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Showing posts from March, 2023

I had some concerns.

  d 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

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 b

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&

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,

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. Inviolate and Abrogated 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 South .  One 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,

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 ba

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 cu

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


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 ta

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, obser

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 tha

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 w

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 con

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. Willia

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 ma

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.)

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

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.  

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

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 tem

word of the day: fecund

fecund, adjective Fruitful Prolific 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

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 t

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 critic

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 m

"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, t

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 de

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

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-

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 ha