I had some concerns.



My concern about this scene, Irvin Kirschner, was that it was easy to apply the dialogue to either the protagonist or the antagonist: thus its, well, good for the body politick, who frequently toss the same arguments back and forth for alternating causes of the proverbial red or blue, such as the present, "two-tiered justice system".  Former VP Pence has somewhat threaded this needle, notwithstanding present legal actions, noting the political targeting of a certain prosecution, and not the validity of the prosecution, but the motive for pursuing the prosecution.

But in politics, so often, so much of what is done is wholly un-necessary, and seemingly designed to feed a dialogue, seeming sometimes to me like the elected officials intentionally feed their media counterparts, in order to keep the daily trudge of political news going.  In fact, there are times when it seems the various television outlets are focused solely on the two party figureheads, and I have to rely on secondary sources for news nuggets.

That said, Jesus had a day like that, like the character says.  Note the Cheever admiring Robo's BFG(big friggin' gun).

poem: I loved thee well, analog robot fog.

I loved thee well;

I loved thee true--

forestalled ambitions at the knell,

so much else, to ignore, or to do.

If as my father, me you saw,

you would also love me well,

but remind me so much of my flaws.

If I had a megaphone,

a plastic yellow mouthpiece at my beckon;

all from the quaint ingenuity,

of a man dictating from the between the walls of his home:

of a man of pale fog-colored obscurity

speaking thoughts that were none but his own.

Or if I were Dave Ramsey, or Alex Jones.

If I spoke my truth--

would those words ring your ears;

would any of it seem comprehensible to you?

What if I were a brown-eyed ewe,

who without the wisdom of her years,

forsook her own eyes to have hers turn blue?

A homosexual who owned a logging company--

once, me: knees-up, him: with his cool hand in my mouth,

spoke of things I should do;

By experience many worlds in betwixt and between,

but nevertheless, his searching, longing spirit calling out, 

he had spoken, lost on me, his own truth.

Would my truth be but vapor as from some doleful spa steam?

Do I even believe what I say? What I think?

Or is it more temporal than temperamental?

Is it the moment soon gone and lost as a hard-forgotten dream?

The old analog robot gets warm, hums, vibrates and sings:

more extemporaneous, hoary and dissolving than the experiential.

word of the day: invigilate

invigilate, verb.

(British usage noted)

to keep watch over students at an examination.

from the Latin "vigilare", meaning to watch.

Through the speculum of indeterminance and self-governing variable notions.

There were, as it was, a cultural "push-me, pull-you" of alternating times of various bits of yelling and generally exhibiting ire, a dissatisfaction, and we observe, it came from the fringes of both sides.

Therefore I infer the middle has purchase, and thusly, that middle of the road, which satisfies none entirely, is the very happiest medium to keep the body eclectic from ripping itself apart.

I was registered in the ICANN Domesday book as perhaps, just a "user", not an exhibitor, per se, not a demonstrator of any particular idea, but holding to one American tradition in its complete entirety though its sometimes threatens to break my jaw: the common good.  Not the Southern Baptist code of social conduct, nor anything from the thinktanks of California universities, but what promotes the common good, and we remember that "life" and "liberty" were enumerated in the founding document quite before, and superscript to the "pursuit of happiness", though today, we try to orient more to the latter than the former, as if to say, not being happy makes life not a jot worthy of living.

What promotes the common good?  We had found an uncomfortable balance on abortion, and then upset that towards one tradition of outright abandon.  Indeed, we discourse from abandon to abandon, from adonai to brandon, from emptiness to the vacuum of silent space.

Between plugging-in racial agendas, social protocols, and un-necessary interventions, we can only note who seems the most profoundly unhappy, and truly, the extremist, the zealot will happily and heartily identify himself or herself.

On the guns, the vary between restriction, lack of restriction, and outright abrandonment of hardwares; so many voices, and so many demanding action of their government, and finally, in the quiet moments, the psychiatric experts trying to find the crux of the matter: reason de'tre, motive, modus, operandum et finis.

I drink a little iced coffee from a paper carton, purchased at a discount store, and I begin to pontificate, but know, its not the "lowest common denominator" nor the "least common denominator" but the middle ground, to happily sit there welcoming a discourse from the universe, welcome the sunshine into my own little Bleakhouse, welcoming a moment of sanity that brings a kind of objective clarity to each argument that might be put forth: indeed, the addict's moment of clarity.


On Passion and Purpose.


Gratuity and gratitude in an ungraceful, ungrateful age: quasi-romance.

"She came to me like a friend

she blew it on the southern wind

about a love that was sure to end

now my heart has turned to stone again..."

-Jeff Lynne

She was, my woman, my friend: my confidant, my security blanket, and sometimes even, my chew toy.

There was said a 15% gratuity on service employees; I violate her dubious variagated sensibility with a roll of nickels.

From others: why not use another denomination?  Quarters? Dimes?

Nickels, I says.  It was 3 cents for the service, and $1.97 in donations for the various hangers-on, the buying of fast food or mixed drinks, or whatever it was that kept her mental meter spinning, and me of a certainty, whatever it was she was on about, she would see to it.

I hoped she would buy toiletries with the money; Dollar Tree oven cleaner or something, something in the form of toiletries, feminine care, genuine General Motors parts, not to have Mopar on the General Motors frame, genuine dealership starters and wiper blades, branded stuff, and then me sending her to dollar general to clean her rims and running board tread.  The latter had a milled surface that collected the utmost of filaments of the way, and only a good "spray-on and let-sit" type of industrial cleanser was suitable, the area between the crossmember, the hog head, where brake lines and even the fuel line went in betwixt and between, and the undercoating was only a delusion, at best.

I was told it was a Deutsche in some places, a fresh spritz into an otherwise dismal foray, that for the good of the aryan aristocracy, that for the good of sympatico Osterreich, and I was sure that I always preferred it trimmed nice and Nietzsche.  A hand-painted Von Deutsche bull fighter flogging his red blanket, trying in vain to get anyone's attention; one could paint-up anything to try and make it look like something else.

I watched and she took hold and rubbed it across her lips; when I awakened, she was gone, and my EBT had decided to leave, too, either with her or some other devotee of the dance arts.  But I was, at least for the indeterminate future, sated by being allowed to watch as she rubbed it across her lips, my get for her, dollar-twinky-figh.

Faulkner's "abrogated" and "inviolate", a literary pendulum of the spirit Old South.


Faulkner's Pendulum is comprised in this avid Faulkner reader's brain in two words, which contrast, like "bad" and "good", but hold to the literary pretense of Faulkner's artful scribbles.




This is to say, strong or withstanding, as of the Southern spirit, or in contrast, old and forgotten, ala the old Southern "Rebel" spirit; Faulkner wanted to hold onto the best of those attitudes, not discarding the entire lifestyle, but retaining some of that charm of the old SouthOne had only to note the admittedly depressed status of blacks in Faulkner's novels, save for one child, who was, in childhood, held as the equal of the young heir of the estate.  So one bright point in a plethora of Southern novels.

As to the women, the spirit, not the maidenhead, the iron survival instinct of the woman, her sex drive, her admitted stubborn intent in the face of all the world around them, such as in Sanctuary, with Temple Drake, or Sound and the Fury with Caddie Compson.  Quentin Compson faced the struggle writ large and could only solve her quandry through the dubious circumstance of encouraging her overseer's murder.  See The Hamlet, The Village, and The Town.

Spirit, as it were, in all its bad and good facets, alternatingly positive and negative, and often both states at once.  The Light in August stands as one of Faulkner's true racial books, with its mixed-race subject in the form of orphaned Joe Christmas.  Faulkner wrote such that Christmas's white side hated his black side, and the black side hated his white side.  In a sense, Faulkner was making no apologies, simply reflecting something of the reality on the ground, as it was in the real world.

I can imagine easily a Faulkner passage where, and it was never written, a young woman's very maidenhead was either inviolate or abrogated: it was a watchword for the spiritual condition of the person, the astounding contrary attitude to defy some crux in the world, and to do that, not seemingly for gain, but propelled by something infinitely more human than that.


word of the day: abrogate

abrogate, verb

To repeal;

to make void;

to annul by an authoritative act.

From the Latin:

ab: from

rogo: to ask, propose as a law.

The high hopes of the ragamuffin.

She was kindless in the hard crowd...

I have hopes, I suppose, in the early Southeastern USA morning--I have hopes and I can just see all that elapsing before it even happens: what is it?  A mass delusion?  Something in the water?  Flouridation? Are the proverbial "they" about taking the teeth from our young men?

I see it as a convulsion of society, an internet generation, where others see more ominous signs, I think, something of doom and gloom; but indeed, the internet even for the Internet Generation is something to which they must find a balance, as discern of their own mettle what is "normative", what is regular.

I have been bidden, told of so much more, and I am but to look upon the natural world with a sense of honest wonder, not only at what is beneath, but what it is, the past, present and future, to look at it and see as it were, a page of a story.

I charged my camera batteries yesterday, and yes, I own a separate digital camera, and yes, I bought extra batteries, and an aftermarket charger.  I hope to upgrade, but this is a wish on which we are endlessly prodded by the marketplace, to have a point-and-shoot, then the best point-and-shoot, then make the beguiling mistake, in hopes of perfection, of buying a DSLR.

I have hopes, I suppose, on the blog page, too, something of finding that lowest common denominator, maybe, for me to be an uplift, and not one of those "culture warriors" who see demons around every corner; I have hopes that if the sunshine is in my life, I can share it, at least, pour a little sunshine across the cornea of the casual reader.

american values, and the dim days of Operation Punchbowl.

Upon observing a Wall Street Journal Poll that reflects a lapsing of "American Values", Greg Bear, the science fiction pundit, observed that America had, to an extent, and for his own leisure, lost the narrative.  Such as it were, Greg Bear was just days ago talking about a church revival in America; does not all this reflect, not all, but some very pockets of peoples across the fruited plain?  I note with the Nashville kerflopple, it seems to feed a certain sense of horror; I break with this but to jeer at the commentators, and wonder earnestly, which of those American values they insist are losing ground?

Neither to bury nor praise, nor ask him to jump on my sword, I just wonder what cultural traditions and other things, are considered uniquely American?  I came from the public school tradition of primarily the 1990s, in which the phrase "melting pot" came at us at every year when we had pubic hair.

Such as it were, a group of people, paddling along against the current, and some with the current; as Bill told me, one can find a counter-current near the edge that would send would easily upstream, rather than downstream, and he said he had done that.

What is beholden to organization efficiencies or the ready identification of like-minded persons?  Is it the one where the Standard-bolt biker's wife is topless, and you know there is beer, or some such, or is it the old swinger's dog-whistles, alignments of various patio furniture in ways that give signal to the sympathetic that even all is to be shared, from the barrel of grease and flour, and all.

There was launched a fake super-secret initiative called "Punchbowl".  Of it, so much was mere rumor, and it was such that with the cloud of misinformation and the proliferation of so much purely junk data, not much was known by anyone, even the people said to have founded the project.  They dipped into their own bowls, and came up with nothing on their ice cream sticks, and they were having to ask the rumor-mongers that roamed the building of what they were supposed to actually be doing in the project; such as it was, such as it were, in the sunny happenstance, a particularly vacuous fusion of lies had become self-sustaining.

It was the days of the Pacific push, '42, or so, with vacuum tube robots and things like code-breaker typesetting machines with stacks upon stacks of flywheel discs, even a rumor of a "cloaking device" under development for naval vessels, and project leaders were at the mercy of a big-budget monstrosity that was sort of a "self-fulfilling prophecy": the very myth was in fact creating and advancing its own cause, adding to its mass, multiplying its density, till at once, if Pinnochio were a verb, the darn thing had seemed to have almost actually wished its own self into being.


Memes from Wanda Sykes, Pass It On, and the Bible.


word of the day: dithyramb

dithyramb, noun.

A hymn among the ancient Greeks composed in a wildly enthusiastic style;

any poem of an impetuous and irregular character.

Bildungsroman: The Merriam Webster word for March 28, 2023

Linked here to the MW site 

Though all they could pull was pop culture references, its illustrated pretty well as a story in which a character truly develops somewhat, and learns at least one important lesson.

word of the day: "fellow traveler"

fellow traveler, noun.

a sympathizer of a group, organization, or party but not a participant by membership,

usually used to describe one who associates himself with the programs of the Communist Party.

Quiet start to the week, and the spirit of the hunt for wayward women.


The babbling of the universe, as it was on a cloudy Monday morning, residual moisture escaping from the drenched ground into the still air.  The babbling of the universe, perhaps asinine, and me, condescending in my moral aspirations to lend life advice to a lesbian in dubious circumstance.  She remarked a lack of support from her family, and I knew it well, too, as did all who knew something of her family, and she but to rise above, I shat this nugget onto her social media page: blood is often accompanied by pain.

What marked her, perhaps, kind of a sympathetic heart, of a kind, kinsman in a tragic Texas fort, waiting for the blade or the blackpowder musket to redress the balance; so there I was.

All this elasped, the staid firmament, the somnambulence of walking, wide-awake, fully sensible dreamtime, a dreamscape across which, it seemed it once, jibberish was written, gibberish, but taken plain, look at askance, the post-modern view, the sense of it became plain: a tale for today, in today's language, and told for people of today.

Missouri itself, the purple grasses, had never ventured so much, as it were, and there were a few elites in the balance as well......

such as it once beneath the still, cloud-leaden sky on a quiet Monday morning.


Seneca on the "now".

"The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately." 


The Celluloid Psychosis: "Scream." Over the hills and through the woods: I scream, you scream, we all scream for Turtle Wax cream.

Sydney Prescott: you dog dick.

They thought, the film nerd murderers, that deflowering her would make her vulnerable to a horror film offing.  Which I thought, too, and that was the tease, a bit of Jeopardy, a bit of tension, a bit of possibility, and to boot, the killer had deflowered her, while the other killer was getting high watching Halloween in his own living room.

Played expectations, did Craven, which made the film somewhat about the rest of the genre, in many respects, I liked the post-modernist sense given to the "rules of the genre" and so forth, but no situational comedy, like Friday the 13th, or the mythic quality of Halloween.

While the rest of them, well, got offed by somebody, and for the sake of "the suspension of disbelief" and "movie magic", these facts make it a surprise when the real killers are revealed.

Problem was, one of the killers did the deflowering, perhaps, or the film relied on movie dictates, a loose matrix of things, observances, taken by them as rules.

I was on about Halloween 2, however acknowledging the first film as superior.

The BFF was on about Halloween 3: Season of the Witch, which he hated enough for it really to make him just completely hysterically derisive.

So I was watching, "I know what you did while the other guy was watching Halloween" and I said, well, you know, as Chop Top said, Dog Will Hunt, and all, and in the offing, we all have a time and circumstance set somewhere.  As for myself, I think they predicted 2033.  Either that or age 33, that I dodged something back then.  I don't know, either way, and shouldn't know; like a good artist, there is helpful influence, but then there is a such thing as contamination by one's contemporaries.

Such as when they caught that case about the serial rapist.  He had taken a bunch of used condoms--long story short, they outwitted him in interrogation, did they, cyphering through little latent thumbprints to find something of a cryptogenic thing, a novel thing, a "unique": to wit, one that pinged the database.

The story about Halloween 2 was that there were no copies around town at the several of video stores.  One store would by accident, put the empty box on the shelf from time-to-time, and week-in, week-out, I would glance for that box, and sometimes see it, and happily go the desk only to be disappointed.

In the hinterlands, the outer rust belt, there was one copy at a small, seldom-used rental shop.

But there was.

A catch.

The tape was broken, for whatever reason.  And myself, on a Friday night, completely full of nerdy energy to watch this turkey--and I just had to see the thing--I took a small kitchen drawer screwdriver, a steak knife, and scotch tape, and repaired the tape, while also removing a gear inside the thing that would hold the reels, because it was fubar, too.

Something like: "Screams" or "Scream, Virgin, Scream", or Scream Virgin, But Dare Not Love".

1941 a musing about being good to our own self.

It was, as it were, a date that will live in infamy.  Outside the door, I said to my familiars, "Imma go ahead and ask Jesus to forgive me for what I'm about to do."

Across the thoroughfare, the leprechaun was trying to talk like a woman, and to what end?

But my own ends, as ignoble, "This isn't going to be pretty."

slippin' away

sittin on a pillow

waitin' for night to fall...

We are most difficult many times, on our own person, moreso than those who truly devalue us, like a former president slumming at tax time, why, we are Deutsche Bank with people who do us harm, and we never snap out of it, why do we care?  I initial the document, holding back Richard from jumping over the desk, all the while it on the tip of his tongue to say we should draw Gambit from the X-Men, but here, all I have on my mind is canteloupes, oranges, parmesan cheese and stuff, trying in vain, to rise above, overcome, drown-out the noise, and the very gist of the thing, was that there was some idea on the boil.

I initialed the document, and the soup of intellect could not deter me; Richard the crazy fool had not leapt the desk, my hands-free lying on the desk, that he might crunch it underfoot, the crazy fool.

a musing as I drove along Darlington County, past the farm lands.

Such as it was, profligated by so many bestial sorrows, as it is, to despair to do anything more substantial that making bathroom, a man petitioning to God, and in that, the sunny happenstance elapses just the same anyway, as if deaf and dumb to circumstance.

reading some, and the word of the day: eponym

An incidence of the mind's providence, reading, speed reading, and thinking at the same time; as I had, a kind of thought pattern going, something on the intellectual plane of a mood, so too did Lucian whisper to me at the entrance to my rooms.

"You look a little thin, Lucian.  Eat something."

The hoarseness of the fellow, but he wasn't emaciated or sucked-in thin, but kind of delightfully fit thin, and I he rose when I reached out to him, in greeting.  He was, perhaps, my own unction, come back to roost, if only for a few hours, maybe a whole day, or--egad--weeks on end.

Who really had the time?

My own mind was brooking a kind of pattern in response to the reading, pieces turned this way or that, and the subject, the very act, and the act the subject, and talking about it, kind of mirror glaze on the quartz as it were, a kind of crystalline mass-hysteria about the whole thing: one solitary personage reading an old book.

Neo-realism was the reason de'tre and the whole thing brooked a kind of orthodoxy bent towards something conservative, something I wondered, a criticism, certainly, but perhaps a dash of misunderstanding: to tear something down in favor of what was there long before, and in the offing, I read of the theater, Shakespeare's own, rebuilt: 1997, with a heaven mural and a hell trapdoor.

If only, perhaps, what dreamscape in which heaven is just a painted picture on a porch ceiling and hell is a very real hole in the floor: allegedly, Hamlet and Laertes, into the pit of Ophelia's interment and contorting and convulsing and pulling at each other in order to magnify, convince each other, and his own person, that he cared indeed more for the dead girl.

Lucian went over and snookered down at the community water trough; he eyed around like some bandito from the films, and I was sad to see him have fallen into such trials and circumstances, but such was life: the fire and the rain, and all, and expecting the unexpected, or not expecting even the commonplace, as of the sunny happenstance I mentioned a day prior.

"What would have been the harm in that, Bonita?"

It lifted me up, though, to see Lucian, good consort of a Philistine that he was, and it set me to rights, in a way, and I was about the postman's haul, and all that; about the way, and trying to lend a morsel to good Lucian.  "He bore me upon his back I know not how oft."

Whose lips, a gentle kiss, of friendship, from the undisciplined oval-shaped strudel of what was supposed to be a pretzel; my mind was about the reading, I suppose, in part, while my soul gave Lucian a firm hug.  I had only kind of brush the surface of the water, as it was, and had not, like Lucian, stolen a drink on the sly, but just sort of flitted on the face of the water, so much dumber even, than a common housefly, that would at least condescend to lit upon the surface for a drink.

I called to Lucian, and he tossed his head back in a hoarse whisper.

One could go mad over such redundancies: writing about writing, or a philosophy of philosophy, or a lady of the night calling on a lady of the night--but in the real world, there is a mountain named "mountain" and a river called simply "river".  One could read a book about reading a book, or even write a book about writing a book, most of which I've read is about being authors and not actually the creative process, to create something more of discourses and intercoursing about royalty checks that making words.

Hence the word of the day, that I've been saving up, like a little Roth IRA.

Word of the Day:

eponym, noun.

A real of imaginary person for whom something is named;

one whose name is the popular designation for something.

Field of Flowers. 1.3

"Sucker kind of pantomime Romeo" said Gaston, flicking at one of his fingernails.

Bret Weir and the Deuce.(a prospective novel called "Field of Flowers")

He was quite indefinite, this Bret Weir, standing there like a Bop Doll, to flop and flap about.

And she was confused, feeling a point in time with heart-numb fingers, a point in time, historical, him to ask of her, a historical moment, and it was out of her grasp, and was elapsing into history like a big pile of history sliding off of cardboard into a large refuse bag, sliding right into, from the future to the present, making of history, sliding right off into the past, and yet, there he was--this little daylight, and there had been, what? billions of days, maybe, and this was just one: the day that Bret Weir came to her, encroached her rooms, and had her permission, to stand there at least, Lord knows what he might say, something of history, maybe, something of four score and so many dimwit footsteps, something historical, if not reciting history, then actually, stupidly, indolently, manufacturing something of history in the sunny happenstance of the present moment--something of consequence to slide off of cardboard into a plastic bag.

And she was confused, and the interim was not the interim, but something of the eternal, the metaphysical, the omnipresence that is confusion: kind of a blankness that one could misinterpret as light, something that obscures detail, like a very bright light, but something yet dim, like the low light on statuary at night, even though it was the sunny happenstance of Brit's visit, her renegotiating with herself to hide under the bed, making a kind of middle of the road compromise, deciding not to yell, or give pretense, not to lie for the sake of his feelings, but to just stand there, compromised in a kind of sense, on her knees, on the bed, hands on thighs, and her mouth was opened like she was halfway in surprise, and halfway caught in the machine-rumble of thought from her inner person(though it was more surprise, her watching something of the history of her life, something for the scrapbook, Bret Weir, the day he said something to her, and all, kind of out of the ordinary, novel enough and original, something of the very novelty of life, how life came up with something revolting abnormal amidst the dullness of the common trudge of the daily existence--that sunny happenstance).

How savage!  How savage: whatever.  Savage, simple and ultimately presuming.

And she was confused, herself a newer version mother bear that had never been in the woods.  Maybe even she still had the plastic on her seat cushions, maybe, and that smell of intermingling types of plastics, too, something between cherry, flowers, and soap, she had the fresh mama bear smell, and existentially, she was up-ended and maybe a bit out of sync, the picture and the words she was experiencing, the track of her thoughts and various bodily stimuli, all helter skelter and knobby parts jutting, and indentures and various peaks and valleys, the whole thing literally belonging in a trash bag: she could almost see it sliding on a cardboard panel into a rubbish bin, where it properly belonged, but part of her was not quite certain, because there was an invisible line somewhere such that necessity would deter her from trashing some things, altogether.

She shook her head, not knowing whether or not he had actually spoke, and he dissipated out of the room like the smoke of burned bread from an oven pan with a window open to just draw it all out of the room.

That damned sliding along of something, a ring or his watchband or something, sliding along the siding, and him sidling along like a wind trudging wearily into the distance, and he plunked a molding or a door trim--it clacked louder than the rest--and then it was back to that noise, almost like rainfall, somewhere between rainfall acting like a bit of musical entertainment, and the roofspace shadowboxing it, between that and something on the decibel label of skin on the sheets, that kind of sliding whisper type of thing, and when it was gone, she was just as confused, of course, though more at ease, and in that confusion, she pushed the total vagrancy of those recently passed moments into some dark mental corner where no light of her attentions, no radiance from her thoughts, would ever so much as flit anywhere near it.

Songs of Dissipation: Transcendence, an aside about Romanticism, The Fly, Orgasm Cult.


While one gaily sang a song of himself, Ralph Waldo Emerson of course sang a song of being, predating the Mindfulness Movement of later days, the partial resurgence of Contemplative Christianity, and so forth.  Later, Thomas Merton would listen, loosely in attitude, but keen nonetheless due to the nature of his blade, and hear nature, in the birds, the wind, the leaves, and impute this unto God's messaging to him, or perhaps the voice of God, the soft whisper of God's hand moving about the world.

Transcendence a la Emerson may have been an outcropping, an intellectual, partly philosophical divergence from Romanticism, or the imputing of things onto other things, and an attitude, as well.  In Romanticism, men like Wordsworth imputed all of life, love, war, and the body political into a simple walk to an abandoned building by a stream; such was the marked diversion of subject matter, an amplification that increased the magnitude of such simple things in a drastic extent.

William Blake did this somewhat earlier, with "The Fly" a poem from his Songs of Experience, a foil or bookend to the earlier, Songs of Innocence, famously featuring the Lamb and the Tyger, each magnified in terms of Romanticism, and here today, we think of "romance" as love stories, of which so many may have been, but transcending oneself spiritually and intellectually?

Such I would think opens the door for an Orgasm Cult or something in modernity, a kind of chronic dissipation combine of the perpetually aroused.  One could instead, eat not the hard steak of sexual conquest, but drink the milky dew of the sun's kisses on one, perhaps, lest one become desensitized and only susceptible to the very hardest vulgar gestures.

Indeed, another said that we risk and venture so much into understand ease or process, but to understand the being, we get so easily flummoxed as to quickly turn back to the relative safety of our own porches and homesteads.  Merton certainly enumerated an experience of being, and imparted that in his writings, rather than any kind of stereo instructions for the soul, or hardware blueprint of the soul.

Blake himself asks:

what art

could twist the sinews of thy heart?

Indeed, the truth lay somewhere beyond the soul, outside of our own knowing, presently at least, though the body physic continually advances, hence the progressive term "transcendence".  Emerson failed somewhat at just boldly splashing into the waters of the unknown while in the body physical, a commune failing, awash in a kind of "newness" and bent, singularly aimed at just living differently, re-figuring everything, re-jiggering everything, and doing things not particularly markedly different, but intended to be marked post-modern or in that, to have advanced beyond the mistakes.

Such a failed end, for such a "perfect" goal, but transcendence itself in practice is like life itself: more a journey than a destination, a line between several points of permanence, and between the permanence, a floundering for the continual improvement of, dare I say, all things.

word of the day: polymath

polymath, noun 

a person of great or varied learning.

also: polyhistor

Note:  One of the most notorious of the list of various polymaths throughout history would be Benjamin Franklin, a jack of many trades, and more than competent in various fields of knowledge or skill.



They were saying that kids had prodigious faith, in the random unabashed wanting of things, with the implication being the new age heresy of believing things into being or simply willing things into being, with "receive" as an active verb and "believe" as an active verb as well, not used passively as in the other vernacular of the world.

We receive, by their ontology, we receive as if sucking the eggs right from the portal, rather than passively waiting for them to deposit into our waiting hands.

But I think, of the thing of kids, how often it is that the children cry from want, put off of their sherbet, befuddled and disappointed.  Is it to say that was Abraham?  Oh no.  Abraham was told.  Ibrahim was told.

God said.

Ibrahim believed what God said, to a large extent.

As the writings of Paul, "his faith was counted as righteousness".

Only the peaceful hand of God might silence the gale, if you prefer to say, disrespect the authority of any tumult that may happen along, and stand strong in the face of it all, such that a mega-pastor might send a tithe of his parishioner's tithes into your non-profit.

These calamities upon us: the agreed-upon misdeeds of men, such as to say, a "show", and we can turn away, and for the most part, barely get scraped.

I pull as it were, sparkling toys from bag of energetic faith, my strapped-on bag of energetic faith, a plasticized idea of people, the firmament, the heavens, and the righteousness of God magnified, manifested, above and beyond anything one might be paid to say in publication.

word of the day: apogee

apogee noun

That point in the orbit of a planet or other heavenly body which is at the greatest distance from the earth, as opposed to perogee;

properly, this particular point of the moon's orbit;

the farthest point away;

the highest attainment.

(in Latin apo- from and ge earth)

(Bonus word: apogamy, a noun meaning reproduction by means other fertilization, also mating or pairing at random, and interbreeding of various varieties.)

word of the day: recurrent

recurrent adjective

recurring from time to time,

running back in the opposite direction. 

March 20, 2023 is the first day of our EST time zone USA Spring season!

 May our souls be nourished by the changing of the seasons, renewed, strengthened, and in the balance, may we be equal to that energy!

Dog will hunt, life itself, and the tv series fan page beamed to us from the future.

What more of recent appurtenances and transgressions, denials and bickerings, flailings at what was perceived, wrought?

Dog will hunt.

Of my own perambulation amongst the concourse, I think that I have not been sufficiently brought to "aerodynamic drag" or things like viscosity and other things, by past appurtenances, transgressions, denials and bickerings, flailings at what was perceived, but with a signpost pointing further ahead, and another marking the current spot, with the current spot being only a dim tactile awareness, listening to my breath and such other: imagining myself in meditation, or meditating on the fact that I could be meditating.

Of some of the Indian method, to listen to the breath to concentrate on the breath, "divine wind" such as it is called, and prefunctory fumblings at such, to just simply lay there and breath, the proverbial existential prisoner marking off little ticks that counts towards some proto-human sin debt.

Perpetually caught in half-sneer, half-grin, expecting both, perhaps, laughter and pain at once.

Among the depressed, there is a kind of horror at the perceived numbness of oneself, and that too, pushes one onward, perhaps even, towards the drastic?  Nay, to experience the half-sneer and half-grin at once is not any kind of crisis within oneself, but it is the very signpost itself of existence, and that going stand by as a nexus, at once innervated through its linkages between past, present and future.

Almost as if time travel were possible in the mind, or even in electronic transmission on the order of those commonplace today: even a theory of some internet posts, those in the cloud particularly, in transmission, screaming through the jigawatts and ultimately traversing time, such that the internet at times is not only so fast, as much to perplex perception, but in fact, pre-existing.

I saw once, under this theory, with this lensing, that a Twilight Zone encyclopedia online seemed kind of like a future publication, an almanac from the far future that explained their past, which was our present, and here, we could access it.  Another theorist took the tact that the still screen caps on the individual encyclopedia entries contained tiny imperfections in the stills, seeming to be simple video artifacts, or encoding artifacts when viewed at "normal resolution" but upon magnification became secret messages to a loose conglomeration of evil operatives.

It was as if, not as I said, having a free Angelfire web page, "I talked about the past, and unknowingly foretold the future", but instead, this latter paradigm, "in the future, I talked about the past which in turn, in publication, dictated the present."

And as it were, and will be, caught in half-sneer, half-grin, expecting both perhaps, laughter and pain at once.

Google supposedly, the "time crystal", something of transmission, presumably low power consumption, but tremendous speed, the hertz.

Michael, Michael, Michael...

In the infinitum of time and space, I am threefold, tripartite: shining and at once, also the darkness, yelling into an empty whisper that shakes the ground like the angriest of thunders.

"Some fool, mayhap, has prayed for the coming of rains..."

Pretty flowers growing from nasty mess. Fuel for beauty.

Some of the prettiest flowers spring forth from the soils of the nastiest mess.

Imagine it.  All those pains and heartaches, hatred, guiles, sharp words.  All precipitate in us learning from our mistakes and being fueled ahead to even better things.


Rick Warren on Pain

Every pain in your life is an opportunity to grow in character.

-Rick Warren

A productivity hack: the doctrine of water, or "a few minutes every day".

The plant care paradigm is something that hit-home to me.  We hear so much of exercise, "just a few minutes a day", and we never get started, or we started for a few days or two weeks, and then its over, but yet some of us practice this "few minutes a day" in other respects.

Drinking macchiato(few minutes a day)

watching local news(few minutes a day)

brushing teeth, manscaping(few minutes a day)

OR yet as the example resonated with me was plant care.  Various years, various iterations of my yard and property, I've had plant areas, small gardens, and such.

During the growing season, a spot of water now and then adds up to sometimes a healthy specimen of plant: what if we applied the same care paradigm to our exercise?  Does it, to you, like me, make it seem more feasible to achieve some negligible exercise results?

a Wisteria bonsai, presumably mature.


For exercise, they'll say 30 minutes.

20 minutes.

Or just fifteen minutes.

what if it was less?  A stretch, a few calisthenics or yoga poses, and then stretch to cool down and go about your business?

In the same way, saving pennies.

A few a week adds up.

In the same way, the local discount store had Topps baseball cards.  A few dollars every week or so, a one dollar five-card pack at a time, amounting to, before discontinuation, a stack of cards.

A stack of cards is, in many respects, a collection in itself, and that was money that could have went to sodas or candy or something else, but here I have "invested" as they say.  Look at me world, "I'm an investor, now" I say cheekily, looking over my stack of baseball cards, and in this respect, the proletariat, plain-Jane baseball card, the Topps reference series mainline, the model T of baseball cards: the series of record, where it all begins, and even sometimes, ends, despite no chromium, holograms or other; a collection that honors the game and the players.

In the same way, the odd few cents knocked over to Bitcoin, Ethereum or Litecoin.  Considered by many a much more serious investment, at least until they've seen Mike Trout play, and then get those lightning bugs flitting about their eyes.

I spent less than 25$ a month on Topps Series 1 in 2022, but it added substantially to my collection, not expressly in terms of dollar value, but certainly in terms of scope.  Never mind the Diamond Kings set I left in my truck, "every card a unique", theyre something about the Everyman thing of the regular Topps baseball series that just makes me want to participate.

The Point: a series of small steps add up to form a greater journey.  But we get caught up so on looking at the small pieces, discounting them, tossing them, when in fact they add up.

We can get punched with the negative: such as spending 2000$ or more at Starbucks in a given year, but what about the other things, the more providential things?  "All that cigarette money over the years that you spent, is more than enough to have bought a Ferrari."  I love the rejoinder where the smoker asks the non-smoker if he actually bought a Ferrari.

Underlying Principle: Little efforts add up, and the rewards compound.  It was Darren Daly or one of those success gurus who noted this in a little different way, different even than Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley giving 25 minutes a day to their exercise equipment.

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On missing International Oreo Day, HR Onboarding, "my team", Cinema Paradiso, and some other. I gets it done.

Driving along, in the thrall of my endless musing.  Monyca Belucci.  Cinema Paradiso, me in shirtsleeves, a few buttons undone, loafers, my bicycle.

A boy dreaming, already filling and endless list of queries, "things my wife won't do, or doesn't know how to do", and she could, like Cherylin Finn, tie the stem of a cherry using only a tongue, with her hands otherwise busily occupied doing HR spreadsheets and stuff.  Onboard, CRM, even editing the memes.

Cinema Paradiso, I mean.

"...get off the wood, you no good, here goes the neighborhood....  runnin' that yap to the net, ya bettah run a check..."

I was looking at Project Management software, and me, as it is, without a team, but always into Productivity.  The dirty little secret is that what was known as G Suite, already does all that, so why pay for a company email, then a separate suite, when it does it all...

something about an interface that anyone could understand....  and there are Gantt Chart templates in Google Sheets.

But I still don't have a team.

It was kickball, maybe, an interstitial, a contramanding sweetbread from the universe, dispersed, rained-down, generally played-out, and yearning for a little of the old indoors, for the universe to come to him like a congenial and lay it's eggs in his mouth;

he was somewhat out of touch, hung-up on the old, so much of that, and only for the time period he loved so much to be his very undoing, that greatest litany of victories, was at once around his neck, a millstone, in the kalends, his own epoch wound completely loose and so many that were caught underfoot--how many it was that could have their tongues paid for, and then relent and give up that deal to write a book, to tell, in the offing, and all for money, the subsequent failure and dismal absolution, yielding to one, then yielding to the other, "trying to get clean by doing something dirty", "making love like you're trying to break out", but a bedraggle, barkspangled, a pitched battle of something, that they would in the same way, bring their own peculiar brand of ruin.

The advertising cookies and all thought I was "onboarding" and even needing payroll and handbook resources, even not only to onboard a team, but an international team, such that payroll and clock-ins were provided in the software offerings.

Do Little Debbie Cakes have a wax-like preservative, sort of like the Moon Pies?

It was Oreo Day a week or two back; I had posted all about it on social media on my old Almanac page, but nothing this year.  Shoulda celebrated with the convenience store quick-grab package of 4-6 cookies.

But there is time yet.

Sherbet, Oreos, and the improbability, even with some knowledge of NCAA basketball, and few really have that, and fewer still really go deep in the stats, but if you had some insight, the odds reported by 1440 that it was something like 1 in 120 billion to have a right bracket.

Me working at the air pump, glancing back at Monyca Belucci's picturesque collarbones, her throat, a splashing of bussom, and my stigmatism, knowing I'd have to investigate with my hands, to put my hands where the eyes could not see, and work, an expert, a blind pianist maybe, feeling my way along, enfeeble by nature, by with that unction still to continue on.

word of the day: fecund

fecund, adjective



abundantly productive in children or vegetation,

marked by especial productivity or inventiveness in intellectual matters.

(see also Fecundity

from the Latin: fecundus: fruitful.

coming along the way: James Harris.(!)

"He's ball-peening along the siding..." she said.

"Is that what I hear?" asked Gaston.

"It's him, anyway" she said, shifting a foot in her comfortable chair.  "Always about this time, he comes along.  I think I can hear his whistle, too; he comes closer."

"I'm illiterate or illegitimate or illyescue to your concerns" said Gaston, looking at her, looking toward the half open window flap.  "Something" he said at last, summing up the balance.

"He's come for his get" she said.

"That's the vulgar, this one, this 'hell of a man'" he said.  He nudged his drink, staring at it, pensively.

"Why do you say he's a 'hell of a man', and like that, in that way?  Is that something out there that I've heard before, like a movie or something?" she said.

He smiled, and said, his Lorne Greene improvisation, somber, "at the bottom of that ravine"  he looked towards her, then the half open window, slowly, and time seemed to do that familiar creep crawl when nothingness was in the offing, indeed, the present vacuous moment just precipitously hanged in the air like a slab of butchered cow in a smokehouse--"lies one hell of a man."

"What is that?  Linkin Park?  Pearl Jam?"

"Lorne Greene, babes.  Ballad of Ringo."  He smiled, his smile stretching over his awkward jack o lantern skeleton, stretching far, "or something."

"He parks down the way", she said, lost to this, enthralled in a musing.

"This tappie finger-sliding fellow to see you?" said Gaston.

"Yes" she said, her lips barely parting, then holding part open, teeth punctuating the soft tissue, "James Harris".

"James Harris?"


It must have been an impossibly long, determined, slow-walk from his parking spot, and it gave her time to build up a decidedly wicked framing of his own walk, and maybe he too, having some thinkmeat time, pondering things to do with her to occupy his time, but as it were, the moment was just sort of in suspended animation, and they could have about any number of topics, and those at a full sort of length, as he click-clack tapped and dragged his way along.

"Is that really Ringo?  Jack Hammer Joe?  Georgia Joy or something?" she said, disconcerted for a moment, a sudden clack from the prolonged scrape of whatever it was from the James Harris--only possible if he had carried across a piece of molding, whatever, that a walking stick or blind man's guide, or something, a samurai sword or whatever, it might have been, for all her thoughts of it, she had convinced herself, and Gaston the disinterested observer, convinced of quite nothing, except that he wasn't, in polite company, sitting with James Harris, that he was sure of, he would go outside first, on his own merry way, while the whatever that perturbed her elapsed like the oozing of toothpaste or thread seal, viscous like oil, slow like time itself, markedly drowsy.

"The Bristol Stomp" he said, breaking into a chuckle.

Then the sliding-scrap of the whatever in the James Harris, it's little slide along on the siding, metriculated into a rising pitch, like the sound of a glass getting more full, fuller and fuller still, with water: a modulation, and a rise of the sound, from C to G and from G to A#, sounding more and more, wind along a tube.

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word of the day: felicity

felicity noun

the state of being happy;

extreme enjoyment;

source of happiness;


from the Latin: felicitas, and derivative: felix

The frogbutt of happiness: on how to be happy, or even know you're happy, or care about it anyway. None of this matters.

This morning's grocery take, stop the presses here, I hit the magazine rack, and found a deluxe edition magazine format publication:

how to be happy.

This is something, I say, of all the theories, the philosophy, the life-hacks, the nuisance productivity crap, even spreadsheets of habit-tracking and so forth, comes a magazine that...

...does it?...

..finally answer the question.

how to be happy.

I remember being happy watching a television show.  About old lawn tractors.

I remember being happy.  NCAA Women's Volleyball.

I remember being happy taking a taste of Bud Light.

Once even, I bought a big old cassette recorder and spoke into it, sort of a podcast before even America Online, myself dictating notes on a future written work; the happiness of creation, and one thinks, God as a Creator, no wonder much that he loves us, but the extent itself is a wonder.

Godzilla eating a horse.  And speaking of which, there was a meme of Godzilla eating the Little Mermaid.  I'd so like to retell the old story of the Little Mermaid; she was in chronic pain and torment, such that she forsook her princely lover and drowned herself in the surf, as she was zonked out of her gourd in severe pains.

how to be happy.

The real question: how much will this sh*t cost me?

And a follow-up: will it mean I have to actually do something?

What if chit chat with Lesbians was like kissing a glass window of a storefront?

Perhaps it is, happiness has something to do with mindfulness, and vice versa, such that we wonder which came first, and we can go in great circles tracing a singular path to that initial point on the spectragraph, we can go mad and consume our days in a search; but that too, a kind of happiness in purpose, and at worst, something to keep you going, something to live for and work towards.

What if the very purest answer to the riddle of life had been published already, some years prior, in a work that went largely ignored?  Such as to say, we don't a reason, but instead, a purpose in it's place; why, give us an identity, sure, but such is transitory and vaporous, for after all, what's in a name, but just something to turn your head towards something, and what's in a reason, but a justification, and we don't generally even rise to that level anyway, of being "justified", but only a select few, a hair crosswise, underwear bunched and lips twisted in a sneer.

I suspect the real fact is that we've been happy many times in our life, and we didn't realize it until was over, therefore perhaps happiness is first, then mindfulness, then process, a concerted concentration effort to replicate the thing that we had in fact only dumbly stumbled across before.

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What Ever Happened To The Children of the Atom?

In some respects, they rolled back some of the mid-90's craziness, and other ways, they didn't.  It was a crazy time, man.  They took a successful sub-universe in the continuity and hired all new people to write what were then top tier, best selling books.

"A bold move."

Before hand, the model, in her extravagant clothes, mind-swapped with a half-naked ninja, the untouchable goth girl became a high-flying Hulk-strong super woman.

And other.

A teen introduced, not even a student at the school, but just some kid, accompanying the team on dangerous missions, and still, on the cover of the book, somewhere usually near the periphery.

It was born from a scrum, writers talking to artists, artists to writers, Gateway and Australia with Claremont's touch for abject fantasy, and Lee's touch for drawing guns: the paradigm of change was set when a band of mercenary's defeated the great team of X-Men, Lee's chance to draw plenty of guns; for any storytelling criticism, any negativity directed his way, I have only to look to Punisher: Armory for consolation, seeing his brilliant, precise work in those humble pages.

Storytelling snafu's notwithstanding, he earned his place, Jim Lee did, as a company giant.  He even put heat on Alpha Flight, a feat thought impossible in the run of Marvel Comics.

Before militant genetic supremacist anarchy reigned, there was just a man with a dream.  The Dream, and all through the high-water mark of the book, the notion and primacy of the Dream ruled over all.

They created Ms. Marvel just to give her powers to Rogue, who had an ultrasexy half-Goth churchmouse Georgia Belle thing going on in the green suit.  I had the poster; I saw it.  That was also when Psylock wore the fancy clothes.

Men made an empire, then hired a cadre of mooks to create for them, at the height of fan interest.

It was a bold move.

And it had its time, the House of Ideas, as it were, in one respect, hiring new talent for the sake of injecting fresh ideas, going through re-organizing the thing, and Peter David being perhaps the one bright point, perhaps the book that stands the test of time, that got a redux later by his own hand.

Jubilee was just a Sparkler.  

Dazzler was just a Sparkler.

They wrote Dazzler off, from the era of Claremont-Byrne fantasy, and threw a bone to Jim, giving him Jubilee, the part-Asian foster child, who, improbably, accompanied the team on missions.

Jim's attempt at Claremont-Byrne fantasy.

Logan was not a neandrethal jockboy, but an attitude in his own right, a former secret agent, but they kept working at that, destroying it to portray him almost the Comedian without national pride, just a toxic male, haunting the pages of comic books that were horrorshows of manipulation, mistrust and hatred.

But we certainly see the other side, with the Children of the Atom, genetic Critical Race Theory, and it has its place perhaps, fully plumbed as a separate continuity.

Lee's big idea with Rogue was that she was indestructible, therefore, and get this, her Clothes would get destroyed, and she would be half-naked, strips of cloth impossibly hanging to her body.

Psylocke's psi abilities were relegated to a kind of "knock out touch".

Gambit was Longshot.

X-23 was Gambit.

Twas the times, and the seasons, as the months crawled by and we scour the magazine stands for our Red or Blue or whatever.  We don't rent comic books, thank you, because we do think its an art form, and we like to own our own copies, in print or digital of the books, be it posters, trade paperbacks, or the monthly publication.

The Siege Perilous, it was, Wolverine pinioned, Jubilee talking to herself, Gateway giving the other's a downcast, losing epilogue of exodus from responsibility, back into the fray of what passed for regular life.

Her checking her phone while I popped my wad and tried to pump it dry....

How entirely, delightfully improbable. A parable where I interact with my betters.

Kim Whiteman had--and truthfully, one can only speculate as to how much doubt and shame went into that--but Kim Whiteman had told that she wanted me to bust-up a chiffarobe.

In her pants.

Meanwhile, I was writing long books and so forth, screenplays, poetry and so forth about subjects, the few, that I knew so well, so intimately, and had such a complete and profound, absolute grasp.

My own ass.

No other subject matter with which I had license to speak of in such detail.

The breadth, the quiddity, you know, the pure detail, prior history, even some of the pre-history figured into the provenance of the thing, as it were, and "pre-history" was my own term for the speculation in physics of things and phenomena prior to the Big Bang.

"That which was written 'aforetime'(before time) was reading for our learning..."

Of no other subject could I express such variety and scope of both knowledge and experience, that which I kept in my Radio Flyer, that which followed me around, just like my shadow, but not always as welcoming as my stolid shadow self.

I knew.

To do it, was damnation.  To not do it, was damnation, and her doubt and shame, became my doubt and shame, and my career is a young executive was roundly abjectly torpedoed the moment she saw my face in her mind: it was done, like fun was fun and done was done.  I was done either way, yet only one door lay open the way to Chuck E. Cheese, to driving her Jeep Gladiator, or scrubbing with emery, the soles of her awful hooves.

It was, asked for sex, as much a put upon, to say one could fly headlong into a wall, and then the other option, fly again headlong into the wall.  Just as dead, but does rigor mortis preserve a smile or a thoughtful frown?

Blackface had been banned in polite society, but I was tempted to ask if she preferred that anyway, and I could even rifle through her purse, or get her a matching shirt, like we were college sweethearts.  I could ask her to buy me XBox games while I sat at home(see "Far From The Madding Crowd"); indeed, I had a full menu of options at my disposal, though they so much seemed to lead to slight variations of but one same abysmal outcome.

I could have blew it up properly, giving her a butthole lecture after the presentation of said, hoping in vain, begging and giving petitions to the almighty Himself, that she turn away, and that too, a knife to my own heart.

Kobyashi Maru.

The only way to win, it was said, in the No-Win Scenario, was to manipulate the system, or, to wit, cheat, interfere with the program.  It was as Arthur Conan Doyle's gentleman crime solver explained, that eliminating all the sound and probably courses, all we were left with was the unlikely.

Picture it.  Sicily, 2010, a small rented villa, my white A shirt and socks, all about my person, and she in the bathroom, spraying parts of her body, and then, kerplewy, door opens, and she makes her own presentation.

And I ask Wayne Brady to show whats behind Door Number Three.

Before time, you know its a Zonk, its damnation or double-damnation, where burning your finger hurts bad enough and long enough that hurting your finger twice in a few seconds tends to be pretty much the same negative outcome.

The only way, to give offense, to in some way burn her finger before she burned my finger, instead.

To do unto Kim Whiteman, either before or during, her doing unto me.

"Beware the Ides..."

This day in history...

The republic almost reclaimed by Rome, as was said, "it had to be a Brutus", it was an assassination needing legitimacy, and it did not, ultimately, after suspected payouts and enlargement of the Senate with pro-Julius partisan, it just did not stand, and such was the quest to find a successor of Julius Caesar.

Link to the album on Amazon.

futnuggery naught-naught-one.

You know 

it was good as hell

if he denied it ever happened.

Indeed, like a serial killer keeping a token or trophy of his gets, repeating the renunciation is probably at least partially orgasmic.  It's almost the euphoria of a mean Tweet, that kind of discharge into the ether.

I was totally nude except my swaddling clothes, and partly in slumber.  The ravening beast came and the keiler surprised me by valiantly defending my person.

unfolding of the design.

"Early twentieth century biologists realized that biological systems are open, autopoietic (self-organizing), complex and emergent, revealing one long truth:  life seeks more life.  God is ahead of us, not behind us, and if we refuse the reality of a self-involving God, we risk everything."   -Center For Christogenesis

In fact, the very entropy or disorder of the universe, called increasing chaos, may just be the unfolding of the design: beyond, thus far, our best efforts at recognizing any sort of order, any form of symmetry.  Indeed, as is said in the good book, God Himself is beyond our understanding, and so many discount what they can't understand; they fear or mistrust what they can't understand--

however, mark it, they cannot beat it, nor can they deny, the hard honesty of the universe itself, at least until they understand it and begin to sensitize the self-ordered nature of all of reality.

It is, as science grapples, seemingly random, the God Particles, the existential strings and so forth, and it is as Holmes once said, that eliminating the probable, all science can do is resort to the decidedly improbable within their own paradigms.

here is an article enigmatically stating that Physics is "made up".

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word of the day: prolegomenon

prolegomenon noun

A preliminary observation;

an introductory discussion or discourse prefixed to a book or tretise. 

the very basket of all humankind: on being guest chair at the Pinestraw Technology Center.

I was talking with the guest chair at the Pine Straw Technology Center, wanting to peruse a little of that Axicos online and all that, and they hit me with the Wireless Access Protocol, the network at the building.

Consider.  Child of privelege, dependent so much on the success of his father, priveledge and access, not Hunter, not stupid enough, but Donnie, Donnie-boy-dincha-know, used to having his money position people, this Donald:

dumb enough to think.

he could pay a woman.

to close her mouth.

Poor Richie Don.

Not only did she not shut up, but got a guest spot on Hee Haw.

How so very orange do you have to be to believe money could make people do whatever you want?

But playing with the Georgia Boy's tallywhacker, was perhaps the most dental damming episode, even beyond threatening the Vice President's life.

I was reading all that on my app.

Good ole apt app.

But we were all, whether naked on the web cam, or paying off "opinion news" people, or sitting across the desk from me listening to my freestyle, we were all vines, interwined, convoluted, combobulated, knitted together like yet the smallest of strands of a common nylon rope.

I was not quite in a state of mind to look at the Anthropology studies that were to be presented across the lunch hour; my round peg had squared-out to an extent and would only fit in the hole with rudest of stuffing thrusts.

You could, perhaps, pay a woman like Harris to say whatever you like, but silence?  You think you equal to that?

Rank delusion.

That would take a kind of special dollar, and do you have any special dollars, Cheever?  Richie?  Hunter?  Harris?  Steve Hilton?

Perusing studies of marginally human things, activities and things from across the thoroughfare, looking at it, thinking, "its almost human" and that "almost" is hell, but gives it a kind of dignity in itself, that reductionist kind of humanism, that commonality, that very basket of all humanity.


The tree is known by its fruit...


Saint-Senz and the Case of the One-Legged Chicken: A musing on chaplin, moments of clarity, news stuff, your mother, and some other.

A vicious predatory keiler followed the boy in the evening crimson; it was the situation in Timbuktu, Kinchasa, Poughkeepsie.

Being clear headed, I suppose, the recovering addict will tell you, is a blessing itself, while yet others flail headlong into dissipation, disappear into a vapor of something strange: kicks that your parents don't tell you about.

Charles Chaplin himself wrote presciently, that in comparison to a factory job and prison sentence, his hero quite roundly and firmly preferred prison.

Meanwhile, Agua Calicliente knows a guy in New Jersey that shuffles the homeless around to do various works of sundry community good: washing butchered chickens, and biking around the dry cleaning, and some other, as I said, sundry, bloodsweat death roll life-drippings wing sauce of that pronounced markedly orange pallor.

I ate a chicken leg in public.  Because I was hungry, and my blood sugar gave me a pronounced weakness for a moment; rotisserie filled the void nicely.

The say the FBI has that "facial recognition" software.

I almost popped a ball today in my truck, too, almost nicked one off and had the gore sliding down my leg.


To the best of people, and maybe its just an existential contrast to the whole thing, like dog sh*t and tulips or something, but it does seem to contradict, countermand and just generally go the polar exact opposite, so that when she has the dog sled in the Arctic Circle, I'm sitting in my Roald Amundsen off the coast of Antarctica.

As is the old saying, "ne'er the twain", but bull*t, I say, and I kind of want to buzzsaw through any of those hurdles that constrain.

"He said 'bullsh*t'".

"Well she said she had married a monster."

And jumping out of the frying pan, she hiked her shorts up another inch as she was about to land squarely in the fire.

"He had a secret life."

"She was the perfect cheerleader."

To violate her sensibilities, outrage her delicacies with the remnant of a taxidermed squirrel.

Kinchasa, Poughkeepsie, Aurora, Kenosha....

"The Cheddar Melt from the Other Side of the Veldt."


Chapter 4 of The Reasoned Life

(from a published work, by me)

Chapter 4: “Personal Enterprise.”

“Where life had no value,
death sometimes had its price.
This is why the bounty killers appeared.”

-Sergio Leone

“Such was the way that revenge was cheap, and gratitude expensive.”

-Edward Gibbon

    If a commonality does not suffice to keep us all vaguely intertwined, then certainly the immediate worries begin to address the balance.  Thinking of the next meal, if nothing else, were it a a few blocks away, a few rooms away, a few steps away, or even at our fingertips already, it calls to us; these and other matters call to us, like housing costs and car insurance.  Laundry.  More pressing matters remind us of our humanity, and in the meantime, we can become blinded to any kind of similarity to anyone else as we go about procuring food and shelter, clean clothes, and so forth.  So even as we do something remarkably common, we do it in a sort of blinded self-interest, a kind of miasma of self-indulgence, a kind of rumple-snort at living.
    Seneca reminds that he is not an expert, but a sufferer of the thing called life.  He merely shares his observations, and does not pretend to give perfect instruction.  He says he has not advanced above basic human concerns, and claims in no way to be above anyone else.  What he gives is the advice of  fellow human being.  Indeed, advice can help, and sometimes it spares us from a rather pronounced indignity or sufferance.  Indeed, in any fold, one need look only to either the top or bottom for an obvious difference in being, but the question is, do we seek help from the avoider or the one that has become injured?  Need way a spectacular success or failure to do more than remind us that we are human, when the common fellow can give as good advice as those others.
    Imagine then a man walking through a jungle.  Do we look to a perfect person as a guide?  Or conversely, do we look for one that has suffered a few missteps?  It seems past experience with trouble would give someone a wealth of experience for others, but in society we so often look to seemingly perfect people.  It is as if to say to the bomb-injured man, that he could tell us where he thinks the mines are, since he has experience already.  So many would seek the advice of a billionaire.  Do we think we’ll have to worry, personally, about how to hide our billions?  Or would we rather make use of a few dollars here and there to get buy on the basic necessities?  A few years back, a popular television show advertised how to survive on forty dollars a day, and that show ran for a number of years; the advice was practical, and not extravagant or given to fancy: it was relatable to the common experience.
    High or low, then, perfection or bitter experience, beckons us, in the quandry to decide which advice we might prefer.  This goes back to the phenomenalism, exceptionalism that so many preach to us without end.  We can but rely on one that has either sidestepped something, or one that has made the misstep and would help us avoid it, after.  We are given that choice, were phenomenalism is so much easier, bitter experience finds us on the street level, eventually, even as we ourselves begin to point out potential missteps to others, after our own dreams have been contested.  The cult of phenomenalism, on the other hand, would hold a rather rare dream in front of our eyes, and we would forget still the bitter words of the richest and wisest man in his world, from the Bible, King Solomon, in the book of Ecclesiastes, telling us that the trappings of wealth are unimportant, that we should instead enjoy our lives.
    We would gladly forget and finance ourselves into a pit on unimportant baubles, having to toil constantly to survive, get by, make interest payments.  And that, we’re sold on an impossible dream, and we service that dream as we live a life that is almost unbearable.  The promise of the dream, the one in a million dream, is what keeps many on the treadmill of finance and indulgence.   Many of us have been there, faced with that dream, and all the while living on just enough to keep the lights on and food on the table, doing impossible service to that dream, burning, igniting, surviving on the fuel of human hopes and dreams.
    Faced with struggles in the immediate future, was the old way to go the aged and experienced, who had already surpassed and survived those challenges.  They could tell us well where the “vanities” or wastes of time are, what we could be doing so very differently, instead.  Such is the way of a life goal, to look for survival, or happiness, but rather in the commonest sense, people today seem bent on the pursuit of wealth instead of happiness, though the hinge seems to be making a pendulum movement in the opposite direction more and more.  We know one can only buy things, set up experiences, and not actually purchase happiness, barring some procurement of a drug that defaces the mind into a false happiness.  And yet we are sold, by collaboration of different forces, to strive for that ultra-wealthy fantasy, through advertising, through making payments, sold on the easiest way, the best way, and always at a cost.
    There is even a path of least-resistance and seemingly available to all, in the lottery system.  In a capitalist system, this is democracy writ large, perhaps, the seemingly random chance at life-changing abundance, when it is again, available to all, our all who buy in.  Note buy in, particularly, that the wealth-dreams of millions are focused to one, and that one, under phenomenalism, is separated out, perhaps as a news story, a footnote for the public conversation.  One in one hundred million, and the everyone contributes to that, with a corporation and the ticket sellers taking their own little cut of the indulgence.  It is, in many states, specifically endorsed by the states, advertised, and drawings are shown on special television broadcasts.  All is a collaboration to get that precious few dollars per head, every week, and where that is not enough, then two or three times a week; it is collaborated upon and speculated by those behind the scenes.  We are beset by forces angling for our money, an army of people who study on the practice of taking our money.  We are then, under all these forces, given a diet of daydreams, and that without mentioning the television, radio or internet, an endless spectacle to encourage our daydreams, and pull money from our pockets.
    One need only get really close to the wealthy to catch hold of some essential indecencies, some vain and constant pursuit of growing wealth.  All of the phenomenal never give up the pursuit; they rarely take hold of that worker’s dream of never-ending vacation.  Indeed, the few phenomenal ones are consumed almost to the point of torture, obsessed with growing wealth, and get us started on the topic of power?  Sheesh.  Beyond that, it was made a tax credit to donate money to registered charities, which gave the wealthy an incentive to just hand wads and wheelbarrow loads of money over to charitable organizations.  One of this writer’s favorite children’s shows was shown nationwide on PBS, the production financed by one Carnegie Endowment, which was essentially a hand-out of untold wealth, given over to public television, which was also supported partly with taxpayer dollars.  Nevertheless, with an incentive, the wealthy can be made to be more generous than regular old nature seems capable of by itself.
    We would look at a Warren Buffet, and we would immediately see, even in advanced age, he presses on at the pursuit of more and more wealth.  And in addition to his income, there is a wealth of responsibility, thousands of workers relying on the stray thoughts that come down the pike from the one man, like a king or pharaoh of old, holding court over the housing of thousands of people.  And in Buffet’s specific case, so many people listen to his investment advice, too, as the journalists apparently spend a lot of time asking him questions on the topic.  And nevermind how many have become millionaires by his investment advice, but just the fact of his vast wealth gives him that sort of crown of success that so many seem to look up to, where yet others would possibly even think good ole Warren had ruined his own life the day he realized he had more than a million in the bank.
    He is famous for nothing else but successful money-making, yet would be held-up as an example to the masses, as an example to those in business school, and to those investing, those interested in the private sector.  He has also weighed in on some political matters, like the Affordable Care Act, so called “Obamacare”, as the cult of phenomenalism has him as one of its chief figures.  What almost orgasmic delight they had when a commoner happened upon Sir Paul McCartney and Warren Buffet sitting on a bench along a public street.  It was poster filled with poster children for the pasting and stapling all over newspapers and the like for days, and the notion was told that even a commoner might rub elbows with two famous, wealthy celebrities.
    Perhaps to this end I sound like a revolutionary, as if I have some moneyless idea as counter to capitalism, but I do not.  I point at the system and regret some aspects, but I too live in the system, and to a large extent, I play the same game as all of my readers.  I simply remind there are plenty of other things in life to worry over, rather than money.  And despite popular opinion, plenty of happy experiences do not cost anything at all.  Do not discount the old King Solomon, writing dejectedly of his earlier years wasted on the acquisition of wealth and power; it seems he had simply over-burdened himself with worries and baubles, all which needed continuing care and polish.  His own one-time avarice, made his life miserable, but it was just like the food glutton, that it took more than one meal to make a fat person; it took diligence and a continued effort.  His regret in his chapters was how much he did towards the goal of wealth, and that he did not focus his life more on other aspects; when the time was gone, there was no way to go back and un-do all of those wasted years.
    Consider that ethics are enforced by the government apparatus, so that the others can freely pursue wealth under the system;  judgments are made on money-making opportunities, which seem to free up executives from real ethical concern.  They can focus on pure commerce, the building of wealth, while legal experts and accountants give them pointers in the right direction to keep everything within the real of legally-allowed enterprise.  Indeed, many executives today approach the narrow scope of things that selling a valuable company is easier than actually keeping it running.  They, somewhere along the line, bought in to the daydream of a buyout and an early retirement, leaving a small army of workers unemployed in the meantime, but the executive gets a cut of the sale as reward, as a salary bonus.  “Slash and burn capitalism” was a term once used over the actions of some dubious stewards of industry, people that ruined competitors, people that bought companies just to sell them for higher prices, people of some preferences that seem on the far margins of legally-sanctioned behavior.
    It happened with the Hostess baked goods company.  They could seemingly take the money and run, the executives could, in the shuttering of the firm, meanwhile thousands of workers relied on the company running to make a continuing income.  Nevertheless, the executives could pocket a portion of the sale price and take an early retirement, while totally disregarding the rank-and-file workers.  The Japanese model was oriented against these techniques through many decades, with the worker cared for by the company.  The companies seemed genuinely interested in the well-being of the workers, and the workers were generally kept happy.  However, the Japanese companies coming to America, particularly the auto industry, fear the unions, and keep their US-based factories in states that are less friendly to unionizing.
    It was one of the King Richard’s in Shakespeare, under fear of death, that offered anyone in earshot his crown in exchange for horse to flee his own death; seemingly all things can be boiled-down to more immediate concerns, seemingly so distant from the concerns of large commerce and the apparatus of corporations.  It is a matter of speculation as to how often the worker’s concerns are taken into consideration, like the auto industry.  At first there were skilled craftsmen, then came the Ford model of unskilled workers doing menial tasks at a low rate of pay.  Eventually, the pendulum swings back to somewhat skilled craftsmen, as Ford itself would later have a hand-assembled engine factory where a highly skilled worker, piece-by-piece, readies an engine.  This is not considering the unions that rose-up to fight for fair wages, and not even really considering the army of fast food workers in almost every town across the nation that are still largely non-union workers.  Also not held out in the debate is Walmart’s training videos that discourage unionization of its workers.
    What I advocate is not revolution, not the outright abandonment of capitalism, but a more pronounced sense of personal economy.  A Charlie Chaplin filmed coined the term “personal enterprise”, but in Chaplin’s vision of personal enterprise, so many moments of smiles and rest and positivity were taken in passing, moments in between the more responsible and productive things of society.  Clearly he had a vision ripped from the headlines, of unemployment, new factories opening, of union picket lines and so forth, a kind of balance between commerce and that “personal enterprise”.  I would note early in his film, Chaplin’s factory worker has nervous breakdown from working at a frantic pace throughout his entire work shift, and from there he languishes between prison stays and various attempts at “regular life”.  Indeed, during rampant unemployment, Chaplin’s tramp asks not to be released from a prison stay, but to be allowed to continue to enjoy what for him has become easy-living, free from regular responsibilities,  in the dubious comfort of a prison cell.

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Of doubt and skepticism.

GK Chesterton neatly commented that all skepticism was nothing not uncommon to a child's questions on a hot afternoon.

Fred Nietzsche on the other hand, tried to slap away everyone's snow cone, and that after having taken bites of all of them; so a kind of mental wasting without taking the effort of building his own precipice.

From Beyond Good and Evil:

The eagerness and subtlety, I should even say craftiness, with which the problem of "the real and the apparent world" is dealt with at present throughout Europe, furnishes food for thought and attention; and he who hears only a "Will to Truth" in the background, and nothing else, cannot certainly boast of the sharpest ears. In rare and isolated cases, it may really have happened that such a Will to Truth—a certain extravagant and adventurous pluck, a metaphysician's ambition of the forlorn hope—has participated therein: that which in the end always prefers a handful of "certainty" to a whole cartload of beautiful possibilities; there may even be puritanical fanatics of conscience, who prefer to put their last trust in a sure nothing, rather than in an uncertain something. But that is Nihilism, and the sign of a despairing, mortally wearied soul, notwithstanding the courageous bearing such a virtue may display. It seems, however, to be otherwise with stronger and livelier thinkers who are still eager for life. In that they side AGAINST appearance, and speak superciliously of "perspective," in that they rank the credibility of their own bodies about as low as the credibility of the ocular evidence that "the earth stands still," and thus, apparently, allowing with complacency their securest possession to escape (for what does one at present believe in more firmly than in one's body?),—who knows if they are not really trying to win back something which was formerly an even securer possession, something of the old domain of the faith of former times, perhaps the "immortal soul," perhaps "the old God," in short, ideas by which they could live better, that is to say, more vigorously and more joyously, than by "modern ideas"? There is DISTRUST of these modern ideas in this mode of looking at things, a disbelief in all that has been constructed yesterday and today; there is perhaps some slight admixture of satiety and scorn, which can no longer endure the BRIC-A-BRAC of ideas of the most varied origin, such as so-called Positivism at present throws on the market; a disgust of the more refined taste at the village-fair motleyness and patchiness of all these reality-philosophasters, in whom there is nothing either new or true, except this motleyness. Therein it seems to me that we should agree with those skeptical anti-realists and knowledge-microscopists of the present day; their instinct, which repels them from MODERN reality, is unrefuted... what do their retrograde by-paths concern us! The main thing about them is NOT that they wish to go "back," but that they wish to get AWAY therefrom. A little MORE strength, swing, courage, and artistic power, and they would be OFF—and not back!

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 ...