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.


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Rolling on with Women's Month movie-watchin'.

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