Update on a Lost Weekend.

It was such a beautiful evening that I roundly forsook the search for my previously discarded panties.  I was in such a mental state, as it were, coursing between emotions as if they were great boulders on some mountain path, and as Camus said, "we must imagine Mike happy".  Indeed, tomorrow will come, and with tomorrow, some of the same drudgery and busywork, but there will be time for transcendent thought and contemplation of God-these moments recompense and sound compensation for moments of servitude and the seeing-to.

I took the air sometime late in the day, and had of it, not questions answered, because it wasn't a query, not something like a Google search, but an impetus to just "see", to look upon the world with eyes that had a kind of half-satisfaction in the day, and a half-emptiness knowing there would be more later; I ran a project since January 2023, an analytics project, collecting data.  I see so many ads and apps and things talking about automation, but I figure the cost of my few moments every day or so, is less than the "automation suite" and it would require some exotic API from Google to truly automate the process.  The cost of a software solution would far overbalance the cost of a few moments a day, and in those few moments, I get a real time check-in and checking-on, every day.

every damn day.

With diligence, it is, that the father Dorkfish cleans the Dorkfish eggs, with his mouth, cleaning them off, depriving them of any protection from various algae and so forth, mold, every day, a fish of merit, the Dorkfish, the Joey of the world aquatic, and we exercise this diligence, my own concern, that is, in a small start each day, not but a few moments, and inputting the data, collecting the metrics: I note I managed some equations to automate some of that, but its balanced against manually-reported Google Analytics and so forth, such that the process is day by day illuminating, as I can check the pulse of the work, but at the same time, input the larger data set for a more thorough review later, and possibly yet more lines of analysis.

I was thinking of a superset of music, a live music piece with about five or seven songs intermixed in between, along with some solo work of the various band members, things from Howlin' Wolf to Coldplay to Megadeth, a kind of thing some bands do, and some bands do NOT, rather than just rehashing singles and so forth, a kind of good music note, like I watched the Led Zeppelin concert film and they sandwiched their own song Dazed And Confused acting as bookend around various bits like "San Francisco" and some other, and even Jimmy Page playing the Gibson electric guitar with a violin bow as his plectrum.

I used a baby diaper, of course, not Mother's Shine or something, but something ripshit soft on the surface of Christine, giving the work loving attention, as if I were at once the Dorkfish cleaning the eggs with my mouth; it had that gloss, like red lips in a magazine, that kind of dew-drop thing about it, like she had still had some kind of fruit gore, and my own search for my own panties not bearing fruit, as she had the fruit, instead, I guess, and all I had was my wants from a selection: that and nothing more.

the personal cost of being useful to others.

Shining is always costly. Light comes only at the cost of that which produces it. An unlit candle does no shining. Burning must come before shining. We cannot be of great use to others without cost to ourselves. Burning suggests suffering.  -LB Cowman

faith(on a Sunday, of course, Cheevers.)

True faith drops its letter in the post office box, and lets it go. Distrust holds on to a corner of it, and wonders that the answer never comes. -LB Cowman.

a simple prayer to the universe.

Dissect me, oh universe, with all of the improbabilities and spectrographs that look like artist's worst delusions, lay my quiddities upon the spineshank spindle-torque of the thing and look to me licorice scent and Reese's aftertaste as nothing more than a continuing delusion, and the intermixed strangling dreams of the populace are not much more than something carried on the wind, spores and empty plastic bags, nothing much more, and the mule-sh*tted highway to the future, but a bit of candle-smell, something between brimstone and outraged wax, something in the furrow in between, kind of pulling at once at the flesh, even a sharp edge, pulling at the touch, and making wrinkles and dimples in the unknown ass-flesh of the monolithic monotheistic totem titular Godhead, shining hindparts and all.

growth and nonsense; the improbable being worthwhile.

 If it sounds like nonsense, it might actually be worthwhile, and you might have been mistaken about it the whole time...... You don't ever reach outside, how you gonna grow?

Dream?

This might not be a dream, otherwise I'd expect more good stuff to happen......

Time After Time: A fake fiction novel piece.

A bit about an old fiction of mine, a scientist at a candy company that accidentally travels time and tries his darnedest to find his way back, but as quietly as he can.  The kicker of the thing was that the world looked like our familiar world of the past, but was very different, and that would become clear a bit late in the game.

He brought it off with all the elegaic precision of a two horses wagon, a kind of erratic thunder, a kind of meth addict vital that would come through like a spasm of static through the ether: he traveled time inadvertently.

Unsprung, as it were, no coils of things or air cushion--it was that kind of ramshod--like trees thundering onto the forest floor, sideways, and quite honestly, the Theory of Relativity had said something about "a really long stick" that reached past the clouds, and he was already up that, and along, high in the atmospheric strains of thought, an appreggio that coursed the air like a bolt of lightning, perhaps, somewhere in time, and then discovering himself quite backward in time, walking out of his workplace, finding suddenly all the cars were antiques and the advertisement on the billboards were quite vintage.

An obscurity of stalagtite, it was, the instrument, and some other, excited electrically, and who knew things about electromagnetic fields: he was a candy researcher, of course--and the balance would soon come to a solid equality as he was deposited some few decades behind his own time--a time when he himself was a grade school student, and that much was an object of fear, too.  Imagine a fidgety conspiratorial schizoid future version of one's self, coming to him, and blowing-up, roundly desolating all of his dreams, the younger self's dreams, of things like love and fortune, and the various glories that we barter everyday.

 

Seneca on good, reason and nature.

Lucius Seneca: There is no good without reason; all reason is in accordance with nature.

Enjoy the journey that is life, folks.

the noble coconut: "glimmers and facsimiles" a short script on the modern frisson.

(narrator twiddles the tip of a banana, before opening his beer, with the banana upheld like a sword)

"What is this alto-hemispherical blunt instrument you have purposed for the telling?"

"Inputting the specimen..."

"Out, out brief candle for we hath proposed for our tomorrow glimmers and facsimiles, a rododendron or a pineapple, sufficing for the healthy apple or the noble coconut."

"Tis precarious and implicates so very much, even as they merely pretend."

An article perhaps on the superficiality of life, how we don't tend to live deep, or we live deep in times shallowness.  We always strike the wrong note, the note cavorted from deep down in the spleen, and we are thus prone to various psychic maladies.

 

word of the day: subreption

subreption, noun.

The act of obtaining something, as an ecclesiastical dispensation, by suppression or fraudulent concealment of facts;

a fallacious representation or an interference derived from it.

 

the empty and the full, and wanting what is common.

If you want to know what it is to be full, first be empty, and likewise, to emptiness, be full.  To want either state is to hasten something, but what?  What would you have of the universe, a universe that services all?  Would you demand something gross, fancy, or something common to humans?  

If you find the dignity in emptiness, are you then happy?  Or do you contend for the contrast, just for the sake of something different?  Some always want a different view out their window, something different, something perhaps special, but do you ever just strive for what is common to man?  Are you an Emperor?  A Proconsul?  Are you afforded some special privilege that sets you apart?

Pass It On: The Mountain in front of you.


 As the Stoics, remind, we are faced with nothing unnatural, and in that respect, nothing necessarily evil, but of nature and ordained by God.

word of the day: opprobrium

opprobrium, noun.

disgrace or reproach incurred by conduct considered shameful or wrong;

infamy;

scornful reproach;

a cause or subject of reproach.

Seneca: A golden bit does not make a better horse.

Seneca writes:

If ever you have come upon a grove that is full of ancient trees which have grown to an unusual height, shutting out a view of the sky by a veil of pleached and intertwining branches, then the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the spot, and your marvel and the thick unbroken shade in the midst of the open spaces, will prove to you the presence of a deity.

..what is more foolish than to praise in a man the qualities which come from without? And what is more insane than to marvel at characteristics which may at the next instant be passed on to someone else?

A golden bit does not make a better horse.

Likewise, they bid us to "examine all things severally", like Aurelius saying sex is just skin surfaces touching, and his exclusive purple dyes for his cloak were just shellfish blood.  Everything can be produced to something contemptible; he even had contempt for his dinner, saying it was just "some dead flesh".

They also, between Seneca and Marcus, remind us that if none see beauty, beauty still exists.  Wonder exists without praise and awe, and in the end, all of one's fans and detractors will someday cease to exist, leaving one's legacy to die the death of being forgotten in the popular imagination.

Suppose that he has a retinue of comely slaves and a beautiful house, that his farm is large and large his income; none of these things is in the man himself; they are all on the outside.  Praise the quality in him which cannot be given or snatched away, that which is the peculiar property of the man.

It is usually, for the average person, only the media fawning over celebrities, with a few scattered appreciations here and there from the fans; this is their narratives other than wars or politics, these celebrities, the rich and famous.  Remember that they too will be largely forgotten just after their own appointed time.

Do you ask what this is?

...reason brought to perfection...

word of the day: bucolic

bucolic: adj

Of or pertaining to herdsmen or shepherds;

pastoral;

rustic;

rural;

countrified.


The shuck, the spiritual milk, and the wrong subject in the objective mind.

"We must do our Alma Mater.  Time for our Alma Mater.....

When I was a little bitty boy,

my Grandma gave me a brand new toy...

it had a ball and a bit of string...

Grandma said it was my ding-aling-aling."

-Chuck Berry(on stage).

In the obscurity of a cloudy sky, as was the saying, in the obscurity the presence of God approaches not through the eyes, but spiritual, psychic, and the person just knows that there is a God, and he has put a blanket over his little world.

Nothing one will meet with is particularly un-natural or by the same token, evil, save for the work of Satan, and one can parse and label and identify, but in the end, what will come does in fact come, and what does not, eventually is boxed-up in a dark corner, one would hope, lest life is to be ignored, and the most prominent and pertinent in mind is something irrevocably unimportant.

"I have a blog."

Heart like a shuck: greasy little soft matter, a kind of tongue-flesh or something inside it, the raw oyster, maybe, dare I say a clam, or something, organ meat, the softness of a kidney, the bitterness of raw liver, the bitter kind of dull acid of putting ones tongue to electricity, the taste of dirt along with a flourish of shrill up the spine.

When I was for spiritual milk, I as given spiritual meat, and so often today the reverse; it is not a given that the spirit would be given a good or timely word, but in a grouping, someone experiences a resonance, a relevance, that electrical current, the neural pathways re-routing into something more natural, providential, something easy and light, like the Lord's burden, and our minds knit themselves away from the coming nonsense in the thoroughfare, and reform themselves on higher thought.


Keoma!

 

A little time to fill... a little spot of time to kill... a rime and reason for things to think... bending heaven and earth for a morsel to drink.

d

The titanic turbo MKL, perhaps the greatest and most unknown of existential failures, pushing dust, watering daisies, taken up in an afterlife, the second heaven, somewhere between receiving that red mark, and having finished his paper, somewhere in the collegiate indeterminate strain between doing and knowing, in the space intermediate, so much of life falls into that void of vacuum, so much of life is drawn in and taken up: subliminated in the dream work of a world somewhat wide awake and laying in the sun, perhaps yet praying for even more sleep.

Upson Watt and Teddy Etchwasser, come calling sometime in the brainstorming of the afternoon, and the fronds, and the birdsong, and the other things, Teddy and Upson, kind of a dink water of the thing, kind of tea-colored stuff that makes the sand underneath look like biscuit-flesh; his query both and neither, like a man thirsts perhaps for nothing in particular but for something that lack aridity.

Enzo said the Spaghetti Western was kaput at the time, and this one, a great big 85-minute homage to all before, and a hand wave in salute, gratitude.  I honestly thought Sergio Corbucci made this one, but I'm a degenerate in a space filled with people with master's degrees, an armchair guy, me, while Castellari is the do-er, the prime mover of the piece, and I only but one pair of eyes lent to his work.

The turtle, but one four-legged friend.

I saw a turtle crossing the blacktop.  It saw me, and its head pulled inside the shell, away from the specter of any possible mischief: me.  I thought to myself too, the dog circling the thing, as a turtle to the traversing, am I to God, perhaps.

If I looked into the occlusion of the woods, I would find it self-evident that God exists, and I would find it that any occurence that happened naturally was not only good, and providential, but natural and not so much elapses outside of that boundary.  And if so, if otherwise, who can say?

I looked at the scrub growth in the odd transition between forest and yard; it was haphazard, obscure and at once also roughshod; what seems the random happening in nature, the faithful say, is connected to God, others yet, pantheists, say it IS God.

Providence came to the turtle as he crossed the hot pavement to the cool of the wood, and the dog came away perplexed, but had to follow his boy, did the dog, following the Boy, his friend.

I stared the turtle in its black little eyes, its thick skin, its obstinate, huge, set mouth.  I watched the thing try to right itself.  By that time, it had dog slobber on its back, with the dog having the idea to take the whole thing in its jaws and shake it, but to no avail: it was too large for that.  It jutted an arm to right itself, re-orient towards the opposite wood, but to no avail then either, because of the dog's nudging with his nose.  The youngling dog come close to smell of the thing, to get the turtle's scent, and fractions of degrees, each nudge turned the turtle away from its intention.....

the Pass It On for April 25, 2023


 

word of the day: inculcate.

inculcate, verb.

To impress by frequent admonitions;

to teach and enforce by frequent repetitions.

word of the day: cynosure

cynosure, noun.

anything that strongly attracts attention;

a center of attraction.

an old name of the constellation Ursa Minor or the Little Bear, which contains the pole star, and thus has been long noted by mariners and others.

(from the Greek for "dog's tail")

The Meditations 4.24

He is a true fugitive, that flies from reason, by which men are sociable. He blind, who cannot see with the eyes of his understanding. He poor, that stands in need of another, and hath not in himself all things needful for this life. He an aposteme of the world, who by being discontented with those things that happen unto him in the world, doth as it were apostatise, and separate himself from common nature's rational administration. For the same nature it is that brings this unto thee, whatsoever it be, that first brought thee into the world. He raises sedition in the city, who by irrational actions withdraws his own soul from that one and common soul of all rational creatures. 

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations, 4.24

on love and hate.

If you are truly to love something, then never have it, for no sooner is it within our grasp as that love becomes ashes.  If you seek to hate something or even ignore it, pull it close to you, yon dark-hearted populi.


Pass It On with Og Mandino


 

a one-to-one natural interchange. "what is new has become old again."

The old fudge clawed absently at his porridge.

"I should grow an onion from an old discarded one."

And I thought to myself, how it were, not like the multiplicity of nature, but a certain kind of balance: one with shoots of it, green splines going away, up toward the air, yearning perhaps for heaven.  We plant that, and it rots before giving away root and tendril to a new specimen of onion.

A one-for-one interchange, prolegomenon, naturally, cadenced by a passing of the seasons, and one onion become yet another, and some waste stuffs which nourished the new onion, like a baby crawling from the womb to dine on it's mothers flesh: I read such in Spenser, a cadre of little spider babies pouring from the womb door only to crawl up the belly of the dying forebear and eat of it to live themselves.

"I should interact with this somewhere between its terms and my own."

Our own cadence then, the fits and starts of the world proper, jaundiced and plagued by our own limitations of our frame of reference; listening to the story of Cleanthes, a dullard boxer, able to practice a kind of reductionism that made heaven itself a problem insubstantial.


Lonely Farmers: The Freevee Event.

Upon seeing on the program guide, it sounds like fodder for Dateline, but no.  We get a new goatmommy, there but for the grace of God, after Megyn got in the rat poison and hemorrhaged even out of her eyes.  Its an interesting premise, two or three words that seem to imply so much, and not in the minimalist sense like the movie names, but actual marketing, you know.

I've seen this before anyway, sitting with a Bud Light in Davenport, Iowa surrounded by some of the nation's most interesting antique iron.

They said, there was some regulation about providing rural coverage on the pay tv systems, basically almost like a subsidy, that they pay the farmers some, and they then feel the notion to pay the farmer's tv network.

They took these city girls and brought them to God Knows, Wyoming.  It's almost like 40 Dollars a Day with Raquel, how you just sort of airdrop those bitches and see if they can find their way home, and if so, in that unlikelihood, what diseases have they discovered, like Megyn's doctor, ya know?  That golf-f*ck ratboy piece of garbage that hovers around Tampa, the once and future litigant, Donald John Trump.

I usedta make 40 bucks a day, myself.  It was good.  Didn't get a bleary-eyed letter from a city girl, or anything.  Mostly gay European friends.  Anyway, my 40 dollars in hand, Scott's Mini-Mart on Hwy 9 or the old Frank's Finer Foods in Chesterfield, SC, at the time Seneca cigarettes were 9.99 per carton.  I'd do the carton, hit the Chinese restaurant where the impossibly thin slave girl ran the register(I had thought, with such an electrolyte imbalance, she'd make an easy abduction, not that I've ever abducted anyone or anything, or even particularly daydreamed about it any length of time, no matter what Larry tells you), and the video store, Bob Perdue's flagship video store, that is, hitting the DVD deep-cuts, Lee Van Cleef, the soft-core porn Blair Witch, continual rentals of Lucio Fulci's Zombi 2.

And what was left over, I just fed to the pidgeons, kiddos.

I recall working most of one summer for a pair of shoes.  I had some shoes bought circa 2001, but they were hopelessly falling apart.  In the morning, the wet grass soaked my footies as I ran the string trimmer for a six-hour stretch, hoping in vain, some 10 or 15 dollars at a clip, to buy another pair of shoes from the discount store.

The city girls.

Do we understand them?  Or are we hypnotized?  Will a farm boy lose his innocence?  Will she teach him to read?  Will he teach her how to live, at all?

40 bucks a day sounds like an STD med price before government subsidies, but it was nice little show in its day, with a kind of premise in a few words that TV seems to forsake so much, not a remake or something, not Mollie B's Polka Slamdown or something.

Send Dylan Mulvaney to the farmers, and then give the farmers a secret room with a camera where they can record their thought's for the students of comparative anthropology.

40 Dollars a Day.  An 18pack, a bag of Lay's five dollars in one dollar lottery tickets, except on cigarette carton day.  And we wonder now maybe, how even predilicted and prevaricated and approach transcendent ontology to even fight wars against people like the Nazis; and hell, we only knew who they were because of their uniforms, they were proud enough to label themselves, they always are, whether its FreeVee news or GOP candidates, they love a label, you know, and if they had won, they would be trying to program our Saturday nights and parcel out advertising for it.


The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius 4.22

Either this world is a κόσμος, or comely piece, because all disposed and governed by certain order: or if it be a mixture, though confused, yet still it is a comely piece. For is it possible that in thee there should be any beauty at all, and that in the whole world there should be nothing but disorder and confusion? and all things in it too, by natural different properties one from another differenced and distinguished; and yet all through diffused, and by natural sympathy, one to another united, as they are?

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations, 4.22

budgetary concerns, and jiggering the business model in the face of the Buzz Feed kerfluffle.

I would spend 4.89, some 5-something with all the taxes included, on International Delights.  It was empty calories, sugar high inducing caffeinated bullcrap of a tailspin mentally and physically, and halfway through the carton, I took a nap.

"This sort of indulgence is unsustainable."

Don't we tell ourselves pretty little lies and platitudes, moral prevarications and so forth, things on mindset and mindfulness, listening to music, and we gorge as the whole place sinks ever further, with our reasons looking paler and paler as time goes along.

As a literature student also in the workforce, I qualified for "help" with groceries.

C'est la vie.

"Even the mailman?"

Throbbing little button that initiates the destruct sequence, that such a complex organism is given a way out, a way towards dissipation, and enjoy it as it burns while re-entering the atmosphere.

You didn't think something fearfully and wonderfully made would have a pathway to obsolescence and that there was, in fact, another world to see, even as the complicated diagrammed structures feed the worms, another world, by and by, somewhere in a kind of glory which surpasses understanding.

I took no "help" with groceries, and I found myself spending most of my income either in the grocery store picking up the odd fill-in items, or buying caffeinated drinks of the mocha and caramel variety.

Kevin somehow bought his sodas kind of wholesale with food stamps, and he, amazingly, earning 15-18K/annual qualified for government assistance with his medications, hopeless diabetic he was.  I remember his sugar shock glare, that kind of emptiness that is actually so devoid of thought that it doesn't even qualify as anything touching on confusion, as if he were beguiled or something, a pretty key ring in front of his eyes or something.

I would have International Delights again, someday, and in the meantime, I had the memories of past drinkings, and Dunkin' Donuts iced by the jug.  I took the DD caramel in the jug yesterday during a brainstorming session, putting together and discarding various ideas, projections and so forth, projections of how much or how little of my time had been wasted, and I had an infection of some kind coursing through my body making my perceived temperature vary wildly: imagine it 89 Fahrenheits, and I'm under a quilt, or the other way, 42 of them in the morning, and I turn on a fan to cool myself.  Body aches and so forth, and the energetic little knicky-knock of the caffeinated drink seemed a bridge too far, until the brainstorming session, putting things together while taking other things apart, and all.

It's the old addict's 'moment of clarity' when suddenly things become more readily apparent that even, and one is inundated with a plethora, a smorgasbord of various realizations, that come as fast as the speed of thought, but perhaps too fast for the personality, and one feels clean, slippery maybe like the eel, snicky like the snake, or something, and many things, though appearing different, take on a freshly plain palor.


Movie Idea: The Fox, The Owl and the Bear.

"I'll f*ck your world, counselor" said Max Cady, snarling as he crawled out from under the old lawyer's Jeep Renegade.

"Go near my daughter again and you're dead" said the old lawyer, Scout, thinking of who in the good old boys he could call to get this head on a pike, who would work him over but good and make him see the error of his ways.  To the old lawyer, there was good sense in the old boys network, and they would know how to push Cady just enough; the universe could very well push any man to reconsider his ways, at least, if not precipitate an outright change.

Cady had gotten college degrees in the clink; and for a truth, there was an old Arab proverb about knowledge teaching some people how to bring about their own undoings: their own personal universe of hell that transcended the world, a dissipation.

He had flitted at the old lawyer's wife, but what he didn't expect, the daughter, was even more fortuitous, like a gift from the devil himself, as she stood there trying to figure what to make of him, him in his white and black striped shirt, or another time, standing behind a wrought-iron fence like a caged lion. It was like he smelled her, or something, smelled the innocence along with the physical parts, the little pastel soaps and stuff, it was sensible to him like a sauce was on a cooked ham, and he found it appetizing, but his game was long, and he was content to prowl menacingly like a caged lion abiding and abetting for his own later moment, the greater glory of setting the old lawyer to rights.

He didn't beg the good old boys; he knew it wouldn't help.  They had tarted him down to just shirtsleeves and laid into him like working a side of beef, and his breath came in punctuations that were there own peculiar and distinctive profanities.  He worked at his nose and brow with a handkerchief, amazed at how getting beaten over and over worked a sweat on the victim, and all the while, his energetic tormentors, holding to the company line from their golf buddy, barely breathed heavily at all.

She was at the high school gymnasium, at the stage, the polished laquer of the thing a glittery smooth reflection of her arms, her chest, her little chin; mind she was in high school, legal for some things, and not yet for others, precariously positioned across a canyon of divided sensibilities, and Max Cady wanted to further divide her sensibilities for his own amusement, give her kind of the emotional working-over that good old boys did to him, but maybe carve it into her chest or back with his drywall knife.

They had been acting in a play: Music Man or something, some Oklahoma or Streetcar that kaputted and reticulated and kind of group-thinked its way along the polished surface of the stage; how much it was like the basketball surface opposite it, done by the same contractor, maybe, and the curtains were kind of heavy rug-like things that she stayed near, like a comfortable younger cat, maybe.



Free Journalism and a sack-full of Vasoline from Walgreen's.

I make two points.

Houston Astros gonna need to pack the vaseline if they want a good next few, facing the Braves and then, sans breather, the boiling hot Tampa Bay Rays.

Secondly, and not unimportant, as per my own consternation over "free" or "ad-supported" journalism, BuzzFeed is killing its free journalism division, noting I guess, perhaps a failure to find a sufficient way to monetize.  The BuzzFeed model relied on crucial shares and so forth with other media partners, and such wasn't coming through.

I note an older iteration of this website known as Kane Rose Up made about 1.43$ in six months of ad support.  Spensah, this does not even cover my breakfast and gasoline.

This from BuzzFeed as I began to do a data-supported, fact-driven analysis of my own web stats.  Quite frankly, we're just giving it away, and some point out the content isn't valuable anyway.



word of the day: abstruse

abstruse, adj

Remote from ordinary minds or notions;

difficult to be comprehended or understood;

esoteric;

profound;

recondite.

(from the Latin abstrusus, to thrust away)

420 musing: piercing an existential mystery and Night of the Grateful Dead, and the fake memoir, "educating the American negro"

If I could, were a hammer or a nail, or a firing pin or something, pierce the central obscurity at the heart of being, look into it, deposit a chestnut for others to look upon at other points of posterity, not a signature, but a souvenir for the universe that said I had been there; but I am no Killroy, roundly apart from a Killjoy, a chestnut of random thoughts, as it were, and some are indeed fun, where others are more tedious, as expected: thoughts tend to vary with the thinker, as the thinker elapses along the line of history.

The very first black woman poet, reading her in my studies, and finding she was a stickler for literacy amongst her kind, and one could expect altruistic monarchists writing self-effacing works like, "Educating The American Negro" and so forth, leaving their sort of chestnut, but perhaps out so season.

Condescended to sit with the Native People and sit quietly as they unfolded their creation stories and magic incantations, and such other, their medicines and various natural disciplines, thought heathen Godless things, but ultimately with a god in mind, for certain.  Were I a hammer or a nail, or a tentpole of a humble wigwam, not the chief's wigwam, but some other along the perimeter, maybe even a sickroom or something, the home of a disgraced woman, domicile of occlusion, obscurity, out of proximity, but approximately the center of a certain band of thought, that.

Spelling slowly and carefully the word "woman" in my soup, trying not to tear at the pieces with my utensil, stupid and careful, at once jeweler, bomb-maker, and insolent child, at once with the luck of the devil on my side, too, how nothing seems to stop the wrong sometimes, while at other times: the invisible hand of providence, but that solicitude, the wonky wrathful half-amused and bemused strategem, diadem of radioactive starlight and all, kind of a woven code of death in the whole thing, and who would then see the chestnut?

The Pot day, the Columbine day, the day where I was busy updating software and so forth, and a rocket exploded, and some other; I thought it a kind of hedonistic schizoid heresy to mention the Grateful Dead on the day of the Columbine anniversary, but there are numerous worlds of interesting things, and inside jokes, and all that.  Indeed, in my own prior circles, a VHS of Night of the Laughing Dead on the coffee table, empty Dr Pepper bottle, Lay's bags, and so forth: remnants, relics of a bygone age, a time civilized perhaps, moerso than now, in its almost vulgar simplicities, where now we are so often forcefed indignation and targeted lies, and as Paul says, "the scales" from our eyes, and all that, and one more day of not wanting to be lied to or paraded like a prized pony, another day to catch the lie early.


William Wordsworth: Lines Written A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.

 

LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.


Five years have passed; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a sweet inland murmur. 4—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

Which on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Among the woods and copses lose themselves,

Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb

The wild green landscape. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms

Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,

With some uncertain notice, as might seem,

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire

The hermit sits alone.


Though absent long,

These forms of beauty have not been to me,

As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,

And passing even into my purer mind

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

As may have had no trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man’s life;

His little, nameless, unremembered acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world

Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.


If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,

In darkness, and amid the many shapes

Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee

O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!


And now, with gleams of half-extinguish’d thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again:

While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led; more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

And their glad animal movements all gone by,)

To me was all in all.—I cannot paint

What then I was. The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite: a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompence. For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity,

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean, and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods,

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye and ear, both what they half-create, 5

And what perceive; well pleased to recognize

In nature and the language of the sense,

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.

Nor, perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me, here, upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb

Our chearful faith that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain winds be free

To blow against thee: and in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,

If I should be, where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came,

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

 

-William Wordsworth

George Eliot


 

Marcus Aurelius 4.20

They will say commonly, Meddle not with many things, if thou wilt live cheerfully. Certainly there is nothing better, than for a man to confine himself to necessary actions; to such and so many only, as reason in a creature that knows itself born for society, will command and enjoin. This will not only procure that cheerfulness, which from the goodness, but that also, which from the paucity of actions doth usually proceed. For since it is so, that most of those things, which we either speak or do, are unnecessary; if a man shall cut them off, it must needs follow that he shall thereby gain much leisure, and save much trouble, and therefore at every action a man must privately by way of admonition suggest unto himself, What? may not this that now I go about, be of the number of unnecessary actions? Neither must he use himself to cut off actions only, but thoughts and imaginations also, that are unnecessary for so will unnecessary consequent actions the better be prevented and cut off.

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations 4.20

Futnuckery: Dejection, an Odd.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
 
Dejection: an Ode.
 
Stanza the Fourth
 
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
         And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
         Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
                With light heart may she rise,
                Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
         Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
         O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

Oh really, Samuel.  Oh really.  Who needs to be liberated?  Your libido or your friend?  Don't think I'm not question this, such tails of freedom are usually exortations towards dissipation, historically speaking, even the Barbarian Hannibal was really just on vacation trump-stamping through the Alps, and Rome, the great Casino where are spearheads are traded for pieces of silver.  Coleridge then, had his own piece of silver, according to the Norton publishers, in the form of his sister-in-law.  

His midnight, I'm sure it was lonely--it always seems lonely--unless the quiet is broken.  "Gay fancy" he says, "from pole to pole", and what joy-hoping exhuberant wishing he brings us, imparting something of happiness, if not any actual hope, his daydream in the quiet night, lying awake beside his wife, daydreaming of his "friend" achieving her happiness, flying through the air perhaps, "simple spirit".

Have I ever wished a friend well?  Have I that impetus to forget myself, maybe I could, and forget to include myself in my own secret prayer words.  Tis meet to wish well without including self-possession or possessing the friend in any form; tis rank selfless, but the ingrate would picture himself at the edge, in the actual painting, under the frame edge, haunting, printed like a signature and stealing like a wolf after the "simple soul" of his sheep friend.

Have I imparted enough to darkness to the wishes of friendship and peace?

He wishes, does Coleridge, the stars to hang votive above her dominion; and her soul, something about being simple and pious, and yet have currents and things, jets and eddies and so forth, kind of a froth like the lace of a boddice.

Clearly she is his world; he has assumed he entirely understands her--its a rose tinting in front of his eyes perhaps that obscures things--yet he talks of the simple soul with its own tidal system, its own various constituent elements that produce that boddice froth lace residue of inner beauty.  Simplicity, he calls it: why in the modern age we call it mindfulness, we pay gurus to cut through the noise and bring us back to the core business, the winning prior game strategy that carried us thus far, before we became musicians on a second album, or an unwanted continuation of something that once, in its own moment, became titular, above itself, elevated and reminded us of some reflection of divinity: the stars, Coleridge hoped, shined over her house as she slept, which he also hoped, contentedly.

The ingrate says he would give her the world, and the critic agrees, but where the intersection is constructed, the ingrate imparts more specific motives, unlike clouds, his take a different occlusion, a different sort of thumbprint, and he extrapolates from the thumbprint, DNA and other things, such to make a clone of the "simple soul" in verse form, to serve his own, the ingrate says, perverse ends.

"from pole to pole".

He wishes, does Coleridge, to see her eddies.  These days, it is so often in the darkness of the corridor where a woman shows her eddies, and for more stanzas, even glorious, mosquito-ridden Panama.  And these barriers between people, I guess its an expression in vain, various emotional boundaries cast aside, lagging around the ankles, and the inert, innate riddle of the universe is that they know all along is in vain, innert, and intimacy is river too far from the two, too far in the distance, and they soon hate themselves and what they are, each of them, lashing-out, behaving like the destitute selfhood they realize, and seeing in return the destitute selfhood of the counterpart, the barriers soon pulled back up, from the ankles, the calves, the knees, over the thighmeat and back to posterity and privity; one would hate then, or pity, which was worse, and suddenly everyone is almost a guru, having experience, as it were.

"...friend devoutest of my choice..."

The City of God.

a golden crucifix set on the top of building, in secret, in good old NYC.  What could it mean to a resigned priest?

Marcus Aurelius saw all of the universe, the body natural, as the City of God, but yet others subdivide, seeing the mind as sometimes either self-contained, or part in parcel of the body natural.

Doctorow the novelist worked, like peeling layers of an onion, on the inner world, the obscurities: probing, stoking the pangs of the mysterious until once we confronted with something either repugnant or unsatisfying.  We could be in such circumstance, perpetually unhappy, or we could realize we enjoyed the unfurling of the thing.

One orientation of mysticism is man approaching God from within, as of acknowledging or communing with the creator from his own little City of God within himself, and yet another lensing might be man's position towards nature, elapsation, resumption.


word of the day: primogeniture

primogeniture, noun.

The state of being the first-born of the same parents;

in law the right of the first-born son to succeed to his father's estate to the exclusion of the younger sons and any daughters.

(from the Latin

primus: first

genitura: a begetting.)

also: Primogenitor, the earliest or first forefather.

Pass It On: Frederick Douglas


 As Ryan Holiday said it on a book title, "The Obstacle Is The Way"(available on many platforms and at the Stoicgym.com)

Sometimes was is need is tumult to effect positive change, as Captain Picard said it of meeting an insurmountable foe: "a kick in the complacency", as if we had become overmuch secure or set in various ways, and needed a change....

The Meditations 4.19

Whatsoever is expedient unto thee, O World, is expedient unto me; nothing can either be 'unseasonable unto me, or out of date, which unto thee is seasonable. Whatsoever thy seasons bear, shall ever by me be esteemed as happy fruit, and increase. O Nature! from thee are all things, in thee all things subsist, and to thee all tend. Could he say of Athens, Thou lovely city of Cecrops; and shalt not thou say of the world, Thou lovely city of God? 

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations, 4.19, George Long edition.

the 4/19. On the anniversary of the 1995 Oklahoma City boming.

It was one of those regular days, I remember bits and pieces of it; I really do.  I was in high school, I had "gymmed" that morning and had Ms Ingram's History class, but then I had lit out.  I had frequently lit out, even though the schedule was great and I had the end of day Art class.

It was talk radio then for me, a Young Republican, an outsider, but one who was not engaged, but a learner.

Today I'm not so much of a Republican, more of a RINO, and the party these days hates a RINO.

But I heard the coverage, circa 10 am on talk radio, then later on CBS.  I took a break for films, cold things from the refrigerator and such.

It had just seemed so unbelievable that one would attack like; out of the pale.

A long distance view of the burning building, just like the first WTC bombing, a long distance shot and a talking head narrating the scene.

There were commentators that refused to say the name of McVeigh, saying instead, "He Who Will Remain Nameless". 

I had my own artistic vision of such nonsense, a robot achieving sentience and breaking quickly for something vital to his new thoughts, a kind of wild fling at freedom; the heroes were the ones that would hunt him down.  I envisioned robotic crap as being most of the crime they would fit; an advanced response to an advanced threat, even as cave men in the real world hurled their stones.  Oddly, there was no network automation such that the team would receive automatic notifications; some foreman or engineer had to call them, it seemed.

The networks that were even then on the drawing board were outside of my own artistic vision of the future; and further, inexplicably, there was kind of a prodigy character that was sort of everything, Superman, Cable, Doctor Manhattan.  I kept his backstory quite opaque; it was if he just happened, some sort of maybe even an evolutionary figure, one that had no limitations.  I had to make adjustments to that notion, that he was never truly in an kind of danger, just kind of annoyed at things, and ultimately he transmuted himself into a kind of sky-shield over the entire world.  They had statues of him, and one of the scenes, someone defaces it, and later, the character, after a little soul searching by the time of the end of the film, responds and it scares the beejesus out of the defacer.  He clearly didn't expect some high-minded super-powerful being to condescend to address such a minor nuisance; but the high-minded being did.

Those days, I drew it out, notebook paper, the old erasable pens; it was horrorshow.  Then I took to long form writing some years later, and then finally I began to tell the emotional points of the story in the form of musical phrasing, background noise that proved integral to the phenomena on the screen.  I remember of the long form, I had a cassette recorder for notes.  I walked around the back acreage, wild overgrown stuff, speaking into the tape recorder, saying phrases like "Engines of Hate", circa 1996 I spent a Spring Break writing a 150 page novella, reading The Stand by Stephen King, and intermittently cooking myself a hamburger and making a pitcher of sweet tea.  I'd take my sweet tea in an old early 80s plastic cup, sit at a little one-hutch office desk and take up my work.

My "work".



word of the day: oppugn.

oppugn, verb

To attack by arguments or criticism;

to oppose;

to question;

to exercise hostile reasoning against.

(from the Latin oppugno

ob, meaning 'against'

pugno, meaning 'to fight')

HG Wells on the present moment.


 

Marcus Aurelius 4.18

Not to wander out of the way, but upon every motion and desire, to perform that which is just: and ever to be careful to attain to the true natural apprehension of every fancy, that presents itself.

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations 4.18  

Brown-Eyed Medusa: Clyde trolls the park.

Clyde sauntered, and he felt vaguely french in his suit coat and all, vaguely exotic in his fancy wanderer clothes, in MacNamara Park, crossing the acreage, Effingsly Durham at his side.

She had been called Eff-kenzie or other things, even had her father give long lectures where he explained they'd be friends if she wasn't his daughter; she lapsed into a kind of dull mortified silence during all that, the fake names and musing, the protracted spoken daydreams of her father.

But she wouldn't be confused with Greer's girl, Isis Holsclaugh, she wouldn't do that in any form or fashion, nor even wear her hair the same way, lest it should spawn confusion; she just wouldn't have that, and she, like all the others, shared that one thing in common, along with the fat girl selling lemonade in her vertical stripes--her couch cover shirt looked like a television test pattern--on her table, Lemonade, from the signage, and some variation of Faygo, or Sunkist or Fanta flavors, purples and oranges, and some mysterious yellow that could have been like five different things itself.

Clyde didn't really walk or amble, he kind of elapsed or just sort of happened to a ribbon of the property, a kind of magnesium flare trail along the place, and others crawled, overhead like ants, underfoot like dusky figures in an impressionist painting, largely faceless kind of totems.

The two, Effie and Clyde, had dined at Le Shoney's, and paid for their meal somewhere in the middle of a protracted conversation, where Clyde talked to her while staring at the waitresses, and then the crossed the park while he stared at all the women in the park, and it seemed his sole occupation in life might have been graphic, vulgar daydreams of sex with strange women.  Greer called him "Throwpickle", because of his kind of delusional interdimensionality, where he walked liked some Native American shaman, between the worlds, and his business was some sort of cloud of vaguery that he sang at sometimes, few times, and it showered him not in rain drops, but in hundred dollar greenbacks.

He kind of just happened along like he was in a wheel-barrow or something.  Floating, breezing: elapsing.

Now and then, some younger people would jog along, usually one at a time: women in ponytails, men in sleeveless shirts.  There was a kickball game or something, something with a big old ball and an indistinct grouping of people across the greenery, and there were scattered people playing with dogs.

He considered visiting Greer, ditching Effie into the indefinite fog of whatever occupied her hours, while he somehow thought, in the meantime, on the trip to Greer's work, thought of something partly interesting to say, something that had some teeth in it that bespoke kind of an attitude towards things, kind of a guarded sort of dissatisfaction, and how to do that, and also make Greer laugh.  Clyde's ontology acknowledged that Greer was usually on an endorphin high from constant sex with his girlfriend, so not much could make a crater on the surface of that one's thoughts, and Clyde would find something that at once arrested his attention, grabbed him in his boo-boo, and managed to have held in a stew of clothing sales and sex with the girlfriend, his own indefinite fog of schedule and work duties.

They had called Clyde "Throwpickle" sometimes, but he had so many names, and Clyde himself could be called literally anything, sitting there pulling in air from the room, exhaling waste gases, sitting there while the threads in his exotic clothes got ever the looser, the colors faded, and it would become, like he had thought a long time, an abysmal thing, like Clyde's thought so often of the very novelty of existence.

 

Agua Been Hunger Froth. a lyric, with apologies to Schooly D.

 

Davezula, the answer book 

Fryjohn got a hard ****

rock you like a cop

when he's on top

Mikewad you up next with ya mahjong.

Mikewad make the money, see?

Mikewad get the honeys, G.

Ice on my fingers and my toes

and my toy Taurus.



experience and reality, and the profound depression of being in heaven?

Your experience and your reality is only narrowed or broadened by the quality of your perceptions.

In fact, you are only as narrow as your perceptions, likewise, your friends, relatives, only as narrow as your perceptions.

We exhibit a tension between being unfit for this world, and yet being unfit also for the next, but we yearn for the best of one, and egress to the the other; will we be happy anywhere, or will the splendor of heaven only bring about a sense of profound depression?

 

word of the day: edify

edify, verb

To instruct and improve in knowledge generally, and particularly in moral and religious knowledge.

(from the Latin aedificare, to build erect or construct

aedes, a house

facio, to make.

Bill Credits, Serial Rape-age, and a Potato Salad conglomerate of time's incomprehensibility.

Graceful raceless, restless ladies, ticking on the clock, and me, with my diddle-bop: we all killed time to some extent, in our own fashion, that was, within our own arguably limited frame of reference.  Someone called out "Order 66" and the apprentices were jumping over one another; my solar calculator was stymied by a cloudbank to the southeast, and I was on the verge of making another helpful pictograph.

I was about early, taken to the outside, having a thing of my own own, and watching flickering lights, and all, pay-outs to customers in the form of bill credits, and all--things that tend to madden people that hold the shares, and why--to hold the shares, just serial rape-age on a grand scale, sanctioned and held up by the law.

I killed time forever dead, with no hope of reprieve, at all, to no extent imaginable, and yet others talked of things like reliving the past; I had figured I would have the same experiences, if repeated, the same mistakes and failures: it was the only way to make the different world sensible.

And yet.

There were other considerations, indictments, lines of talk, Nickie changing her hairstyle, as if to kind of single the herd something; they say ignorance is bliss, you know, and a kind of stability to ignorance and sadness, and how they say, having such dreadful feelings, that they can't feel--the very truth is that, as the song says, Martin Lawrence, they "know no good", and how stupid can we be not to see it right in front of our eyes?

I would and have just let certain of those things just whither away, saying to myself, "lessons learned" and all, and I saw that pictograph again, from 25-75 percent was the impetus, with a cone of some kind of specific something around the 25, and I said, that's my career, that's my life, my past my present and possibly my future, in which I fly some sort of burning chariot across the sky and fire poison arrows down in the name of jokes, laughing as people dance to evade those missiles.

As Einstein put it, as it was adapted for the idea of the Global Positioning System, "you could put a really long stick, one end of the ground, the other high in the sky, and guesstimate the ground coordinates from the air, or the air coordinates from the sky.  Really, Albert, it sounds so sensible, and I guesstimate the relative position of some continuity from the far past in relation to the present, along with projections of future successes and failures, and I come up with the most surprising potato salad one could have, like a heresy unto itself, and barely comprehensible as lunch.  Welcome to my website.

 

Wahldt Horses.

"these ladies know who I am..

she knew I wouldn't let her slide through my hands..."

-The Rolling Stones

Pass It On, on Change and Welcoming the New.


 

The meditations of Marcus Aurelius, 4.17

If so be that the souls remain after death (say they that will not believe it); how is the air from all eternity able to contain them? How is the earth (say I) ever from that time able to Contain the bodies of them that are buried? For as here the change and resolution of dead bodies into another kind of subsistence (whatsoever it be;) makes place for other dead bodies: so the souls after death transferred into the air, after they have conversed there a while, are either by way of transmutation, or transfusion, or conflagration, received again into that original rational substance, from which all others do proceed: and so give way to those souls, who before coupled and associated unto bodies, now begin to subsist single. This, upon a supposition that the souls after death do for a while subsist single, may be answered. And here, (besides the number of bodies, so buried and contained by the earth), we may further consider the number of several beasts, eaten by us men, and by other creatures. For notwithstanding that such a multitude of them is daily consumed, and as it were buried in the bodies of the eaters, yet is the same place and body able to contain them, by reason of their conversion, partly into blood, partly into air and fire. What in these things is the speculation of truth? to divide things into that which is passive and material; and that which is active and formal.

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations(George Long translation) Book 4, passage 17

I heard something. about Trump supporters.

An author commented of many Trump supporters, that what they sought was a "constitutional autocracy" in which Trump and his voters were protected by the constitution, but everyone else were fair game, not protected, and as such, slaves and targets of various bad activities.

Sounds about right, I wot.

The Decline of Western Civilization: Catcalls of Anheuser-Butch, continued Snowflakes versus Karens.

A non-controversy to me, but it triggered some who were perhaps, "straight-acting" and generally the type to overcompensate for something; it was all meme-fodder, the beer turning the men gay, and all and why?

Does it matter who the company pays?  Assuredly a lot of these companies slide dark money towards some unsavory types all the time, and we don't know, hence the term "dark money", Biden's widowed daughter-in-law and all, the "dark money".

This as I consider Dell Computers for my business because they sponsored a podcast I like, but that too, is extra money, collateral; my tendency is to respond more to sports endorsements and so forth usually, in the form of stock car racing, where I took up an Anheuser-Busch product largely because of an athlete sponsorship.  My initial foray into healthy fresh sub sandwich also came from a sporting sponsorship.  "Cousin" Carl Edwards.

Snowflakes versus Karens, tis all, sound and fury signifying not much more, and maybe that particular adult beverage brand wanted to retain its redneck base, and overcompensator fanbase as well, but add-on LGBTQ.  Certainly a miscalculation of the sensibilities of the existing fanbase, but nobody really wants to know the redneck fan base at all unless that's all the have, like Mike Lindell.

This as I'm drinking something called a Mexican Mudslide, with coffee, chocolate and tequila, and this dude is dressed as Holly Go Lightly, and I'm like, really now?  I'm not offended by that in the least, but I'm not really consuming that kind of media, I guess is the point.

If I needed something to complain about, it would be that I want gas prices down another 75 cents; but somehow I think that money is going to Phil Mickelson, the extra profits, and no American speculators have the testes to go after American drilling.  Consider also how many pieces of the oil pie go out, land rights, oil lease prices, so much, the teams, and the companies, and the specialized equipment, how many huge companies get a piece.  The Deep Water Horizon was eye-opening because of how many hands were in that pie, and people blamed BP, but so many others were closer to the protracted blunder, so many other companies, but BP had to "eat the bitch".


Marcus Aurelius 4.16

 He who is greedy of credit and reputation after his death, doth not consider, that they themselves by whom he is remembered, shall soon after every one of them be dead; and they likewise that succeed those; until at last all memory, which hitherto by the succession of men admiring and soon after dying hath had its course, be quite extinct. But suppose that both they that shall remember thee, and thy memory with them should be immortal, what is that to thee? I will not say to thee after thou art dead; but even to thee living, what is thy praise? But only for a secret and politic consideration, which we call οἰκονομίαν, or dispensation. For as for that, that it is the gift of nature, whatsoever is commended in thee, what might be objected from thence, let that now that we are upon another consideration be omitted as unseasonable. That which is fair and goodly, whatsoever it be, and in what respect soever it be, that it is fair and goodly, it is so of itself, and terminates in itself, not admitting praise as a part or member: that therefore which is praised, is not thereby made either better or worse. This I understand even of those things, that are commonly called fair and good, as those which are commended either for the matter itself, or for curious workmanship. As for that which is truly good, what can it stand in need of more than either justice or truth; or more than either kindness and modesty? Which of all those, either becomes good or fair, because commended; or dispraised suffers any damage? Doth the emerald become worse in itself, or more vile if it be not commended? Doth gold, or ivory, or purple? Is there anything that doth though never so common, as a knife, a flower, or a tree?

-Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations, George Long translator.  Book Four, passage 16.

idylls americano: about dreams, wishes, and the "sparsity mindset".

This is the unspoken bifocal of peering into slumber from awareness, and alternately looking across the fence, from sleep into the very real...