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 the ancient gods, hewn away in stone with a technology we know the nothing of, like the tower that was supposed to reach to space.  We are but buttons and pins, urchins that cavort and jumble haplessly, bid to market gain, but not gain of emotion, tendency, aspect or what-have-you.

Around that time Kevin ass-flapped nearly snapping the neck of the blonde Samoan.

It was at this time that Hillary's cloud back-up solution had still not been discovered, that or conveniently ignored.

You don't believe Hillary backed-up the files?  

Hillary backed it up.

"They taught us to fight back, turn the tide against the machines."

"One Democrat."

The church was purging member roles because of the Caitlyn heresy, bouncing otherwise happy churchgoers.

Kevin ass-flapped then cooter-bugged away in his boxer shorts.  "The Prize Fighter" they said, which was a re-branding of the once villain that would simply walk out of matches, as if they would really him do that.  Anything to gip the fans, then looking at the stock price, realizing it was cheaper to just lie about the matches and do bait-and-switch.

Scott found out only 53% of black people felt begrudging in any way towards him, and he snapped, almost cursing the entire race.  I had heard some other interesting statistics.  80% of youths, autistic.  60% of girls, molested.  Surely we all navel gaze about the 47% of blacks, and W's campaign of "winning the hearts and minds", and Obama inviting pop culture blacks to the White House.

"I like to help them."

"The most recent example of newspapers cutting their budgets across the board, particularly curtailing talent expenditures."

Kevin helped the blonde Samoan take his ass right to sleep.

They said Scott needed to find the love of Christ, even though he wouldn't be financially able to tithe for a while, just come in and sit quiet in the corner.

10% of nothing, after all, was still nothing, and there was, to date, no mandatory tithing minimum.  I had once dumped quarters into the plate.  And they said at the Vegas church, "you don't dump it in the bowl all at once", but hold some part of it back, because sometimes, they'll pass the plate again, just for shids and giggles.

trails across the glass.


a pretty cloud


On relationships: togetherness in circumstance.

A relationship is not two people together in a perfect circumstance, but is two people facing the challenges of life together. 

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 nothing could contain them, save for that pickup bed containing Clyde, by his own submission, laying there perhaps as if dying, but just winded, really, perhaps at the very beginning of pulling a new adventure out of his brain.

It was a good afternoon for it. Blessedly hot, it was, and so much so that there weren’t a lot of other people out and about. Clyde and the rest of his bunch were too young to be much perturbed by the killing heat, the momentous stupid humidity of the days, but yet they were old enough to drive around unsupervised for long periods of time. The were in the sweet spot, perhaps, of age, floating somewhere between care and mercy, but so far from each they could not be touched, like aliens, or demons or something unearthly, though it happened every summer in the area, the coming of age, a new particular thing, a new peculiarity among people that held only for a season, and then was gone, to be remember and made something of only after it was hopelessly departed.

Maybe it perturbed, too, the egotistical Clyde not to catch the egotistical Gordon, and the egotistical Gordon, to himself and thrust forward at Clyde, had demonstrated something of his own superiority, not a superiority of body, not in hiding or running, but in using his mind to evade the slightly older man, the slightly older young man; he had outwitted a supposedly smarter man-one older and thus smarter, more enigmatic, stronger, further along towards that Christmas gift that was the age of 18 years old.

He would be able to buy cigarettes anywhere in the county, then, and that privilege brought him one more step towards a kind of divinity, and if only, they all wonder, if they could cash in that future ability a few years earlier, borrow against it; but karma never allowed it, and it was the maddeningly delicious fist of fate that kept them away so long and made the months between stretch into years, or the hours might seem like days, until it was a school day, and then it burned away like gunpowder, and left them scrambling always for this or that, bags or books or pencils or whatever.

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 heroic that her fame after was anonymity and a menial job; it was a living.

She slipped me a letter, and I knew she didn't write it in those moments when I was there, and I knew she didn't write it for me, either, but anyone from Chatham, anyone at all with the commonality.

She gave it to me willingly.

I wiped my mouth with a thin paper napkin, slyly with the other hand putting her paper in my breast pocket, to sit next to me heart: that Mike Morris's heart, not Michael Pitt's heart from that movie.  Decorum, people.

As I paid the check, she was serving tables, and then, as I was going out the glass door, I could hear her shuffle step as she carried plates or ketchup bottles or something towards the back.

It was so awfully hot, I had microwave egg rolls on the dashboard heating in the sun; they too began to sweat, like me, my feet getting the false-chill from being sweat-damp, sort of the opposite of frostbite, in the heathen jungle of the desert wastes.

"I had about me an empire, but now, conspirer?--

Look upon my works--ye ephemeral dotage--and despair!"

She was like the fourth man in Nebuchednezzar's furnace of old, that fourth, even the old king growing more and more insane, remarking to himself, "there is another among them, who is as the Son of God!"

I slopped on the egg roll, though it were chicken, and I as a starved swine, later in the evening, as the sky went from orange to purple, a bruise growing older till the purple bled away into a horrid gray, a kind of coffin gray, and I drove off the road into the desert wastes, keeping the roadway in sight, remembering dimly ahead, Turkey Trot across in California, and the old Opera House(which was the only place they wore cowboy boots, there, and to there and back, no where else), the Pine Straw Technology Center.

The Patron of America, of course, the much sanctified mother of the Lord, and the big character in the thing was a woman, kind of a blending of the Blessed Mother, and the Lord our Savior himself, particularly not in how she saw herself or particularly acted, because she was action movie, but her story was told through auxiliaries, capillaries, such that she was made a saint, made bigger, as of the Doomsayer's from the old movie site, those background characters that make approving remarks that "put her over" with the audience.  We see the technique used often in regard to villains in pictures, but people like John Ford, in their scenes, the background characters either commented something of the main man, or had it on the tip of their tongues.

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 well-laid trap for the slave clerk, and he would have none of it, as it rested the very enjoyment out of sex with the old lady.

"Lie with me."

And they roamed the night with shovels.

One night they found the baby doll with the burned face, the neighbor girls offer to Doodle, that they have an imaginary child in play.  She even went through the motions of hiding it under her shirt, he belly looking like a horror of twisted limbs, random juttings, and she turned and removed the plastic baby doll.

Doodle had burned its face with his trusty gas lighter and presented it back to her.

And in the night, they digged and digged, in service to the dream.

They had found a skull and tossed it into the woods.

Diddy held a hope, a very real hope that fueled him well, that they would find a cash box filled with gold coins, one from some old regiment, something from 1863 when the Civil War frontage swept through the area.

And one night a shoplifter had ran into the scene, from the Citgo, through the woods, past the bottoms, into their scene, and unseeing in the dark, he fell into a hole, knocked immediately unconscious by the hardpack and back wrenched too, awkwardly, and as he painfully fever dreamed, Diddy had diarrhea, and bent over the treasure hole at the edge of the field, and unknowingly shat on the man, into the hole, not seeing, but not caring either.

The smell was such that they did not last long before the covered the whole up in disgust, in the unseeing dark actually burying the petty criminal alive; some pagan stuff, that was, a twisted owl or giant beetle whispering to his angels that the shoplifter was guilty of other stuff too, and thusly deserved to die that death of anonymity, that unknowing denied catharsis.

No resolution for the wicked.

And after Potiphar's house, Joseph in the good book was put in charge of all the jailed, as a jailed himself, one from among the stacks operating for their charge, and it was the blessing, that if he were jailed, God's blessing still worked for him, anyway, and as a convict, he was the bestest most well liked and most powerful, he was the golfer of the final row of the trailer park, or the lottery winning one in public housing.

"Lie with me", Potiphar's wife had said.

And as they stayed overlong at the would-be treasure pits, the turtle came, something at his nose: that human skull, again, come back the way a particularly nasty bad dream resurfaces.

Diddy rolled it like a small bowling ball into the pitch dark of the woods.

word of the day: blatherskite

blatherskite, noun.

One given to voluble, empty talk; one who habitually indulges in empty bluster.

word of the day: peccadillo

peccadillo, noun.

A slight trespass or offense; a petty crime or fault.

(from Latin peccatum: a sin.)

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 bedclothes, the skin against the fabric.  Telulah's sigh brook something of the real and not the sting or enigma of the imagined sighs that elapsed sometimes; but Terry ignored it and went, grabbing at his pants, then grabbing at his boots, and carrying them out of the room with him.

The bedroom door gave a small shriek as he went out.

There was a muffled thump elsewhere in the house and Telulah moaned, dimly wondering if her husband had taken a fall, but dismissing that, doing a kind of half-hearted mental calculus, even while part of herself somewhere in her imagination was standing over him, as if he had fallen on the floor.

Without, in the drive and the dooryard and the pasture to the right of the front view, it was false dawn, and there was a ghostly glow on everything as that bit of starlight caressed everything, the tops of everything, at any rate, and made it seem something of a magic, something of the days before fire was stolen from the Gods and brought down to Earth to please man and obey his commands.

The muffled thump that Telulah had heard was the front door, Terry going out to front stop to finish dressing and look over the place, to get a good start on things before the day began, maybe even be finished in time to watch the sunrise.  He would bring the eggs and milking for breakfast after the fire was built-up in the stove, and anyway, there was no going back to sleep, and why Terry couldn't say exactly, because he could not remember the dream at all, nary a bit of it, not a scene, setting or character, but it left an emotional snail-slime across his mind that was real enough and remained still.  He knew when his eyes first opened his sleep was gone for the night; he could feel it, and the snail-slime residue of nightmare or fever dream left a kind of toxicity that warded-off sleep.

Terry was dressed and walking around the house when he perceived in the gloom a dark patch in the pasture.  It was novel enough that he stopped and looked again.  It seemed in the gloom that someone had dug a big deep hole in the pasture, but he knew that couldn't be so, so he went over to the fence, and came in the gate to get a closer look.

And the closer he got, there was a weird iron smell, not light striking a match, but something between dust and sick chicken blood, something familiar that he thought he should know, but could not quite make out.

He found out.

The big black patch went about 12 feet, cowhide from their steer, stretched insides-up along the ground, neatly pinned by a stick at each end.  This woke Terry proper, as he even felt it seemed like a dream, an insensible vision that he was already hoping he would soon forget like the other experience of that night.

He was too confused to recoil in horror, and it was a horror, that smell, cowblood, the iron of the steers life force spilled all over the ground, blood and skin and in the middle of the little tarpaulin of skin stood the good from the slaughtered cow.  He couldn't see it in the three-quarters dark, but none of the organs had been done much damage; the work was neat.

It was just weird enough to seem like a dream, and he coalesced by the gate post, staring not at the scene, but above it, into the brush beyond, his breath coming in great pulses of wind.

The neighbors came to see the sight, and one of them told him it was like a surgery, like a doctor would do, but the constable that finally showed-up mid-morning still wanting his coffee and breakfast from the vicitms, the constable would not acknowledge that.  He was sort of tight-lipped about the whole thing, as if willing to commit to nothing, and it put Terry in mind that the cop didn't trust Terry, as if Terry had tore-up his own cattle.  That was nature of silence and a lack of solace, it fills spaces where with internal doubts where there was none before; Terry knew enough to dismiss the thought, though.

Terry went fishing after, walking along the road to the mill pond he was thinking he was hearing the running water loudly, but it was another policeman, the wheels making the water sounds of the dirt and rocks in the county raod.  So they were out and about, looking around, making notations and talking to people.  Terry indulged a hope he would find out what happened, after all the steer was valuable property, and it represented much of Terry's meager financial holding, what of it there was.

They had said hello, he and the other constable in the car, and Terry wondered if that one was after a late breakfast, too, wanting the hospitality of anyone drawn into his orbit in the day, to freeload off of anybody whose luck had run sour.

And Terry fished, after walking through some small volunteer oaks to the creekbank, from the road.

The creek bank was steep and it made the dark water look deceptively deep from the side of it.  It had tendrils of what would have been a good root beer foam had there been great stones in the water, but herein there was only little tendrils, as if fresh cream had been poured in the black water by the saucer full.

Terry had at once toppled in the water while reeling in his only catch, and when he fell, his pole was gone along with the catch.  As he sat suddenly and abruptly laughing in the water, he imagined someone downstream getting themselves a gently used fishing rod at his expense, with the hapless fish still hooked on one end; the laughter was at first only a reflex, but it contained something of the magic and unexpectedness that the day had already shown him, and despite it all, he let the laughter come, and before it was finished, the laughter had become all real enough, such the he could enjoy it, even as he sat in the black water, the deceptively shallow mill creek that made people think it was twenty or thirty feet in depth, something majestic, but it wasn't, just a spit of water, and that coming from God, too, seemly, like the sighing of bedclothes and the copwheels on the dirt county road.

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, yes, God gives us breathing room, unlike the restless enthusiasm of a Dali masturbation musing, and further, "and the mercy that was bestowed upon me was not in vain."

The strangest of the lives, of course, bestrides the "banality" of the common, or should we say the commonplace of the very novel and markedly weird, the tangental scrawl of a graph line turning into a Joker smile instead of a nice dell to have a picnic upon, and here I was, thinking I was actually disconnected from my body, the hen peck of rain drops on the drive, the porch roof, and my mind in sort of a pre-launch phase, waking in slow steps, even as I stood in place and smoked my cigarettes.

I had indignation in my dream, in my dream, I left the rooms, and walked among unfamiliar people in the yard, thinking they had no right; it was a rented room, for the day being appropriated; I went aside and there were familiars working old age projects, and one of them was spearing a small medical device with a Bic pen, saying off-hand that it was a heart monitor and GPS, his voice having the kind of love and familiarity one gives to thoughts of a pup, maybe, and I thought those people had no right to be in my yard.  I smoked and walked around, taking in, in particular, some of the women, as if for sport, for my own Dali paintings, musings on self-gratification, with reddened angry, energetic hands fumbling and tumbling and at once, not coming into mind, but at least mastering the person.

They had no right; it was my rented room: a big room on the outer-end, lined with windows, and inside, some comfortable chairs, and some communal tables for the shitters, doing their puzzles and games.  Heart Monitor, had a carton of french fries he pulled after he told us with that great puppy love about his heart monitor.

There was a pond beside--it was supposed to increase the rental value, but I paid no mind, wanting to be so far outside of the city, and so close, and the place fitting that bill, had no need of a pond, or a Trevari Fountain or anything of the kind; but what counterbalanced was the smallness and quaint fortitude of the little room on the end of the house.

Then an actual pup barking, as if trying to make himself seem more fierce than he was, just a little fish in a little bowl, stupidly calling out, making himself known even to roaming predators, and that unawares on the dog's part, as if perhaps too comfortable yet in his own space: not unlike myself, though I had paid for the privilege of dominating my own space.

Most of this took place in my mind, and if correlated to anything without, I was not aware, only sitting asleep, as if watching a dull movie in my own mind, walking the unlevel surface of the yard, around parked cars, taking hungry glances at the women folk coming and going.

word of the day: penurious

penurious, adjective.

Meanly parsimonious or stingy; in a condition of penury or want; poverty-stricken; scanty.

On the Conundrum of Age.

Old enough to know better, but too young to care.


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.


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.

word of the day: Idiopathy

idiopathy, noun.

A disease of unknown or obscure cause; a primary of spontaneous disease.

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


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 freezer scene with Derek and the Dominoes playing in the background.

"He's tying-up loose ends."

Souped his ass.

And there was Bolduan Jones from the 15th squad Magnum "T.A." Wagnon, and some other.  The officious little show, "George Goes To The Mayor", and all that stuff, Bolduan Jones explaining how he got his name, James Baldwin namesake, "Go Tell It On The Mountain", a man fighting his urges and instincts, taken up beyond sexuality or lack off, swishing pants legs, into a religious ecstasy, and his old fat mother knowing all the while he was as genuine as a three dollar bill.

And others, disparate characters, chanting, "I make water with my peepee" and so forth, the clarion call that stretches valiantly forth across generations of time unknown, people and places of the generations, curses and faiths and things, everybody with a little spirit wire taken up behind the ear, and all that, and inevitably, I take up the familiar refrain and chant along, "It make water, my peepee."

I mark every trick, but some only after the fact, some when I've gotten eggs tossed on my lap, and maybe I feel beaten, but that stupid optimism, that all dissipation and concession is cause for learnings, and learnings chalk-up to future victories, a sort of human capacity that evolves over time, like the Olympic records getting broken now and then, and few old records standing in modernity, a kind of progress and improvement that catches so many very regular and joy-worthy people under its boot-heel.

And Fardnoy's Complaint had got good.  It was a mother and son romance scene, that brooked partly looking like romance, but could be lenses as Platonism, proper, as it were, upright, and the father had come in and said, "You're at this, again, I see."  But I was rather jarred by the thing, the unfamiliar characters of it, and it was taken ambiguously as it was written; these men dubiously shill for the antagonist in any of their works, because somehow has to defend them, and the whole thing just makes it more or less unsatisfying, hugs that choke the air off and all.

Meanwhile, other people, away from employment binging on sex and drugs and chocolate milk and streaming video.

It used to be R&B or Rock'n'roll, I note, but now, obscure streaming shows, maybe, and things that were meant to scream for attention, things that might be good, but are totally crowded around in the market to make the whole protoplasm of usage diluted, and people only come together now for things like my blog and the Superbowl, in that very same sequence.

De Niro had put Bruton Parker in the freezer, and Morris, and Stax, and the others.  "Loose ends."  It was, and from the mortal coil, somewhat separated.

Also new: March 2023 Budget Tracker spreadsheet.

Calabra Data on Gumroad is where this is posted.


type of expense

daily totals of categories

daily totals of ALL categories

a daily average calculated per week

weekly totals of ALL and then each category.

Covers March 2023, made on Google Sheets, and ITS FREE.

Get it for free here on Gumroad. 

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. 

Word of the Day: pasigraphy.

pasigraphy, noun.

Any of various systems of writing proposed for universal use, which employ characters representing ideas instead of words; a kind of writing that may be understood and used by all nations.

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 depression, we can look at staggering numbers, stillborn babies, drug-addicted youths, depressed and suicidal teenagers; behind the numbers we can imply a commonality in the condition, the same way some people ham-handedly postulate that all adults have bipolar disorder, or that all children are autistic. We may chase the tail of these aspects around the shirttails of everyone, and in that, we either lose faith in humanity, identify something lacking in modern life, or, perhaps, fall into grim, reserved acceptance of seemingly common maladies.

Our lasting legacy of death might itself appear two-dimensional, for man to be made to disappear beneath the top soil, down, down into the grave, and in that respect, science is just now getting a glimpse of what is real and true, and not just the smaller principles of the universe.

I had that moment of larger awareness when I realized no other person I could point to seemed deserving of hardship, and so often the more fortunate seem to have it by chance than planning or effort. If there were a galactic balance of fortune, I am not and was not aware of it; I could only but observe. I know what I had seen, as there is the old line about “there is no suffering that is not common to man”, and think of even Bible stories like Job, in which poor Job suffered so much within and without, seemingly losing everything: his wealth, home, children, and the respect of his wife. One could note that it was a punishment for the eternal enemy to keep Job’s wife alive after she had given up respecting him, that her jeers and other manners would be a torment to the man, and that on top and after all of the other.

In the midst of his trials, he was asked to forsake his principles, his faith in God, and contrastingly, he was also told he had sinned against God, though he had not. He went to neither concepts and retained his faith through it all, despite his suffering and the disputing of his so-called friends. One could see his faith was not based on his wealth or anything material, but in something above all of that, and no amount of earthbound trickery or tragedy could shake him. Of course, if your faith is built on good fortune, then you surely think less on it when times are worse. As was my sight lines on that sunny morning, that my faith was not in good fortune, but in a guiding principle, which is in my case the Hebrew Lord of Hosts, Yahweh.

One could take the Coronavirus Pandemic as an ultimate reminder of our commonality, with the mass infections, mass-shutdowns and the huge vaccination campaign. Why, simply the tonnage of resources devoted to developing the vaccines among the several companies amounts to enough of a commonality, without pointing to more than a million dead, or untold millions having been infected at least once. There were trucks filled with bodies in hospital parking lots: mass-infection, widespread sickness, the threat of death made more prominent, and a large more pervasive fear of infection. We had but to witness the lobby areas of buildings where people with paper masks went to and fro, or glimpse empty parking lots. And as a psychological curiosity, we have something of a lost generation that missed an entire year of schooling, and then after, sat behind plexi-glass and paper masks to be instructed.

We look at separate stars in one sky: maybe that’s more us, separate people united by conditions, swimming along in the same stream or in the same fishbowl, figures on a common field contending life among various other forces. Aurelius uses the stone in the stream analogy quite a bit, noting a single person, himself, as a stone in the stream, and he is but to sit in the stream. But think too that the stone is worn smooth, shaped by its experience, as it sits somewhat obstinate. Aurelius tells us that the eroding and shaping of each of us is part of us being made more and more with time, to conform and co-exist with nature.

Look at the conduct of the stone in the stream. It is still, not moving, which I mention as being obstinate. But it is there and in the stream, so it is not wholly separate, and there in lies so much of the science of Aurelius. He proposes a guiding principle in charge, and various forces acting on the world proper, and he proposes that this is common to all people. Remember, we’re there, in the stream, being acting upon, and we erode worse when we flail, just like the story of the sapling and the mighty large tree, we can bend or break. The stone can seem to have something almost approaching Eastern wisdom in its inactivity, its passivity, which, passivity, Aurelius reminds us can be good or bad.

The finer point would be too somewhat passively take action, or not figuratively cloudy the waters when doing something in life. There are so many of us now in this ecosystem, so many to sit in the cloudy water wondering which person messed it up this time. Consider too, that so much of the world was yet unknown in the good emperor’s day, and his empire owned or controlled much of what was known of the world at the time.

However, in our own day the Coronavirus might be the stream, and ourselves the stone, when fear, death and disease run rampant and our common mortality is laid bare. To be too passive in such an instance seems to forsake precautions, but truly to be acted upon by the stream is to indeed take precautions. One could run oneself mad with circular logic in such an instance, and that among the concerns against infection and possible early demise; we were shown so much of the changes of the world, and that simply to burn television air time. Nevertheless, the stone is indeed acted upon by the stream so there is a low-level of response to the outer world dictated by the stone analogy, and we simply react, not totally unlike anyone else, but with marked passivity.

And in that, we’re not saying that death is an unnecessary evil or anything of the kind, for all that lives eventually dies, but we’re not bidden to bring about our own end without some kind of necessity bearing. The Stoic is not suicidal or hopeful of death, per se, but rather acknowledging the inevitably of death.

There is a genre of art, things called “vanitas” and “memento mori”, reminders of death that we are to bare before our eyes to keep reminding us of death, so that at some point, hopefully we’re desensitized enough not to dread it, but realize it is an expected and thusly necessary function of life. This is as if to say, “to all things: a beginning and an ending”.

Death of course, in the modern financed and legally-entangled world requires planning, and there are estate specialist attorneys and probate judges to deal with, always seemingly a family member coming forth with questions of inheritance or final wishes. Probably the most Stoic thing I’ve encountered regarding death is the “pre-paid funeral” and the impetus to reserve cemetery plots before one’s passing. Even in that, modern man lives financed and finances his own death early, and industries are built around that, as part of the endless pursuit of funding from the world at large. Indeed, an odd moment it might be for a man or woman to choose his own burial casket, maybe even run his hands across the surface.

Death and finance reminds me of another aspect of this marked honesty in Stoicism, and that is how to profit from downturns when you are sure a downturn is coming. There were tales of stock deals and so forth by congress members, people who knew what legislation was coming, and anticipating how it would effect the markets. One prominent congressman supposedly made millions in the weeks prior to many of the Coronavirus lock-downs pervading the nation in 2020, and then the tapping of the national crude oil reserves. It seems to be illegal “insider trading”, using privileged information for the purpose of trading, but this is of course, an instance of profit generated by a foreseen downturn.

Stoic passivity does not mean we do not react at all, but rather act within reason, acting on that anticipation. A Stoic stock trader for instance, does not deny the approach of downturns but makes ready, and that’s the entire point of “remembering the inevitability of death”. The Stoic does indeed react, but in the name of preserving his peace of mind, he prepares himself. Why else the marked negativity of remembering death? Such is all for the sake of preparation, and tempering oneself in the face of reality.

Stoicism is at bottom, just a system of thought, or taken that way, where Aurelius hinted that it seemed to explain the universe at large. By contrast, the other Stoic figures of his time were preoccupied with human conduct, rules of conduct, rather than systems of science. However, with only hints from Aurelius, he is quite clear that pretty much everything in the universe, including the ruling principle, is interconnected, and some ways, one and the same. Existence, and death being a fact of existence is like a legionnaire’s tattoo that we all bear. Inscripted and conscripted to come screaming into this world, we are, and many will leave just as toothless and fearful as the were when they came originally.

Consider Marcus. In a republic where there is a representation of the people in leadership, we so often expect and maybe even deserve some sort of reflection of ourselves in our appointed leaders, though only nepotism explained the appointing of Marcus Aurelius, the good Stoic emperor, and not so much other. But an orphan Stoic philosopher, probably quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, somehow for the era, either reflecting the time, but maybe more aptly, time reflecting him, and with only illusions of love and incursions from the barbarians to the north to deflect.

How much might Marcus have reflected the attitudes and general demeanor, the running line of talk, of the Rome of his day, and in turn how much might his own actions have influenced the people? It seemed his son was quite opposite of him, a brutish fighter and hunter, seemingly of choice the opposite of his father. I could imagine Marcus sending the lad outside to make his own play while the good emperor was at study, but might there have been some reaction of the boy, something of making like karmic amends for his father’s remarkably gentle qualities?

Such is our interconnection, that one soul might establish a balance when taken with another, and its not as much a rebuke, as the balance seems not overly judgmental, and placid and blank as the average nighttime sky. Or in one family, one soul might establish a sense of balance with another, particularly between children and parents, or between siblings. That is to say, if one were overmuch something, the other acts as a counterbalance. This is our cosmopolitan thread of connection, that these balances are somewhere in the mind observed and acted upon most often without our conscious realization.

Today we have a collision of various worldviews, and that in a supposed pluralistic nation like old Rome. Lifestyles are made agendum items for elected officials, and if you disagree morally with a lifestyle, you simply vote against it. Such is a dangerous way, to legislate one’s lifestyle, and leave no room for the alternatives. Somehow freedom has taken a different and dangerously hostile face. Consider that the old Romans had statues from various religions side-by-side in the street, and the thoroughfare was a place where almost anyone could worship. Eventually came the mad emperors who declared themselves gods, and with them, there was no room for debate. Many Christians died for not making an oath to the emperor’s godly nature. Such is the way of tyranny, that it comes down to a central ideal that is broadcast, spread like manure on a plow-field, growing only hatred and mistrust of various differences in society.

In America’s modern two-party system, there always seems a contradictory view, no matter which side is right or wrong, and this is by nature the dualistic colors of the beast with which Americans are dealt. When one is right, then the other takes the opposing view by its very nature, and if they don’t, the organization, they face labels of false loyalties.

If only the various shades of gray in the intricacies of life were settled with but a vote, a slip of paper dropped into a box.

However, a reasoned life dictates the comparison of various points of view. There must be some kind of use of reason, an examination of various things. We could hold painted glass to the sky and admire the colors, and we could do this to no end, long after our retinas had fried into darkness. And often times it would seem in matters of politics and the plurality that the well-reasoned individual should abstain from judgment; indeed, the very debate choices may be bad or lack sense to the reasoned individual.

Consider the following. Conquered citizens of the empire forced by law to pledge an oath attesting to the godly qualities of the conqueror. In modernity, this is paled by various concepts of freedom that we hold dear, but modern political parties nearly promise this same tyranny through a soft coalescing behind a given individual in a campaign for national office. At some point, debates are either settled or set aside for another day and professional advocates come into play, paid to endorse and defend rhetorically, not ideas, but people.

We would be better to devote our ideals and actions towards the more functional things, like procuring food and so forth, and let those political operatives go ignored, but its their job to get us to pay attention. Indeed, the reasoned man can maintain distance, even if the situation necessitated action like the taking up of arms; that distance is the maintaining of his own reason, his own moral clarity and evaluations. Such is to say that a good soldier may always follow orders, but he has to evaluate those orders against standards of conduct, including his own personally-held standards.

Politics could be likened to a smoky room. Staying inside, in the debate, chokes one, stifles one, and one may begin to be effected otherwise. The reasoned individual knows to leave the fray and find fresh air, such as the old Shakespeare saying that discretion is the better part of valor.

We have enough basic minutia to worry about, like food and transportation, to borrow our focus from larger political issues. But there are times when an issue speaks enough to incite one to action, and then we have to doubly and trebly evaluate our premises. Indeed it was said that evil rules when good men do nothing; some wise man said that, a politician or a rhetorician. But to worry about the basic necessities is generally cause enough, fresh air, for any citizen being called to politics.

Imagine the tadpoles sometimes found in freshwater streams. These seem part of schools or trains, but upon further examination, these are more independent. Any time you would see them acting in concert, its a reaction to the current of water, and little else; these retain some independence. Indeed, each worries of his own feedings and so forth. That baseline instinctual element of reason can call one back to coherence, if only on a most rudimentary level. Think of soldiers of the American Civil War, cut-off from supply chains and beginning to starve; many found impetus enough to leave the fray, and set down their guns. And that much has always been common enough to keep men to a certain baseline dignity, a certain baseline of activity and judgment in which he would be hard-pressed to do something that knowingly destroys him.

When Rome burned at Nero’s order, the tide of judgment turned against him. He blamed others for the burning, but historicity has held fast. Somewhere something clicked in the minds of the populace, that whether or not he had the support of an army, he would need to be stopped sooner rather than later. Had he burned an army barracks, perhaps he would have fell sooner, to make the matter more clear to the legions, to bring it into a proper focus.

Simply observe the so called “school” of tadpoles or any fishes, and watch them all move likewise to a current. This is not blind “group think” but a reasoned reaction to currents in the water, and the individual has retained some sort of judgment. Currents will push the troupe this way or that, and it will seem like they are moving in synchronous motion, but its the water, a common, instinctual reaction that pushes them along. It is the baseline of reason to want to stay alive; its no wonder that with basic needs cared for, people simply decide they want to die now and then. The impetus towards survival is not observed.

Need we then also mention a common origin, in order to tie ourselves together? Was a time there were not nations, nor intermingling races, but wandering tribes. Even then, they only reacted in part to a tandem impulse, but kept the survival instinct burning bright.

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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 effort well worth the results.

I was in Aristotle's book about gluttony and compunction, this after talking about here, nothing that was not "uncommon to man", and in the offing, Aristotle quested for a mean, in the sense of an ordinary state, and not a dead neutral; he tried to find it within reason, that the complete absence of oyster and snails an ascetic makes, and is not the mean, risking deficiency, but the glutton on the other hand is prone to the ill effects, like the rats that they feed various puddings and products to, gelatins and laboratory breads, Pepsi Colas in great abundance.  They stuff those rats and see if they catch the cancer, and if no cancer after being stuffed, the stuff is safe, and posterity is preserved, commerce then continues.

If I had to tie me into a knot for something, my work perhaps, or my family, something dear to me, and then like the Gordian, nothing but the edge could pull your MKL apart, nothing but the violence of the blade could find purchase, otherwise a compacted bundle of live nerves.

But if one must tie himself in knots, let it be for someone's good, himself or someone else, that is, and not something peculiar and silly.

Also, if one went with the flow, then surely he winds-up in the same place as everything else, hastened to seemingly a predetermined outcome: I've had these moments in life, in a hospital stay, in my high school graduation, seeming at the mercy of other hands.

Then, or should say, Elseways, if one fought the current, the pressures might build and build to push him or her on along until he or she might be destroyed or broken if not pushed on.

Of compunction and gluttony, or gluttony and compunction, think of what we today put ourselves through for a later enjoyment, days weeks and months wasted in the name of some other, and thousands of dollars wasted in the offing as well, putting off our butter cake today for something more droll, when a desert of butter cake after work tends to pick up one's countenance, the mean and not some ascetic self-destructive ritual of trading goods and services, perhaps, not eating ditchweed today in hopes of oysters and snails next season.

A reward for a day.

Another separate award for a week.

Maybe even a monthly award, just like those people bill things by the month, we can too compound a system of award by those same terms.

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....


Word of the Day: Ejecta

Ejecta, noun.

Material ejected, as from a volcano in eruption.

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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 summoning is an unknown phenomenon, or the impetus of the petitions of others through prayer and wishes for either success or destruction: it was dream, nonetheless.  Too much caffeine near bedtime leads to a kind of vivid quality in the dreams, sitting there as if in the puzzle house proper watching the inmates work at their business with that kind of odd, jerky insane energy, and that, all of that, in the province of the mind, between the walls of one's own skull.

Of usury, I asked myself some frankly fundamental questions.  I thought it quite proper to let others set their own limitations, but I had seen the dark side of that so much, for there are so many types of people, and willing to do the unsavory if for only a kind word in return.

People, people, people.

It was like the time my brother had rented a prostitute for an entire night, she thinking she'd have booze and plenty of sex, then sleep soundly after a time, all while on the clock.  Brother took it one step further and never even removed any clothes, asking her instead to clean the kitchen, living room, and the dungeon which served as his bathroom, where he shat fire darts and so forth.  He was a card.

This was a whole new form a usury, a kind of Metaverse foray that left river mud footprints, a kind of interactive form of gaming that made life the very objective, and he with grape gore on his chin; I'd say he sat in the sun, betimes, but truthfully he didn't unless someone else was: he'd follow them right outside into the sun just like a faithful pet cat.

To reassemble one's person.

To resemble one's person.

To demonstrate one's craft by faithfully failing every task, just as the prior assemblage had accomplished, just the same, unvarying, unwavering, crashing into the same barnsides and bedposts.

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
You have feet to roam,
Lines of travel

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 finger seated gently in her belly button.

I had written of Sappho, somewhere, and I had died a thousand times in my mind.

As was said, that made me a coward, and in my mind I had painted the world over in my own rotten blood.

It was as the bard said, "a coward dies a million deaths", so I was the Great Coward to cause, but imminently brave without reason, willing to jump from the bridge just for the sake of telling the tale later.

People would think she felt something dear, if she wiped her eyes, the pepper gore: the capsaicin making tears come to her eyes, and they would think they owned her, heart like a wild pony, a mustang along the southern frontage spitting at any gaucho or caballero that came near, spitting even on rattlesnakes and outstretch cactus palms.

Somehow in all that, KT Ber, I was getting older, becoming perhaps, more normal in some respects, more mutant in other respects, but certainly more rare.  I could, rarified, come to the fold, for every fold has its oddball, and as I look around, I see the paradigm much differently, that we are all numbered, all odd when its given fair airing; all uniques somehow, not like Confuseus taught, or even Christ or Lucius Seneca, "nothing that is uncommon to man" as if all were "common to man", a profound simplicity that yet defies understanding.

"Weiner", I say KT.  Come with Uncle and hear Angel Trumpets and Devil Trombones.


Word of the Day: Fistula

Fistula, noun.

an abnormal duct or passage caused by injury or disease, as one leading from an abscess to the body surface or from one cavity or hollow organ to another.

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 the fields years back, because

a)they would have been miserable in the weather doing anything, and with no air conditioning or box fans to aid their cause.

b)there was really nothing else to do but work for the big farmers; everybody else was so poor.  There was no other reason de'tre, and it was like 18 miles walk to get a drink, anyway.  Why, a days work for a day's food, a Mason or Ball jar filled with creek water sometime in the midmorning, scratching your back and itching calves with a tree branch, a so called "switch", a kind of diving rod that pointed the younglings towards manners and quietude.

I see roofers are all around these days, and woodsmen, thinking the season has turned enough for proper work, like the days when the crews will put in the long days, and then the HVAC people have properly switched over from changing propane nozzles and 90 amp fuses to refilling refrigerants all over the place, particularly the big roof units that sit like gargoyles on tops of all the flat roof buildings.

And Michael Keaton is Batman again, so it really does feel like springtime in America all over again.  The long night of rape-victim-angst and cleft chins has went over to be pasted into posterity, and once again Keaton takes to the skies of ultra-gothic version of New York.

He was a person that fit the hour, as it were, a promise of more, like they keep dangling in front us, as was the joke with The Batman movie recently, "once again we're sitting in front of new, edgier version of Batman".  The just need any script, any director, but slot David Fincher as the production designer; imagine the production values of a film like Seven grafted onto a Batman production.  I'd sit for it and watch like the urchin I am.

I go into prep on two different hero things of my own, alternate universe stuff; one about artificial intelligence and the other more a proper super hero thing.  I had a revelation inside my thoughts, that maybe sometime in the future, I'd write a book that someone would actually want to pick up and read, and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't feel like I was gaslighting or mansplaining my readers.


Word of the Day, Polyglots & Prolixity: Eidolon

Eidolon, noun.

An unreal or spectral form; a phantom.

(I initially came across the obscure word in an Edgar Allan Poe poem, which may or may not have been his Ulalame.)

Word of the Day: Polyglots & Prolixity: "peccant"

peccant: adjective.

Sinning; corrupt; breaking a rule or principle--

peccancy, noun

peccantly, adverb.

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 neither the angels in heaven above,

nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,

in the sepulchre there by the sea,

in her tomb by the sounding sea.

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.

Feb 14, 2023. Word of the Day. Polyglots & Prolixity: Effluvium

Effluvium. noun.

Something flowing out of a subtle or invisible form; emanation, especially a noxious or disagreeable exhalation.

"Effluvial" as an adjective.

word of the day: (Polyglots & Prolixity) Dichroism.


the property of a uniaxial crystal exhibiting different colors in two different directions when view by transmitted light;

the property of certain solutions of exhibiting different colors in different degrees of concentration.

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"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 me, or foisted in others that Watt never told me, though I was most careful to note down all at the time in the little notebook.  It is so difficult, with a long story like the story that Watt told, even when one is most careful to note down all at the time, in one's little notebook, not to leave out some of the things that were told, and not to foist in other things that were never told, never never told at all.

Nor was the key the kind of key of which an impression could be taken, in wax, or plaster, or putty, or butter, and the reason for that was this, that possession of the key could not be obtained, even for a moment."  
-Samuel Beckett

word of the day(Polyglots & Prolixity): "Pecksniffian"

Pecksniffian: (from a Charles Dickens work) Resembling an unctuous or pretentious hypocrite; insincere.

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.

Danielle ate the Milk Chocolate.

Roberto, cursed by heritage and tradition, set upon, at once a child of privilege, Gideon's protege, once, set to rule about things like a rooster, was left with these quizzical red and black label chocolates.

He sat silently awhile, and after a little, Danielle let him have one of her Milk Chocolates.

Eventually, he reached into the bag, where all was left was Special Dark.  He thought it odd, but not too bad in small doses.

After a period of years, as Magnum PI became Quantum Leap, became Mad About You, became Ally McBeal, became a toss-aside Kolchak reboot, became Law and Order SVU.

Roberto "Sunspot" Decosta ate more and more of the Special Dark, becoming eventually fond through familiarity.

Once, in a doldrum of summer, they even took to Westchester, did Sam and 'Berto, styling themselves sort of a Power Man and Iron Fist, calling themselves Ready-Or-Not and Stovepipe.

But anyway, the point was, Bobby used Stoic principles, boring stuff from an old book, and that without having heard of it, kind of an idiopathic moment, an "abiogenesis", a "prometheum", generating a larger concept from a seemingly miniscule problem: he accepted reality, and came to enjoy what have been left for him after the rest were taken care for.

What was at once, a pockydoodle on the philactery galactic, became a preferred indifferent, and somewhere in Roberto's mind, the narrative had changed, even to the extent that he actually soon sought out dark chocolate: be it Dove, Hershey's, or Giardella.

Word of the Day(Polyglots and Prolixity): Promethium.

Promethium: A metallic element of the rare earth series, a fission product of uranium.  "Pm" on the Periodic Table.

sounds vaguely poetic.

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--a thought of art, the sum product of its priors, as is all things, sum product of its priors, and sort of a natural delineation.

I was staring at the sky again, the grayness of it, and a single brush touch of orange, kind of a sherbet kiss from the deity, and I may have been one of those few who looked up and beheld it before the winds glacially re-jiggered the cloud formation; I saw it.

You'd think, a blank-ish granite, like a sterile industrial version of moonglow.

You may have noticed that I opened my 15 lb dictionary earlier.  Good times, the science of language and the appreciation of obscure words, the lexicon of olden times and more learned men than even us, like the ones that had to read in the original old Greek language, things like Homer, and in those epochs, the learned had their own barriers of thought that they enforced with obscurities, like Leda and the Swan and things.

That dictionary was a whopper, but it was also a rather solid key to the secret tongues of old, those strange obscure lexicons of the well-studied; I see as it were, an image of Pennywise the Clown, holding his trove of balloons, saying to Georgie that they all float.

"It's not the first time a painted-up whore come at me with a bunch of inflatable sh*t."

I had my own misgivings, but perturbed into forward motion by daydreams of money: there was no fame in that, but a kind of enlightened unconsciousness of anything like fame, anything remotely resembling familiarity, only a kind of acceptance of wealth, an acceptance of having a fandom.  It takes not a few minutes to come up with the actuality that I am the fandom throwing monies at my art, and in that, neither do I then have the concerns of fame and security, but I have even more easily so preserved my artistic integrity, proportionate to my own anonymity.

Sights of the sky are filtered through our own thoughts, like the Socratic cave images, we project, others project, and its filtered through our perception; its amazing we ever notice much of anything, I suppose, even our own artistic impulses, and equal amazing that our artistic impulses should from time to time take a solid formation and thusly guide the hands towards creation.

on seeking causes for anger....

"He who seeks out offense, soon finds it; he need not worry about looking very long."  -Confuseus(fictituous dictastor)

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. 

Word of the Day(Polyglots & Prolixity): Prolixity

Prolix Long and wordy; extending to a great length; diffuse; indulging in lengthy discourse; tedious.  Other forms: Prolixity, n.  Prolixly, adv.

near the end of autumn in the southeast.

This time of year in the southeastern United States has these mid-morning thaws, in which a thin veneer of overnight or early morning frost ...