The many aspects of beings, and the tendrils of suspicion. He's just the advocate.

I rollerskated into Jacksonville, my balls flapping my legs.

I was set to give a seminar on Life Choices, and it was entitled, "Life Choices".  I was sitting in a mud puddle on the sidewalk behind the Opera House, and I had like, a moment down-in myself, something of an epiphany.

Who was I to give advice?  Like I was supposed to be-what-perfect?  Qualified?

Who is ever qualified?  In fact, you usually want somebody that knows the perils, by experience, to give advice, someone who knows too well, and indeed, may have fallen prey to some of those same lifestyle pitfalls.

As they say, "tell your children not to do the things I done."

Broward of the Bounty, taking TP to his lover in an old Ford truck, the TP, the lover ahead in the road.

They built, it is said, the natives, the teepee with ten poles, tentpoles, a hole for which to let the smoke rise, a hold for which to egress the light, and release the darkness, to catch a glimpse of heaven.

I had gotten to my feet and got into my Malibu rent-a-beater, just sitting there, ghostly glow on my face from my phone screen, me looking at dancing girls on the "story", like that's a "story".

My ass.

I had put down that copy of Fartnoy's Complaint, not understanding its artistic merit, or why it ever got any form of award.  It was stereo instructions, and little else, a man's own anxieties bleeding-out onto the printed page.

Meanwhile I was out there driving around with that awful 1.8L death rattle of the Malibu, the manila envelope or the plain black socks of automobilia, between Checker's, White Castle, Jack In The Box, and I thought I seen a little sign for Cracker Barrel, maybe an Arby's somewhere in there, around the interstate and the motels and stuff.

"It cuts off at idle."

"I had an old truck that did that, but I fixed it and it would go on."

Paul's ass.  Kicked by an intruder.

Verily, verily, we can measure the scrotum folds of our consciousness by the indignities put upon those in the diaspora of politics, the ancillaries, the bystanders, the collateral, the laterals.

There was a big ass dog at sun up, and the others had just got scarce away from him.

Would that dog bay at the moon?

Would he?  Could he?

Time would tell, I wotted.


posting about desserts on Farcebook

There was a layover in Codsacky, where they had the peanut dome and the old opera house and all, poor man's version of Ted talks.  A big rig had went kaput in the center of the state road that busected the community, snd motirists were skirting the ditchbanks.  One F150 even had got astrode the ditch on one side, maybe cajoling at a driveway to get his wheels over.

At the little neighborhood grocery there was chili in one crockpot, chowder in another, and some dubious, but locally sourced peanuts on the boil.  What was dubious was the sit time of all that.  They had a microwave and a supply of prepacked frozen potatoes, the kind with the foiloid inner bottom for partially browning the things.

I had slept the obligatory ten and played solitaire a while, and had worked a sort of stupid, idle hunger.

What i set my eyes on was sitting under a glass cake plate, a globule of whipped cream topping that made us clueless about what was underneath, and lone cherry on top, and sat so stoically under glass that i thought i should say something sbout it on the Farcebook.

The Day the supervisor Kerfuckled off this mortal coil.

There were two Kevins, like the old saying, "one is for fighting, one is for fun."

Or yet, still, "We got drama, we got punch."

Have a gay old time.

Leg Kevin was talking about Katt Williams and the Chrysler 300.  I told him he was a lad that like to play with pocketknives.  Furthermore, I'da cut off my own thumb in the fever to get it out of my pocket.

"Mike's rapping again."

"Im gonna start stabbing motherfuckers."

"I like you Mike.  Come do mutual masturbation with my wife."

They were watching that fat lady with the Arkansas clearance coming across the way towards the stoop.  Glad we had an ass of fried chicken and Red Velvet cake up in there waiting.  If I'd already lost a thumb, she'd probably think my fingers were frog legs and shit me up further.

I coulda slow cooked them hams on that one, and then B was talking about forgetting his own knife that day, with me telling that was good, I'd get the jump on him that very day.

You heard of "kentucky windage", well, we had "Arkansas clearance" and Doug doing a Ted Talk on the state quarters explaining a few pertinent facts about Arkansas.

I had a plan to fuck-up Doug's motorcycle, but he quit before I met up with him.  "You can dump it in the grass."

Fuck your motorcycle, Doug.

In fact, fuck all yall.

Peace.  I'm out.

Halloween film kerfluffle 2022.

Underneath the shelter

where the snowflakes fall like rain...

Seed your love and reap the girlwind.


So.  Its Halloween season again, and genius cable executives book the actual Halloween films, while some yet book Friday the 13th.  I caught a brief glimpse of the Last House remake the other day, with Monica Potter being just a shade too sexy to play a mum, but I watched anyway, and the man was like, "I'm easy."  And I said, they obviously worked on this script a while.

It's like rubbing Ivermectin on your private parts, below the beltline.

Anyway, its been a tradition that I would happen upon Friday the 13th sometime on Oct 31, but its already been on, on the 27th, and now I wonder.  I was finding it on AMC, but they did it early this year, like a run-up to the season.  I hope they dont have a Walking Dead thing planned, cause that's just a soap opera with some top notch zombie stuff thrown in.  George said it was a soap opera, and I new it, it was more about nasty people fighting at one another, which ironically was what Videohound said of one of his sequels, "the humans are too nasty to care about this time around."

But I liked the dude that wanted to go on vacation.  Drinking liquor.  In a giant cave.  In a lawn chair, in that cave, drinking liquor, talking about going on a long vacation.  The dead had destroyed mankind, and he was just pissed off about having to still go to work.  Lol.

And from another side, I was just getting these vibes, like people glad you're not monking-up with your own discourse, that just that little bit of positivity can sustain a person.

"You doing good?" 

"Yar. 

"Then I'm doing good."

Of the life vicarious, without connection it turns into a kind of flagrant morbidity, but then again, its the season, and the harvest greenery is coming in all around.  I had two forms of autumn greens last few weeks, and I thought they were both pretty good, though only one was bought specifically local, the other a kind of prewashed bagged thing with me crunching dirt crusties.

For once I've done something original, something by accident providential for my own person.  Helped with something that wasn't advised, something that wasn't the prescribed path to success, but something novel, something quite new.

Even nature thumbs its nose at the media and the constant roil of selling, the ever helpful advertisements.  For instance, I landed on an Alphabet site for free courses, and it redirected to Coursera, where I would have to pay 50$ a month.  The free part was a seven day trial period.

The time they wasted of mine wasn't free, however.

I noticed Amazon had priced some print material lower than the corresponding digital versions.  Immediately, in a show of good will, I passed over all of it without choosing a version for myself.

There was a dog barking at the moon

Homebound number nine

I planted my love and then sat under the shade tree it grew.

I remember Peter Jordan preaching to the wife beaters, and how he wore that serape like he was cold, it was a Mexican's version of Grandma's old knitted shawl, not a prayer shawl, not a dreamcatcher either, but something of a barrier between thee and me, and so forth, as if to say, steely-eyed, "my horse wouldn't like you laughing" and then the laughter turns to sharp gun blasts.

 

Orange you glad you put your love in your mouth

and shouted absurdities to stymie the m all.

Seed your love and collect the harvest.

restraining order: a verse

Her paper-'
What she think it do
Makes me think one and done
Love's cooling ember
No more hopes of fun.
Lights blink at me in frustration
Toilet line jerk
Frosty glow, arc sodium
L.e.d maddening pumpkin orange
Dyes the world of the night.
Set against her magic paper,
Me, 
Aiming to take her life.
Don siegel adjusting potted plants.
I cant enjoy my beer and hashish
Unless she dies.
Why she say
For what and who,
Tales like hollywood blockbusters
About things she think i do.

Society of the "burning alive rape showers". Da Nang Bridge scene revisited.

 

"Who's in charge?"

"I dunno.  Is it you?  You the C.O.?"

"Nar, and I thought it was that boy what put his tally whacker in the ant hill, wearing the red Addidas, those purdy Ruby Red Addidas."

"I'm triggered by that.  See my Granddad was in Antwerp, and I'm lonely.  So I rough your end section and spank at your mudflaps."

"I drink a little Granddad.  And Ripple."

"Guess you goin' to hell, old Fartnoy."

"I'll meet you there, see you in the burning alive rape showers."


Barbara is just a common street girl altered to look Veronica Lake OR "win a dollar; cut a whore."

Quite honestly, did it speak of times and places we know so familiar?  Or was it particularly hanged into space and time like a discarded Grand Wizard cloak?  

Dare we, beneath the surface, scrub and then hover about the geode that is the life of Faulkner, the intellectual cache of Faulkner, indeed, the stories of sleepy mule's slowly Samba-ing their buttocks along in front of a convict, "working another man's soil".

Till, till, tockery, a didgery and a whimsical doddering about the infinite space between wires and computer server banks.

The thing is to move along with nature, for good or ill, and what is dealt to both good and ill is neither good nor ill, but simply nature.  But from the standpoint of faith, all dealt from nature, is, at bottom, good.

Of Savini, this was his moment, and he pressed them hard, tasked them to emote to a kind of pitch intsensity: its the material, babies, the consequences of losing the day scrawled on their brows as they contest.  The actor artist makeup man director pushing from his own unique perspective, inspiring an intensity, an energy from his actors and crew, and that, cut fairly well to keep the story moving with scarcely a second's breathing space, but mostly devoid of things like shock cuts and so forth.

Harry is a big vinegar douche.

Ben is black.

Of the day itself, the twenty-fiff.  Twenty-fifth, and all that, one in a row, a subset of a larger set in a storage bank of various days, years, collapsing into seconds and minutes.

Of Barbara and f*cking Veronica Lake, I have not much to add which she hasn't already tried to say, or failed to say, of herself.

Cloak of a Workman, Mind of a philosopher.

 

Jean-Pierre was along the way, on a jaunt to perhaps the Prefecture, in his workman's cloak, muttering something indistinguishable to himself.  I thought it was as if demons had possessed him making guteral hell noises back and forth in the space between his menial soul and the firmament.

I went back to my hoeing beans and then sat in the sun, when along came Jean-Pierre back from the Prefecture.  I had been an irregular sort of Thoreau, tending at my little patch of beans.

This time I stopped him.

"What do you know of the Way of Heaven?" I polled him, seriously.

"Oh, Confuseus.  Always go after what you want.  Do not relent." He said.

I pondered this a moment, and considered he may actually be possessed of some demonic spirit at that moment, some devilry at the palace, and all--an intrigue of some sort.

"Do not relent in the pursuit of my want?" I asked.

"Do not relent, good Confuseus.  Else you are not moving towards your desires, but just sitting, idly staring."  With that, he was making steps away, as if to go ahead and just walk away along the way.  I put a thumb to my chin and and looked at the heavens a few minutes, and when I looked up he was gone.


The discourses of Confuseus: The Tonguesplash and the Meat Farmer, holding an x-rated postcard.

 

I saw myself from the obverse, the "me" of me, made plain, in the reverse, mirror universe, reverse aspect, and I knew it, though rarely, without cameras, have I seen my own self in that particular, peculiar angle.

I saw myself, too, and my great grandmother, and I, her little cookie boy, a student of nature that was powerless against such precepts as but I could will away.  To wit, saying, "it sounded like fun at the time."  And regret was a forgotten old stone monument with old drying flowers from the a springtime that seemed like yesterday, but was more like four decades ago.  Was it indeed Springtime for Hitler?  Springtime in the Hinterlands?  Or the Roman Spring of Good Heather?

It was such to see sprigs are made to sprig, and vines engrafted.  I watched oaks grow in the ditches.  I smoked something that was not punishable by incarceration, and I let my thoughts just sit, not in travel, not pergolating towards a destination, not generating a shape, but a self-same sedentary parabola that came forward only to intertwine again, interconnect, and collapse on itself in a neat little arc that mirrored perversely its own creation arc.

I got a postcard with illustrated nudity; she was not plain, but had all sorts of roses and vines on her person, telling a tale of business going well, which I was not connected to her business, so the fig she gave went over my shoulder and out of mind just as quickly as I recognized her lovely words.

Had a tonguesplash of Sex On The Beach in the silence of my rooms, "the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls..." and so forth, and that darkness was indeed my old friend that I lay together with and upon I know not how oft.

A veritable "meat farmer" of no renown, but distinguished and decorated within his own person, a Napoleon on a 1.5 acre France; what could one do but sit with a postcard perched between two fingers, a cigarillo between the fingers of the other hand, an alcohol haze retreating across the mental bulwark.



An Eceltic Song of Nature, Function and Mental Energy.

 The Great Aurelius, the Stoic Antonine, reminds that we as rational people have a sort of mental opt-in/opt-out option regarding nature.  This is evidenced in joy and to a lesser extent in fear, but think of how we can take control of our breath, the voluntary/involuntary functioning that we can come forward and take over.

We have the opt-in to nature, but consider the less rational living bodies in creation; they have no such luxury, and are pretty much slaves to nature, instinct and innate things, the slow march of learned behavior.

Just as the chimpanzees sometimes rage against the onlookers at the zoo, so too do we, on our FB and IG rage, rage, against the indignity of our individual plight.  Of that, it came to me once that I was no more or less deserving in my own judgement, when compared, no less susceptible or prone to bouts of luck and even the groans of fate.

Indeed, one of my familiars died slowly by the roadside, yet others quietly in their beds, and another collapsed.  I could label each "good" or "evil", but to different people I might appear either or both "good" and "evil", and in my own human balance, entirely at the mercy of whatever comes along.

Entirely at the mercy is the precipitate of nature, to take what nature gives, or given a certain rational appraisal, to develop talents, or address deficits of personal ability.

Effervescent, like Pamala Faulksboro's heart, the melting ice, a certain cool whiff.  Or like the Pullitzer winning book, Fartnoy's Complaint, and all of these high muck-a-mucks moving things in and around, under and through and so forth, yet their own destinies can be a tragic news story at any moment; that is the acceptance, the cost of the filthy blood money, to become a 60 mil/yr CEO is to hang on a thread, one bad news story from the unemployment line, the golden parachute, as it were.

We can opt-in to nature, by choice, accept it, and refrain from summary judgments on others, and when we so rarely see them at their best, or worse yet, the may even look put-upon or out-of-their-depth in terms of outward appearance, when at once, they are, unrecognized by the onlooker, at their very peak performance.

We take Evangelicals as an example of functionalism, as just today I read of everyone being called to some function as a church member, be it only conversational, or whether it requires the investment of a 4-year Theology degree, a kind of Functionalism for the energetic people functioning as parts of a body.

Think of a band, a music-playing band.  A better example.  Each member there for a reason, and in some units, the unuseful or unused leave or are expelled rudely.  Rocks that don't roll, shadows taller than our souls, many have known the pain of that kind of expulsion before finding a band that appreciated one's talents and worked well together.

As for today, we cooperate in some extend, I a right hand, and you a left hand, working at the control panels, the store room, the maintenance closet, and other such parephrenalia of the life Futnuckerous; we are continually advanced by our own mental process, intensities and doldrums that assail, that call the play, signals as it were, and our own brain without even the electro-chemical power to even hope to light a light bulb.


A Living Topiary of Things like the Way of Heaven and the Footgates of Sages.

 

I happened upon Kexon beating his cloak against the rocks by the river, and thought to give him queries of life and justice, temperance and the way of heaven.  However, I noticed the toenails were unkempt, and I wondered if a toilet defined a sage, or as it were, the sage defines his toilet.  Did it reflect some indolence or sloth in his person?

I sang over the water while he continued, while villages women came with their baskets of wash, and is it happened, i was accosted to some extent, and the one of them even condescended to show me the middle way to heaven.

I thought fortune and grace were certainly revealing something to me, and then there was the principate tax evaluator doing a kind of analytic project on how much time a day he spent breathing.  He sat in the sun, pumping his great legs like a sore ass, and trying to tally, so many seconds by so many minutes, into hours, and the waking concourse of reality then tallied, and he would have an analytical, quantified result of something that seemed particularly astronomical.

At prefecture, they had grafted a limb onto the tree, so many, and watching the latest bear fruit, and pondering another, that another would have sort of a faith and hope like the other, and come to bear fruit in the province gardens; this was wear the women bathed, of course, among cherry blossoms and so forth, sort of a living topiary of things like the way of heaven and the gate of sages.

I was feeling my rice wine and tooting from a reed, perhaps silly so, and villagers came and wanted to ask of the way of heaven, and how to hold air inside one's clenched fist.  I was drunk enough to entertain the notion that I could spontaneously answer such profound questions; however, I broke into song, forgetting for the moment the substance and issue of their questions.

I looked to the sky, and it seemed like even the sky was smiling: indeed, I was partly in my cups, as it were.

It seems that it is as was said, that one can say a million things about the tao is NOT, but to grasp the tow is to hold fresh air tightly in one's hand like a fading daydream.  One can say so much of what goes against the tao, while the tao itself is all around, and even, whether realized or not, inside of us all, that little sliver whisper of the way of heaven.


Photojournal: A day after the 2022 Cheraw Jazz Festival.


 So they had the Jazz Festival in Cheraw, SC, birthplace of Jazz great Dizzie Gillespie, and here today, on Sunday, the horns have been put away, and the music has subsided for a while, perhaps until another jovial weekend of friends and food and fun.

This is possibly some of the artist's view leaving town southbound US 1/52, possibly heading to Greenville, Spartanburg, Charleston or somewhere around Columbia, back to their daily lives, where we can put on our masks and pretend to be normal people.

But during the Jazz Festival, are we normal?  Is this the real "us", or is that work-a-day person that quietly goes through the motions the real "us"?

Amazing Earth #1 Some sites from around.

 



Update from the prelate.

In days of old, they sent out the poet, the physician, the philosophers.....  Hail Atlantis.


Fictituous PR firm Darryl, Darrell, and Doug Associates.

Darryl.  An angry citrus farmer, more a golfer than a real thriving citrus grower, enraged to the point of brainstroke, hopelessly locked away in a drunk tank full of kindergartners.  He could decry his fate, but it was decided long ago......

Darrell.  Elevator music and all kinds of crime scene photos, people beating the bushes looking for a beloved and lost puppy, and Darrell hiding incriminating poop by stashing his Nikes out of sight from prying eyes.

Doug.  Making salad for the firm with his fingers, and anybody that happened by as he did this was immediately taken by an almost mystical surety that Salmonella would come with the meal.

Fibner & Locust provided an amount of liability protection, but such as it, everything was public opinion in the long run, and DD and D specialize in that particular mileau.

I emptied the waste baskets there, and sometimes wore a sandwich board on the corner(none of this ever happened, btw).  My gf Scarlett would come pick me up in her 93 Accord and I would rant and rave to her about tails of yesteryear, bygone days that haunted me as I did my custodian work during my shift.

I dreamed I was vigorously arguing with a conspiracy theory about 9/11 and spaghetti.  "Ne'er the Twain" they say.  In my dream, I was but a lone voice speaking up against the theory, and the theory was very commonly believed by people.  It was like holding a wall that was leaning over onto you, holding it so it doesn't kill you.  I woke up that morning very early, still in the mindset of the dream, still of the notion that the 9/11 spaghetti connection was a very real and widely subscribed-to conspiracy theory.

As truly weird as my dreams can be, I seem to retain a kind of emotional literacy in them that I lack in the real world.  Something about different parts of the brain being in various states of reviving and rejuvenating over the night time rest, something about each one doing something, and all the same time, the old analog computer of the thinkmeat generating from that energy, some scraps of output: memories and experiences within an unseen, unreal world of dream happenings.


Joyce Meyer and the Buddhists in a more "civilized age"(yesterday, the ninth of october).

 

So.  Sunday, it was, I remember it well, because it was yesterday.  Twas the best of times; twas the worst of times.  Twas also the remnant of a more civilized age.

The Buddhist devotional recommended that we welcome stray thoughts, without being perturbed by them.  Such demands we know when a stray thought is indeed, "stray", and not something else.  Furthermore, it demands that we know how to handle such, but think of the contrary, how people can rebuke themselves and so forth, all for stray minutia that crops up.  

Or worse still, in the form of not recognizing stray thoughts as indeed just stray thoughts, taking whims as "normative" or foundational in their thinking.

THEN.  And the day goes on.

Joyce Meyer talks about thinking with purpose.  Kind of mitigating the waste in thought, to an extent, and finding a facility to direct one's thinking.

As a kind of fixative, I guess, we choose our thoughts, and maybe that goes towards, in her world, what we pray about, what we care about, the work we direct ourselves towards during the interim.

I still like the kind of Midnight Ball In The Redroom that is the welcoming of stray thoughts, kind of holding the barn door open, in the active sense, then the fun of wading through and making sense of it all without real disturbance.

It requires some emotional and intellectual distance from the material of the thoughts, one supposes.

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Into the Void: On having the malaise of a hungry hole in one's soul and other minutias and things.

 

Of course, there's something we all know, lament, pound the posts, and we chortle and guffaw as others fall, too.  One could look back on days wasted on dreams, but even Relativity was Einstein's dream, even radiation poisoning was Madam Curie's dream.

What is it?  The flick of a switch, yer know, yarblockos, and the thing is come off, and there is the solemnity and immediacy of always living in the present moment, kind of a drifting about somewhere of the fruit plane and all, the humboldt waves of pain, and so forth.

In the immediacy of the moment, I'm kind of in a pleasant mind about it, being who I am, and you, who you are.

I comes to me that in many ways I've sort of wandered along, drifting too, but not waves of tv signals, but on my own ideas, my spleen, intellectual whims, or whims that pretend to be intellectual, but at bottom are contorting themselves to feed the scrotum head with its own immediacy.

Actives and Contemplatives.  I think, therefore I am, and does action form as a manifestation, however immediate, of thought?  To change my nature would come from within, not without, and to manifest however, mentally, physically, metaphysically in the think meats, however we bring that off.  Meanwhile debates about ships crossing datelines, latitudes and longitudes that define something of the moment to moment, something of the same thing changing, established thousands of years ago, or something being destroyed in an instance, while alive in another instance, old instance's disappearing, and the thinking disease, an erasure of the past by biology itself as it marches uncertainly into new frontiers.

That kind of immediacy: touch a hot stove to bring oneself to the moment perhaps, as I found a new mantra, complete with God-man circles on my thumb and index finger.  Kind of come to it, inhale and wait, exhale and wait and the active mind comes forward into the very new now and waggles and flails in the light of the sun that had heretofore been avoiding.

Might Alzheimer's Disease just be a kind of metaphysic outcropping of the glut of information and history in our world today?  How it grows, billions of souls, coming to being, coming to fruition, then coming to death, being uncertain of the ending and completely forgetful about the beginning, kind of another form of celestial rebuke that reminds of the titanic gravity of the present moment, and at any old given time.

The Wolverine would sit, a man with memories of the past demolished and cleared away, and an uncertain future as he reckons haphazardly with his past.  Indeed for him, the present moment grows more and more into Deadpool 3, a movie production.

Others yet kick against the pricks and gnash their teefies, only to be found at any time, only able to recall so much of the past, at once, and with a kind of odd working space of little nothings and junk data in which they hope to thrive.




 

Eastern thought and Dave Mustaine lyrics and watching Sesame Street eating Fruit Loops.

"Locked on military gluttons,

I'm a nuclear murderer;

I am Polaris."

In another dimension perhaps, I am more full, perhaps too less fat, more intoxicating by presence than 120 proof.  Perhaps then, you are there too, seeing this across a gulf of lies, misdeeds and half-measures.  Perhaps too, we decided all this too long ago to still care, and are simply performing screw-turns and button-presses as per regimen.

If we were Buddhistically aware of past lives, past circumstances....  they forecast the recycling of souls, perhaps to explain away their billion or so prancing footfalls in the forests of the evening crimson.

We have something in VBA and Python, "uniques", and we hammer on a Western phenomenon of unique souls, each in its own time and space, and perhaps in that, a kind of biting interconnection, a kind of befuddled "universal" quality to all that passes.

And its just like on Sesame Street, with Elmo, Tully and Grover chanting "one of these things is not like the other".  It's a Sunday morning at time of this rank speculation, and as a child, Sunday morning was my Sesame Street time, in which I would forego the voluntary church trip to watch the Big Bird and all, the songs, the teachings, the letter of the show and all.  And at that, a child seemingly dictating his own destiny, and me as a child, a family-dictated Methodist, and at once, onto PBS, Cyrano on rerun early morning, and Kenneth Copeland extolling faith.

I sit now drinking an iced coffee beverage, masturbating to Dana Bash interviews and listening to 70s music, the old tried and true "mutually agreed upon" hits of yesteryear, and even that mutates such that old number one tracks are forgotten, punted into the ether.  Part of me hopes Barrister Harlow is masturbating too, at the same time, and in that, its like we're touching each other in that same Eastern befuddled way: I mean, the Easterns can't even tell you what the Tao is, though they can write entire books on what it isn't.

"Launch the Polaris;

the end doesn't scare us."

I could Sesame Street that after I napkin-up the gism from the chair pad, and speculate that I could point to a million things that aren't cars or bicycles, or even mouse pads, or that Rita Disney had a bouncy castle, and didn't give a fig or any homegrown whether it got carried with the weather, even with children inside.

Such a campaign, a glorious run through the popular consciousness, for such a dismal result, and I scoff at the play, but am at once also awed by the sheer power, to push one's little scuttle through the whole of society.

The glorious thing, perhaps, some teach is the Unique, though there are so many; seems in more populated lands they are viewed as kind of disposable, Foxconn employees and such, as of the old adage that "the chip has its dip" and all that, you know?

We are but glinting on something, something further, a bit beyond our grasp.  That's where the Tao sits too, just out of vision, across the way, but a vaguery of truth that underpins the universe.

April 13. "You might think I'm lying, but..."

"...we strip the very screw [that] we want to turn..."   - Ryan Holiday, The Obstacle Is The Way. *MLB's Joe Girardi has in t...