation of Easter, and the little space in which they inhabit within the attention of the body public.  A blood soaked love letter to the malaise eternal, and that without a jot of the Garden, Bereshit, and all, "Beginnings", the coming and going of the seasons, little causes to celebrate, only as good as we honor them, as for some, the Yuletide is just another day, and fingers in dam walls and such, the constant strain and pressure of the frisson existensiale.

A send-up it was, right proper, and dearly bought, a labor of love in as much as anything.

Then the venture capitalist, "visionaries", "seeing an opportunity", because it just happened, and they want to do the same; if fortune favored the brave, doth not originality come at a premium?

Gethsemane was a good yarn, and as was said, a Garden in and of itself, and today, a desert wasteland?  What happened, fair science?  John and Peter had difficulties staying awake, while blood poured from the Lord's eyes, and "nevertheless, as you would."


Stoic determinism: The Mouse, the Butter Churn, and the Cream. Or Marcus Aurelius consuming with fire.

Marcus Aurelius:

"That which rules within, when it is according to nature, is so affected with respect to the events which happen, that it always easily adapts itself to that which is and is presented to it.

For it requires no definite material, but it moves towards its purpose, under certain conditions however; and it makes a material for itself out of that which opposes it, as fire lays hold of what falls into it, by which a small light would have been extinguished: but when the fire is strong, it soon appropriates to itself the matter which is heaped on it, and consumes it, and rises high by means of this very material."

Tossed into the churn?  Churn it into cream: that is, to use the present as a bridge towards a more propitious future, something with practical examples beyond the exhortation to make the most of the day.

For instance.

1998.  Sitting at home.  USA Network on television, and after Wings came Lonesome Dove, which I never especially cared for in its first-run on regular air, but I came to almost take a study of it, a survey, building in my mind a kind of database, knowing the musical cues and the emotional points, the reasons behind positioning a character in such-and-such position of power or influence, based on fan response and behind the scenes contract negotiation.  

Literally, to watch a television show, while, in the mind, reverse-engineering the creation process, and thus learning, to some extent, how to make a television show.

Such can be done with popular music and other consumable media.

As the Good Emperor continues:

"Let no act be done without a purpose, nor otherwise than according to the perfect principles of art."

Wisdom screwed to the sticking place.

Of being unperturbed, we can be unperturbated and perhaps, as it were, bored, wanting dissipation.

Tis only human.

Of being beniggled and under shackle, sometimes that too seems like a penance, if not for forgotten wrongs, then for all the wrongs I will set my watch and warrant to accomplishing, to put into my little notebook.

Better to worry of lack than an abundance that steals one's piece of mind.  Imagine the drug cocktails of an Elon Musk, or the annoying emails set to a J Berkley Hampshire.


The Scamp that Absconded with your Mother's Underwear.

All too well known, perhaps, "pictures of himself on his laptop", or "texting Mark Meadows", things held, le avergnon reprehense'.  Prehensile dreams of pointed people.

I saw a vision of Harold's ancestors, while I was looking in the purple haze from my own tailpipe.

"They're all up there, sir."

I'm gonna hold my hand out, and then tweet Joe to get on his knees, at my hand, and choke himself.  I'll make sup on Nicole's bitter tears, odes and homages to the 1 in 26 and 1.

Perhaps it said, of hours in the day, entirely to much to fill up with things interesting, or to lose the narrative.

All in all, dead and dying, be it for one said or the other, one party mailing list or another, zero fucks to give, and already a "tide of 2 percent".

Call it a tide.


There was a celebrity sex tape, and some tard asked a court, put it to a judge, "is it news worthy?"  Just like private text messages of "public figures", "is it news worthy?"

Could it be?

Does it pass Twitter's morality filter?

My mother bought used, "gently pre-owned" underwear for herself.

Get me out of this hell, with their hot dogs and "pre-owned" underwear.

Just get me the fuck out of here.


This shit of bull, "gravy toss", big D and little D democracy, I think it was trampled, and by the feet of the people claiming it happened.

Vote third party.

Don't subscribe to Disney Plus Drinkrum Velocet.

Never click on a Facebook ad.

Plus.  If they put another box of bullshit on my porch, I'm throwing it in the yard like the raggedy garbage it is.

*I'm taking their bullshit OUT of my truck.

*This is the last time I clean the porch, no matter how much throwaway stuff they buy.

*Harris has cheekbones like one of the old cigar store carvings.

*Somebody say to Herman Tilke that he designed COTA for Nascar and see how he responds. I know what you're thinking, "but it doesn't have a dogleg, its not a tri-oval."

But uh.

Your momma.

Thank you, enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Probabilistic Constancies. "A superset of the 54 percenters."


Perhaps, a moment of "existential inertia", the "54 percenters", the latest, but not the last, the current, but not the only.

"Probabilities of Continuation"

"The Crazy 8100".

The Ingenious bit, the geometric propensity of novel happenings with constancy, many of the set digits, bigger than the entire set to begin with, irrational numbers, and such, Probabilistic Constancies.

final frost?

some wild blooms prior to what is forecasted to be the final frost of the season, and that not a socalled hard frost.  Wpde ed says our average last frost falls march 27 of the year, while the farmers almanac predicts a last frost on msrch 28.

The white dogwood blooms may find protection in the wild under the forest canopy.  I have a specimen that is earlier in the blooming process at the time of these photos, and mine, damaged from last years bi polar weather, essentially deadened in the top of its on foliage.

Martin Heidigger non-essay, assay.

It was Martin Heidigger, that, Dasein, Miles Bennett Dyson perhaps, more of a fungus, a sideshow bout of tetnus than such a graven bastard as to write a text philosophic.  "Being in the world" then, of such, graven bastards, all, such that we make our way, and we pock-mark conscience meats of our others, the body religious, ivory concourse and ebon-pillared thrush.


"My Difficulties", perhaps, then to have a ring of such a stinking visage, a text of luxurious dissipations along the Compagna, our within and then without, the Companion Life Insurance and Disabilities Perpetuity HSA.  A familiarity, a kind of unpleasant seafoam spray about the face and throat, teaches the issue.  To say perhaps, of a grandfatherly pretext, "life is hard; then you die."

Perhaps some learn better by example, I wot.

They lined up their political enemies, against a wall, Mexicans as want of power, as it were, rebellions and roilings, and such, and peasant farmers turned folk heroes, to line up so many French or Spaniards, to take unto even the terrorist Irish among the lot.  Such contraries caught bullets about the person, in fatality, and Heidigger's "stereo instructions" of fatalism, this "Dasein", being in the world, of the world, about the world, over, under and through the world.

There was a changalang bell, a two-minute warning, and already, the chairs were empty and the procession had taken up one last number.  Some ambled along the ivory thoroughfare, and some hid about in their cloaks.  There was even a honeypot of precious metals, treasures awaiting, as if the stratagem and agenda for the day lay somewhere along the line of "fortune favors the brave".


Hedgerow: A Drive With A Ghost.

Tonight's Episode Sponsored by Vaporware Sim Earth Tournament.  Now available in Abandonware on the Google Play store.  Impress your friends, take on everyone and everything.  Sim Earth.  And now tonight's presentation: 

1987 Mercury Topaz, some half-ass attempt at Garnet, but you could tell: it was amateur hour.  The thing was more back row, back lot, than glitter and gleam, the kind of piece of junk that gets high ratings on "initial quality", but the turd soon loses the gleam, ya know?

Girl in the back seat with a baby, a blonde woman with a dark haired little urchin, and a granny driving, some old flea market lady, momma or grandma, one didn't know cause the livin was so difficult on them; she had been long ago baked crispy in the tobacco fields.

They stopped for him, the hitch-hiker, them like 75 feet ahead, and him breaking into a trot, just happy someone was stupid enough to pick him up.

Clyde got in the car and said jubilantly, "hey!"

The radio was going through busted stuff, the kind of felt paper ripped-up around the stereo speaker magnets in the dash and doorpanels.  "in the shuffling madness...."

There was kind of a sweet smell in the car, like a trash can on a summer's day, and he almost expected bees or yellow jackets to be swarming, stuff like old chocolate milk cartons, that sweet kind of stink.

"Hey there big boy. Ya going far?" said the old woman, and he could see pallid grey mare teeth, bigger than you'd expect, like she had never took a nipple or a sip-cup.

"Hoping for a bus top to make the nearest national air port" said clyde, pawing at the upholstery on the upper part of the door, the door panel.

Cardboard bullsh*t, that.

"Well, we're getting off the main road in a piece.  We live down a dirt trail."

"Guess I'll get out there." 

"Say hello to my grand girl; that's her back there."

An 150 sped by, around on double yellow lines.  

Speeding to go set a spell somewhere, as it were, to hurry up and then sit for hours, hurry up and sit, hurry up and sit, as it would always be, to hurry up and be on his own time, a white quad cab, squib of plastic fishing pole peeping over the edge of the bed.

The old dried-up little thing pulled a piece of deep-fried chicken out of a carton on the console between the two front seats.  On the radio: "He opens a Gideon Bible.  Turns to page one. Old Charley stole the handle, and the train that watched her go, you know it won't slow down."

Clyde rubbed his stomach, as if he were some kind of faux Buddha of the western world, of a sudden.  "I'll suck on your gamey toes for a bite of those chicken tenders."

The old woman cackled like a dream about witchery and devilment.  "hee hee hee!"

"Lord!" said the young lady in the back holding the baby.  "Iffen he aint hankering for a mouthful...."

"Don't you know it" said the old woman.  She run her old lizard tongue across old red lips.  "Four dollars and you can have the taters.  I done finished all the tenders and the cinnamon sweet bread hush puppies."


They pushed the key combination, something ALT CNTRL Page Up or something, and there was Clyde again, his gray shirt, on the Google ERF console, walking.

---Back in the car, Clyde now gone----

"You know who that wheret?" said the Old Woman.

"Sure don't" said the younger lady, adjusting a tee shirt strap on her shoulder, while still holding the baby.

"Coulda been Dale Earnhardt with his mustache shaved off, like incognito, or the ghost of Hank Williams."

"Or Charles Manson."

"Hee hee hee" cackled the old woman, contorting, and slapping the ugly burgundy steering wheel.


Hedgerow: Prologus and Interludion.

Tonight's episode sponsored by dyspepsia.  "All your worry.  All your car upholstery.  Dyspepsia.  When it's time to worry, get it over with liquid or tablet-form Dyspepsia.  1 in 26 test subjects experience enlarging ears and discoloration of toenails."

"Wut laght through yonduh winder break" said Clyde.

"Thou art blessed, parched though yet, unattendtant scalp: Juliet is the sun."

Clyde walked over to the railing; it was the second floor balcony, not far from prattling baboons, the machinations of learned men, and the madding crowd.

There was the burly man, in a fine linen suit.  It was becoming of one accustomed to putting off his wetwork on others, but then, there were specialists, and he could afford such.

The burly man crunched a chestnuts in his jaws, just like he was a big squirrel.

A crash from the rooms beneath.

"Supposing your drummer and keyboardist are going through my things, down there", said Clyde.

"No, Mister Devlin" said the Burly Man.  "I expect you to die.  We won't steal your Fleetwood Mac and Jethro Tull albums."

A trail of smoke.

"I suppose in the interim, you'll want to brag and prolixiate on your peculiar strategem.  Namely bumping me off" said Clyde.

Clearly the rooms below had been caught ablaze by the henchman.  Smoke was positively pouring out now, and filling the upper room.

"Everything has a beginning, and as such, Mister Devlin, an ending as well."

A flying saucer zipped by across in the sky.  If Clyde hadn't been musing with the baddie, watching the smoke rise enigmatically in the sky, he wouldnt'a seen the darn contraption.


"Magus system tripped one, a home sentinel emergency dispatch on C."

It was dark with some odd electronic, small, lights, that kind of moonglowed around the room without helping a jot to see around.

Some people didn't need to walk around in the control booth, maybe, and maybe, too, it kept them focused on the business at hand.


The baked tile slipped beneath Clyde's feet, literally crumbling like the decaying remnant of half-remembered bad dreams.

And he went tumble-turding down into the rooms below, the so-vaunted open floor pan, a half hazard space for the bold and unassuming, to paint in one corner, and slice vegetables in another.

They were coughing, hazarding for breath, the minions, "the band" as was said earlier, but not Mick Fleetwood and John McVie band, some other kind of assemblage of murderers and thugs.

Professionals, all.

There was a midget with a razor blade hat, throwing dinner plates at Clyde.

Clyde pinioned him with a fireplace poker, and the tiny squirt went still, stone dead.

He jumped through the picture window in the front, and landing, in a sea of glass beads, into a tumble-turding little roll, that took him across three feet of lawn, a sidewalk, and into the duplex parking lot amongst the cars.

The Burly Man was still looking into the complex, with some kind of thermal vision goggles, or something, maybe even virtual reality, getting in a little Mario kart or something before it was all in all.

Clyde made his way between the cars, turning his back on the cadre of hitmen, and going into cool open air, opposite the complex, and the complex itself opposite the dunes, the shore.


"Particulars on that beard, please."


On the screen: Google Erf.

One of the operators pushed a button and the tiny trotting figure crossing the resident parking disappeared instantly.



Stoicism: sparing your what-what.

There he was, this young boy, stranger to my eyes, singing my life with his words....

Little butthole Gremlin.

I had said long ago that there was a menu, among each of us, of preferences, just like in an app, and those particulars, things we care for, control us.  That said, knowing is half the battle, and if you're cognizant it takes some of the unreality and bite out of it, leaving one free to get on the business of unfettered living.

The things you care for control you.  "if it is of the animal nature, shun it, or hasten to find a justification".

Indeterminents and points along the plane of infinitude, things, people, time and places.  Why, one can sit, disaffected, in the control of room of the mind and make choices, sometimes informed, and sometimes off the cuff, of how, who and what to spare his what-what to.

What moves you?  What brings a jiggering to the discourse, what beguiles, and what niggles at the otherwise staid heartbeat?

We are at once, finite, and only sacks of flesh, in a finite universe, but that universe, and our ontology gropes so much the more towards the farthest reaches, and beyond.

strumming my pane with his finger....

All that's left is the memories, wrestler Scott Hall.

I remember "the Bad Guy".  I remember "the Outsiders".  I remember "the Band".

In his infinitude, he was, a precursor perhaps of the "Ruthless Aggression" era, but some weird homage to Pacino and De Palma, Cubano mystique and toothpick slingin'.

It was the attitude.  To take no stink and have a drink, which to say, is unfair to Scott, but in the interest of fairness, we take into our loading dock all of his circumference.  But saying in that, there was a personal demon, a beast, and he whipped its ass like so many heroes, so many worthwhile people.

Pity then, perhaps his greatest act was to escape the pressure cooker of the harsh light of stardom and get back to "work on oneself".

Pi Day, I sure wot it is, and a forkful for the piano player.

I had a moment, maybe.  Or maybe not.

Maybe I had a moment not of fortitude or certainty, but of maybe complacence at the indifference of the world, thinking of raging fires and super-heated spitoons.

A moment.

Unto myself.

"It is well with thee, my soul."

What I know not, betwixt and between, but perhaps, a kind of fleck of consciousness, a blip, and I was thinking, not to external queries, "who made thee? WHO MADE THEE?!"  Pointing and swearing.

Today is Pi day.

People in my corner, not knowing, and myself, just discovering Phi, coming in from the cold, a sojourner and a singer of songs, avering the thing of something common to us all.

I had a forkful or two of peach pie.  The dough was underdone, but that too is a style, also under-seasoned, no cinnamon or brown sugar, and I was like, okay, but then there is natural sweetness from the peach itself, of which I have eaten, and the peach gore.

"Did he smile, to gaze upon, his work, to see?"



A moment, teetering precariously close, standing askew, about to faceplant into coherence.

forthright mc: The universe wills impossibilities.


They had, to an extent, fudged their underclothing over me having an NFT of a very prolonged torture and kill.

"Now you're cooking with evil gas."

Getting good is it, Cheever?

Let me tell you.

A friend bumped me, and thus, I lost a friend.  I gained more than a dozen friends in the bargain, as if, maybe, that first friend were toxic.  He turned his girlfriend lesbian.  On the story goes: drug addict, Walmart employee.  Addled with legal troubles, and an untimely end.

But from those days, perhaps the most absolute boss thing I did, after eating a two dollar chicken on the banks of Lake Juniper, I went to a used books store.  I had cut school and went inside a used book store.

The little dividend, 15 yr old titties, you know?  And the law wasn't so Muslim then, either.  They started dyeing their hair, you know, and all this other, people spray painting slurs on the building, and it was festive, maybe stupid, but festive.

The suspect was from Bennettsville.

I could just put her tittie-balls in my hand, like it was a little new born bird, and breath on them, to comfort, and listen.  "peep".  "peep."

We say that, you never say anything is particularly impossible, and the universe is in constant change, and seems, in that perspective of finitude and structure, discipline, the universe wills impossibilities.

Or shall we intone, "improbabilities" and "un-likely-hoods"?

I can learn great truths, in the midst.

An NFT of a dastardly murder.

intl "gals' day"

So March 8 is International Women's Day, and National Peanut Cluster Day.

As the poet said, "you could get with this, or you could get with that."

Choose wisely.

Both are nutty.

One is a bit sweet.

The other toot-sweet is often bitter.  As Solomon remarked, finding 100 good people, probably not one would be a woman.  Yet he had an entire regimen of wives.  Did he keep looking for his own Bathsheba?

Or was it something else?

Soft misogyny?

One is delicious.

The other has peanuts.

Some background on the women's day.  It dates back over 100 years, with a movement recognized internationally, in some corners of the world.  In recent years, its taken new significance, with pay inequality in the US, and the push for women's rights in other corners of the world.  Afghanistan: the lamented former-school girls, denied an education.  Saudi Arabia: facing a death penalty for equality?

And of course, we razz China hard.

Forthright MC: Of ragged nails and puntas.



Maurizio Graf on the vocal track.


Quantum Leap: 1968. Flotsam on the Walls of Freedom.

"Oh boy."

"Daffodils and calf's breath....  Your garden is amazing...."

"Al.  Is that you?"


He had awoken, September 1968, a topless Mexican named Taco standing over him, shoveling hamburger into an assembly line.

"The FACK?!?!"

He could hear the grease sizzling, but knew not, couldn't see, where the fryer was.  Still, the big Mexican shoveled, hairy somebody, complexion of a muddy ditchbank, that one.

"Maybe you're hear to save Elvis, Sam" said Al.  "Maybe get him to mix in more Gospel favorites."

"But I'm stuck for the time being between this Mexican's feet" said Sam.

"Maybe this is the future, and everything is one big giant Burger King kitchen."

"September?" said Sam.  "1968?"

"That's what Ziggy says."

Someone was beating a child.  I mean just, bastardry, putting down the newspaper, that soaked in Natural Light bear, and going after the poor boy, I mean, he comes home from school, and all.

"No, Billy, don't play with the chemicals!"

"Maybe you're supposed to stop Billy from playing with the chemicals" said Al.  It was too much for a knee-jerk Blue Dog to bear.  He had to give that deddy a whooping like the deddy put on the boy.

"Did you do violence to that boy?"

"Choke yourself with your own hand, clown."

"I axed you a mahfah question of information" said Sam.  Al was getting nervous.  "You voilenced on that boy? Is that a way to treat your own boy?"

"There's a 63 percent chance you die here, Sam" said Al.  "And Elvis, at this rate, won't cut anymore Gospel classics.  If he does, In the Ghetto, he'll be black-balled instead of black-labelled.  Come on, Sam!"

"Al" said Sam, exasperated.  "I'm lying here on the subway tile, and the outward observer would swear I'm talking to myself, between this Mexican's feet, and looks like he's never gonna stop with the stupid hamburger."

"But what about Elvis?"

"Maybe he needs a prescription."

"That's not funny, Sam."

"No, hear me out" said Sam.  "That guy in the commercial has like 8 acres he could drive over, but he goes right through the mud puddle, as the announcer boasts him 'getting things done'."

"That was the bent penis thing?"

"Like from your stag party?"

"No the television commercial" said Al.  "Padroni's disease.  Patroni's disease.  Whatever."

"I'm gonna die on this floor, aren't I, Al?" said Sam.

The boy punched his diddy in the kneecap.

The Mexican shoveled hamburger.

Sam checked messages on his 1989 high-tech pager.

"Elvis, remember?" said Al.

"Is his penis straight?"

"Just do what comes naturally."

"FAACKK! That's unAmerican" said Sam.  "What about the one where the MILF smiles and cribs her husband's baseball cap?  Something about getting struck by a mood."

"Smack my b*tch up, for reelz, Samstag."

"I'm about to lose my sh*t and kick this big ass Mexican in his nuts" said Sam, covering his eyes in frustration.  "Then I'm gonna light this whole muhfuh up."

"Focus, Sam" said Al.  "You started about gardens and flowers."

"Elvis's dead body will fertilize those flowers" said Sam.  "That's the answer: how does your garden grow?"

And he leaped out, having said next to nothing, and what did slip through was utter gibberish, some kind of magic gibberish that got Sam Beckett one step closer to home.

Oreo Day and Cereal Day.


1912 marked the first sale of the Oreo cookie.  Interesting that in the Land of the Free, we do not commemorate the creation of such an icon, but the commercialization of it.

March 6 was National Oreo Day.

March 7, National Cereal Day.  Cereal had a strong following among American New World Colonials, with stories of the settlers eating popcorn in milk with sugar, making a kind of "cereal" for their breakfasting enjoyment.

Flash forward to Battle Creek, Michigan, where Doctor Kellogg had his infamous clinic, and developed Corn Flakes, in the name of nutrition and digestive health, for the general populace.

Food: the flat iron steak.


The Flat Iron steak at some stores is called by a colloquialism, the "chicken steak".  Such nomenclature can be off putting for someone looking for a tasty piece of beef; however, the marbling of the meat gives it a quality at least on par with rib-eye, despite an unsightly "gristle" through its middle and its odd shape.

*makes a good sandwich.

Usually cut less than a half-inch thick, a fast-cooking, tender cut.

Recommend high heat, sans a medium, though butter might induce browning if not outright exterior char in a quick sear of the meat.

"I am, therefore, I think". Reason, you say? Raison de tre? If I needed a reason, youd be flattened already, Cheever.


I say at once, impertinently, "I am, therefore, I think."  I always thought the other way just wanted proofs and esteemed logic so much, when the human, betimes and betwixt, sometimes thinks with the guttyworks, the belly, the navel glade.

I do not set a can or bremble a polygon just for sake of a need, so oft, but because it is a stray feeling on the wind, and that too, in error, but so much of human life, as we know, is unreasonable are taken to error and dissipation.

As much then that reason proves I am human, my mistakes are tattoos of my time in that self-same downcast legion.

Given dynamics of proximity, I could make an argument that a man can be an island, but there are limits to that proof, and sometimes the winds bring song from the mainland.

It was Cristobel Escuela that said, "This who I am, yo; this is who I be" and then he talked of the exploits of others.  His ontology then, as human as human could be, in that it was a self-defeating riddle.

For so many, they know their ending; the make funds to pay for their own send-off.  How dismal to try and make thousands for such a send-off at the end of life, but such is the impermanence of the human being, and the send-off, the service and the monument give man more of a permanence.

And thus, a real-world capital value, in that impermanence, such as the value of tangibles, like land, for instance.  A sort of permanence within an uncertain sphere.

One of my prouder acts of planning is to purchase and place a simple rectangular monument to my forbears.  I plan to place it in our garden, in a place, set out of the way of traffic, but still in the forefront, too, such as the garden is situated.

They say, "what is that crap out there?"

Intoneth Wayne, "come and see".

I once too, as broken and confused as anyone, once, for dignity sake, held back flattulence, but in that, there was an epistemology that went beyond my perview.

It was more.

"The world is hollow and I have touched the sky."

The minute we put ourselves up, we seem, as it were, precariously perched, as if to say, the higher up, the longer and more deadly the fall, be it thought, love, or auto parts, such is the way of life observed by everyone.  As I earn the cost of a pre-paid funeral, I do not think that too much else, like the new Batman thing, make me "bat" an eyelash, and yet, I am human, and given to tactile stimulation.

So it is.

A Batman movie.

Not just a pre-paid funeral service, but that and a Batman movie, too.  If the stomach groans, I am at that, too, and not piling 15 thousand single-mindedly and with no distraction.  For I am human, and prone to distraction, such that a Batman movie can intercreep into the neurological runtime of consciousness, and for once, in a moment, I am neither a plan, nor a thought, but so much more in that illogical sense.

"I am" and often, without warning, or prevarication, "I think".  We need not to take a stream of illogical cognitive flotsam and call it "reason" like the old philosophers, nor take of purely creative expressions and necessarily label that "a design".

But there are times and places, like the snowbreak in Vegas yesterday, in which we just have to prop-up and enjoy the experience, appreciate it, and experience the thing that is life, and it is, not to think in terms of logic or pure feelings, but to experience, unqualified, the thing.

Its like trying to pinch a butterfly, in that the closer you get to it, the more apt it is to flutter away, then out of sight.  For such intangibles, an "out of sight" could become "out of mind".

But I've been "out of mind", too, which is another story.

Organalia le marjean.


these are the times of the days, of the lives, of the sundry figures that concourse and compass the place.

A preliminary paraphrasing of "Walden or Life In The Woods".

It had sat, alone, a sort of untouched desolation of it, at various growths and dormancies, for ages.  Vines hanged from the pines, like dea...