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

Newsnation's Crown Prince of Show-Hair Leland Vittert greets Chris.  "Bitch, please", he says, then takes a long sip of his chocolate milk. Dan Abrams said it, I reckon, that Newsnation quests for that large blotch of America that sits near the middle of the political spectrum, and this while the others are deadleft or solidright. It's a broad swath, if they can catch the attention of the masses, and the hiring of Chris Cuomo seems a nice catalyst to garner them attention.  We'll see how Chris does at his new home, what he can build towards that "middle".  Raping and pillaging aside, I enjoyed his work on CNN and thought he did it with a hint of that Italian Lamborghini drama, through commentary and interviews, and pretending that Don Lemon was a likeable person. But Don visited him during his distress.  So.  The Thorn In The Paw and all that. It's just the hope that the "news product" isn't milquetoast or lukewarm, but actually speaks

Maybe early in our lives, those first months, we lack something of that spark of consciousness, and mostly, we don't retain those memories.  Or so we think. We are the stream. We were the stream. And then. We learn and take on information, and we become like the stone, and the stream in part is that information that has seemingly weighed us down.  We are in turned being acted on by the stream, being worn smooth. Being worn smooth is maturity in its many splendorous descriptions. I saw two kittens, me the first human they've seen.  They didn't blow and hiss, but stared, as if in wonder, and I spoke to them, soothingly, or what passes for soothing from me.  I wasn't singing Body Count lyrics. Somewhere in the indefinite space between innocence and experience, then, thought and action intermingling, charcoals on a page to be smoothed by time.   I suspect that without any fear, the Tao would have been with the innocent one, and myself, the experienced one, seeing the little

  Some sketches I put up for sale.  Above is a rose and below is a budding sunflower.  I really took to the pencil, using either an HB graphite sketch pencil, or a Papermate mechanical pencil with a comfort grip.  No matter either of those I use, I have my Staedtler white eraser, anyway. I've also been building a small mountain of colored pencils, but so far, not much experimentation with those.  The mountain is the variety, such as "Colors of the World" and a few other sets, 24 and 30-pencil sets. My Etsy shop, sketches.   You can donate to the site tip jar by clicking this link, if so inclined.

 FOR THE DURATION, KATRINA'S VOICE will be filtered as if she were recorded on a telephone, but on screen, she's in the room with the crew. CONFERENCE ROOM RAWLEY: Impressive resume, extensive study and internships. KATRINA: Thank you sir.  I think I have a lot to offer this company. HOYLE: Right, right. GREER: You've given us a lot to consider, Miss Watson. HOYLE:(CLOSE ON his greenscreen CASIO digital watch) My bowl of beans is calling me. GREER: We'll look all this over. RAWLEY: What are the beans calling you?  Did we decide anything? KATRINA: Well.... The sound of a startled chicken fills the room briefly, an "alarum" GREER: Lunch break.  You pegged it almost dead-on, Hoyle. RAWLEY: Dinner's on. KATRINA: UHM.  Thank you all so much for your time and consideration. RAWLEY: Whatever. BREAK ROOM.  A sex swing, like a giant hammock is in the corner.  There is an outline of a black pentacle in a red blotch on one wall.  Otherwise, its tables and chairs and

  What this is? Like Marcus Aurelius, examine it severally, ask "what is it in and of itself?" In an exploded view, details merge and blend into splotches of color, making my cellphone camera seem like an artist's palette.  And so much, nature is our forte, our reason du'tre. In this photo the view has been exploded somewhat, like 200-250 percent and cropped to look predominantly like gibberish. But this specimen lurks near a farmer's field, uncomfortably nestled between rows of crops, and the wild unfettered pines. Note how each leaf is just a singular spit of color, and it combines to make the whole piece.

I tromped down the roadside, coming up to those granite boulders they use, the road people, some kind of anti-spoilage abutment or something, and I was going in a line next to those down past the milkweeds and other things.  The poke salad and stuff, flower-tassels like fingers reaching to grasp the air. I come to the crick, by and by, a spit of clear water, run almost like the old dishwater would run in the extra line back in the day, clear and true like the brutal honesty of barking a shin or something. There was an old bent-up trash drum, a democrat campaign ad, and an old tire, looking maybe of the old era buick lesabre or pontiac bonnevile kind, replete with the white stripe, and that with its own tiger line of dryrot running through it, real and true. A brim had apparently committed "suicide by fisherman", and lay kaput near the edge of the weeds.  And me without my "sportsman gloves", I stuck a twig in its lazed mouth, between slack long-dead jowls, and lifte

The universe is there, I am there, and I and the universe are both there, waiting and watching, glancing at each other now and then, probably to just to prove to each other, and ourselves, that we exist. There was a sub-condition of Being, this "Being On The Web", and not necessarily using a network Poker app, or playing a FPS on the phone, or even re-enacting Monty Python scenes along the local streets, but a condition of silence, uncodified, a kind of spray like flotsam of being. I could have bored you all with "Dems Ditch Biden In Growing Numbers" thing all week, just to burn a little content creating time, but I decided to talk about Being and Nuttingness. To not exist, it was said, was to be in error, and to be alive, one simply had to ask the question of whether he or she was alive, and by virtue of asking, sans an answer, the query resolved into truth, unlike the absence of being, which reduces to error, and that in a universe growing complexity. Meanwhile mo

 

  a pine tree with its crazy mush-armor of bark fragments.

This is the prologue of one of my several "planned novels".  I am sometimes amazed at how cold and cynical my writing voice really seems; I'm not such a butthole in real life, but c'est la vie.   Pivotal to the whole family's story is the unexpected pregnancy of Maya, the eldest daughter.  A set of circumstances is set off that does them all immeasurable good.   She was wearing big old black sneakers with sensible non-slip bottoms, and the rest of her Chicken Place uniform except for the hat; this is as she walked down the road, still and having always been a living breathing wet dream of a woman, every bit, from her broom straw hair to her little death white feet with the toenails painted red. She walked along Jefferson Road East, along a lonely empty stretch of the country. A deputy came along, slowing his police car to a death crawl before lowering his passenger window to say hello, but it wasn’t saying hello really but kind of a casual interro

    People like Gregory of Nyssa and Origen the Heretic(before he was shunned, he was brilliant), talked of realizations of the divine providence in everyday life.  Gregory pointed to Moses, who saw multiple manifestations, theophany all, and even part of the supposed physical personage of God.  Of course, God's physical personage, so glorious that for a human to look upon Him, the human instantly falls dead because of the abundance of glory. Anyway, there was the snake cane and the stone that issued water, but the one I always think of is the insolent donkey.  Man rides along on his donkey, and his donkey begins to verbally rebuke him, which, we all know is uncommon. I imagine that moment of surprise, after the donkey had abutted him to the stone-laden wall a few times, and the man beat at the animal, the animal verbally dis-using him, dressing him down with a wit superior to man, not only not inferior, but heavenly in its recourse.   And here, in the earthen realm, we have such a

I got the heads ported on my Falcon Futura and was thinking of switching out the jets in the carburetor.  It was a grocery getter, a stoplight nomad and a weekend funwagon all in one, and it made me wonder, beyond just porting in hopes of precision, more efficient fuel burn hence better performance and mileage, might I tune harder for more specific performance. The heads got a middling run from the manifold, good mixture and all, a blend of top end and bottom end power, suitable for everyday conditions. We had these funny little balls on tiny threads hanging from the rear window trim.  Also had the viable option of a style-matching audio head unit, but I wanted something not so stupidly PCB.  Two knobs.  Presets.  FM1 FM2 AM.  SAT option.  AUX.  CD.  And the dirtly little secret of the iPod controls which were actually for any plug in memory, and not necessarily an iPod or even an Apple product. I fell asleep in the trunk of the old car over in the afternoon, had flies and stuff on my

*If I followed the common course, I should reasonably expect to be just as miserable as everyone else. If I have my own angels, then I too, have my own muse, which may yet lead me to a different furrow, say, Cole Porter or Miles Davis or John Coltrane for you, where I take to the clouds and roughage with Freddie Hubbard, time to time. I tell you this, beneath the hair and pasty vampire skin, I am a nugget of confusion wrapped in a scattering of weird intentions, and confused of those too. To decide a course then, is a propensity to open the door to the real possibility of failure. I have but some time. And your butt needs roughing. *The immortals talk amongst themselves, and then only in a dog-whistle tongue that they only can understand. If one must fall sedentary to a bad feeling, can one also fall sedentary to a positive feeling, and draw it out all the way to its very end, but slowly, not to push and strain at it until it is earlier wasted than the sedentary man. And if one has rea

 "All men, brother Gallio, wish to live happily, but are dull at perceiving exactly what it is that makes life happy: and so far is it from being easy to attain the happiness that the more eagerly a man struggles to reach it the further he departs from it, if he takes the wrong road; for since this leads in the opposite direction, his very swiftness carries him all the further away. ...as long as we wander at random, not following any guide except the shouts and discordant clamours of those who invite us to proceed in different directions, our short life will be wasted in useless roamings, even if we labour both day and might to get a good understanding. Now nothing gets us into greater troubles that our subservience to common rumour, and our habit of thinking that those things are best which are most generally received as such, of taking many counterfeits for truly good things and of living not by reason but by imitation of others. *You may observe the same thing human life: no o

  Kind of a "we love you but we don't like you" thing.  We want you to get your biscuits and maple at the table, but we don't want to talk to you during the tobacco-cutting.  He'd sit there all alone with his mason jar of cloudy water, and that reminded him of his boy, named Cloud by his half-black momma, a hippie and reader of Etsy-bought special Tarots. In the final analysis, we're all whack-a-doos and good puzzlers, and like Medavoy bemoaned, the atmosphere of the 15th, "don't nobody uh uh say nothing that don't have to be decoded with a decoder ring." They were saying you felt with love, you controlled and operated on faith, that faith and love had properties which were supernatural according to our fledgling understand of science and the universe proper.  Faith and love operated on the spirit of God, and operated on our standings with our fellows. Also, to feel the love of Christ without understanding too many of his parables, and to thi

Desantis being a sort of pie-eyed piper for Cali expatriate Florida-bound carpetbaggers.  It's the new thing, to coalesce from edgy graspacho California, in favor of a different sort of life, in the sunny shores of Florida.  And in the middle, like any good oreo's sandwich meat, lies Disney Plus. I suppose its true anywhere.  The SEC stands for winners.  And also rumors that a lot of people have fled Hidalgo county in fear of being rundown by Paul Pelosi in his Eurocar. It's like Lucas James said, "from the coal mines of West Virginia, to Muscle Shoals, they can all hear my cheffahlay truck." "Had a friend in Piscataway, never called me by name, just called me 'skidmark'.  He liked to drink Thunderbird and punch his old lady in the eye.  He was mugged on the ell train; for 16 dollars and a Harris Teeter savings card, my friend lost his life."

    They had a right that it had to be chicken bones, but the two gents couldn't find a live chicken to slaughter in the middle of the cold "Living for the" city, but they could find a bucket of chicken. Indeed, at the expense of Andy and Johnathon's careers, the saving grace of popular cinema, a poison ivy branch extended to the popular imagination. *Somebody has a little of the old swamp butt. *I was happy, I was sad, I was happy.  I was wanting to lick the makeup off of Maria Bartiromo's eyelids.

Omg.  Hunter Biden told a NYT reporter to jump off a bridge without a rope.

I noticed a few stray protestors kept off-camera, even Joey Chestnut clubbed one of them during the Hot Dog Contest, a protestor standing bravely against the building of the Deathstar, and this, after a mystery crash/explosion on the moon.  This is just like when Captain Archer was testing the phaser banks on a asteroid, and Commander Tucker unplugged his eyepad, which caused of burst of free power on the internal grid, which surged through the phaser array and obliterated the asteroid, rather than fine-pointed target practice.  It fart-blossomed onto the parfait of the eclair. And from the "all politics is pms" department: And, behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of blood twelve years, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment: For she said within herself, If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole. But Jesus turned him about, and when he saw her, he said, "Daughter be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole." And the woman was

    Her gramma used her as a wing chun Chinese boxing apparatus, beating her about the torso, where she wouldn't show.  All them days, going to school, busted up on the inside, hurting, wincing at nudges to the ribcage and back, but trying not to let it show.  She was too proud, hurt, and maintaining the status quo to let on, to show a sign, to let those winces out, those gripes of pain.  And still too, she feared for the little mush-face old mamasan, too, that maybe if the truth were out, she would be locked up; still in a worse place, the thought that telling on the little mamasan meant her eating some of the guilt too, that maybe some judge would wonder why they took the coathanger to her in the first place, what brought it on. So she wouldn't say. But in silence, her own form of wing chun, her own training, for her own fortitude, her own confidence, she punched at the closet door, the plaster, bloodied knuckles on the quarter-round molding. She got fed into a woodchipper, i

Kiang had approached Ming before, something of asking of the meaning of life, to which Ming replied, "Pooh!".   Three years later, he found his query again:   "Wandering listlessly about, I know not what I seek; carried on by a wild impulse, I know not where I am going.  I wander about in the strange manner in which you have seen, and see that nothing proceeds without method and order, what more should I know?" Kiang replied: "I also seem carried about by aimless influence, and yet the people follow me wherever I go.  I cannot help their doing so.  But now as they imitate me, I wish to hear a word from you." Ming replied: "Do you only take the position of doing nothing, and things will of themselves become transformed.  Neglect your body; cast out from you your power of hearing and sight; forget what you have in common with things; cultivate a grand similarity with the chaos of the plastic ether; unloose your mind; set your spirit free; be still as if

 "Usedta be a stow, money yeah ago.  The post holes for the hose rail is out frun, still" said Darnell. Bobcat grinned, and did that silent laugh, where you couldn't even hear the breath.  It was like a happy little silent scream. "Doug is building a deck on the back.  We'll get that ready, so you can get in and out." "Is that frost on your window, there?"  Clyde tapped the glass.  It was condensation, like an ice-cold Pepsi.  "Yall have like a freezer room in this add-on to your house?" "Nar, nar" said Darnell, face not changing expression, it looked like the ghost of something went across his face, but didn't register. "This ma's room" said Bobcat. "She alive in there?" said Clyde. That soundless happy silent scream from Bobcat. There was a thump within, behind the glass, a heavy thump, then a sliding sound. ---- Nicky was at the fence, finger in one ear, screwing her finger deeper and deeper, maybe

There was one of those above-ground pools and the girls were swarming it, with Doug standing watch.  Of course, Monmouth and Crissie were still perched at the kitchen counter, talking in their secret language, and Mamie was corralled in her room as usual, but most of the rest were there. Except Howell and Ard.  Nowhere to be seen. And Bobcat and Clyde, who sat in Clyde's house, blinds drawn to watch the ladies in their swimsuits.  They had Bobcats civil war chess set between them, like some kind of battleground between Dollar Generals, the ground where the real stuff happened, with Bobcat and Clyde pushing buttons and moving pawns. Their eyes kept going to Maya, as everyone's eyes did, tallish blond looking like a wet dream, a model, watching her weight, and they where their two, the eyes of everyone, watching her weight.  She was in a two piece and looking untanned, fair, in her dollar store loafers. They all had them dollar store loafers, it seemed, and they all, probably eve

Doodle and lisa, two cheevers, one boy, one girl.  The walked along the pine straw, near terrencea cage behind the neighbors house. Lisa turned and revealed a swollen belly, a basketball under her shirt.  "Oh look, my love!  You peed on me and now we're gonna have a fambly!" Doodle was nonplussed.  A thunderstorm briefly came over his demeanor before a crooked smile erupted. He put one hand chop, slinging his hand, down onto the basketball and it tore out and bounced away towards doodles own yard, lazily. "And i say you aint saddling me with no undue burderns."  Said doodle. "Wheres terrence?" Said lisa. "Hes usually only here late" said doodle. Lisa turned again. "I love you, doodle, and i want your check, every last throbbing bit of it." "Eww" said doodle. "My deddy said you get a little lead in your pencil, you would support a good honest girl, if you can find one." "Your deddy dont know my mind, nor what