That Tao of Milky.

A thousand miles from nowhere, and yet on the tip-end of the tongue.

Like the indeterminate space in the cleft of the buttocks, empty space which is made so important, that without substance making so much more to the importance than the subject matter itself.

*the Tao you can post on TrikCroc is not the Tao.

Edgar was attacked in the Mongolian wastes by a scorpion during an incursion, and soon after he became physically ill as the toxins attacked his body.  He lay, shifting this way and that, fevered, sweating, watching 1987 Robocop, as the toxins of the bite attacked his body.

Afterward, when he was treated and supposedly cured, the necrotic effect of the bite diminished, he found he could breath in and out at the same time.

His time away had disqualified him from further surface to the Mounted Calvary, but still, he kept in practice, and I always thought, the old would, the dead tissue around the probiscotic eruption, would be a sore point for getting tossed by his mount.

There was the further vainglory of a doldrum maintenance post in India, or further incursions into Pakistan, that he missed and yearned for, so he read Rudyard Kipling and dreamed.  Somewhere in his mind, he found a fuse for that glory he yearned for, and that was partly the Tao as well, the military glory that was not, the adventure that was all in the mind.

The Tao you can post on your blog, is that even the tao, when the tao stands at the ends of words, but nowhere within them?  Or the Tao that is undiscovered science, that which we sense, but cannot put into dictums and theorems, that which perplexes understanding but is commonly observable.

It is easier, in the interim, to say what the Tao is not.