napalm the vaginas: everyone dogpile the media malpractice on the abortion kerfloffle

Literally, brett said, "this decision does not ban abortion" and be damned if a room full of journalists didnt vault over themselves to publish the headline, "supreme court bans abortion".

I mean clearly, and ive had a political science course in my past, i agree when they say it seemed more the work of legislators than guardians of the constituion.  I mean, they decided in roe v wade, where legally recognized life begins, during the thrid trimester.  Weird.

Sotomayor, the lady who had never been a judge in any form before her appointment to the court, said at conception a woman has "no rights".  Seems a statement clesrly engineered for fundraising letters, and a gross exageration of actuality.

As one commentator pointed out, one of the yays was a nixon appointee, conversely, a commentator from the opposite stripe noted one of the published assenting opinions was the work of "the stupidest supreme court justice of the 20th century."

Clearly hyperbole, and less a call for vagina napalming, and more a call as joe said, for the legislators to roll up their sleeves and write a sane law providing dor abortion protections.

diario retrib', "option e, to the gentlewoman from wyoming"

Recent events, i think of nehemiah during the babylonian captivity, whic to some is a disguised reference to obama and kerrys iran deal.  Anyway, dude askididded nehemiah of his sorrow, its heartwood, and nehemiah referred to the downshot temple and the gates of the ci-tay burned with fire(seattle).

So he was set about, with all permissions and subsidies, to right the enumerate lefts.

A friend, a hard leftist speculated of the moral substance of the scotus abortion ruling.  He stated that if pregnancies were forced to carry, then there should be subsidized childcare, food and so on.  Which i compared to communism, likened to a total lack of responsibility on the parents.  And "you people", communists that is, not blacks, or gays, or grad students, or linguists, or expats, of which he is one, a wondorous one maggotfilled testicle of a hemingway novel to busy sucking pecker to transcribe itself in thought or deed to paper.  "You people" in his case, means the hard left.

Or to say, as of the dishevelled ancient, "all political debates are sexually depraved."

"Tim Scott's dingus is the color of eggplant."

But then i glint on this:  "you have no excuse, everyone of you who passes judgment, for in that which you judge another, you condemn yourself".

Or further along, this: "or do you think lightly of the riches of His kindness and tolerance and patience....."  i do not in fact.  If this is a cage im in, its fairly comfortable, and 8000 b.t.u.s and a bally sports shy of pure perfection.

Politics is such a dirty showy business, and the constitutional purists stomach their bile to stand with the moral right, just like the dnc big tent concept, knowing one stupid unfair law can be so provocative for moral groups......

A spirited game of "kicking the ball".

Oxnards Versus Goddens.  Kickball.  None of a wit to lose with dignity, and none of them a winner among them; they one or lost the way wheat stupidly sticks up in the breeze after Independence Day, and that and nothing more, emphasizing the "stupid" more than the "sticking up".

Baby Sweet was the referee, improbable full-black that he was, a refugee from a 70s film, a buddy looking for a hard-nose cop to love.  He would call the ball if it went past the still-smoking trash can, or over the bed of Darnell's truck.

It was Bobcat that kicked the ball past everybody else, Bobcat the gentleman unemployed pundit of the outfit, a gentleman's gentleman, full of piss and vinegar and good lines about bad tidings--a familiar at Clyde's house, where the ball landed and sailed on, warping out of shape with spin and torque, momentum, and on across the yards.

Doug was the odd man, kind of a secret agent, "inside man" that watched the world with a downcast, pessimistic eye, and he was drafted to go get the ball.

Clyde was but a distant spectator, on his rear stoop with light beer, hoping the girls would get in their bikinis.

So Doug went and the game had stopped, and things kind of hung in the air awkwardly between friends and neighbors, the two families pursed in the thrill of competition, and that made, like I done said, awkward.

Clyde could see Doug across the way in Mister Red's yard, and be darned, where the competitors couldn't see, Doug was pissing on the wheel of Mister Red's shiny new Toyota sedan.

It was never quite made sense by anyone outside, full-black and full-white, side-by-side, brother and sister, it was like it was a street gang more than a family, with Bobcat and Doug and Seban being the outliers, Monmouth and Crissie were the commentators, the detached superego of the group, perched conspiratorially at the kitchen counter on two stools, sitting, white and black, salt and pepper shakers, and nobody ever knew if they had sex, or understood them when they talked, because they had a secret language no one else understood between the two.

Finally, Doug got back with the ball and Bobcat lined-up for another kick.  He punted the ball on a dip in the yard and the thing sailed, spinning crazily, up over his head and then went backwards, even behind Darnell's truck, and Baby Sweet laughed gleefully, generally unflappable shouting "foul! strike two!".

"We don't do balls and strikes in kickball" said Doug, with an air of menace, kind of that old man menace, like the slight would be remembered later at some dreadfully inconvenient time.

Baby Sweet ignored him.

Crissie and Amelia both went after the ball, Amelia stopping halfway just to watch, the two in jean shorts and dollar-store loafers, dressed more for an afternoon on the patio, than the thrill of competition, but it was Round Robin after all, and Bobcat got another strike.

The next kick bounced off the top of the tin roof of Clyde's next-door house, and Clyde sat, concentrating on the sound to guess which side of the house the ball would come down on, but it rolled off the front, and that sent a fury, an all-fired hurried murder of Goddens running around the house to retrieve the ball and hopefully hit Bobcat with it before he tagged the home plate, which was Darnell's old F150.

She had fallen in love with the wrong man: a monster.

I was sitting, buttery bottomed nekkid in a porcelain trough in Petaluma, calling it "research", tax-deductible work expense, luxury room, as part of research for my Simon & Shuster planned bestseller about haunted hotels and motels.

The short hairs on the rim were part of my gratuity for the hospital staff, but not like leaving something of a sample for the sex island staff.

What was that about pizza and killing babies?  Was that a Bernie fundraiser email, or a conspiracy theory?

I was musing into my digital recorder, "there are no haunted rooms, only haunted people coming into the rooms", something along the lines of "leave a little of the love you bring with you", or "get a load of this"(like back at the island standing over a silver dish about to leave a little something).

There was a devotchka, was what housekeeping said, and something of a body bag, and some other, black and white pictures and all, and something that made a nice paragraph in the local news.  I procured the paragraph for the book, and all the permissions and all, emails and phone calls from agenty lawyer-like peoples.

When there were kind of more provincial light fixtures, for the somewhat then-new technology of electric light bulbs, kind of a cheap candelabra chandelier thing that the lady took a swing from in a kind of dark turn of mind, and like I said, "leave a little of the love you bring", and such was more commonly the way, people believe something of the ill-repute and negativity leave kind of a thumbprint of something, spirits, ghosts and so forth.

My thought: the place was important in her life, but she wasn't happy there, so why linger?  But that wasn't the common thinking, it was all dodging into dark corners and so forth, and not the love you bring or all of that.  I mean she was like, "I'm out of this bitch, tomorrow, so one-night only please."

But, there was another part of me that wondered if she had ordered pizza from the room before her bucket-punt.

I walked through the open bedroom doorway out of the bathroom, and a frigging, of all things, lamp shade hit me on the shoulder,

and I nearly shat myself.

I was in the hallway half-steamed cleaned in a second.

When I gathered myself up, I had went back in and looked, expecting Tales From The Crypt or something unfolding right before my eyes, something on the order of looking through time and space right into the great beyond, or just some old bag standing there with the butcher knife, but neigh, neigh, a lampshade on the plush carpet.

Two long gray hairs on the lamp shade.  I know.  Because I looked carefully.  I pestered a high school biology teacher until she let me use some of the optical stuff and get telemetry on the thing.

One odd thing.  The high school teacher was previously familiar with human hair under high magnification.

The overseer of the hotel was ho-hum about the whole thing, kind of not trusting me, but enjoying the story, while also not wanting the thing to be known.  But then its sometimes good advertising.  That said, the manager knew about the book, but seemed so sure prior that nothing untoward would happen.

Before I walked away from that conversation, "good room" I said, then went about towards the voyage home, away from Petaluma.  Later, I would wind-up couched with a heroine addict in New Mexico, listening to her breath most of the night, just to make sure she kept breathing, her in a sort of unconsciousness that was sleep but was something else.  I was thinking then, the ghosts in that second room weren't dead yet.

I guess it was a "good room" and I was the scribbler-for-hire doing my bidness on it, kind of half-drunk on white wine.  I had thought to muse in general on hauntings and the immortal remnants of mortal torment, how some things, as said, linger, but I instead referred my eyes to a hit-list of different sites for my book research.

Six Days From Graceland: How a humble blogger killed a weekend and bathed in its stillwarm blood.


 I had things to do.

I don't deny that much.

But between weather and all?  Not so much, as there were priorities, hydrations, speculumization or speculation on crypto currencies, a myriad of things to look in on.

Making sure Levin wore a shirt and took the knife from between his teeth so he could do his monologue.

But one of the brightspots, after the televised church service, the Sunday School portion, I was directed to the book of Ephesians in the Bible as a reminder of God's amazing promises to his creation.

The promises were uplifting, and reading them anew salvaged the day, but still.  I slept more of the day than I was awake, on the balance, and that was okay, between things as it were, a time to get some rest.  In fact, slept so much it made my neck muscles sore.

I was looking at the Roe news stuff, and so much to be made of opinions getting interjected into the mix.  "analysis" that wasn't analysis, and opinions I suppose. 

Everybody has an opinion, you know.

But what I was looking at in Ephesians, the mechanics of the thing, whole verses that are dependent clauses in themselves, sentences that last eight verses or so.

I wrote some essays I might chunk on here at some point, about the middle of the period of American Literature, the approach to nature, fate, and destiny.  Narrative perspective, diction selections and so forth.

Everybody has an essay on American Literature, you know.

About a Girl on a Pony She Calls Wildfire.

We saw her, going along, very picturesque on her pony, her "Wildfire", and our hearts for however 55mph microbeats, burned there too.

"I'd like to ride with her" said Mum.  Breaking the moment, or more aptly, punctuating the moment.

"You can" said Harold.  It was a thing among certain types, to buy horses, be it a tax shelter, the financial burden of rearing horses was something they took on for the sheer enjoyment of it, and now, my dear Mum.

It was like Walking Dead maybe, when Glen nicked a Challenger off the street, and Rick opted for wearing his service uniform and riding a horse.

Zombies et the horse, I remember, and he was called an idiot on the radio.

"I bet I could, baby" said Mum.

"You'd look good on one" said Harold.  I was grinning like an idiot, having seen too many lesbian sex scenes not to have my heart burn there, rather than the actual moment, it was a thing with me.

"Thats sweet, baby" said Mum.

rowing up the crick to see the colonels ancestral birthplace: graceland, bebe

So many little smaller issues, personhood, doctor-patient privacy, aside from a woman's supposed free right to terminate a pregnancy.  Seems the msm wont stomach the fine points, but hammer a drum of mammie choice, sport-f*cking, unabashed, unashamed, naked liberalism disguised as libertarian values.

For instance, illegal vape products, but legal marijuana.  Merrick garland tossing a bone to his ass-hurt colleagues, with the right to choose, despite the right to exist......

attestation before harris. a confession.

I attest further, harris, that if i set about devising a clever scheme to hurt or otherwise defraud people who have wronged me, then im no better, as they did the same to me over perceived slights.

I have but to gird it up and take a deep breath, appreciate the larger plethora.

Ask of these things severally, what are they essentially, these guiles amd intrigues are but a spittle into the eternal vacuum of space.  "What are they?" And so forth, and hopefully, before flushed down the toilet, we get something of that quiddity, and we depart none the better, but perhaps happier, which is worth more in the long run.

I didnt punch holes in a box with a samurai sword.  And also, there wasnt a cat inside when i did it.

Meditate on these matters, harris.

of bugaboos and extended paragraphs, a free range of expression observed.


We've established this by now: things that anger you, control you.  Without that, the powers of the mind tend to seem limitless and entirely unfettered, unless da wants chocolate pudding.

Some things still takes precedence.

For instance: my ass.

In the grand scheme, across the muddy thoroughfare, 

men make their fortunes, 

or spendthrift there way to a satisfied belly, 

or else they sit on the boardwalk like tumbleturds and jelly.

Cody came at us with a new angle, as per corporate guidelines calling him to make some adjustments.  He said, his ink was part of his religion, and thusly, it was protected by the Supreme Court and the Constitution.

No word yet on Cody's titty, despite 17 million with bated breath, and the world turns as it always has, even despite those expecting disruption, dissipation, and other bug-a-boos, and storyline hinged on the status quo, and expectations disappointed,

but random, more phenomenal aspects phenigrated the heavens, as of a fortuitous rain of fortune, people stepping forward, and people passing out, passing into the great beyond with a little Fentanyl dust on the tongue flesh.

if you.

*if you put a cat in a box, punch a few air holes, but not with a samurai sword, while the cat is in the box.

*get that bitch, Leatherface.

*all right, all right, all right.

It was detritous, dark, the discard pile, and I was a monolith with a light bulb over my head, dosing and roping-a-doping, perhaps, as it were, fooling even myself at the quiddity of the bedraggle, the vast feeling about of it, the prodigious lamp in the confusion and all, and as it was said, "if he had a brother, look in the trash can", and I'm like, maybe, but they said he was a crackhead, and widely known, where in the interim, he merely slept while selling his prescription meds for gas money, for the proverbial hot dog and deflated tire, of a conveyance, flatly beat-up, riding and with a hotdog, a simple crackhead style hotdog with simple fancy catsup on it, riding and looking to get over, perpetually, "oh say can you see?", who he could get over on, that one, cast and thrust about by things he loved best, and bent on the lesser natures of all else, two shoes, as it were, brothers, two from the trash can Godhead Doug's proverbial acreage of abandoned farmland turned pine forest, dug ponds and so forth, holes with water, and water in holes, and milkweed, cat-tails nearest the damp, and perpetually chasing his own tail, and if he was surprised, it was rank fuckery of a different sort, and you could walk right up to him and pet him, while he appraised your dearest goods on the black market, like a pair in the trash can, to the landfill with him, I reckon, our best destinies, our blackest thoughts, and words made manifest across the universe, taking a titty-kiss to the dry land of dissipation, collectivism, Marxist mutual masturbations of people who spend more on their hair by the month than any real person spends on grocery and utility, but to wit, of that, a kind of due dread about the painted plywood boards and the ladies walking along the thoroughfare, and one sited me, and was looking as if studying a cockroach or an interesting pattern of chocolate bar on a discarded wrapping paper; I was there, and I stood there, of provenance, screwed to the sticking place, down wit'it and up for it, brooking love and light to the peoples in my head, having my usual soy sauce and vinegar that brought my heartmeets into the waking mode of activity and doings of the usual sort, but one could get used to about anything.

I suppose.

(My spellcheck hawked on the word "masturbations".)

And how about the re-lensing, how the "ni**er in the woodpile", in my own ontology, became a mongrel eating from the trash can?

And to the pig-dog bastard Walmart manager that called my new-dead brother a crackhead, that despite the asshole having a full-load of wire information, Lord how they are, I will get that son of a bitch if we both live long enough.

And I'll slap his namesake counterpart into the floor like a piece of trash.

Moral of the story, don't have the truth and still put stink on me.

mirror glass darkly: jack london

"I am no attic singer, no ballroom warbler.  And why?  Because i am practical.  Mine is no squalor of song that cannot transmite itself, with proper exchange value, into a flower-crowned cottage, a sweet mountain-meadow, a grove of redwoods, an orchard of thirty-seven trees, one long row of blackberries and two short rows of strawberries, to say nothing of a quarter mile of gurgling brook."

-from "brown wolf" by Jack London


He did not complain.  It was the way of life, and it was just.  He had been born close to the earth, close to the earth had he lived, and the law thereof was not new to him.  It was the law of all flesh.  Nature was not kindly to the flesh.  She had no concern for that concrete thing called the individual.  Her interest lay in the species, the race.  This was the deepest abstraction old koskoosh's barbaric mind was capable of, but he grasped it firmly.  He saw it exemplified in all life.  The rise of the sap, the bursting greenness of the willow bud, the fall of the yellow leaf--in this alone was told the whole history.

-"the law of life" Jack London

funbag; on home economics.

I wrote her a love letter.

"Meet me at the gas and go.  5 pm.  Wear something pretty."

I got there unreasonably early, because i like the element of surprise, and furthermore i suspect on the ideals of those who anticipate someone such as myself.

I went to make wee wee, while i waited, in a bathroom hole with an outside entry.  I could hear the muzak from the other rooms within; and i gave it, in brief, a splinter of my attention, nevermind, my penis nestled between my artist fingers felt like it had been dipped in commercial fragrance, something like jovan or addidas, or even olive oil.

I was made to sit again, in a 20 minute intervall before 5 pm.  It was the best of times, it was the cornholiest of times: those were empty moments.

I had me a bag of peanuts and a popular soft drink.  As per my youth and the bygone novelty of the wasting of stray moments, i opened the nuts and funneled them into my beverage:  this was the goodie.

She was happy to see me, getting there a whole hour after me, 25 minutes after we were supposed to be there.

She said so, and said she had to pay for her ride there and back.  How long to stay?  All night was 120 dollars, or just 50 through dinner.

I thought,  if i could get her to mop my kitchen and bathroom, clean the oven, it would be good, worth my dollar.  Maybe even clean the drapery in the morning.

"All night would be good."

She stroked my cheek, affecting something of love and cherishing.

"Ive got some ideas, beautiful, of stuff we can do."

"Oooh yeah, baby.  I really want to."

"Even in the morning."

"Gonna roll me over, sugar?"

I smiled.

david tepper and the great shell game: diving for dollars, billionaire edition

Its too easy and unworthy of a businessman to simply pay for something, say a practice facility for a sports team.  Nay, not only does the city have to pay for his stadium, but the practice combine goes at a premium, too.  The multipronged approach is to let the city attach an annual economic activity figure, to give it a recognized value to elected officials, but then form a dummy construction project, and allow that to go bankrupt early.

Then the city gets to foot the bill, one more time.  It seems like corporate welfare, the usual business tax breaks, where the corporation is given a sweetheart deal in the hopes of recouping tax revenue from the workers.  I mean god forbid the rich have to pay anything.

See also the charlotte fc soccer club, putting the city on the hook initially to the tune of 500 milion dollars in the name of future revenue generating "economic activity".  Of course, come time for a new stadium, expect another exhorbitant investment by the city, and even as city residents cant pay the rents on their 5 room hovels.

Closer to home, a real estate guy in charge, putting the usual vacant real estate to city use.  He had a million dollar corner lot decades back, eventually becomes a huge hotel.  Sure.  He gets his on the property tab for his private company, and possibly the city budget kicks in to pay in part for a private company's construction bill, and in the name of future "economic activity".

To sum that up, the mayor had privately speculated in direlict properties and attached a million dollar price tag.  City on the hook for partial construction.

Prove me wrong, mayor ingram?

the red versus blue, or wards of the sate vs words of the state

Communists masquerading as enlightened, com]assionate progressives within the safe port of a capitalist constitutional republic might decide, as per the moving goal post of "liberty', that if a lot of people wanted cell phones, then a new decree would provide free cell phones for each ward of the state, deeming a cell phone as a basic human right. And during an economic downturn, or if there were popular headwinds from the average citizen, then everyone would get a free phone.  The conservatives would insist on not providing the new entitlement to illegal immigrants, and liberals would diatonically disagree, and also ask to include prisoners.

I note here i refer to "the entitlement class", or people who rely so much on a system payout, as "wards of the state", which is a bit of an irregular usage of the term.

We note too, like the obama, the baruch, the zhivago from chicago, schecter elizondo, was a "constitutional student and lawyer" however being of the disposition that the literal meaning of the u.s. constitution is irrelevent, being a "living document", such that the meanings might be tampered or tempered to fit collective whims.

But then so called consututionalist representatives have a platform to not entirely honor the founding document, but to alter it to their own seperate vision of constitutionality.

Do real cowboys even wear cowboy hats anymore? Or is it just the Village People?

I was listening to that Nashville chart smash, "my Daddy was a cornholder."  And you know, you make a stray comment on social media, the Karens.

"what office was your Dad elected to?"

"He cleans the bathrooms."

"Well, bless his heart.  That's so special."

Elmer Fudd his ass into a pot of stew, Cornholder stew.

"No, Richard, I don't want to go in there."


Stuff for PBS Masterpiece or the Wolverine guy.

I was thinking in my diseased brain that I had never really gotten into Les Miserables, with its awkward music and so fourthce, how he had, that John, nicked a crust of bread to feed the street sitter girl and her little squeak.

And he, and in turn, his jailer, sang fruity little hawkword songs.

Anne Hataweg was fine, and maybe, some golfer would buy her an SUV or something.  Some spicy chips or something.

If she put out good, or whatever the dude asked asked her to do, you know, the Tribal Carlton, or what have you, cock-sided little eyes, or whatever, of a diseased turn of mind to put something askew, kind of as it was, John sprited into the clink, over that, made as it were, a "regular".

And singing to his jailer.

Sort of an awkward street walker, lurking sort of youngish female, to wit, some business owner to give her a sub-let, or something, put food in the gullet, or whatever it was she on about.

Look, here's a sideways shot of my body, showing the curve of my ass.

But there were no cellphones in that age, so she was kind of made to beg, I suppose, and that for the just plainest, bullshitest, Cabrina Green loaf bread waste of oven whitebread.

Anne Hattiwig.

And her pip.

Her squeak.

"John Villjohn."

"Row your oar faster, boy."

"I ain't been nobody's boy in a few decades, you chud."

And then the lash for him, it was.

anyway, the thing about the CFL

Eff you

Take the lower case, Serif family "f".

Right next to it, like the old life partner, or timber company partner, whatever:

the uppercase "J" character.

But rotated along the horizontal axis, all the way from downtown, up turned.

You get a little quaint letter-picture of a light bulb.

Under that, a little screw down to the bored plank of a furniture item,

and its a light bulb!

Watt? Watt? Did you hear that I hate Nicole?

"They" said some motherfucker at the Horsepital had a collectible watch, a relic from something, and I said, I wasn't worried about that, venture capitalist guys those, putting money in holes and so forth, billing from licensed vendors, like when you get three xray bills from offices you've never heard of, and doctors you've never seen.

I'm letting this motherfuck just come on down.

Fucked if I'm fixing it.

A big crater.

Like the hole, that monument cascading water thing they built as the 9/11 monument.

I was considered, on a listing site, without my consent, to be a 9/11 expert, and yet the most I ever did was critique media pieces about 9/11, making me, not an expert, but a critic.

Anyway, between the gourmet food in the guts, and the little flacid metrosexual peckermeat, dude had giant white cross belt buckle, and the world's biggest whore was staring at me.

I say worlds biggest whore, I couldn't prove it, she didn't do me, but I suppose mathematically, if she balled everyone but me, she's a pretty big slut.

And I suppose the correct terminology is slut, because whores demand payment.  That one doesn't do that.

Its more for the thrill of the chase, the carrot dangling in front of the nose, the raw chicken held up for the gator, or the porkchop for the greyhound.

Migrants will be streaming over the border, as the say.  "Open Borders" you know, and all that, just watching the whole thing writhe and turmoil amongst itself, stumble-mouthed and all.

How about some hot chips you cocksucker lesbian cumrag?

How about an insensate cunt-rind that just sits there polluting the air?  Does it matter how they couch these asinine debates?

And for those that missed the earlier iteration of the blog, I reiterate that well-worn refrain:

"Eat shit and die, Nicole Wallace."

not for revernce, per se, but conscience

As it was, a great certain, crimson faceplant and little green men from the pleiades beniggling oprah beyond the ranges of farthest lucidity.

I read of God, sort of a divinely inspired dictum that of inspiration over purest doctrine, the worship hour transcending weeks of Bible study, flinging out a whole church van full of theology texts, in favor of a move of the spirit.

In a fit of obsolescence, various quotings and thumb-pokings at the future.


And so it remains that such things as these, are for a time, and nothing more, ashes and dust, and so forth, a bit of dust to be brushed off the flag.

This and not too much more.

In the Bizarro Universe, he looked real horrorshow, an entire universe.  And they sent Hulk into space, he conquered a planet by kicking everyone's behind, then they made him leader, and he came back.

Things happen, you know.  Not for some of us, but for others, maybe.  "But not for you, gunslinger..."

You know.

And eventually we stop whittling, and start acting, by now have we not assuaged a pattern from all this?

By now?

Another year?

I say to the firmament, I've seen enough and its time to spark doings instead of bloviatings, and reach for a bold country called the future, and "undiscovered country", and yes, pattern enough to build a whole universe of nothings, waitings, neverminds, and friends that wear couch covers.

Quite enough.

Time to live, as we live, not as we go out, to collect the life span in one good little spark and just bunt it out into the heavens.  Nay, to do a bit better in the course of doings than such as the agreement bound and bonded not to divulge, not to divulge, but to make the matter of course, clear.

Psalm 19, Isaiah 42.

"thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle: thou hast subdued under me those that rose up against me.

Thou hast given me the necks of mine enemies; that I might destroy them that hate me.

They cried, but there was none to save them: even unto the Lord, but he answered them not. 

Then I did beat them small as the dust before the wind: I did cast them out as the dirt in the streets.

Thou hast delivered me from the strivings of the people; and thou hast made me the head of the heathen: a people whom I have not known shall serve me."

-Psalm 18(KJV)

"Behold my servant, whom I uphold; mine elect, in whom my soul delighteth; I have put my spirit upon him: he shall bring forth judgment to the Gentiles.

He shall not cry, nor lift up, nor cause his voice to heard in the street.

A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench: he shall bring forth judgment unto truth.

He shall not fail nor be discouraged, till he have set judgment in the earth: and the isles shall wait for his law."

-Isaiah 42(KJV)

A selection from "Terence the Turtle". "Buck-wild."

"Doodle-boy" said Deddy.  "I'll get the wheelbarrah and you, them two old shovels, before your ma sees, make for the back acreage."

Doodle looked confused for a second, perpetually to have an instant of recognition, perpetually too to seem confused as the wheels turned, un-sprung mass and all that, a certain careening in the thinkmeats, as it were, and a common state of the universe and mankind in general.

But we bring certainty from confusion, maybe, and Doodle did too, and he beat-feet for the shovels, then with the old rusty shovels, to the wood, and into it, until at last he turned and couldn't see either Deddy or the house.

So he stopped, and the countenance was surety and not confusion, though he was kind of lost at the moment, but looking sure anyway, a kind of faith in Deddy beyond most other things.


They dug, indeed as was said, some people have loaded guns, and some dig, or some where born rich and some had to dig for it, a sort of clam hunt rapscallion hand-to-mouth in which so many of us Cheevers were born into it; some call it America, and some push for something they call "Universal Basic Income".

The neighborhood thirsty turtle showed, perhaps drawn by the noise, to see what clatter

or chatter


was the matter.

Terence the Friendly and Inquisitive Tortuga, a relic of a more civilized age, perhaps, something of 80 or 90 year old in turtle years, a green prune, that one, somewhere between in the doldrums between forgetfulness and insistence.

Deddy clanged on something and got his hands into it, the substrate, and came up with a skull, laughing.  "Hee hee."

He rolled it to the edge of the clearing, away from all the treasure holes and the old shanty, the old Presbyterian thing or sharecropper palace, Saddams Forbidden Kingdom or whatever the hell, away from that, the grayboard hotel of dust and cockroaches, and it disappeared into the brush, as Deddy overshot the whole thing.


At the In and Out, Clarence sat behind the counter, just kind of hating everything.  

Gerald Hooks came in and cribbed some Hot Chips, and took off before Clarence could get at the pistol, and be damned: he was too nonchalant to call the local police, to baked-in in apathy to call over a 1.89 Hot Chips bag, and generally not giving a fig whether the whole place went to hell or not.

He would have shot Gerald, perhaps out of pure mean-ness, not in some fit of allegiance to his employer, no, not that, but out of pure mean-ness, and not some pride in standing watch over the place; it was just the thing to do, to kill them before they killed you.

Gerald ran and got into the woods, laughing to himself at having got over.

He ran and ran.

Eventually, he hit the clearing, and ignoring Deddy and Doodle over the mounds, he went straight on, and fell right into a hole, hitting his head, twisting and neck and falling unconscious, and that, right beside his bag of Hot Chips.


"Ooh" said Deddy.  "I think my Roy the Rooster soured on mah stomach." He said, wincing, pawing at his navel chasm.  He was talking of his morning cereal, that sometimes it came back on him, came up in unexpected ways, out of some edifice or something, came back unused.

He crossed over to one of the old treasure holes and pulled his pants down, backing-up to the pit, and he shat right into it.

Onto an unconscious Gerald, and none were the wiser.

Shit-assed and unwiped, Deddy cowboy-walked, bow-legged back over to where he had been digging just moments before.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a frond move, and caught sight of Terence rolling the old Civil War skull or whatever back to the edge of the clearing, the skull from earlier.

"Ain't you just independent?"  Deddy said, and Doodle looked where he was looking, and they were both looking at Terence.  Deddy giggled at the unbelievable nature of the thing, that maybe Terence had a message from the universe.  "As loose as a stray foot to the groin, that one, Doodle.  I swear that turtle of yours got trained somewhere."


Deddy and Doodle moved over during the day, from area to area, going about seven or eight feet on each section, Deddy helping Doodle up with each egress, and they got closer to the shanty, the grayboards.

They done digged so much the old grayboard fell right on his foot, and not the meat of the foot, but the end of the shoe, pinioning him down where he had to eventually just let it set and come out the forest with only one shoe, which was but a small sacrifice for hunting his first million dollars, like making an investment on a larger return later, a down payment on opulence and financial independence.


36 rows to the hedge/Moon Night of the Hunter



"Last of a dying breed,
I'm a knowledge seed;
I need action:
that's what I need."

"I'm goan stay high up in the clouds,
gonna keep puntin' that pu**y around,
got plenty of bullets in my bucket
just in case its going down.
I'm a Brooklyn soldja, yes, I'm is,
I'm a skull and bones
and that's danger
I don't give a toot
who's beef it is."

-Legend of the Disheveled Ancient.


In fact, I was thinking to myself, in trench coat and gym socks, leaving the place, I had seen the movie somewhere before, that it seemed so awfully derivative of something of the natural substance of the universe; the tao then?  A common thread?  To pee in the lobby bathroom or go behind the car in the parking lot; I had my mind on my business, to put it all, set to rights, and the lunatic dissipation of tedium, fumblings, kind of reaching around in the dark, the PoughKeepsie Delaware Motel 6, did they leave a light on?

Pamala thanked the SC Democrats, kind of a head cheese before the mice, and such.  And I considered to take the other side, or the Constitution Party, and jump in there, for lack of a better destiny.

Not that I need a destiny, maybe.

Gainful employment, representing the folks, the Cheevers, and the otherwise ignored, rolling-up my sleeves, and all, getting in there to the business of good governance.

But there are other worlds than these, Herbert.


As it were, to the cause, to pursue an idea to its furthest, and without much of a cause for drainage, seepage, and dissonance, reverberations and fair usages and so forth, things being diverted and put to new courses, put to the latest cause.

I told them that 43 had said it at some point, that the US Constitution is a "living document", meaning he can make it mean whatever he wants, the truths are not static, but to be shaped to a particular agendum.

Anyway, the sun was coming up on the new day, and I was thinking about NFT's and trading cards, how the trading card companies have embraced NFT's so well, and I was thinking about doing something of the popular line, for instance, Betty White would have had a few, by virtue of being a news item.  But instead, they have so much hard licensing on the things, branded sets, and I noticed in particular, a WWE on-demand printing of something historical, the unification of a championship, but it was heels instead of faces.

People like to buy the villain cards I ask?

There was a Chud thumping about within the rooms, "goan fill my guts with the good stuffs", and all that, a provincial marm of some repute, known to speak what passes for her unfettered mind.  And that's a tao.

Just like my brainstorming, however useless, is a kind of tao, kind of a headspace of assimilating patterns and imagining new uses for the old tropes.  Heck, in my idea, newspaper would get per-use licensing with the manufacturer and make some extra cash.  For once, someone would care.

My toenails grew, too.

Pretending to care, or otherwise occupying space for a certain time, juicing on water and milk, getting my hydration on between my rooms and the outdoors.

The Dems are right though, and I agree with them that we need to oust the President.

the living trading card set and the living blogger blankly staring at his own itenirary.

"Did you screw Bret Hart?" Asked Jim Ross with a straight face.

Equally serious, Vince responded, "clearly Bret screwed Bret."

My mind reeled.

One thing i like is the synergy between trading cards and nft's, particularly the on demand sets, and i think the Bret dust-up would be cause for a series of NFTs.

Imagine it.  A team on the backend running down licensing and permissions.  Newspaper covers, quotes and so forth.

Popular events and happenings, minutia that transcends sports entered into the trading card arena.  

I particularly like the "dracula owes moon knight money" thing.

I even like the idea of a premium xmen series 2(1991, chris claremont, jim lee) set.  Frame by frame, babies, of one of the best selling comic books of all time.

"Kane was playing with the chemicals."

The little cheever.  Doodlebug. Sawed-off satire of a man, that one.


Indeed i say, of society, that how we treat and care for our kevins, is perhaps indicative, a bellweather, of our treatment of our own familiars, and points to a larger lack of concern in the thoroughfare proper.

Kenny Omega off saving the galaxy, once again.

My standup routine in tulsa got ruined.  I had egg and rotten tomatoes all over my clothing.

"He's a sophisticated f*cker", they lamented, before boredoms and lethargy turned to a spasm of outrage.

Of these and other things, i say to you that i prepare for another week, even as i put to rights the business of the elapsed week.

Mirror Glass Darkly/Weekender: Marcus Aurelius, William Faulkner, and Epictetus.

"Constantly regard the universe as one living being, having one substance and one soul; and observe how all things have reference to one perception, the perception of this one living being; and how all things act with one movement; and how all things are cooperating causes of all things which exist; observe too the continuous spinning of the thread and the contexture of the web."  

-Marcus Aurelius, from the Meditations, George Long translation.


The downfunnelled light from the desklamp struck the reporter across the hips; to the city editor sitting behind the desk the reporter loomed from the hips upward for an incredible distance to where the cadaverface hung against the dusty gloom of the city room's upper spaces, in a green corpseglare as appropriate as water to fish--the raked disreputable hat, the suit that looked as if someone else had just finished sleeping in it and with one coat pocket sagging with yellow copy paper and from the other protruding, folded, the cold violent still damp black



--the entire air and appearance of a last and cheerful stage of what old people call galloping consumption--the man whom the editor believed(certainly hoped) to be unmarried, though not through any knowledge or report but because of something which the man's living being emanated--a creature who apparently never had any parents either and who will not be old and was never a child, who apparently sprang fullgrown and irrvocably mature out of some violent and instantaneous transition like the stories of dead steamboatsmen and mules, if it were learned that he had a brother for instance it would create neither warmth nor surprise anymore than finding the mate to a discarded shoe in a trashbin--of whom the editor had heard how a girl in a Barricade Street crib said that it would be like assessing the invoked spirit at a seance held in a rented restaurant room with a covercharge.

-William Faulkner, from Pylon


Of all existing things some are in our power, and others are not in our power.  In our power are thought, impulse, will to get and will to avoid, and, in a word, everything which is our own doing.  Thing not in our power include the body, property, reputation, office, and, in a word, everything which is not our own doing.  Things in our power are by nature free, unhindered, untrammelled; thing not in our power are weak, servile, subject to hindrance, dependent on others.  Remember then that if you imagine that what is naturally slavish is free, and what is naturally another's is your own, you will be hampered, you will mourn, you will be put to confusion, you will blame gods and men; but if you think that only your own belongs to you, and that what is another's is indeed another's, no one will ever put compulsion or hindrance on you, you will blame none, you will accuse none, you will do nothing against your will, no one will harm you you will have no enemy, for no harm can touch you.

-Epictetus, The Enchiridion


"Sherminator: Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye." Prestidigitations and Prognostications of a Defense Department A.I.


"You're a Terminator.  The government needs you.  Where's the old magic?  Where's that Robocop?"

"Robocop works in Detroit."

It was a thing that was meant to compute GPS and fuel loads and all that, sort of an advanced trope of the old woodgrain Alcorn or Tandy.  It was meant to make life easier, and somewhere along the way, it made a statistical calculation that man can't live triggered or upset, if he's dead.

Which is true, but you know, defense contractors and all, the West Point boys making the big decisions and all.  Mercs and Mooks lurking, and all, and then they're talking about getting the OCP corporation involved with the A.I. programmers?

"Mind if I, zip this up?"  What till she looks at your junk before you take the big swing.

"Canoe fry, Bobby?"

"I'd buy that for a dollar."

August 29 1997 was the original Judgement Day, you know, and they showed people happy, bullsh*tting around in public parks and doing 1997 things, watching Martin or whatever.

Then Skynet.

"We were on the drink, down to the wire."

And when they mentioned "light", as Clark mentioned, it was something of the intense light of hydrogen bombs, such that even other civilizations across the heaven could detect from Earth, across the stellar desolation.

Clark wrote it out as a thing called "Childhood's End", that the Others had noticed nuclear tests on Earth, such as Bikini Atoll and the Nevada testing sites.  Even the suspected natural occurring fission somewhere deep in Syberia.

And from the week, aside from the movie non-sense:

*Seth kicked Cody in the titty.

*Kevin Bojangled his Jimmy John into the Safer Barrier.

*Sean Hannity's text messages were on the national news.

*I slipped a photo with a girl-on-girl porn scene by the filters on Meta, and in a fit of conscience, removed it on my own initiative.  I was told later, "they said you pulled it out."

*ATL Chopping On and undefeated in the month.

*My butthole.


Empty Parking Lot of the Soul, a Spiritual Desolation that compares only to the most strange.

I found myself in a moment of spiritual clarity in a moment of intense spiritual fog, spiritual night, the dark night of the soul; late night on the porch.  I remembered labeling myself, "the destroyer" in past years, faithless lost years.

Jangle, jangle.

Toilet handle.

Flushing those


I remembered that, and I tried to make amends with my maker on that, I repented of my own past, a condition with which so many are encumbered.  And I was thinking, the recompense, is that so many too, time beats our asses, in the long run, and as is said, the Lord is above time, immune to time, which is part of the "mystery" what King David and others called the "glory".

It became, laid-open for me, the errors, the minutia, the complaints of others, how they had wasted their time, and to me, how I had wasted my time, and in a mix of fury and confusion, a frustrated child flailing, how I had so often pissed away so much good without thought.  Flushed it away without thought, that which was imbued through some kind of galactic balance.

But I relent.

I repent.

I take a rest.

I get my buttocks back up for another round.

Not dead, I continue.

Novel Fragment: Doodle and the Teatro Del Absurd.

Deddy was a man.  Doodle was a Cheever, a little up-and-coming man, and man was something made so much of so often, but scarcely ever understood.  Momma was an Unfulfilled Modern Woman Longing For Her Next Adventure: not Doodle's words, but how Momma described herself on social media.  Uncle Robert said Momma just needed to get a tattoo.

He was looking up a movie, was doodle, on his tablet, on the miraculous internet; it was a movie made in just a few days, and on a dare.  Someone with means had dared another friend with means to make a movie, as if to say, "bet you can't", or "if you don't you have no hair on your balls."  It was hosted on something French or something, "Teatro Del Absurd".

Anyway, the lady was sitting there pawing at her hair or something that movie women of the late 60's did, and suddenly, the soundtrack kind of scratches and there is a guy with a french farmer hat, a guy looking like a late night disc jockey, standing there looking in the window.

Sex Offender Handyman.  Maybe.

And sudden-like, the footage quit on a dime-quit spooling-up, pre-caching or whatever it did on the backend, in all the binary ones and zeroes, and it kinda stopped.

"Well, darnit to fudgesticks" said Doodle, closing the tablet app, and gently laying the tablet on its plastic back.

"You want a fudgestick?" said Momma coming from the Open Kitchen.

You are a fudgestick, m'lady thought Doodle.

"Internet's down, gonna call the company" said Momma, regarding Doodle with a kind of blank appraisal.


You didn't go outside unless the internet was down, and now it was, for Doodle hadn't marked the little exclamation mark on his wifi indicator; no, you didn't go outside when there was internet.  It was like the Boomers said, they usedta hang out outside, stealing cars and rummaging in dumpsters, selling their crummy childhood like it was really something.

Doodle wanted no part of that, and indeed, marked their results, where such a grandiose childhood got them in the end, scratching their way along in adulthood and Constantly Complaining to their piers about things.

So it wasn't like they made that look like a better way.

So Doodle was outside, listening to his own breath, road noise from streets over, and so forth.  He caught sight of raccoon darting through the back fence, and he was suddenly sure he wanted no part of nature, and that starting from a lack of impetus to begin with: he wanted to go back inside and cover himself in hand sanitizer and forget things like raccoons existed, things that rummaged in the garbage for food, at roadkill and things like that, nastiness.

He was in the sideyard where the air conditioner sounded like helicopter in flight.  He had a stray thought that he didn't know before what color the neighbors' houses were, and he wanted to smile, thinking he didn't know, and it didn't matter anyway, but it was right there, like something on a dinner plate that they always put there, like the lettuce leaf on tuna salad or something, something they put there and he would just leave it sitting, like extra knives and forks, or something, or maybe when the lady at the window hands you too many ketchup packets.

But there was something, a movement caught out the corner of his eye--

a man.

He had been warned so much about strangers, lawless perverts roaming, hunting, and it seemed like there were always what they clinically referred to as Soft Targets, and Doodle was, at his tender age, a Soft Target, and he was well aware.  Do Not Talk To Them.  Do Not Go With Them.  Accept No Items Offered By Them.

So he absconded to the rear of the house, to the cellar door and went inside, into the darkness, where eventually, after bumping his knees and toes a few times on the storage shelves, he found the chain for the one 60-Watt bulb and yanked on it, then let go, in the trick way that those old lights worked.

The light came on as the chain went back in place.

He looked around, hoping for somewhere to hide, but nothing seemed obvious.  There were shelves and things, the oval body of a charcoal grill that he couldn't fit in, and the washer and dryer, and he went past all that towards the dark corner of the thing where there was just random crapped piled up, dusty old stuff no one ever used, touched or otherwise gave any regard to.

There was a bumping at the outside door, and Doodle was sure it was The Sex Offender.

He turned, and his vision immediately went to the washing machine.

He clamored on top, then realized he couldn't open the door, so he climbed-off, opened the door and climbed over and into the thing, where the big agitator pole, a giant plastic thing with something like motorboat fins on it was right smack-dab in the middle of the thing, and all he could do was curl on his side, and kind of hug between the outside wall and the agitator pole.

It sounded like a seashell in there, and it was reasonably dark, stuffy.  He could hear footsteps and shuffling sand on the concrete floor of the basement: someone had come inside.

He heard it clearly, from outside: "God that sounds awful.  What's he doing in there?"

The door opened and there was Momma, looking disappointed at her wayward child.

"Back to the real world, Sluggo" said Momma, relieved.  She shook her and smiled, at the hijinks of her child, whatever it was that passed for dangers and pleasures in the mind of a child.  "The man's here fixing the internet."

"Oh", said Doodle, and took her outstretched hand, climbing from the infernal laundry drum.

Abominable Suckrag of Life: The Probablistic Encyclopedic of the Dubiously Fortuitous

There was, ahead across the tarmac, a buzzard nibbling a snake, and I thought to myself, "hello, America", and the thing traversed across the menthol smoke towards the volunteer oaks, distant; the old dream not dead, but perhaps sleep-deprived and a bit frazzled from being fed rank non-sense.

I was gonna offer the mountain woman a back rub, and I asked of her well-being, her frame of mind, and so forth, her general outlook on things.  She mumbled non-commital and I thought to further, along, to myself, by and by, that the pure shock value of offering a back rub to a stranger, a myself, dubious, markedly strange even to down to my insoles, would provoke a sort of honesty from the lady which is uncommon, but also, even further, that I have no right to demand such from a stranger.

Everybody tends to get more honest on their knees.

But their was the curve and the horse place, and all, Queeftown, and a red concourse of shape with an also strange grayscale outer laying, Randall Queef Orton, and all that, the dream does not die, but maybe is, as said, deprived of sleep, a frazzle, frayed by its on in and out breathing stupidities, guiles and stratagems and the easiest of A and B, what seems the straightest line, and always what I've said:

Simple and easy can be too entirely distinct things; the two do not necessarily overlap and intermix all the time in nature.

And the nicotine film, besmirching Africa across my windshield, I keep brushing at it.

Roots-type supercharger, a Whipple or something, an Eaton?, you flip the toggle there's kind of a jerk, and no buzzard on the pavement is safe then, and I'm sitting there thinking you know, nature's own cleaning crew, don't want to kill them, but not necessarily willing to aim at the ditch to avert that, I'd kill them, send them to wherever eaters of the dead go upon their own demise, and its like too, what Paul said, in the concourse of fellowship, that if we survive by eating our own, be mindful unless we ourselves are devoured, in turn.

Grubbing her shoulders, both of us in our knickers.  A good chance to have an unguarded moment, especially now that Hinckley's out, you know?  As we say, nature will take its course, and all.  A fox in the hen house means chicken for dinner, as was said.

That buzzard, though, kind of a will to have at it, a will to feed and meet increase on the thing, king of a self-evident non-thinking thing about it, and its too stupid to say its instinct, something innate, inborn, stamped on the folds of its little thinkmeats

contemplation and meditation: tonic for the sol.


Standing over the prostrate form of Howard Kirvonnen, I had the epiphany that my conscious may yet in fact have blind spots.

Oh fet.

Motormouth/Machinegunrap/AwesomeShowGreatJob: Da Doo Doo


Rosencranz and Gildenstern of the frisson moderne', frisson publick.

Wyeth Tarn: a novel sidelight, Profit/Prophet's diligent and ignorant help.

"It hurts when I pull on it."  The early wheat danced like firework sparkle sticks.

"Well, then, Chud, don't pull on it."

Chud spat and looked stoically in the distance.  "But its there; that be mostly why I pull on it."

"I know" said, Seaver.  One could imagine, a civilized man, get into the diseased mind of a bad sort, kind of float over the waters or something, and get a sense, skim the surface, maybe easier than a less civilized man could understand his better; but mockery and emulation was different, a vice versa.

"Wouldn't pull on it if I won't there, is the way" said Chud, feeling over his appendix and lower intestines.  Kind of an ambiguity of a Foghat Zepplin Skynyrd Friend, that was Chud, to be a rock and not roll, shadows taller than his soul: The Manchild Chud.

Sawgrass and feverfew whispered in the interminable silence, and Chud might have been thinking of anything; but a carton of frozen foodstuff waiting at home, and bread.

Good bread.

The best modern chemistry could mass-produce at least cost, and put at a price point that made it, not luxury, but needful and available enough at once.

A thing Americans call dinner.

I've seen them do that sh*t, too.

"Once" said Seaver.  "When I was little." He looked down, then looked away, over to the side, towards the furrows near the hedgerow where the grasses were intermingling.  "I had a pimple on my neck.  Mummie said it would hurt if I touched it, might even take the heat, but I couldn't keep my curious little mitts off it."

"heh heh" chuckled Chud.  He had marked Seaver looking around, like O'radfaldt said, headshrinkers indicated that marked when an orator was coming with lies.  It was like Nancy Pelosi's blank stare during comments, but something much less practiced, unconscious.

"Purple and red: 'livid' as the poet says" said Seaver.

An engine came to life in the distance, one of the negroes who drove the tractors for the crew, "put fire in it".  It had a stupid sluggish rhythm: the engine, that is.  It was that unique something of a groan that only diesel engines could do, and of that, unintelligible, but perfectly indicative to a practiced ear, few that those were, like Paul talking about the spirit making groans and utterances in the good book.

"My problem ain't a wound" said Chud.  "You could be someone's grandmother, having that selfsame turn of mind, a kind of sin in the briar patch, bitter tea kind of rank nonsense that don't help me, and at best, makes me feel evermore like I did something despicable."

"Being about problems you observe" said Seaver, "I would venture right and wrong don't enter into it, but maybe the sin of convenience."

"Maybe I was bored" said Chud, his eyes narrowing, something like a cloud coming over his countenance.  "Maybe she was in a red dress.  Maybe it was Paris."

"You are the gayest farmhand of all time" said Seaver.  "One of these others could be doing three guys at once, and you're still gayer than all that."

Chud turned to leave.  He stopped after a step and said, "was it Paris?  Was it the ability to imagine a red dress?"  One never knew where such accusations(j'ccuse) came from, a turd placed here or there, or date rape or something.  It was precipitous among strangers, and there were no more desperate strangers than the celebrity class, while the B and C tier were all philosophers and orators, "entrepreneurs" and authors.  The obligatory fashion line, and even for some, the least imaginative, a branded barbecue sauce.

"You were in the wrong to begin with, before all that Nancy stuff" said Seaver.  "Because you play with your penis.  Straight guys have women for that stuff."  Sometimes, in the grand scheme, a nugget of truth hurt more than a thousand vicious lies, like if I wrote from the perspective of the devil, but did it so very good that no one could tell the difference, without checking the tag on my underwear that is, no one knew; no one would care, Cheever.

"Oh" said Chud.  "Well.  Drown me in the crick and bury my pocket knife in the orchard.  I'm done for the day."

Seaver spat again, stared at it spreading across the sandy drive for about a millisecond, then stared at the front of the acreage where the access road came in.  He was counting time, waiting abominably, a kind of dubious ticking of some mechanism in the spirit, letting seconds stretch and fly across the face of his Casio wristwatch, even though that was digital, but those seconds butterflied and gelled and spread like butter on bread, covered the distance between arrival and exodus, the daily mileau, the daily thing where he counted his time because he didn't quite trust his boss to count his time.

Never mind Seaver never got his own time right, he never could master the knack of figuring the exact minute, but instead indeterminate, randomly placed glances at the dot matrix display, the little green screen on his wrist.  He had that, and the landowner, Prophet/Profit was the sorry ass boy of a good old farmer that built the thing good, and Prophet/Profit had a smartwatch that was like some Robocop bullsh*t that monitored egress, elapsed work hours and a myriad other things, including the daily tally of his own footsteps: to and from the 2500, that and nothing more.

To only himself, Chud said, watching one of the negro equipment operators cross between two outbuildings, the tractor houses, "he tasks me with the impossible".

Mirror Glass Darkly: Seneca on God, Kate Chopin on passion, Thoreau on Slavery, and Marcus Aurelius on the Universe.

I will govern my life and thoughts as if the whole world were to see the one and read the other, for what does it signify to make anything a secret to my neighbor, when to God, who is the searcher of our hearts, all our privacies are open?  

-Seneca on God


"Do you remember--in Assumption, Calyxta?"  he asked in a low voice broken by passion.  Oh! she remembered: for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight.  If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail.  Now--well, now--her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.

They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms.  She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon.  Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world.

-Kate Chopin


They who have been bred in the school of politics fail now and always to face the facts.  Their measures are half measures and make-shifts, merely.  They put off the day of settlement indefinitely, and meanwhile the debt accumulates.  Though the Fugitive Slave Law had not been the subject of discussion on that occasion, it was at length faintly resolved by my townsmen, at an adjourned meeting, as I learn, that the compromise compact of 1820 having been repudiated by one of the parties, 'Therefore, the Fugitive Slave Law must be repealed'.  But this is not the reason why an iniquitous law should be repealed.  The face which the politicians faces is merely, that there is less honor among thieves than was supposed, and not the fact that they are thieves.

Again it happens that the Boston Court House is full of armed men, holding prisoner and trying a MAN, to find out if he is not really a SLAVE.  Does any one think that Justice or God awaits Mr. Loring's decision?  For him to sit there deciding still, when this question is already decided from eternity to eternity, and the unlettered slave himself, and the multitude around, have long since heard and assented to the decision, is simply to make himself ridiculous.  We may be tempted to ask from whom he received his commission, and who he is that received it; what novel statutes he obeys, and what precedents are to him of authority.  Such an arbiter's very existence is an impertinence.  We do not ask him to make up his mind, but to make up his pack.

I listen to hear the voice of a Governor, Commander-In-Chief of the forces of Massachusetts.  I hear only the creaking of crickets and the hum of insects which now fill the summer air.  The Governor's exploit is to review the troops on muster days.  I have seen him on horseback, with his hat off, listening to a chaplain's prayer.  It chances that is all I have ever seen of a Governor.  I think that I could manage to get along without one.  If he is not of the least use to prevent my being kidnapped, pray of what important use is he likely to be to me?  When freedom is most endangered, he dwells in deepest obscurity.

-Henry David Thoreau on Slavery in Massachusetts


Willingly give thyself up to Clotho, one of the Fates, allowing her to spin thy thread into whatever things she pleases.

Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered.

Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change the things which are and to make new things like them.  For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.  But thou art thinking only of seeds which are cast into the earth or into a womb: but this is a very vulgar notion.

-Marcus Aurelius

KRU: If I should forget thee, my Rockingham! On Mister Doug and the company picnic.

Things had got hairy when I worked at the Rockingham Division.  They were talking about "uniquely qualified to work the other side of the street" and there were moles for other departments and all kinds of shady stuff.  One of the supervisors was always trying to take my lunch away from me.

But I hid it under my leg.


Up there, so close to the Canadian border, I was surprised by the quality of the food.  I knew about the maple abundance, but I was having other stuff, like church hotdogs, fried porkchops, and some of the best adapted Chinese, Americanized Chinese, I think I'd ever had.

My company handler would get really agitated about shrimp.  He would insist, "no shrimp".

Darnell wouldn't wear hearing protection in the server room, because he was just a balls-out kind of guy, but the technique worked for him, and his productivity remained among the best in the division.

Mister Doug transferred me pretty good once it was clear I was at the end of my rope there; he was good about that, like an iron-on patch for a tee shirt, he just got it did when the situation crystallized into a situation that was not suitable for anyone, either me or the company, nor his corporate climber prospects.  So only at the point where it benefitted all parties involved, did he pull the dipswitch on that.

Mister Doug on the other hand, did not always do, despite my lousy rhetoric, what was best for his career, and only best for his purpose.  It was a little d democrat thing, a kind of propitious turn for everyone that he was in it for.

There was a picnic when we opened the new office up there, and all the clerical personnel came, and it was like, Keystone Cops or something, people tripping over themselves to make a good impression on Mister Doug.  There was one, a recent mother, who lamented sadly, "but he's not my Daddy."

And I was like, "no, but keep manifesting.  Speak your reality into being.  Speak your dream into being."

We had the whole thing going, and you know, big tent, and all.  We had a screen set up for When A Stranger Calls Back.  While we were watching that, the clerical people came up to me, and I thought, that maybe to two or three of them, I was like Axel Rose or Stephen Tyler, pure rock star because of my haphazard forays through company business.

They may have envied or idolized me, but that thought saddened me, for all the pure thought I put into the stuff that was crossing their desks.  It wasn't "garbage in, garbage out", but a matter of garbage reproducing itself.  But it was so odd an experience, one putting me in a bag, the other trying to reach in my bag, one wanting to use it as a vomit bag.

Kirvonnen has cassettes of Classic Rock A-Sides in his "truck that time forgot".

I mean, did that young adminstrative assistant want Mister Doug to be her Dad?  He had invited me to ride his motorcycle.  And wild horses couldn't have dragged me kicking and screaming to that.  Not that he wasn't one of the most interesting people I've ever known, and helaciously skilled at storytelling.  His genius was all casual wear, instead of wing tips or pocket protectors.

Anyway, near the end of the movie, there was a wind storm.  He was hanging on to his wife, because the wind had caught hold of her skirt tails, and she, after some trying to no avail, was pulled into the air, deposited somewhere in the diaspora between Gibson, Dobbins Heights, Ellerbe, and some have pictures as far away as Aberdeen, proving positive she really got flung around, tossed this way and that, through the air.

Mister Doug don't get flapped, but the truth?  Heavy is the head, you know.

MGD: Plants in the yard, the wild climber and the "knockout roses".



One, so called "knockout roses" sold leading up to Mother's Day across my area.  The Knockout Roses planted in 2010, or thereabouts, by a dutiful son, for his aging mother, inherited, the care of, by me, who tries, but is woefully uncertain about pruning.

However, I plan to get serious about pruning before next blooming season.  Perhaps even go for special feeding for the blooming plants.

The next rose has climbed twelve feet into the sky, and dropped a tendril of blooms from high in a dark plum tree.  The stalk along the ground is woefully unimpressive, at worst, and not much different, at best, and the string of blooms circa Mother's day is impressive to me.  This one is a wild climber, receiving no care, neither watering and so far no pruning.

MIrror Glass Darkly(weekender): VIrginia Consitution of 1776, Solzhenitsyn, and Witness Lee(on the Christian Inner Life)

Virginia Constitution of 1776

Whereas George the third, King of Great Britain and Ireland, and elector of Hanover, heretofore
intrusted with the exercise of the kingly office in this government, hath endeavoured to prevent,
the same into a detestable and insupportable tyranny, by putting his negative on laws the most
wholesome and necessary for the public good:
By denying his Governors permission to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless
suspended in their operation for his assent, and, when so suspended neglecting to attend to them
for many years:
By refusing to pass certain other laws, unless the persons to be benefited by them would
relinquish the inestimable right of representation in the legislature:
By dissolving legislative Assemblies repeatedly and continually, for opposing with manly
firmness his invasions of the rights of the people:
When dissolved, by refusing to call others for a long space of time, thereby leaving the political
system without any legislative head:
By endeavouring to prevent the population of our country, and, for that purpose, obstructing, the
laws for the naturalization of foreigners:
By keeping among us, in times of peace, standing armies and ships of war:
By effecting to render the military independent of, and superior to, the civil power:
By combining with others to subject us to a foreign jurisdiction, giving his assent to their
pretended acts of legislation:
For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing taxes on us without our consent:
For depriving us of the benefits of trial by jury:
For transporting us beyond seas, to be tried for pretended offences:For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate
for us in all cases whatsoever:
By plundering our seas, ravaging our coasts, burning our towns, and destroying the lives of our
By inciting insurrections of our fellow subjects, with the allurements of forfeiture and
By prompting our negroes to rise in arms against us, those very negroes whom, by an inhuman
use of his negative, he hath refused us permission to exclude by law:
By endeavoring to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose
known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions of
By transporting, at this time, a large army of foreign mercenaries, to complete the works of
death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy
unworthy the head of a civilized nation:
By answering our repeated petitions for redress with a repetition of injuries: And finally, by
abandoning the helm of government and declaring us out of his allegiance and protection.
By which several acts of misrule, the government of this country, as formerly exercised under
the crown of Great Britain, is TOTALLY DISSOLVED.


Alexander Solzhenitsyn, from One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

"Look, boys, it's wolf eat wolf here.  That's the law of the tundra, you know?  But you can stay alive here, too.  The ones who don't, that's the ones who lick stuff out of bowls, the ones who trust the doctors to save their skins, the ones who squeal on us."

That was very fine for squealers, but it wasn't true.  They were the ones who really made out.  Made out on other people's blood.


Witness Lee on Christian Conduct:

I recall a story of two brothers, both Christians, who had a
rice paddy. Rice paddies need to be irrigated. Their paddy was
halfway up a hill; others were lower down. In the great heat of
the day they drew water and filled their paddy. In the evening
they went to sleep. But while they were sleeping, the farmer
lower down the hill dug a hole in the irrigation channel sur-
rounding the brothers’ field and let all the water f low into his
field. The next morning the brothers saw what had happened,
but they said nothing. Again they filled the channels with
water. The following day they saw that their field had been
emptied again, but they still did not say anything. They were
Christians and felt that they should endure in silence. This
happened every day for a week. Some people suggested that
they stand guard in their field at night to catch the thief and
beat him. They did not say a word in response; they just
endured because they were Christians.

According to the human concept, they should have been
walking joyfully, happily, and victoriously because they were
enduring in silence, even after drawing water daily and
having it stolen so many times. But strangely enough, even
though they drew water every day and remained silent while
others stole it, they did not have peace in their hearts. They
then went to see a brother with some experience in the Lord’s
work and said, “We do not understand why we have no peace
after enduring for seven or eight days. Christians should
endure and allow others to steal from them, but we do not
have peace in our hearts.” This brother was very experienced.

He said, “You have not done enough, nor have you endured
enough. You should f irst f ill the f ield of the person who has
stolen your water. Then you can f ill your own f ield. Go and
try this, then see whether you will have peace within.” They
both agreed. The next day they got up earlier than usual and
f illed the f ield of the person who had stolen their water,
before f illing their own f ield. Strangely enough, they became
more and more joyful as they f illed that person’s f ield. When
they came to f ill their own f ield, they had peace in their
hearts. They were at peace with the thought of allowing that
person to steal their water. After two or three days of doing
this, the person who had stolen their water came to apologize,
saying, “If this is Christianity, I want to hear about it.”



On the eve of Tranqilo's greatest victory yet, a community turned to outrage.

In Hederbohr Parrish, they found a woman in a black trash bag.  This was the night Tranqilo won the Atlantic Championship in the ICW event at the Peanut Dome.  There were families, drunken men, teenagers all out and about the night, in the pines, people eating hotdogs, men drinking beer from plastic cups.

William Hostling, president of the parrish, kind of a superintendent of the county, began a series of mindboggling news conferences.  "We need to have a cook out and talk this through yall".  It was true that certain murders of ethnic component, and an age component, and a heat component, didnt carry the pure force of the murder of the youngling white woman.

One of the fledgling right wing news agencies was doing live tv and streaming spots at one of the local convenience stores.  Now, these stores didn't sell gas, cause of the moratorium in the county, but the drinks were cold, and there were Debbie cakes.

And now, a right-wing commentator.

"Hederbohr Massacre: How many more?" Was the headline.

The good stuff made it to streaming, the stray curse words, and incidental interviews from passersby.  Such was the way, either you had a job or pension, or you took the alternative route: meth and/or opiods, though they tended to focus their study on one at the time.  The and/or was rare, and only for people with 401k.

The best moment perhaps, "aww, somebuddy tossed-off a perfectly good white woman."  That went viral and that guy was a star of social media.  It became a gif in the options menu on Facebook for comments.

They were some, spending their gas money, some tossing tennisballs against the wall, and other sundry idlers of the hours of live coverage.


Common Sense by Bayne Tomasi: Govco as "cosmopolitan nutspray"

"People that live on an island are generally shifty and untrustworthy, like Piers."

-Thomas Paine

We have, within ourselves, a kind of sovereign identity of our own, our popcorn and sugar in the morning, deer and squirrel kills; they cannot and will not do what we do, but to sit and reap the benefit?

Perhaps we could get in better relation with old George, have a "come to Jesus" an altar call, get some sinners delivered over to the fiery furnace, and explain that we don't pay taxes for his benefit, but for the benefit of what is a fledgling, youngling land of enthusiasm and dreams.

But there are eldritch things, in the New England woods, that we do not talk about in the daylight, and only the Miskatonic University, Scott Faulkner drinking on horseback and such, there are things out there, so called "Indian mounds" built and abandoned in favor of traveling with the Buffalo.

It's like, at some point, they went on a mindset retreat and never came back, those pesky Injuns.

Scott Faulkner describing mule and oxen, there hind-ends in his face, "tilling another man's lands", at Parchman.  A rought time of it, maybe, to some, but not to all, for some yearn indeed for the life institutional, the dreadful surety of the whole thing.

That was back when all of the New World was a seminary, and the continent was stuck on John Bunyon and the Book of Common prayer; I'll eat my popcorn and sugar, mayhap, shoot squirrels and deer, trade for "Indian" corn.

We erase our ethnicity, this "eurocentrism" in an effort to adopt their computer app forms of government; that the president or the chief in the senate is a brick, that and nothing more.

What is all of government, but a kind of cosmopolitan nutspray into posterity?


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...