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Showing posts from September, 2022

The Nuggets and the Pepper Outdoor Docudrama: scenes from a bistro.

On the way to speak to Laertes, a journey in itself, MKL stopped along the way and gave talks about the Way of Heaven, among other things, some about gardening, some about animal husbandry, and he took delivery of several scrolls from the inside capitol. "What shall you would?" asked the footman. "I would what I do, and nothing more", MKL replied. Villagers went about, to and fro, on their way, and at their leisure or at their bit of toil, bowls in hands, and smallish glasses of liquor.  MKL spared a glance at the scrolls, unfurling one of them. "I shall take what is required, and perhaps a little less" MKL said after a moment of thought between and intertwined within. "You fain modesty." "I had the most to take in because I was perhaps of all the most empty of the lot" said the footman. "Indeed, you carried the bags, or at least pointed the ass that carried the bags" said MKL.  "You are a Claudius hiding in the bushes in

Winds Across the Aeolian.

There is no music so heavenly as an Aeolian harp, and the Aeolian harp is nothing but a set of musical chords arranged in harmony, and then left to be touched by the unseen fingers of the wandering winds. And as the breath of heaven floats over the chords, it is said that notes almost Divine float out upon the air, as if a choir of angels were wandering around and touching the strings.   Confucius went to see Lao Tan and they queried on Benevolence and Righteousness, and Lao Tan replied long to Confucius, in his questioning, that the way of Confucius was whatsoever bad and wrong, however much it removed a man from "natural simplicity".  Upon returning home, Confucius would not speak for three days, and then pronounced Lao Tan without fault. Just as Christ and Simon Peter volleyed back and forth, so it is with any, that anything be built on a solid foundation, therefore a wise man looks and checks among other duties, to secure his foundation.  Just like Christ the corner

Life advice of a trudge.(Do the Back and Forth, yall, do the Back and Forth)

Comes a point a person wonder if his her goals are out of sync with how things should be.  There can only be one in the one in one hundred, and maybe its not you. Consider it this way, if the alpha tells a really good joke, you might be in that 1% that really gets the joke and his a good laugh, despite everyone else. Maybe, and maybe, as Aurelius said, the universe is constant change, and we can only abide the natural or be caught in the switches.  We will be eventually caught in the switches somehow, somewhere, but we need not course to bring it off early, as if to say, "I'm too busy today digging my own grave." Neigh, man is a political animal, and a social animal, the two intermingling.  And man is submerged past his nose hairs in a world of nature that is colluding to kill him, as they remind us our precious life-sustaining oxygen is also highly corrosive. Comes a point a person lets nature come to him, and he doesn't seek to dictate or dispute nature. Comes a poi

Status in point.

"And then he suffered him to sin so that he might know sorrow, And thus know what well-being is--to be aware of it naturally..." - William Langland , The Vision of Piers Plowman. The "Hawaiian Practice" of the Mantra releases some mood altering chemicals in the brain.  To say, "Thank You".  "I'm Sorry". and last but not least.  "I Love You." A continual practice, and the practitioner hints at something I've been researching, kind of a low-level telepathy, or a kind of selective rote of pheremones or something.  Some kind of almost Uncertainty Principle of well-being being possible for say, Point A to effect Point B. I go first to the original American parapsychologist from North Carolina, and into his research, a maze of quantifications without any kind of statistics buried in them, but a manual for conducting pure research in the future. My other project is to meter the fuel/air mixture from my carburetor, to tune it good, and

a word about Faulkner's south

"Yoknapatawpha", the place.  Devilry and misgiving, the reason du tre, in the ignoble platiment, permaclay sediment root basin. Crooks and halfwits coursing through the ruddy embers, and the thing in the sky, a ruddy ember, too, and all that, emblazoned something of a bloody blend of purple across the dreamsplatter of what would be blue sky.  Chem trails?  Something from God's eyes to our own? Even the Indians had slaves, the native peoples in the Mississip, had negroid slaves that only knew what of the tongues of all the white and Original Americans, knew what they heard and that was all. Ikkemotubbe had rode one of those two wheels around in Corpus Christi and Galveston, had rode the day boat across with his bicycle contraption resting against his knees as he cracked roasted peanut hulls and sipped some kind of "health tonic", some Doctor Harris's "Get Spry Before Your Ass Hits the Grass."  Kick in the nuts it was. He was whistling, "Goodbye

The fugging bug in the wug, and monotheism, and weirdness peppersprayed.

  I put the tiny figurine of a child right into my pocket, slipstreamed it right in there, snug as fugging bug, it wug, right in there, like a little scorn that sits right on the edge of the razor line on the neck, and it sat there like a discontented hemorrhoid that might feel like something with powdered sugar. "Are these your gods?" "Who has the time for more than one god?" I asked, noting of modernity a certain terseness, a rudeness born of brevity, economy of movement, what they called wellness, but it wound up slicing on everyone else just like a box cutter, a bitchwheel. I was saying, indeed, some pre-Atlantean Pangea society, something not even Morgan Freeman would hear, some kind of nature thing, and people and nerve energy and stuff: stuff from the old days before the Tower of Babel, and I would toss the thing in the river if it really meant something, put my own scorn to its scorn of things natural, and churning in change and so forth, toss it right away

Two of Coins and the Juggler muddles the duddles.

    One can feel wisest when ruining his own life, just as he can feel comfortably mature in misery, or empty when filled with joy, just as in a lonely road, I notice myself, and yell farther back at my tom cat. So.  Two divergent threads, as per the Two of Pentacles, the duality, the two tasks pressing.  There are actually more pressing in my world, and I'm juggling them all. First the workout.  On the off-day from the free weights, I walk a lot and use the stationary bike.  Luckily, I've got beautiful scenery on the walk, and the splendor of the aging screened porch for my biking.  Pics later from the walk. I walk approximately a mile, or maybe a mile and a tenth or two.  Then I take a short rest, usually about 30 minutes, while I check email, maybe hydrate, check in with my people. Then I'm on the pavement again, walking it up, for one more session, aiming for the same length. This morning in session two, I found myself yawning, tired, and I could feel my blood glucose d

Sleeping Giant, Boonjoggled Frigadore.

We need not a titular figurehead to prowl our paraphets....  How he seems in aspect, similar to that visage of the late king....  List!  List! He beckons us. A besmackled flavor about the auditory senses, poison as it were, delivered to the ear, a queen playing false to her lord?  Who says such, but the penny pages, the roiling machine of words that is as much, a poison balm thrust upon our eyes.... Sir Earl Warren? Smite not, thee, out at the continentals, for they are too embroiled in their own beer-habit and other such, the setting out and all, and all that, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps by in this petty pace, a one note operatic that stagflinches our recepticles and bangsparkles and so forth about our own paraphets, and just the other, there was the national reliving nightmare, not of Donald, but of the towers falling. There were psychokenetic "breakers" focused intently, as prisoners, against their will, focused about breaking the beams that held the tow

by a scientific imagination, matter scattered about....

21 years on, I remembered placing a bid on a pair of rooty reds worn on-screen in Wizard of Oz.  I bid 3000, and I lost to someone from Tampa.  I would later go on to bid on items from The Shop Around The Corner and Meet Me In St. Louis. The cards said I had two options.  The Hanged Man entered play, and just like the Fool or a Joker, I found a third solution which was equitable, or at least more equitable than the satiated path. I floundered and flailed, kicked at the pricks, feeling maybe there was a killer somewhere around the woodpile, and I would go SUV about it.  Throw away dialogue, ya know. Scott Thompson was being trucked in from Scotland. I said to myself to, the "way of heaven", do they mean perfection?  afterlife heaven?  Sky heaven?  Which and what and how?  Western lore dictates a perfect heaven, and the Zhuangzi says heaven saturates the earth, perfecting it, while conversely there is both yin and yang, good and evil, at once. So I infer they meant the sky, tha

The way, the way.

The Dao you can read about on a blog, is it the true Dao? The way of nature is twofold: self and inspiration.  Memory is the tertiary figure that is so destructive. When the self connects to inspiration, the Dao is realized, and only then..... but the mind is focused forward and not on the self.... so the Dao may be felt but not understood. Man and animal. self and inspiration. instinct and meditation. low brain, high brain. innate skill and training. the white of the yinyang and the black of the yinyang. The Daiji movement that comes through is to make two ellipses, one with each hand, beginning with hands straight out from the shoulders, coming then slightly in towards the center over the heart, and then down, then arching out near the navel cavity, proceeding up, then arching back across the shoulder to the heart, a full circuit. These are the sides of the body, the sides of the person, aligning.  This is the achieving of balance.

a lopsided paraphrase from Zhuangzi.

Katie Bayer-Harris was crossing a threshold of mountain and water, when suddenly an ebon button fell, thread-loose, from her cloak, and disappeared into a drop from the sky. She asked a master debater to find this for her, to no avail. She went to the Eagle-Eyed old man for help, but to no avail. She went to a wise day trader for help, but to no advantage, the button all but about to be forgotten by her.  Until she happened to take a walk through the woods, where a rape was being re-enacted.  Even a ghost gave testimony as to how the event happened, but none were any similar, and a query was deadlocked. She heard a stupid noise, and it was Purposeless himself, threshing and thrashing, hashing and mashing along his happy way. "Could you help me find my button, Purposeless?" From the wood, a chorus of chants that they knew where it was, but again, to no advantage. And Purposeless scraped his fingers over the ground, and eventually, after his fingers were parched, and at places,

Verse and Dramatic: "A gwad man came from the icy sloes..."

  A gwad man came from the icy sloes.... The heron was wearing a kilt. Albert done saided: "Climb whatever mountain you need to climb to catch this guy." Egrets and Malshuss came along ca-jungling and fuzzy whumpling. She was in the trunk, and none realized.  They found her in the water, later, the twin cousin. She madeth the most ever silent drape runner. And oiled machines at the sawmill. "You remind us so much of her" they said, smiling up front, but sucking in their buttcheeks in the heat of anger in behind. They did not know, what stone to turn over, what tree to look behind to procure and entrap the dreaded Kieler. The Air Force guy had a secret file on the country club real estate development, was even cataloging birdsong and so forth. Gordon Everett Howle was there, trailing just behind the Kieler, and there was something to it, something like a wound arm feeling the coming of rain, that he was just a bit at the trail. "Whatever mountain you need to cli

Here comes the little old lady in her souped-up Superstock Dodge. Tennessee Harris.

    Will not God choose the least of his messengers to bring the most important word. Will not the universe reflect back, just as if the heavens were but a pool of water. Will not the time and the season, the dog return to his vomit, and the frown is feeling sometimes, and not judgment. Will not the Dane ferret about on the castle walls? List! List! Will not the ear be a willing receptical? Will not the fool lean on his own understand?  For my own, I can aver clouds are lifting, heat building, and buggable humidity. And as such, the most important word is bird-screamed across the outside of the place, and all the while, me waiting on a word.  When such came, it rather squeaked across like metallic screams and whistling. They will make the Keiler of the trust-fund baby quite a thing, I know, and me sitting here with dickfist, like the DOJ, a Jack without a Jill, and as we usedta say in Junior High it wasn't Jack and Jill, but "jacking jill", because it all turned up dickfi

It's the same, old song... but with a different meaning, since you been gone...

  (The material was written as I cut grass one morning, my job circa 19-25 years old, a seasonal yard maintenance guy.  George W Bush, known as Dubya or Shrubya, was in the doldrums between his election and the 9/11 attacks in 2001.  I wore 15 dollar Walmart shoes, and 30 cent jersey gloves as I worked along, largely without a care in the world, but still with an eye forward to the potential of love in the future.  I had a special affinity for the 59 dollar Featherlite FL20 string trimmer I was tasked to use at work, and I would later go on to acquire a few for the family.) (F)My name is Duane!(D) (G)And I'm a fishing pole. (F)My name is Duane!(D) (G)And I got eyes 'a blue. (The thing sounded like a slower version of "I Can't Explain" by the Who in their early days.  Back then I had two amps.  One was a Hondo 120x2 and the other was a hack of a GPX stereo, where I had spliced into RCA cables for the 8 track player, having opened the turntable top.  The baby was de

Egg-seller: "Stuff this good sells itself." Or, "My kingdom for a baloney sandwich."

Ron Graf came down to the office a few days back with a briefcase full of stuff, ad mock-ups and so forth.  A lot of like, Q-Anon propaganda, and so forth, and such.  I told him, I said, "Ron, that's what the R&D budget is for".  We weren't enforcing any kind of nationalism or protectionism or isolationism.  Indeed, we were barely even guilty of enforcing capitalism. We had got caught in a pattern of odd behaviors, coming to the office and just sort of hanging there, sort of face to the glass and all, even holding drag races during office hours, with Hondas and Subarus and stuff trying to shred tires in the company lot. But we must imagine ourselves happy, rather than so indefagibly empty by the whole experience.  Why, someone like Q speaks to that emptiness and tries to make it eat one alive, make one just desperate enough to do the wrong thing when Q beckons us on. I didn't refer Ron to HR, but instead just of sort of had a talk with corporate mission, said

MILF Spit as car polish. An update from the small farm.

  The morning spent, my body spent, and my money spent.  A caramel-centered Hershey's Kiss between my fingers, returning to its former liquid state, making poo colored love dimples on my fingers. I got messaged about selling my rooster, but the price was abysmal, and I was for a moment, a faisbook troll saying, "I kNoW wHaT i GoT, Breana". The compost pile was going great guns, but not with any weapons inside, though, just things rotting and things like, "returning to the dust".  Three days, water it, tussle it, get it damp, or at least, partial damp. Detritus of life past, a masoleum of things discarded.  I was going to put some plastics in one of them, just to see, you know, just to see, how long, how long. I had held up, to the light, some of my own art, and it occurred to me some of it was rather dull, in need of an energetic polish.  It seemed I had been betrayed prior, so many times, by my own zest for the ideas I was trying to relate, and blind to the tot

Journal: I'm a little old, and even moreso stupid....

    In the indefinite little paper-space between thought and action: a new book forming this week.  "I remind myself I am a little old, and even more stupid..." When abounded with disgust, I raise my glass ever higher and make my voice a niggling trumpet to sound over the rows of the thoroughfare. The neighbors all cut their grass on the same day, and I wondered, were it some kind of signal they get, the one through his conspiracy radio and the other through his cowboy re-runs.  Something to that to minded for another time, and I myself at ascrawl on nature pictures, trying to capture a sunflower, when maybe a moonflower would do; I've grown Moonflowers, the nocturnal cousin of the Morning Glory. A seed bigger than Breana's nipple, I guess. But the silence is circumspect, perhaps, and the words even less so.  The wind cut around my ear last night and I whispered a prayer, and watched NASCAR. When disgust abounds, I alone pound my fists against the outcast state, and k