Futnuckery. A Helluva Vision. The Film-Flam Man. Conjugates of the Infinite.

    "When in disgust with fortune and mens' eyes, I alone beweep my outcast state...."

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 scarc

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

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.  

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. Stupid. 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&

  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.

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.

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 her

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

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

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 s

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".

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?" Fack. "WHO

  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 j

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.

    Maurizio Graf on the vocal track.  

"Oh boy." "Daffodils and calf's breath....  Your garden is amazing...." "Al.  Is that you?" "Sam!" 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

  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.

  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 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 m

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