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Showing posts from February, 2023

And Kevin's Day of Rage coincides with the Dilbert moseying-of-the-on.

 They say things are not interconnected; that things are random, coincidence.  They don't look around. The Chinese Butterfly bitch-slapped Katt Williams, and in turn, a bridge fell on the other side of the world.  It was cause and effect, yes, but our science so far is blind to it: the interconnectedness of things, threads, dimensions that hold together so much. They say things are not interconnected. They would be mistaken, or at least fitted to a boundary of assumptions that leave more questions than answers; for instance, I saw things about the older societies, 5000, or 6000 years, antideluvian things, steppes and houses built on mounds. Berkeley has nuts. Mounds has coconut and milk chocolate. We have memories, prior to the flood, the tower of Buchanan, things that reach back into genetic memory, and sooner or later, here's a Cheever ordering pizza with his mind, willing it. A clean sheet of paper, Noah hidden away in the Ark Encounter, and the ceremonial landing pads for t

trails across the glass.


a pretty cloud


Big C and Old Blue: of days gone by

“My ass”, thundered Clyde, exhausted and winded, “Big C”, climbing like an orangutan onto the back tire of the old truck, holding the rim of the bed where other trucks had rails. He went up and over like a bear cub, climbing, and deposited himself into the bed of the truck and let out a big guttural great belch-wind of a sigh that was at once relief and resignation; he then lay there in his boots and jeans, one legged crooked and the toe of the engineer boots pointing oddly down, unconscious of himself, unset and uncoiled. Gordon laughed and laid one hand on the bed-rim in his own resignation and triumph over Clyde; Clyde had chased him, but did not catch Gordon: he chased him, and when Gordon finally slowed, Clyde went on past him, out of breath and ankle-hurt, in his darn engineer boots that he thought were the cat’s meow. But they were all the cat’s meow anyway, far too cool for it, too smart, too confident, too everything, and too much for everything, and no

The fiberglass pony; a wish and exhultation of incredulity.

May the dreams of your heart outpace and outdistance the fears of your mind.

Sunshine Shogunate: from another discarded thing, this time a discarded action screenplay about a very tough-minded woman.

Ideas everywhere, popping like it was movie night; but no ideas for the novels today, after 2000 words or so yesterday, that 2000 spread liberally across three novels. I even had time to read about science trying to understand God, and the philosophy of the mind paragliding past creation and simply trying to plug holes in a flooded dyke.   Perhaps, Underhill said, we see something of God in ourselves, as we were made in His image, as we are imperfect likenesses of our Creation Father. In that I was thinking something of heresy, Caitlyn Heresy, or something of that nature, hanging from the ceiling, or asking someone else to hang from the ceiling, upside down, like in the Spiderman movie with Kirsten Dunst. She didn't die; I saw her in the desert working as a waiting person at the roadside diner on the edge of forever.  She had a limp from previous exploits, fighting her way out of the bad place, going toe-to-toe, once shot in the leg, home once shot-up, too. I thought it kind of her

word of the day: solecism

solecism, noun violate the rules of grammar; said to have referred to bad Greek spoken at Soli, a town in Cilicia. An ungrammatical construction or expression at variance with approved usage, as "we was cold" for "we were cold", a breach of good manners or etiquette; any error impropriety, or inconsistency.

La Tortuga: Terrence the turtle.

 A proprietary design perhaps, to perhaps codify and copyright the very voluble encoding of the night itself, how it seems something to be dismembered and moved about it in great chunks, yet it is still, voluminous, but insubstant, like the very air itself. The intellect then, these ideas we rally and cajole over. If they could have even noticed it, they might have went about doing the necessary dreamwork, the reverse-engineering of so many natural things, but instead, they digged gold, or digged in hopes of finding gold, to hit, to have, to make the big score they quested, always coming home tired, every near morning, with empty hands, no gold, and their dreams all but forgotten, no longer fueling their exhausted bodies, in time to have two hours of sleep and have their absence not noticed. Nevermind that Doodle had sand in his bed in the mornings, and Diddy would yawn all die, such that Clarissa would tell him, "lie with me", and he was thinking of Joseph and Potiphar, the

The Shadow Man: an old tale I wrote in part 13 years prior.

A tussle among the cheap cotton: it was like a whisper, and this, dominating the darkness, like God himself was sighing on them in a state of weariness, sighing on their repose and their attempts at a life. "Have some and go back to sleep" said Telulah, her back to Terry.   He could see in the gloom from the open window, her black hair, the marble white of her rounded female back, her shoulders, one upper arm trailing off towards her front.  He was used to her, for certain, and a kind of novelty of the unfamiliar had fallen away, but she still held a kind of charm to him, a charm through that gained and hard bought familiarity, but their friendship, too, how they huddled to together to make things work, like two people at one life, in marriage, in owning the property, in tending the children. "Bad dream" Terry said, and that sigh again: he was moving to get off of the bed.  Then Telulah sighed a real sigh and broke the silence like a thunderclap, unlike the sigh of

The strangest of lives is the one you live in your own head in realtime.

  Perhaps, just maybe, the strangest life I've led so far, is the one where I look remarkably similar to everyone else, the mean, the mode, the average, when I fall closest to the mark. Wandering in the pre-dawn I coughed into the night and a dog started barking.  And it barked and barked, as if to rouse the dead. There may have been a scant moment where my soul was not connected to my body, or perhaps yet, my soul unaware of my body, an awareness that was as dark as the hours, two hours yet prior to dawn: this was my subconscious, I had become as were, a de-energized version of a Dali painting, something about masturbating with cold hands, or something, something of that spiral self-containment, that energy, that life force running amok within, banging and clanging into things, some of those things important, not just sausages and hams hanging in a smoke house, but the body proper. I was reading where Paul said, "by the Grace of God, I am what I am" and I was thinking, y

the elliptical, the elapsation, the obscure languages and fringe paintings of musings.

  "Carpe Diem", Little Shaver, and all that: the elapsation, life in its inevitability and uncertainty, intertwined, caught around my calves like barbed wire. Behold. I saw a woman that was not there; she was not there again twice yesterday. It was the elliptical circuitry of causality it was, I was riding along with a beverage, looking out the window at all the farmland, stuff like Van Gogh usedta sit in all day for obscure pictures.

Updates from the life of a pickle stain, a lowly idiopathic pickle stain.

Bullocks. I had caught Bruton Parker defacing my truck, just whipped it out and peed on the fender, like he was baby Jesus, peed on the fender, the rear fender, the bed, and I watched it for a second, my rage growing, the yellow filth dribbling down the fender, around my Luxury Coach ground effects, going on the tire and rim. I watched him, and it was like De Niro in Goodfellas when he was at the bar after Luftansa, that little smile that said, "I'm about to kill you."  Yeah, Morris, you engineered the hit, and all, but you blowing our cover.  So there. From the mortal coil, flung off, Morris, with his fur coat wife and his late-model Cadillac Eldorado. "Don't make any big ticket purchases" and here he was, spending like an ass, such that we couldn't or wouldn't split a hare over those particular sploppy seconds.  He was gonna bring heat on the whole crew, doing that mess. So there's De Niro laughing with his friends at the bar, then cut to the f

full of comination and evils of varying shapes and sizes, in this issue, pluse "Along Came Jones".

It was 745 in the shift, early yet, and the rest had rolled leaving Baldwin Jones and Greg Mikievoy to pick up a nasty one.  I had said the classic episode "Along Came Jones", and they said, "is Greg styling?", wanting to impress Baldwin, the new team member. I was saying to the people, God love the people, you know, that I was most ticklish, my most ticklish spot of my whole person is my thinkmeats. Right between the ears. The most dangerous muscle on the human body, the one that is least understood, the one that is really is pervasive mass-murderer, an untrustworthy fiend--why how could one not argue for the existence of a spirit and a soul, when the mind was so full of contamination and evils of varying shapes and sizes? Its eats oxygenated blood and craps-out unfiltered regret from the tailpipe, does that one.  Here they are now putting sensors on car exhaust, when the exhaust of people is so much more deadly.

March 2023 Social Media Engagment Logger, results tracker spreadsheet.

Does page likes, follows, total daily posts, daily themes, and a customizable field set by the user.  Covers March 2023.  The spreadsheet for page admins who are serious about documenting and tallying progress.  Does weekly totals, month-to-date and overall totals. Available on Gumroad FREE here.  

The Reasoned Life Chapter 3, a book I wrote last year....

Science is, even today, measuring and trying to make sense of the interconnectedness of things. A reaction here, has a reaction there, but why? It is measurable, confirmed by science, and only now penetrating the edge of scientific thought. Seemingly unconnected, far-flung elements of the universe effect one another, almost like the Butterfly Effect. The Butterfly Effect states that the flapping of a butterfly’s wings produces unforeseen effects a world away. Science has basically observed it, and has measurable proof. At work are “dimensions”, strings that hold dimensions of the universe together that we are only now becoming but dimly aware of. Another writer on a blog post of all things described the universe, or the emerging concept of the universe as “a two-dimensional hologram”. But the prismatic qualities of the hologram promise a number of new dimensional aspects of the universe, all previously unknown. And in all this talk of death and depre

Facebook subscriptions in Australia and New Zealand!

Ars Technica's report   Its called "Meta Verified", not wholly unlike the blue checkmark on Twitter; one's official i.d. will be verified before a "Meta Verified" account is issued to that user.  Supposed to enhance identity protections, and prevent or minimize potentials for account fraud. It's said by Meta to be "experimental". Here is the post on the Meta Blog.  

On Gluttony and Compunction; and former days of cleanings.

  (photo from NASA's Astronomy Picture of the Day archive) I was thinking, twere it a cause of nature to slip between the cracks, to go with the flow?   Perhaps conditionally so.  Consider that if one tied himself into a knot mentally, he cannot perhaps fit so easily into a crack or fissure in the frisson galactic, and thusly, not be swept away. How easily it is that we put ourselves to worry and toil, and mostly without cause.  It was Solomon who said that a man should eat and drink and enjoy the fruits of his labor, and this, after he had purchased vineyards and palaces, only then did he understand that to the sedentary ruler, these things lose charm, but to the attendants who gave loving care to the facilities, the place was precious. I say this having been a facilities technician in the past, cleaning and cleaning, mopping floor, disinfecting, polishing table tops and even freshening up the seats; there was a kind of satisfaction that ran deep when the job was done, making the

cause for joy; reason de'tre.


Proverbs 17

  Whoever would foster love covers over an offense, but whoever repeats the matter separates close friends. -Proverbs 17:9 #KJV  

Patterns in Nature, Natural Mathemetics.... a cabbage....


Of Fidgets and Fugits; a dreamscape of quizzical phenomena.

We were talking of the usury of others; and we had hit a point of demarcation in which limitations existed in differing points.  I implied that they established, the "usee", what limits they were prepared to transgress, while I was reminded of yet a grander standard, as such, and one which I had observed in times of old, before falling waist-deep into a septic tank aboard a spaceliner. There was a rumor that Bing had gone self-aware and Linux and Unix professionals had fought hard to stop the system from accessing nuclear capabilities against a kickball in mid spiral across the Iowa skies. It was only a rumor in a dream, I had, and I talked to various parts of myself, literally, I asked one of them a question, they answered simply, as they do, and I awoke as on a mission of some kind.  We talk of shadow selves and other pieces of the person entire, pieces that may or may not remain dormant sometimes, but yet at others come out to play, if only, perhaps to make themselves, as

Nietzsche and those who dance to unseen music...


Mindset and Clarity: Hemingway and Soyen


of universes, throngs, strings and the unquestioning mind.

You have So often Thunk, You have feet to roam, Lines of travel Strung. Supposing as it were, one may sense destiny, may be guided by the universe, but in the final analysis, one decides actively his or her own fate. What if The throng You heated deride, Did, those same Your fate, Finally decide? In that same way, surreptitious judgements, one that never second guess is condemned win or lose ultimately by the consequences of his first choice,and likewise, he with no questions seeks and invitably finds zero answers.

a profound simplicity that yet defies understanding..... me and thee, KT Ber. Of Sapphic Literature and Hot Chips.

It was all Sapphic literature and hot chips, the hotter the better, no lime for cut, a hint of cheese, the kind of detritus that stains the fingers: capsaicin. I had a line through the middle of my brain, dividing it into "hemispheres", it was like the line her underwear formed across her health, just north of Las Vegas, above the lake, approaching the hills. A crease that would disappear over time, as in her case, lying nude in a rented room, or myself, brain smoothing over with age and lack of use, to just take her the very moment the thought came to me, with no preconceived notions, no weight of expectations or the like. I could trace her panty lines around her form like the satellites looked at the Great Wall from space, or the burning Twin Towers in 2001; I could trace it, like the history of lakes written by men like Herodotus, lakes that don't exist and leave no trace in archaeology, lakes and tombs, labyrinthine things, my hand across her belly with the pinkie fin

Getting that early season warm, and Michael Keaton as Batman.

Ah, journaling: the verbal equivalent of dashing my doused body along the rocks innocently waiting on some sailor or fisherman to happen by and appreciate me with his lusty looks. I took the morning air again, weather was fine for the season, unseasonably warm, but then our seasons tend in fits and starts, or should I say constant fits and plenty of false starts.  The tug-of-war between chill and sweat-weather is the constant in the temperate east, and I noticed weather-chapped buds from weeks ago on some of the plants: the sap had run and then stymied by the cold turn. I took the fresh air on the screened porch, as is said, "fresh air sharpens the wits", as of a bullet-hole in one's hat, keeping his thoughts keen, past the forsaken deities of displacement and dissipation--Dionysus would be bored here, perhaps, the deity one. The Aeropagite might find eagerness for his wares, something of breaking the boredom, the slowness of the day; why, I imagine they spent all day in

USA Today on the origins of Valentine's Day.

USA Today on the possible origins of Valentine's Day. A Roman saint from the third century, Valentine de Terni was thrown into jail for secretly marrying couples against the wishes of Emperor Claudius II, who put forth an edict banning marriage for military personnel. The emperor believed that marriage would distract his military and make them less efficient on the battlefield. Read the news item here.  

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe.

It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdome by the sea, That a maiden there lived by whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsman came and bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre in this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me-- Yes!--that was the reason(as all men know, in this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were old than we-- of many far wiser than we-- And

On Valentine's Day. A helpful, explanatory graphic.

  "You know its True Love because she hates you." Nothing more like Faulkner than a "heart working against itself" , competing interests, cross purposes, the contradiction of human life, how we deplete ourselves to live better, and only for a short time, at that.

"light seeking light doth beguile..."

"Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: as, painfully to pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth, while truth the while doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light seeking light doth light of light beguile; so, ere you find where light in darkness lies, your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed,  by fixing it upon a fairer eye, who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, and give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, that will not be deep-searched with saucy looks: small have continual plodders ever won, save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame; and every godfather can give a name."   -William Shakespeare

Samuel Beckett

"This does not mean that Watt may not have left out some of the things that happened, or that were, or that he may not have foisted in other things that never happened, or never were.  Mention has already been made of the difficulties that Watt encountered in his efforts to distinguish between what happened and what did not happen, between what was and what was not, in Mr. Knott's house.  And Watt made no secret of this, in his conversations with me, that many things described as happening, in Mr. Knott's house, and of course grounds, perhaps never happened at all, or quite differently, and that many things described as being, or rather as not being, for these were the more important, perhaps were not, or rather were all the time.  But apart from this, it is difficult for a man like Watt to tell a long story like Watt's without leaving out some things, and foisting in others.  And this does not mean either that I may not have left out some of the things that Watt told

Classic New Mutants: The False Ballad of Ready-Or-Not and Stovepipe.

Danielle Moonstar had served it up, before she became an instructor at the school, she had come in and they were all gonna watch Magnum PI.  Paige Guthrie, Sam Guthrie, Roberto DaCosta and Danielle. It was those miniatures, those little candy bars which seem to cost so dear, but the exorbitant cost is obviously proportional to the desire for said chocolates.  It was simple supply and demand, decided by people in New York, about products from Pennsylvania.  Lee Iococca or Bob Lutz wouldve approved, perhaps, but not Mister Ford. Mister Ford only gave them one color, and he said famously, "you can have any color Ford you want, as long as its black." They were advertising the Escort, incidentally, on television in those days. Anyway.  The sweets.  The goodie.  Cannonball at the the Mr Goodbar out of the bag, and it was something about either liking nuts or specifically liking nuts in his mouth; time and circumstance confuses these things to an extent. Paige ate the Krackle. Danie

on You and Your Brown Liquor; a lament.

He says the brown liquor is killing him.... My office got hold of an advance copy of Esperanza Peters' new album, tentatively titled "I'm Just a Hard-ass Ni**er." More of the ongoing tete-a-tete between man and his brown liquor.  I was reminding the classic line from another artists, "she thinks all that glitters is gold."  For there is so much sparkle to be had at the dollar store, as it were, such is the way, the very dichotomy of the thing, that he may yet find his dreams and nightmares as it were, writ large in the sky. These things we do, these we enjoy, for a time, with its own little patch of season somehow reserved in the natural order. I noted Binocle wasn't naked this year at the Grammy's, presumably because she wasn't singing; otherwise, she would beckon us to "know her". The third Angel said, "come and see". And behold, the stolid dictastor has ordered-up fountains of blood for all the secret bases.

On the other half.

Like fine linen, she longed to be held close to the skin; like a fine Italian automobile, she longed to be pushed to her limits.  These things were for tactile enjoyment, and not to be shelved for subsequent jealous glances..... The prancing horse emblem on the hood seem to call to me, call me to a slap fight, my open hands versus the front hooves of the beast, and all the while, her positively oozing on the seat like spilled milkshake, and me, called to action, energetically at a loss for which button to push first, having so many causes. She also longed perhaps to be wiped away, like an olive brine stain, or perhaps pushed lovingly to the side, like an annoyingly energetic pup.  If I smacked her bottom with the newspaper, know it was endearment, and perhaps a smatter of nuisance, a little thumbnail of anticipation, a guiding hand perhaps, like the shepherd of old, from the wilderness and towards a promised land, me and thee, me and thee, and the supersize grapes and all that.  Cream.

Argt and the argteest: Elegy for a Pickle stain.

I suppose I may have seemed diminuative in some fundamental way, as if weak of constitution--none of which was untrue--unreservedly shame-faced, but for the smile pushing at the timbers of that great barndoor, ready to shine out: no pantomime for the concourse, but a loud kind of music, a noisy hue of something that just transpired in my brain, as of something of patterns and blends of neurochemicals, the creative power of mankind in contrast to the creative powers of nature-at-large and the Creator. As if I had just spoke it into being, without even speaking, sparked by a brain gleat, a train track of various things, a chain reaction across an old archaic lump of meat, but that too, defying an understanding by our brand of science, and by that same token, taken as something miraculous-- --so its a miracle, then. Nuisance flotsam of the braincase, the attic writings of one that hides away, the kind that doesn't come-off well in person, but glitters and glows behind the printed word

Mary Queen of Scots: Found and Decoded.

Mary Queen of Scot's letters were found in a stash of old Italian papers.  Written in code.  It took computers and manual techniques to break the code, with a cryptologist, music expert and some other. I hope to take a look at the code that was supposedly so difficult to crack. According to the team, its remarkable to have found so many un-deciphered letters from such a famous historical figure. Read about it in The Guardian.