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.