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

Cheevers, Cheevers, Cheevers. Heaven on the right. Hell on the left. Volley. And thunder. I occurred to me I had for a few moments, or some indeterminate period of time elsewise, as it were, become lost and given over to whatever.  But then, from outer space, I came back, like the proverbial thing from the sky, and landed hard, my shoulders and back, ankles, stiffened from coarse and unaccustomed use: labor. It was something of a refreshment of the mind, something of the stirring of the blood and the mixture of oxygen, with the endorphins and the other things spraying about like fountains of wayne, or ray or donna or somebody, spraying and spraying, and the brain lulled through vigorous activity into a kind of At Once awareness, and the period of rest, what the Buddhists call Emptiness, and seek some. Mark that. That's emptiness, an idle cessation of stuff, but after the milking and tossing some seed to the chickens.  After even, averting war, but paying for war and all that.  Gett

In times of turmoil, it has been to demonize the opponent, perhaps a Nazi label.  If we think of THEM as treating people bad, we begin to see the opponent then as less human, and more deserving, themselves, of inhuman treatment.  People used to do that. What good is victory over the inhuman if you sacrifice your own humanity?  What if you became the enemy?  What if it was "Tales of the Black Freighter"?  You became what you hate, you justified yourself and cut corners until finally, it was what you wanted, and the good guys have to send somebody to stop you, Cheever. Don't become what you hate.  After all, Aurelius said the best revenge was to "not be like them." Shake your tail fetters. I also hosted a fake seminar on Natural Serection.  Prediliction and Answerection. It was good. I drew stupid pictures while they worked their little worksheets, things like Bart Simpson yelling Ay Carumba and stuff like that, Punisher in an alleyway, and the Michael Jordan sky

Of life and love, love is willing vulnerability to that one person, to become vulnerable, susceptible, and open.  Maybe the jaded wish and hope and bolster against doubts, but the truly loving let the feelings of love overshadow that doubt, far and away. When they have feelings....  when they care.... When Harris, inspector Gadget, is driving the car from the passenger side, some kind of half-a**ed driver's ed coach, and at once, annoying, but you have to smile in the moment and let her be her.   "Your language would offend Allah..." "You got salty with Allah..." Instigate with frivolous ways that burden Faulkner.... The terror of her burning hair, and me, about to spray her down.  She breathes fire, and I spray my garden hose on her belly.  I make a pattern, like peeing in the snow, "happy bday to me." And though, it isn't my birthday, everyday with Harris is like my birthday, special, and special like not "ha ha" or Jim Carrey, but spec

They had sent the Apostle Paul a donation for his ministry, did the few believers in hiding at Philippi. He makes a few points, in his correspondence with them, saying, "yall are the only ones that sent anything."  He goes on to speak of their common lot as believers, their hope, together.... Finally, near the end of the letter, he says..... "I know how to live in either abundance or in need, because my faith in Christ strengthens me."(very heavy paraphrase) The original verse can read as snarky, poorly-worded or even dogmatic, but the point is this: "My faith helps to sustain me in any circumstance."   Your faith should never be an excuse to condemn another; in that circumstance, your faith has become the reason people persecute Christians, even the Romans remarking of the "obstinence" of followers of "Cristus". Faith when oriented towards love and healing becomes a remarkably restorative force, just as they say even thinking a well-hi

The thing about garlic bread, the choice of breadstock is a matter of taste and preference.  Commonly, plain old run of the mill loafbread is used.  But then many also opt for the cheap, plain French bread. I opt for a slight upgrade, with an artisan whole grain loaf, mostly.  Last iteration used Honey Wheat loaf bread. The layers: bread butter pepper garlic powder onion powder chili powder basil  (note Basil is probably the most crucial ingredient, even more so than the garlic powder.  if you don't use it, the flavor is very bland.) OPTIONAL: Graded Parmesan.  and yes, on the underlayer, before the cheese. CHEESE.   I opt generally for yellow cheese, pre-grated, and it makes for an interesting visual presentation after its heated, and allows for better heating of the underlayer. OPTIONAL TOPPER: MORE Grated Parmesan.

Such as is said, there is no commercial, and even less often than never, a magical combination of words that are sure enough to sway; but such can be attempted, and will, to some end or other. In the end, before the final nailings and the chickens under the house crowing, only you can decide what you want, and such is none to sway, but then, also, something can burble.  For instance, a ginger crossing a parking lot, then forgotten, or so I thought, but hours later, a certain feeling, a hunger for cookies and milk in my underwear, or should I say, eating milk drenched cookies while sitting in my underwear, which is the blogger's mean, the kind of penance and gratification in one fell swoop, as if I were, become, as destroyer of worlds, a satire of my own self. *Only you can decide ultimately what you want. That said, it is far easier to break a manipulation if you are aware of it. You decide what you want, and then put barbecue sauce on it. Would life be logically easier if you knew

I see, I see,  Oh say can I see? Did you see, would you see, I saw? The sap is running and the flora is a burgeoning. Anderson really goes on about those Impalas, don't he?  Guess nothing really beats the rental car experience. Here I am, Here I am, the hurricane, the machelaise, the cry of the Republic.  "This is who I am, yo; this is who I be."  Just like the old flipper Willie Abachilie, from Aeropagite, IN. What the wind-making done blown-up.... Unicorns and rainbows or something.  I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was something like Caged Heat or the Big Bird Cage.  And I was like... uhm... wow.... They say the world hinges on a stray world, and the world can take a turn, you know?  Uncertainties, and profitears, and all the rest, dividends, and the machine is made up not of spreadsheets and SQL, but willing participants.  Like, there wouldn't be a bad Moon Knight, without the established precedence of there having been a good Moon Knight.  Or Tobes and Andy.

Anderson was about "do a work".  He went to the on air prep area and climbed into the big make-up chair.  Immediately, he took up his knitting to fill the time. But... something in the mirror caught his eye and he looked ahead into the big mirror. It wasnt the make-up artist behind him. "Breathin down your neck" austen aries said.

I was reading of the undefinable, that which is, but to point it out, that is not, it elapses into so much vapor to disappear, into the atmosphere, opposite the crawl space, cookie salesman, and the space between my ears, the space between the earth and moon--- the space between man and God. You ever seen them follicle pits on chicken skin?  Lisa has those, and its not, like well, off-putting, you know, it is, at once, the wagon wheel at the driveway, just there, kind of like, well, look at this. Cocksputter and spleenblood; with a war on, the streaming services cratering?  The popular narrative caught hold of something?  Not realizing when the self, one's own words, become the cruelest satires, and just for quoting them, the well-meaning, one could get tossed-off. Something about the "intrinsic field", bio-mechanical energies and then chemical transmission between beings, the sub-conscious sensory field.  Things you only dimly perceive, and that in the dark, not even wit

"When in despair with fortune and men's eyes, I alone beweep my outcast state." -William Shakespeare.   It was Seneca that reminded his readers that he was claiming to be no expert, not condescending to give advice to lesser people, but rather, he was in this boat called Life just like anyone else, and he was not the physician, but the sufferer, just like you and me, sharing notes and advice from the common malaise. In the common course of things, we can indeed be sidetracked some times down some unhealthy footpaths.  Many of us are eventually saved or spared by that rare moment of clarity, like a healing touch of sunshine on our scalp, our neck, our faces. This is "mindset", when the Moment of Clarity comes and refreshes the senses.  Immediately, we are back in control, back in our good senses, able to take an overview but also able to make granular, fine adjustments, as well. Sometimes maybe, we find that our own tears have dried, our frown has lost its fir

 

The true story goes that Bill had forgotten the words and ad-libbed, "I know, I know, I know, I know..." "Hey, I better leave the young thang alone." Meanwhile, Herr Wheatstraw, the pimp crane, in a vacant lot, dissheveled, be-pink-ed, discried and bark-spangled. I say, maybe, Lucius, not an expert, but one of the same malaise, sharing notes and not otherwise spurning, past hoping in general, for success.  I cleave the matter so, and disseminate that we are, of the same stripe, like the black cat in the Pepe cartoons, striped and thought something different, and taken to, taken up, and other wise, even asked. And that's how vampires work, Cheever.  They knock on your window in some friendly state of dress, some friendly comportment, and ask to make interruption, taking to even the carpet on the floor as some new novelty that might make them, well, less bored and tired of infinite existence. Did you leave the young thing alone, Bill? No, she wanted my money. Gues

This.  Reading "On A Day When Absolutely Nothing Is Pressing Except The Hair On My Head", a collection of sonnets by Winifred E. Windsor, and I'm laying there in sockfeet with my A-shirt on, man-tits schizophrenic, askew, one peaking around the strap, the other nuzzled in an arm pit as if to snuggle towards sleep.  

  And that from the folds of its red fur, and I was almost at a trot myself, making egress, to look back, look over, and say, "make ye linear regressions and graphical distillations, with that blunt little Melvin Purvis?" He asked Will Munney about being with women, and he finally he said, "You use your hand, Will?" So it was becoming a discourse on technique, perhaps, something for the more technically minded.

  The very linchpin of flat earth theory is mistrust in politics.  Let a president talk about going to the moon, and the dishonest business of politics and the popular line of talk are lampooned by what, 30%, 40% of the country?  A republican be, or worse yet a democrat? "We will go the moon, not because it is easy, but because it is hard." Story line, that, to be made spectacle of for a class of invested, professional journalists, some with celebrity, reputation, even station.  I don't begrudge people like Thomas Friedman a paycheck, though.  There is a certain indefinite hope of liberated thought in that, which draws one. What is this new thing?  What is new is of old, circa 14th century?  The earth is flat? And yet, with the advent of flight, pilots have been high enough in the sky to perceive the curve along the horizon with their own two eyes. How then doth a GPS divine one's position along the poles of the earth?  The Force?  The Titan Mogambo?  Wiggling its toe

With so many ways, to find addiction, we see an emerging class of addicts, a growing class of addicts, with always something different on which to prey, or to be preyed upon by. And a growing class of former addicts, that mistrust the healthcare industry for its former incompetence with pain management in the form of rampant opioids. The police, formerly enemies to the hustler, become incompetent and useless to battle the scourge of substances to be abused. An emerging class, a growing class of people that fell hard in the trek of life, but picked themselves up and limped onwards, and that with no real alternative.

So much, so many, a plurality of life, and we do all we do, but consistently mitigate the noise and nonsense towards something we think might be real happiness?  We make little changes, some of us, "I put my dimes and nickels in the other pocket today, so maybe something better will happen." We approach, in advance of old age, something that might be happiness, but that too, do we appreciate it, or not?  Do we look back later and say: it was happiness!  Didn't even realize I was enjoying it, until was gone. But there it was, and there you were. Cheever. We might then rebuke ourselves for reckless stupidity, to have been happy and not appreciated it, not show that its due diligence, and yet, if we were conscious of it at the time, the moment would have faded, like a butterfly being scared away.