Bollocks Spray and Appoplex. On Being and Nuttingness.

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 more adults fall to dementia. 

Maybe more people on the party payroll.

They too, falter in the face of universal chaos and increasing complexity.

Ever notice how things revolve around central masses in nature?  The sun, the universe, and all?

Kind of that central praxis of show hair, and the stickwood of thought and intention, rays of light therefrom.  Buttocks.  Meanwhile, my own twitter has become a porn app for some reason, that despite flagging crypto, web dev and other subjects flagged, earmarked, and doubly stuck to my preferences.

The adults fell to what?  The party payroll.  Oh.

Meanwhile people are getting paid in dementia accounts.

And probably the coolest thing of the week, the James Webb Racist Stratosphere Comb, had 18 refractors, gold-plated, and some genius pointed them all at the same thing, thought, and then, only then, did they try to decide.

Which image.

Belonged to which plate.

I wouldve timestamped each, but I'm not an engineer, and surely, there is a date code somewhere in this thing, a galactic "born-on" date, and an expiration guarantee.

18 reflective surfaces pointed at the same little star spittle o'er the firmament, along the reaches of deepest sky, and then too, a broad old "deep field" thing with a ladies slipper shaped galaxy, or should I say, it was "bent light" from the galaxy, not that the actual galaxy was warped or whatever, and that, millions of years ago, as the light hurdles itself intensely across the otherwise lifeless void of eternity.

The old NASA party game of deciding which image belongs to which lens, and someone walks by me and says, "what do they say yours taste like?"

Why, my bitter heart, Cheever.

Don't you know?

All the bitterness, and some pouring out at the seems in that mule's feedbag.  But I say not that the bitterness comes and goes, like the forming of wines and vinegar, a kind of interstitial fermentation about the thoughtmeat, the thinkgood, in which time and circumstance coalesce into me pointing at something.

But one of several personalities reading Camus or something even weirder, and that between moments when the other personalities are in control, Carmen Miranda, and all them, Wayne Lee Ray.