who decides your self-worth?

When you, consciously or subliminally decided to let another decide your worth, you've given that person a great power over you, almost like one choosing your fate.  As we have said, the core business, the really important life and death stuff, is often decided by people who make the least money, except in healthcare.  The others are squeezed at a cut rate.

Consider, like our enemies, they become important to us, and to them we seek vindication, victory, to flaunt our little victories, to squash our stratagems into their side mirrors, willy-nilly.

Such as is said by Seneca, a man controlling himself has a fool for a master, and a man lead by the crowd is misled.  Why even consider giving your enemy the emotional importance of these other?

Or a tougher row to keep weeded:  As the Christian seeks to do in his or her lifetime, forgive the past, release the enmity towards their former enemies.  In their literature, they are given the advice to be double good to their enemies, that it would be the best revenge, where others say the best revenge is just to live well.

Yet others: "the best revenge is to not be like them."

Do we estimate our own worth?  Or do we put ourselves into an average?  Whatever would be wrong with the average, notwithstanding that America is supposed to be loaded with exceptional human beings.  Would you be special?  And does that mean you perpetually stain your shirt at supper, or that read fast, or that you pick all the best online videos to put on playlist?

Which and how much?

And who are we allowing to decide our own self-worth?

controlling one's own hands, scientifc rigor, free choice, the unmoved mover, dibbles at the charity dinner.

What if we been plying and putting our neck to the yoke going in the wrong direction?

What if we redirected some of resources towards something more positive--something uniting--something beneficial for all?  What if the company didn't just pay me in stock?

We need to submit this to the rigors of scientific inquiry.

Ryan Holliday talks of the George Costanza "Reverse-Decision" or Inverse decision making paradigm: i.e., just do the opposite.  That is, do the opposite of your natural instinct, because obviously, and he looked back on past choices, he had always seemed wrong before.  In a written work, the strategy paid off surprisingly well, as Jerry had made a habit of otherwise referring to George as "Biff", the classic American fiddle-dud.

Who the f*ck just laughed?  Who was that?  I'm gonna fire whoever that was--presumptuous little prick.

Think of the energy we waste on the non-essential.  Even I, somewhat of a shaman in internet terms, wasting my time, talent, treasure on stupid things, supporting an indolent, irrelevant and unproductive lifestyle.

Oh how we are made to trip and tumble over the non-essential: be it another updated iPhone or something, a tv with the latest features, something they told us was essential, and we find, it was really just a horrible, time-killing distraction, as per yesterday's world-devouring paradox.

Woe to the republic if our better angels fall to disuse: why not something helpful to our fellows, then?  Why not something that advances the cause of hope, peace, freedom, justice and finally, ultimately, love of our human race, the animals, and the very earth that torments us.

What are we?  Bojangled Nashville shoes?  Farty, Farty, Missed the Party?

You will service us.

I tell my right hand, pained somewhat, voice low like Johnny Cash, "you mind me, now" and it fidgets at first, unsure of this new course, this new thing, but I will it, as much as it is a part of me, starfish tipple flong, I will it.

He had snorted No-Doz, and with his arm hidden inside his shirtsleeve, he pretended to listen, but all the while, something was niggling, monolithic, it left an impression in the dismal otherwise staid simple soils of his mind, it had weight--specific gravity--density, mass, and other attributes, and the very dissipation seemed like victory, not that he wasted it, but that he had it at all: that was the metric, it added to his lifetime totals, even though it was gone in mere hours--he needed more orange juice and pickles--perpetual little machine, it precipitated its own time like an overturned truckload of hammers, peppering a troupe of school children as the truck overturned onto the sidewalk, killing some, and horribly wounding others--the thought came and fun was fun, after all, and it was all, palms together, face upturned toward the stars, asking for, petitioning, and then the one and done when it came--just like when the government minted a Trillion dollar coin--done was done and for other dubious reasons, the backwater turned green, his toenails had black under them, and they were saying his sugar was way off.

And maybe that's all it was.  His blood glucose was "way off".

Maybe, and he didn't even entertain it actively in his imagination, that one correction might just set it all going in the right direction: that one simple, singular thing.  And he snotted.

Granules in it.

That one thing.

He lifted a finger, raised that finger, and seemingly pointed, straight-up, towards God, the very self-thinking thought, the Prime Mover, the unMoved Mover, the impetus, the Chief Good, in whom was no darkness at all, and I was thinking, with my right hand under control, and my life suddenly going to the good, better-off and all, I could work on my left hand, as was said, "Left Hand Of The Devil", which could have been the title of my old western screenplay, a mash-up of the Street Fighter, with martial arts, and old cowboy stuff, a man could get punched in his face before he drew his pistol, and the thing, they were cheering him on to draw, even as he got beaten down, and it turned out: the beater?  Step Dad.

"I can draw with my left hand just as good as my right."

You know what they were doing?  Karenning.  They wanted a Sirloin, medium, 14 ounce, a slight char which called forth the senses, and some mushroom gravy, home cut fries, and a whole thing of yeast bread.  And we're saying that it was kind of uncouth to demand of a free meal, all the trimmings, why, luxury, from a free meal, paid for by the church.  And myself, suddenly free-handed, couldve eaten it all, and used both hands.

All this talk about hands.  Lady fingers and cake frosting.

Friendly friends and On some of Meta's new patents.

I wished them all well--a very deep dark well where their screams would find no foothold whatsoever; but no, in seriousness, "as long as your interests don't contradict with my interests".

And even then, if they do contradict, if the twain touch felicities, if the proton streams cross--in a blinding flash of time-killing world-devouring paradox, I would be chasing at their heels like a puppy with a delighted smile on my face, "do good! do good!"

"To thine own self" and all that, Thoreau and his lives of quiet desperation: oh these walls we build, these little guiles and daydreams, such that we can barely see our hands, our fingers, right before our very eyes, and Facebook planning on telling people when not to log on, patenting the software feature, a "time-out" or "day off" feature to keep eyes from bogging.  The key is not to say when to log off, but when to log on: they will let you know--or the content mode where only the very most "importantest" things are shown, or other modes, where one can veritably swim in a sea of friend content, random and unmerciful.

My most friendly friends, sparing my spittle in this desert of ingratitude, sparing it to splash it across their jaw and eyelids: "Ho, friends!  Look what we begot at last brooking, our own chords and pullets, our own jack-jaw fogmouth such as of the positioning of personalities in hopes of future favors, nude photos, and other such."  In a word, the old dark alchemist dream: gratitude.

I dangle a long chord, myself, down there, and they don't see at first: a low blood sugar brain haze, don'cha know, and I say, "hey stupid", and such as it is, the world has lost nothing nor gained anything, but in the spiritual balance, there is a burst of gratitude that comes, and part of me, the mystic, wonders if that is not unseated and redistributed from someone else, at that time having experienced a reversal of fortune, i.e. Karma.

"There would have been time for such a word hereafter."

Of Cleanthes, from earlier, the somewhat illiterate of the Stoics that trained physically to no end, built himself large, as they talk in the old literature of diet, exercise, dress code, and cold water hyjinks.

Of Cato, to stand firmly against the entire lot, perhaps a hundred of them in the room, and only he in opposition, defending virtue, defending truth, staying steadfast for the interest of the republic.

That was physical courage and moral courage.

Epictetus the slave Stoic: Temperance.  As a slave, he supped the dregs, and worked his life away, but did he complain?  It was like Viktor Frankl, in the sense that the horrible experience only sharpened the point he was trying to make, putting ink on his quill and words in his mind to be transcribed and still learned into the far future.

To Seneca: Wisdom, a life of plenty, a man of property, reputation, renown, high-ranking friends.  The high-ranking wanted to learn from him, and he took unto himself a student that he called friend, or was it a friend that he called student?  That one had seen the example of Seneca, and thusly of his own accord, embarked on a long spiritual journey to learn the ways of Seneca.

Such is the way, life sometimes is coarse, but other times, its more stuffed with cake frosting and pet dander, like in Nicole's purse, and at best, we could just hope to advise in some form or fashion--if she took the notion to really listen--the man in her ear, the little complaint box that is social media--and when caught in mid-stroke somewhere along the avenue, she bursts into a Beatle's song, which perversely undoes all consequence, as if reality itself were put on too high a shelf for the angry public to reach, and as if she were a child, inspecting her cuticles for more of the cake frosting: firmly forbidding her to ruin her supper of one meat, two veg, and a sensible desert--but its her "butt medicine" she says, the cake frosting, her weight gain supplement and it clogs her too, like cheese does a lot of people, so all the better, and her doing the evil eye and Sicilian curses at the plumbing snake--why, if I had to entirely piss-away two hours, Nicole, yer know, yar bajangoes and all that.

Kind of a rough-hewn stick-frame and an old C10, kind of a "up yours" to the focus groups that cause all of our new products to be so terrible.  "The ones with the money" that they gather, black people names for Toyotas, and people making careers on things that aren't productive: in fact, oft-times, the least-paid of the work force seem to be the people feeding us, keeping us alive, consequently, and the people making the vanity items seem to be retiring early.  How easy to forget what's important, what's core business, and replace that with some odd little daydream.  And then Facebook was trying to show me pornographic videos, something of a woman showing me her tattoo("I look innocent, until you see my tattoos"), and how many young Davids and Erics had plastered sperm over it already, spackled it neatly away into the land of post-orgasm forgetfulness, under a rising tide of slumber, even as she talks about needing an iTunes card and all; she wants love, she says.  Fifty dollars and a constant stream of empty small talk on the messenger: do you have Whatsapp, Telegram?

And the Gaineys had hanged sausage in the smokehouse; I seen it, a glimpse, and smelled of it walking back from the old hidden well.  "You can climb out of this well before sundown, I'll buy you a Steam card".  "My love." It was cheaper just to use a shotgun shell and let her body feed the wildlife: kind of cross-cut Jeffrey Dahmer ran through a super collider with the modern bald Johnny Depp, and we get almost to that level of near-terminal creepage, where I'm in Nicole's handbag trying to actually sniff the cake frosting.  All the while, the whole time, I'm skulking around like creeping dementia, texting randomly to the girl in the well.  "Hi."  And then: "Talk to me, baby.  I haven't made you mad?"

How many of these people had forgotten, turned their backs on the core business?

on Stoicism: subjective/objective, formal informal, and the obstinate roman compared to the rock star or the slave.

Cato the obstinate=moral courage, as per Ryan Holliday

To this I add Cleanthes and Epictetus=physical courage, the Olympic athlete and the slave.

The Platonic duality: body and soul.  To this we add external things.  Yet others, Neo-Platonists add to layers of the soul.  There is the subjective and the formal, with God being perhaps of the formal, as if looking down upon us from a haze of ivory tower.

In our Christianity, we delve perhaps for a more active God, that the formal universe is more active.  Brother Umbrella, to cover and keep us all in hand, and our own souls, that which makes each of us who we are, not the body but the soul, the subjective and informal.

In the natural world around us, we are the hands of the Messiah's work, and we make the objective or formal come to bear upon an informal world of very real rain showers and spates of hot breeze.

To the Platonic dichotomy we owe some to Lucius Seneca, who had worldly success, even tutored an emperor, and through all his worldly success, he seems to hold that he kept to his Stoic principles: so the good Stoic that has worldly success, almost like the Good Christian, such as the Rich Man and the Eye of the Needle saying, that so many just are not, that the things are or are not mutually exclusive.  Worldly success so much thought the bane of the spiritual disciplines.

And yet.  We have tale after tale of generals, business titans, and various wealthy celebrities, actually practicing the principles in the natural world, and not to their detriment at all.

Tropical Storm Erlich, 2023.

A clear manifestation of God's glory, or just a nuisance?

Lord forbid I was ever so disconnected from nature!  I was on the porch before daylight listen to light mist of rainfall.  It was pleasant, and soft wind, in my area, at the halfway point between Myrtle Beach SC and Charlotte NC, and also equally so between Columbia, SC and Fayetteville NC.

Such clear manifestations seem, at once, neither good nor evil, seeming to stymie mankind's notions of good and evil, and here, the corn just coming up around the 12 inch mark: in some respects, the storm did our area a world of good.  I've also got potted Marigolds that needed some of that natural moisture.

In the War of 1812, as British troops assaulted the capitol and set fire to some of the most important buildings in the land, including the White House, they were met with overnight hurricane force winds, and then they just left, missing so much of their invasion force thanks to the storm.

Its almost God whispering, and at His own ends, which transcend good and evil as we know it, and in terms of theology, the believer assumes that God is purely good, such as purely light, or purely truth, with the theologists linking all three things together in orientation towards the Godhead.  Or at least, those latter two things, light and truth, are how the humans manifest, how the humans put the Creator into perspective, and then further, live the message.

in Him is no darkness...

if we live the word, we are the light...

There is a silence before the storms: something of atmospheric pressure, cloud cover, and the birds having fled.  In that silence, that's our prayer time, come what may Oh Lord, come what may.

word of the day: triptych

triptych, noun.

A painting or carving on three adjacent panels, esp, such a representation of a religious subject often used as an altarpeice;\

a writing tablet, used in ancient times, having three hinged or folding leaves.

From the Greek, tri + ptyche.


Kempis on Knowledge and the lack of.

The more a man hath unity and simplicity in himself, the more things and the deeper things he understandeth; and that without labour, because he receiveth the light of understanding from above. The spirit which is pure, sincere, and steadfast, is not distracted though it hath many works to do, because it doth all things to the honour of God, and striveth to be free from all thoughts of self-seeking. Who is so full of hindrance and annoyance to thee as thine own undisciplined heart? A man who is good and devout arrangeth beforehand within his own heart the works which he hath to do abroad; and so is not drawn away by the desires of his evil will, but subjecteth everything to the judgment of right reason. Who hath a harder battle to fight than he who striveth for self-mastery? And this should be our endeavour, even to master self, and thus daily to grow stronger than self, and go on unto perfection.  

-Thomas Kempis, The Imitation of Christ

Word of the Day: Crepuscule

Crepuscule, noun

Twilight; dusk

also crepuscular, pertaining to twilight; glimmering, flying or appearing in twilight or evening, or before sunrise, as certain insects.

from the Latin: crepusculum, twilight.

On making a time sheet: The Fut in the Nuckery.

In a bit of a tussle in mind, I began the day, having difficulties selecting my priorities.  I put myself into the hands of my others, always good for a bit of "automation".  I combined my tussle with theirs, and together we had a good tussle of it, and where did well by the combination.

They were talking about a "refresh cycle" or "check-in" in the schedule, an evaluation time set aside.

I note I had such before I knew what to call it.  Well.  I called it a "look-in" where I go to my scheduling app periodically and decide new adventures, the subsequent habituations and other.

A nice little evaluation and recompiling in the schedule, a chance "mid-stream" to check on everything.

I had a planned a spreadsheet time log that wasn't laid out in calendar format, but to do list format, with checkmarks for completion and a time-in and time-out set of blocks for staking the time.

Where it to track time, I would lay the time out evenly in the first columns, either 1 hour, 30-minute or 15-minute increments with the tasks listed in order of taking up.  However, its not to track time, but how many different things get done, so that's prioritized in one of the first three columns, then the check box, then the time boxes.

This is part of the documentation of "The Mike Experience", the long-held secrets of style and personal achievement that I hold so close to the vest.  I'm a guru.  A cult leader.  A radical.  A square peg stuck in a round hole.

The turd in the punchbowl.

The Fut in the Nuckery.

some knowledge can condemn the learner, after all....

 The greater and more complete thy knowledge, the more severely shalt thou be judged, unless thou hast lived holily. Therefore be not lifted up by any skill or knowledge that thou hast; but rather fear concerning the knowledge which is given to thee. If it seemeth to thee that thou knowest many things, and understandest them well, know also that there are many more things which thou knowest not. Be not high-minded, but rather confess thine ignorance. Why desirest thou to lift thyself above another, when there are found many more learned and more skilled in the Scripture than thou? If thou wilt know and learn anything with profit, love to be thyself unknown and to be counted for nothing.

-Thomas Kempis, "The Imitation of Christ"

Dazzling collection of phenomena/theory of relativity.

"These are the men who have shook the world..."  -Acts 17(paraphrase)

Hit 'em with the ole Razzle Dazzle, this one says, no time to formulate a coherent argument against, no time do anything but bat their pretty little eyelashes, still perhaps half-ensnared of former daydreams of butterflies and lily pads.

Life 'tis but a collection of these phenomena, arranged in no particular meaningful sequence; if it set a cogent pattern, we would perhaps then complain of its intention, pick holes in it, and find so many dialectics that befuddle the narrative: such as it is, "it is what it is", and begs not acceptance, for we had already taken it up, prior, and contributed to the random little geode.

What just happened?

Look what God did to us, man.

We're gonna enhance productivity; find something for your hands to do.

I woke up from a dream, surprised to find I was in the bathroom.  In my dream, I had my back to the road, peeing in the bushes.  In reality, it was like crepiscular elongated time, that kind of silence, like time travel, but in reverse, time magnified such that the clack of my razor on the porcelain last 10-25 seconds.  I was amazed that such a seemingly long nap that stiffened my joints had only transpired in a mere five minutes.

Can you follow me, good Nazis all, to theback room with Christine in the data center in Utah to mull over public speech?

"I know where you're going, Mike."

I responded, indifferent, "we all go to the same place eventually, yes."

And if I entered into a game of chance, its like random fate, and not determinism, my little plate of biscuits, the pan still warm, my hair the same color its been since 1999.

And if I could tell the emerald that it is beautiful, would it care?  Would it matter?  Is the thing more or less superlative if I say it? 

"But can you follow me where I'm going?"

Such is the way, Christ himself on his way, at the beginning of his ministry, "at the appointed time" called the fisherman, good worker-bees, men of slight age and experience.  As recorded in Matthew, along the journey, for some seconds, Peter even walked on water, walking towards Jesus; such was the impetus, beyond thought, beyond imagining, even.

You ever work in Utah?

Or, more to the point, you ever go in the back room with Christine?  I was told of a bachanal, a kind of prolonged dismal little orgy of unhappy people achieving some kind of biochemical-induced euphoria, like dropping a brick onto a frog from some height and then watching its death twitches.

Kind of a spiritual awakening, not lip service to the big churches, or a commercial line, but a bona fide thing that co-relates to all the little stupid seemingly random meta data, picking out Fox News stories to quote on my extreme right wing news website.

I saw the manifestation of God, or I saw the manifestation of Christ, in the upturn of plants reaching for the sky, that glorious home.  There was a knotty little rope of vines running horizontal through a bed of wet leaves, just going nowhere, not reaching for sunlight, particularly, and I marked it, the how of it, that was ancillary running, auxilaries, a kind of broad spray of the things, and they were knotting in each other, and other specimens, knotting and braiding and looking like data cable.

"I will make you fishers of men."

Maybe it was fatigue, oxygen deprivation, myself lost in a kind of spiritual kind of mood, too dog tired for much else.

I was reading from the Pocket Reader later, taking in some topical writing on various things, like Productivity, Finance, Data Science, and I come across this thing, this kind of foreboding, something on the order of sincerity of Christine being in the backroom, "oh, if Erin Burnett shows one hair of her ass in the Motherland....".

I said, this was those empty little moments, waiting for the dishwasher or something, letting the streaming service buffer, and all, and you're hearing this distant floppadappapolis, and you're thinking that you're a loyal Nazi, no reason to fear, before the insistent knock on the door, and their parsing free speech if they're not policing it.

Don't like Nazis, but they'd probably have a nationwide health plan for service workers, I wot, especially when so much of the country was submerged into a debt treadmill and otherwise lacking needed services.  A socialist friend of mine observed that if abortion were illegal, there would be a necessity for more robust childcare in the nation, not just leaving them hanging, and I said, what kind of hotel is this anyway, Sam?  Where's the lime that I asked for in my drink?

Choice can be a beautiful thing. Choose life and make it your own.

Who do you think you are, Mike?

It was late 96, in the fall, when the Clinton/Dole campaigns were fumbling and slushing through the republic.  I had a sticker on my main binder that said "Rush in 96", when I was one of the few rank and file Republican zealots that perversely lived like a fringe guy, but strove with the mainstream.  Hell, I'd even written school essays that defended progress.

Such was the contradiction of a man, that in the interest of observing freedoms, we rub elbows sometimes with some strange company: not dangerous people mind, but such far-flung.  It was to preserve the cause of liberty--this and nothing more.

They had asked about a 5 Year Plan, and I gave it some thought.  I found my own near future to be an obscurity, finishing high school with no prospects of much else, maybe getting a factory job around Cheraw.  My case for the universities was nil; no transportation, nor transportation funding.  I couldn't even get to the parking lot without some kind of financial help, much less pay tuition costs.

What I didn't realize then, was that blank palette of the imagination actually meant that I had a full set of choices to make, where I just instead made some suppositions based on past experience.

I mean, I couldn't even afford a quart of chocolate milk, much less college.  I had no car, and it was the old conundrum of no ride or job, so without one, you couldn't have the other.  It was object of fun to some, people who were simply handed, themselves, new cars and properties, laughing at those who had a different path, Fox News, not understanding anyone else's plight, not being able to appreciate anyone else's perspective.

But the point: I saw nothing ahead.  That meant there were no particular obligations, neither debts nor other hindrances.  Mornings, I put on my boots and smoked cigarettes.  I did both everyday.

I could create something of that utter blankness, in the same sense the Lord Almighty made the heavens and earth in six days.  In one second, I could have made a life-altering decision.  Even college.

As per liberty, I observe that Madison's defined factionalism is one group campaigning to deprive others of rights.  It sounds very much like today's broken set of choices given by DNC and GOP respectively, be it abortion, or education edicts, to deprive an alternative lifestyle, or to silence religion.  Rush, at one time, I thought was above all that, besides the political attack dog stuff.  The only free-thinking people, two outcast Democrats in today's Senate.

But of deciding one's life?  It's easy to give way to limitation, and also actually easy to decide the other way.  That's why, or part, perhaps, why it seems so foreboding to make such important choices, because how easily it is that everything could be wiped away, set to ruin.

One thing I never realized fully was the absolute power of not having an agenda, not being tied to a schedule.  Instead, I began more and more to set myself at a schedule, more and more to do those little things that made incremental changes.  Planted a tree, as such.  A little transplant from a wild seedling, about 17 years later, having survived fire, flood and drought, could only be destroyed by being dug-up by a backhoe.

It was nature; it was a full display of strength and permanence, that little tree.  Rescued from a ditchbank, that wild seedling, because I could afford to buy a sapling from a nursery, rescued in an put into a place of promenance; before it was removed by the big machine, it even gave my balding scalp some cool shade for several years.

That was power, I says.  It was "compounding".  It was a small investment, costing nothing but a few moments at one time, that provided a kind of dividend.  It grew into its own thing.

The rich passionato that digged up that tree of mine, he's dead now, and I would do him the courtesy, Mike Nietzsche, of not digging him up, but let a sleeping dog lie.  Tractors, the operating of the tractors, was his hobby, great fun to him to dig up that tree, and now he sleeps with the fishes, as the galaxy summons all eventually; nay, I won't dig him up to revenge my tree, for I still have it in my remembrances, as if it never left.

a bit of the history of the republic(this sh*t never happened)

It was in the dark days of Consul Anneus Africanus Scipio, after the variances amd bloodlettings of the triumverate, elephants thunder along the palpatine, the capitoline amd even crowding the forum.  There were concerns over the grain supply; the capitol stood half-empty, the unfavorables straying away to their own courtyards to admire their own various fruit trees.  Cicero took pen to paper of course, treatises political, metaphysic, and moral.  There were chariots at the ready to storm the city and use their reach and devil-speartips to clear the way of their own control of the city proper.
It was from the dull memories of extravagances such as that out of which the seeds of Kaiser Michelin's rise began, assisting at Vin Di Bona, in modern day Austria and sundry other locations: the edges of Spain, and just east of Damascus.  His own singular worries over policy and control quelled much, such was the very even mention in fact, of the Kaiser.
Such figures walk the earth plainly, but hold firm the respect of the people, and the senate house a ghost manor as the more minute squabbles and defiances among the population lay at rest on his shoulders, sometimes with the added benefit of muffling, stifling idle hours that would have otherwise given way to various edicts and decrees to the detriment of the love of liberty.
Invariably, such as the end of all those that live by tip of the spear, his own houseslaves, freedman, rogues from other armies, congealed at once in the night, and choosing one from among them, sent that one ahead strangling Scipio to death with his own half full chamber pot.

Movie: Rhapsody

So there I was...

I was idly musing on my afternoon walk, going along the neighbor's farm acreage, giggling like a madman thinking of myself trying to sound like a knock-off Cher, doing my own version of Gypsies Tramps And Thieves("He was 16, I was 21, and Poppa woulda shot him if he knew what he'd done...")


So we have those two lovely old movie channels on the pay-tv.  I'm looking forward to the Harry Belafonte tribute on one of them, looking forward to another viewing of Carmen, and The World, The Flesh And The Devil.  With Carmen, its definitely DVR time, in the favorites directory, the movie that asks how I could bring a black woman home("Louie was whiter than white..."), dog will hunt, and that one just unrestrained ball lightning in her performance.

Some botchagaloo named Gassman, but not the reason de'tre: that was young Elizabeth Taylor, sitting and waiting as he fiddled.  He'd went straight from the conservatory to headlining as a virtuoso.  It reminded me, his dedication, of Roman Emperor Nero of antiquity, sawing the Worry Stick as the city was being destroyed.

"We picked up a stranger south of Mobile..."

Anyway, Liz Taylor's father was madly rich, and rich enough to be understanding and patient, unlike some of these guys.  She had indignation that he didn't protest about her having all of her freedoms already, that he was too free with her, and his wanting her at the dinner table, in light of her romantic love waiting, was too much for her; she didn't appreciate the old man.  Meanwhile, the botchagaloo, leaving her sitting, for afternoons or whole weeks as he practiced intently on his fiddle, this Izhak Perlman or whoever, this Gassman, Vittorio Gassman, essentially a nobody in the Free World.

It just wasn't that good; cross purposes and all notwithstanding.  2 and a half stars, if I read that right.  Elizabeth Taylor cashing a check.  She got that paper, and might have got some free "rich girl" wardrobe.


she sure loves those exhibits.

She done come at me with this, "my love, thou art fair".
I had to slow her rolls some.  "Youre not tricking me into another gallery show at the community center."
"Thou lips are like finest rubies."
"Thats mustard from my corndog.  French's.  Only the best, little gal, for this Alpha Dawg."

a word with a chud, and a chud-word from a sage.

Cheever, the Senator from Glaucon, was downtrodden, and lost of an unction to kick against the pricks; they had cat-called and hissed during his oratory, pronouncing him so much un-name-able this-and-that, sundry other things.

I reminded him that he didn't like most of those people anyway, and if his well-being hinged on their good report, he would forever be sad, no matter his own courses of action.

If he didn't like them, even, why give them such control over his person?  He could take a stone face when they approached him, and he could ignore them on the Senate floor, lest business intervenes.  In fact, they are inaudible, the jeers, from the CSPAN feed.

I told him that he had the full authority to decide what he should fret over, and with that pronouncement, he got up from the table and walked away.

I said, he has purchased freedom by trading in his frustrations; there went a happier person.

The rabble had scrawled crude drawings of Cheever before a prostrate Calpurnea.  Such talk was the rage for a time, and this too brought him no end of consternation, no end of throwing out his own peace like bathwater, but I illustrated to him on Facebook that his stick figure was drawn with an enormous Long Sword size of penis.  "Look at the gift they have given you", I told him, and he LOL'led the thing, of course, and noted that they always had a bigger penis for him, such was the way of frustrations and so forth in the halls of the legislature.

"You have ideas, and your ideas are worthwhile" I told him, trying to uplift his person.

"A million little fleatick ideas swarming about my scalp like late-summer gnats."

And he found his unction--he had even visited his old storage locker in Baltimore--he could scour the ends of the very earth, walk the earth, endlessly comb for his lost unction--meanwhile, Calpurnea stolen away, cooking a hare for his supper.

"But you have your place, like a finger between two other fingers" and I illustrated this by upraising a finger to him, and he smiled, some sour, wry, and leaned forward--this our third time having a drink in the afternoon: one can not be too lax about these things, that he had called me out of a dire need to hear my voice, because, as it were, he was not otherwise a bored man, just seeking to fill time.

Do not we all take for granted all the little hello's and so forth in the age of instant messaging?  Do we not realize he had taken the time to think and felt he needed a word; I could provide that word, I supposed, realizing there was some kind of need behind it.  I wonder else-wise how many friendships had run empty and dry for such lack of thought, or boredoms or screen binges or such.

Senator Cheever, of course, known for a taste for brown liquors, things that do so much harm to the body, and he did it so easily, as if his insides were made of something like iron.  That meant most of his weight was his basketball-sized old man pot belly, his guts, crowned by his belly button, not in other glory of his, and he walked with it pooched-out in front of him like a love-offering to anyone near his frontage.

The screw and the sticking place; I had even spat into so many drums of burning trash, once upon a time, watched animals waste away and so forth, so much of it not permeating the inner citadel--not even an eyelash circumference--and here, me taken as a sage for the wittled-over fellow, and me probably needing more of his worry, as of a lever and fulcrum, or one of those balance bubbles: between the two, he and I were probably possessed of all the pieces of a purely functional person, but these, such as it were, were otherwise scattered about here and there, with a part I lacked gracing CSPAN, and myself acting as a server, bringing plates of ribs to anyone with the money.

We're all sages and seem so well-adjusted when we give advice to our friends, I suppose--we put on that crown of righteousness and edict our way into pushing our familiars further into ruin, inescapable dissipation.

Does a Body Good.


Would you spurn something, anything which is uncommon to nature?  Dost thou not know they own life, even, occurs in the order of nature?  Would thou have Buck Whiskey or some other?  Would thou not nourish thine own person for the journey ahead, for the days are evil enough?

Would that thou would get lost in thy evil thoughts and not return, or dost thou dream of puppies and kittens all day, and who's puppies and kittens?  Have you included nature in your mad thoughts?

Thy highest service would could perform, the most energetic use of one's spittle, is to see to the perfect elapsing of nature; anything else is blunder and folly, wasting one's precious hours on workings of hubris and lack of reason.

Does thou familiars know you by your love?  Or are you tyrannical with them?  Does thou hand brush the felicities, or do you curse at brittle cockle burrs?

Bitter Beer Face, rough sex, and a bit of recuperation: how Kalen spent the Passover holiday.

"Broadly unworthy", pa told Kalen, after she hurt her little ankle jigging around at the gold mine: pa might have held more sympathy had he been there, how it was a 160 foot deep air shaft and she darn near fell forward snapping off the entirety of her delicate little foot.

"Unworthy", that f*cker, full of enough piss and vinegar for his familiars, a regular little dose of Apple Cider Vinegar, aged just for them, the product of his years, the jaded jagged little spikenids, a kind of emotional sickle-cell, or something, a little bit of cyanide in the pudding or what-have-you; he could pride himself that he kept them real, kept starch in their sails and Gadsen flags, but he couldn't quite convince anyone it was done out of love.

Kalen had Bitter Beer Face for days after, and rocked and contorted, something meningitis or a raw dental nerve, or something, some kind of something inside--her ankle sat regular, its only saving grace, tendrils, sharp sheepnuts of pain rising up her lovely little calf like a lovers touch during rough sex.

Weren't we all?  In the final analysis, didn't we all fall from space at approximately the same weight, the distinction in mass being not so different, or indifferent, if you prefer?

"Lost in her mad thoughts" said her brother, Clyde, and from within, in the side room, she would yell in retort, "my poor foot!!".  Clyde had seen her fidgeting, you see, and thought there was a touch of madness to his sister's hurt, and he mighta been right, had there been nary a jot of extra room within for that, but was there?

Dustbin Obscuro: a selection from DH Lawrence, and my own reflections.

"....You may have laid your line from one end to the other of the infinite.  But still there's plenty of hinterland.  I'll go.  Good-bye.  Ach, it will be so nice to be alone: not to hear you, not to see you, not to smell you, humanity.  I wish you no ill, but wisdom.  Good-bye!

To be alone with one's own soul.  Not to be alone without my own soul, mind you.  But to be alone with one's own soul!  This, and the joy of it, is the real goal of love.  My own soul, and myself.  Not my ego, my conceit of myself.  But my very soul.  To be at one in my own self.  Not to be questing any more.  Not to be yearning, seeking, hoping, desiring, aspiring.  But to pause, and be alone."  


"Once we really consider this modern process of life and the love-will, we could throw the pen away, and spit, and say three cheers for the inventors of poison-gas.  Is there not an American who is supposed to have invented a breath of heaven whereby, drop one pop-corn-ful in Hampstead, one in Brixton, one in East Ham, and one in Islington, and London is a Pompeii in five minutes!  Or was the American only bragging?  Because anyhow, whom has he experimented on?  I read it in the newspaper, though.  London a Pompeii in five minutes.  Makes the gods look silly!"

-DH Lawrence

Reality itself, as the children emerge to spatial reasoning, the maturation of eyesight and sundry other rigorous yokes of adulthood, is perhaps infinity generated in the mind of God, and to think, the children aren't able to subliminate complex numbers before the age of 12, was it?

But we are imperfect little flocks of spittle, DNA of the big dog and so forth, like star-fishing a hair from a hare, and then a woman to cook my hare for me, my catch, my game, both my catches, and both, therewith, my game.  The subtle little flotsam is like the light in a hallway on, and the light in a room off, the dimglow inside Joe Biden's eardrum, a kind of half-gloom that sparks its own chiaroscuro, and we could have visions of things dancing and fighting in the half-dark, the "obscuro".

Specks of dust, mayhap, are us all, in the House of God.

Tisbut a dream of ants crawling across a sphere.

I heard she sipped coffee on the beach, a fig leaf over her sex, and the natives began to suspect she were some sort of goddess, this woman in the metal bird: why, it deposited her like an egg, she exited like a flea, once the great beast belly-flopped.

Life tis but a dream, and some would trade and barter both yesterdays and tomorrows for the graceful repose of sitting among the frogs. 

Backstage I was demonstrating the basic arm bar and hammer lock, and a few others, I forget how many for hungry eyes and ears, this new thing, and like the old Greeks, always a new thing for the learning.  I always flubbed the punch-kick stuff; they said just make it look real, but after all the medical bills from my colleagues, the rule was somewhat hanging, suspended by its own weight.

If life were a dream, a like a sleepdream, a feverdream that carries away on its own whims, or a nice daydream?  There were some to say that we were but the thoughts of God, and they paved that over saying we were just His daydream, an imperfect elapsation of time, and then I was reading that what comes from, inevitably returns, what is formed, takes an unforming and so forth, that there is no beginning, nor other points on the great line, if there be no sufficient ending, and science itself dictates a kind of accidental beginning, and science itself might precipitate that accidental ending, by its own love of knowledge and the learning and testing of new things.

She was browning like oven-bacon on the big towel, and you just knew there was a kind of sweet something under her, a kind of beginning of sweat, and here she was, 78 degrees in full sun, cooling coffee in her hand: a reward for those who earn least, and a dependence upon those most able: it made me want to feign a cause for it, maybe, to sort of exaggerate more than lie, make a real show of it.


The Repub Town Hall.

So.  Dolans and Kalen went to the Hamptons.  Kalen kept on at him, "Come see the baby, come see the baby".  Finally Dolans is like, "Wut the Fak, Gooby?!"

Caitlyn went toe-to-toe with Donald, but really, as Mr O said, she was almost trying to debate him rather than extract words from the former President.  These moral prevarications, these moral imperatives, yes/no questions when you want longer answers.

She could high-five with her newsroom buddies after, having defended their moral imperatives, them in their bubble, but she seemed to fail Journalism 101.

Where I was amazed, when the dead policeman from 1/6 was mentioned, which is popular on the left wing narrative, and should be basic middle-of-the-road narrative, Trump counters with the right-wing media line about Ashley Babbit.  I watched, feeling there was an important bridge of interpretation between, this basic discrepancy, lies agreed upon, as if they were speaking two different languages.

Two different sets of political language.  He countered with the ready-to-eat line about Ashley Babbit.

Two different languages.

To further stroke the clitoris of political division, Joy Behar was commenting that the republicans aren't Americans.

They are Americans.

Your political rivals, might be American citizens.  Wasn't that what shocked the liberals so, that the republicans are in fact, Americans, just like those liberals?  Shocking that they could be next door, unvaccinated, possibly owning guns, making the sufferer tremble as the right wing media consumer bent himself toward, "owning the libs".  Servicing a toxic media narrative, the popular lie, as if it were its own unique language that only the other cool kids know about.

There might be room for people that disagree with you--there might be room for them in this nation.

I find it hard to believe that some of these people actually get paid to present material on television, from the Newsmax suck-up-ism, to the CNN knee jerk liberalism.  MSNBC has went far beyond irrelevance.  And these other venues only retain relevance by sustaining some kind of audience, and not any kind of love of truth or service to truth.

Or Levin, calling his political opponents Marxists.  Doing whole hours on why people that disagree with him are evil.  An attack dog.

To strum the pane of the whole thing, these people are nuts.


Movie Idea: Five Million Things I Hate About You.

"My therapist has these pills.


I wanted to pay you a compliment--its a real good one."

This nigga was spittin', all over his baked crab, pink in the plate, a minute from smoking, and the home-cut and all.

Perpetrators all.

The point is, you don't do nothing, nothing changes.  If you're unhappy, here or there, you'll still be unhappy if you don't sully your hands.  I remember Kelly Ann on the coach with her shoes off, in the middle of meetings and policy things, and I thought: this is getting it done.

A nice moment.

I just frankly don't have enough hatred and vitriol in me to make this work today; I feel like I'm as happy with my familiars, as happy for and with my acquaintances, such that I don't need to be overly defensive or offensive in any particular regard.  Not triggered about this or that.

Taking more of a utilitarian approach maybe, that I can bring about change, positive change, if I but make a sincere effort, and the world?  The world always meets our sincerities with its own attitudes, but we need not despair while we live--such would be a waste of otherwise providential things, and imprudence is a tool for the upset: I need no such.  "Got no strings, to hold me down."

For love of television, they would watch the homeplace fall down, doing such service to their abundant viewings that I'd think my familiars actually were paid sums of money as employees of things like WWE or the NFL, or such, not knowing a fig of the news in reality.

I look at their happiness, and I can feel a kind of envy for that, but not a prideful or degenerate envy, but as such to study one's surroundings, like a science wizard or something, probing at the various strata of one's own environs.

If I could have their happiness, but without the immediate satiation of random television shows, why, I'd be next to a monk; if one could effect the intellectual wonder of the atheist, but retain his own Bible?  If one could, be empty and full at the same time, if one could, prosper even in want, e.i. contentment, rather than want even in prosperity, i.e. as greed.

Katie and Donald, at once in the Hamptons, and myself, over by Montag.  I was scouring the sawgrass, bemusedly hoping to come upon dead bodies discarded by some serial killer.

It's about ten o'clock a.m. in America.  We're really just getting started, people.  With more input processed, more ideas around, various notions of life and liberty, it's gonna be darn good.

Hella good.

Compassion, for the deserved and undeserving, and even some for the underserved.


Obnauticus, forgive; Obnauticus, deliver your servant.

I have been unjust in my interactions with my friends: loud, overbearing, practically over-talking them, talking over them, and them just hoping to share with myself, paradoxically, acting as such, I am yet their friend and compatriot. 

Some were unjust to Terrence, and I told Terrence, it was plain that he had built the reputation of being rough in his social interactions, they expected him to bite, where he only at the time really felt like giving a whimper.

As the verse of the day talks about seasoning ones intercourse with salt, we need not add such a savor to our communications, I wot, but be softer, be kind to those who deserve kindness, and under my own beliefs, most of us, and the gentle blog reader, deserve good treatment.

So many of them, they don't know--I never yet told them--that they are worthwhile, meaningful, decent people......  Obnauticus, why would I be built to be so stupid?  I ask for divine grace and understanding, forgive me as I forgive others, show me compassion as I dish the compassion to those around me.....

micro-economics. "Children swallowing pennies..."

"At whatever cost", they say, indignantly.

I toss them a few pennies.

In the lucid daydream that is the waking world, reality proper, how much a hullabaloo over a few smudge marks, how much a self-denigration for our own troubles; tis compounded, multiplicative, propagating, chaos become as it were the mode, the mean, so common, and formulas showing us whatever it is the system wants us to see.


I was working on a car in one of my dreams....  I knew which fasteners and so on, and I was scampering for them, at the work, and doing, and busy with my own, wicked too, little hands, at my business and "doing my thing".  How is it so much nothing comes to profit, I sometimes wonder, and so much good sense is discarded in general.  As Seneca said, to follow the crowd is to be misled, and the funnel catches more people every year, consolidating, doing tax tricks, accounting tricks, debt and profit that is only on paper while the currency inflates, and indeed, our best and most-loved, profit is only an idea, a concept and not a clear reality.

There is a difference perhaps between having such a complex system in terms of accounting, that real decisions are not wicked, but ill-advised or stupid, such as billion lost by Paramount Group, or the Apple Card; note that Apple has a subsidiary that invests in tangible assets: things of real value beyond the stated value of "fiat".

Children had unwittingly swallowed pennies, then with idiot fingers, picked them, sorted them out of the excrement, because the pennies were shiny; some stores don't even deal pennies, but I know, these pennies, they add into dollars eventually, such as the hackers that took the partial cent increments across hundreds of thousands of transactions: these added, such as the adage that "pennies make dollars", but done in shadow, monochrome, black and green, old DOS and UNIX screens, they did their magic, and just sat back such as the common term now, "passive income", to sit back idly binge-watching while a bucket collects money from the misery of the productive.

On the Presidency and the cadre of media types encircling their own horses.

We were left with a prophecy.

"Beware those that hate the moderates.  The immoderate either push legislation as solutions to basic quandries of life, or they want not a government, at all."

There's a professional cadre of them; paid partisans, contributors to various things, bent to push an agenda, and untrustworthy in the real situation on the ground.

I came from Parsimony Cove, after a few years on a mountaintop, a kind of Zarathrystra become real, or Rip Van Winkle, his American cousin.  I lived through the pograms of the Obama Administration, the wild accusation of W wanting to enact slavery regulations, and then Trump made the left's worst nightmares become real and illegally tried to keep power after his term was over, like the worst of dictators.

A good program of legislation, or a role model.  This is the menu of choices they are pitching, some sinless plate-breaker, or a detestable man of winning legislative measures.

I do not think of a President much as a role model, anyway.  The only similarity I have with Biden, is not wanting to emulate him, not farther than wanting to try whatever he's smoking for him to come up with such unworkable administrative ideas.


From the Legend of Iron Man: The Destructors.



We were steady moving product.  

Whole crew, salty dogs: perpetrators.  "Destructors." I had got popped for running girls, and other girls were talking about, they were 1099 contractors, and such.  I was convenient, I guess, the available sort that they could point their finger at, not fearing as much reprisal from me as them other boys.

People can be wrong about things, and not just wrong, but like 180 degrees off, a whole world off, and when they least suspect otherwise.

I had heard from Williams late in the doldrum of the year, and he said he had a crop seeded for sometime in September, and at last word, before he went silent, it was a good report.  Always is the way, a good word, then its kaput.

McCandless was roiling around doing C.I. work, and all, his candy bar money coming from the government, taking the odd donut from the cops sometimes, but generally working both sides of the streets, and then, just like Williams, his little supernova went silent, too.

That one boy, he had got caught up in a car bombing, but lived, and undeterred, kept on his life of crime, however sporadically, health permitting and all.  When he got out of the burn unit at the Research Triangle, he absconded to Florida, to be a "sole proprietor", a fish in another pond, luckily someone else's problem.  He was a "just add water" type, a kind to talk a good game, but get kind of floppish about the guttyworks when the chips were down.

They had come up on us one time, me and Williams, that McCandless and Adams coming up, bull-jiving amongst themselves, and Williams commented that those boys were good for a joke.

I told Williams those two were funny like a sh*tty pair of drawers.

But I had a few little moments of verbage, like giving the Easter story in a packed room, to a captive audience, but such was better than a hostile audience; catch them bored I says and nourish a little glimmer of interest.

I mean, really, we couldn't always and forever be "the ones that got away with it", but we could do our time graciously, gracefully, and generally, on the balance on the universe, not make more problems than we could ever hope to address.

Footnotes on the a priori part of the Legend.

*Crystal really was a fat bitch.  I would get her those weighted hamburgers and stuff, even Boo Boo Baskets and so forth from Yogi, and all.  She was pure hell on a Mexican Pizza, the old girl.  I shit you not, at my birthday party, I wanted a snapshot of her, and had to use Google Earth.

*Most of this was reaction-to-response, mind it, a layer of reactionary b.s. that inspired a Legend, a reaction to a reaction, such as trying to dye carpet or something, something-response-reaction-response, like pouring caustics in the wrong bucket, that escaping and catching another chemical, making an even more impressive boo-boo.

*McCandless and Williams will come later in the story, around the dark days in the beginning of the Financial Crisis circa 08 and 09 when we were half wondering what foolery the Democrats would throw at the state: we knew it was all stupid social-engineering, but how to befuddle the constantly confused, and do it with style and flair.  Pinache.

*There really was a literal iron, a clothing iron, that was shown to no one; I crossed the border with it in the boot of my Hyundai.

*While in my presence, McCandless was too quiet about the whole thing, as if it were like a put-on, a kind of ruse.  To say I trusted them would be a weird thing that I'd hate to conjugate for a better understanding; I'd say more I was at the mercy of some of these people in so many important ways, at the mercy of McCandless and Williams, et al, and trusting them with so much while not trusting them at all.

*What about Ozzy?

*Crystal couldve had the same swollen posterior if she had sat in an ant hill, but I know, and we all agree, she did it in a way that was more fun, through prolonged over-eating.

*The crazy manager lady, according to my information, finally got herself locked in the backroom.  She was kind of precariously "hung-up on the job", but she had all the right paperwork in, I suppose, to make her one with the divine light of approval from the corporate office.  The reality on the ground had a good bit of daylight between it and company policy.

*We never found out who shot B.I.G.

Part of the Legend of Iron Man: Crystal and the Morngoose.



 She was sort of big-boned, carried it well, the great big old son of a bitch. You had to bring her scratch-offs akd a wizzie guzzle every day, at least once a day, and it was the john lennon lyric, custard in a dead dogs eye: i am the ape man, and so forth, hell she was basically the windmills of old holland, the powderee chocolate mess we microwave in the mornings, and the only thing that warmed up up was the sight of my handprints on the fields, were she had her 1965 doublewide set up, porches and all that bullshit, and her, too stuck in the doorframe to take to the porch, but her hair was perfect pornographic broomstraw, and it never really degenerated that fair, beyond the devil himself whispering in our ears, and if you caught her changing clothes, more upholstery shop that charnal house, mote national geographic than carnal knowledge, and me Tarzan all over that, going full coconuts before she got her serape on, like she just wears a snuggie or something, looking at my poor ass like im a science experiment that slowly going wrong.

And her math: hieroglyphics of a wonderfully more civilized epoch, a kind of spit on the sidewalk, and the manager offered bananas, and me wondering if the weirdo had a secret supply hidden in our work area, it was transient enough thought and brook no further probing, that one lady, commissioned a lieutenant, even, smart to know better but unable to control her impulses. "I use napkins down there all day." And me not knowing a come on line, not picking that from "take my aging ass to the doctor, mike". It could been bladder prolapse or something, a mesh mishap or some other, i mean really, was i the "women's doctor" or her work husband? She said the stove was tore up, and me trying not to threaten to hit her in the head with my ball peen that my uncle give me--that shit was solid--and all the while, they said she was boinking a state trooper that had married into her family, and you talk about making for a toxic environment; i was stuck my own head at the time.

The purple anus and a host of opinions. A lyric.

Purple anus

hanging from your nose;

what goes leipzig or tits-up

one in the end knows--

would you could you

ask my opinion?

You know about opinions--

they're like--


--you know,

and I'm sure you have your own, there,

assymetrical matrices of diadems and runic positions

--everybody has one, they say--

--and they smell all the same--

What is to be:

in a word?

what became cacchinnating,

for those usurped?

Leroy Princip--

his coconut changing colors.

Purple little pucker of anus

poised on her noise--

we rise to lacks of social graces, 

as it were,

besmirchments and corruptions of air,

we spark, Cheever,

What is to be:

what have you heard?

So much: the red wheelbarrow and the chickens,

depend on but a word.

Pass It On.

 Don't you just feel, since you pampered yourself, like you're a better person, "for others"?  

But of course, Cheever.

But there might be something to that bit about, if you feel good about yourself, you're good to others.

Caedmon's Hymn, an unfocused musing that pistol-whips so many innocent strangers.

"He thought he was gay, but the pathology was much more complex."

Indeed, if he says hes an entrepreneur, he's employed.

Lives in a duplex?  Mother's basement.

A foodie?  Has his parent's SNAP card.

He was singing "I don't wanna miss a thing."

I was reading the Miller's tale, and the naked "arses" and all, flatulence, the natural discourse as it were, of lover's in meeting, and the endless philibustering of workman hid in bathing tubs, suspended from ropes like butterfly decopage.  Yer know they were on pilgrimage, and all?  Flotsamming and jetsomming around the thoroughfare intercoursing, "capillary action" and all that, and I was still going on about the potato lighting the light bulb, and doing the trapeze stuff, Walmart wire for my radio and all, a "little project", and I remembered that Alex was born and raised in the projects on the southside of Bern.

It was not entirely a discordant train of thought: gay, and too much time on one's hands, the brightest blue little butterfly that I see in the air, and Reg Wight said the butterflies are free, and all, and he will be "Levon".

Had a little fruit salad, dumbly poking around the pieces, scared to raise my eyes to Caitlyn, they were talking about AI deepfakes, and I was wondering if we'd ever had an honest word, that maybe she didn't like my Thundercats bed-in-a-bag.  I had even dressed up for her birthday, an indulgence, and moreover than thoughts, presumptions, the pretense of the thing, changing my tire on the way to her cousin's wedding, me singing Aerosmith, wanting to sing, moreover, Simon and Garfunkel.

I could maybe try to light a lightbulb with static electricity with what little hair I still have on my coconut, not being, for once, the dimmest of the crayons in the box.

Use the collected binge-watching couch-buzz to light the way to the future, and all that, and no, I don't think AI can write compelling TV yet, but sure they can do a kind of basic-to-intermediate type thing, probably a level above SVU; capture the electric current before their asses completely knit into the fabric of the couch upholstery.

"It's da Kang's day, Levon.  Sing Madman Across The Water."  I went into a daydream.  "We celebrate Kang day, too."  And me sitting there trying to spell words in my fruit salad, like it was Alphabits or something.  Speaking of alphas, I had seen Wozniak on tv, too.  This completely away from the debut of the dubious Apple card, and all.  People presuming and truck-ducking to owe their lives to the company store, their eyes, their thoughts, even their bodies.


Grudge Match: Fogg v Cawdor, sponsored by the firm of Fibner and Locust(the six figure b*tches).

The universe had a kind of dust-bowl twing-a-ling whisper-blight that gobsmacked against sensitive ears: how do you solve a problem like Hansel Fogg?

Fibner and Locust was on the line, first thing Monday morning, in the black socks and all, not even bothering to book a tea time or anything, ahead of it, on the line scouring for Memphis Cawdor, the one in the houndstooth plait, the stupid Mississippi Governor straw hat, with the 1971 chic floral print band around the thing.  He just generated unease, smelled of hair gel, and generate unease, practically exhaled a kind of something on the edge of nausea, something that sat at the chest and worked at it, something that, if we knew what it was, it might not be so insipid, so foreboding, but such as it was, there was a problem; he was a solver, as of the proverbial lock and key.

Fidgeting with the car, a grandma picking shells on the beach, maybe, and this hoo-hah working at the little hydraulic lines, where a little blanch of the stuff stopped-up the whole works, and they he did something dastardly to the microwave, hoping perhaps to melt Hansel Fogg, if not smack him into a light pole, cook his grits for him, his innards, the guttyworks, make him a proverbial baked potato, and not the Chinese finger trap that pissed-off all the tourists at the airport.

God forbid Cawdor smelled a feminine scent, then it was all on, his Kryptonite, a much broader more malevolent turn of thought than just cosmic dissipation, why a more prolonged sort of thing, just like when the NHRA cars make the big wheels smoke in the lanes, a kind of advanced strategem such that Cawdor's actions look like the elapsation of time itself, just as sure and incontrovertible, but with the kind of devil-lilt that a lot of people just don't pick up on.  How much of the world, anyway, was kaput just because Memphis scented a bit of floral eau de toilette?

The lawyers--the 6-figure retainers,those--wouldn't just call in an independent contractor, but in one little question, toss abruptly the entire backend of hell's half-acre onto a bonfire of dissipation.  It was perfectly natural, some say, a kind of--was it carbonizing or carbonating?--something perfectly like potatoes lighting light bulbs and all, kind of tricks of the cosmos, and shame on us, if we heard so much, and still wouldn't believe the devil was real, and Memphis Cawdor wasn't roundly on loan to the forces of injustice.


 Be good to yourself; respect yourself and radiate light on others.

"The Missionaries have come to Elm Street"

Me and that palooka, Jordan Kisswomen, was out evanglizing and spreading the message, the good news about the Lord Jesus Christ and hope for the whole world, baby Jesus himself as he lay in the cradle, a little diamond of all the compressed wishes and hopes of all the world.

There are times when we go to a house and find a believer, one who is churched or baptized or whatever, and they are always so nice, like we're in the same club or something, we have that nugget of faith in common with ourselves.

One such occasion, it was nice house, nice yard, tended frontage and all, and all the latest homeowner trends and all, like I expect it had outdoor kitchen and all, pergola and all that good stuff, wicker sofas and all.  There was a sign on the porch, "when you go, leave us some of the love you brought with you".

We got the good treatment for an everyday kind of visitor; she had an apple pie in the fridge--one of those grocery store things.  Can't go wrong with that, and everybody doesn't have 10 hours to make homemade.  It was good, could have been better, but good, and certainly good enough for two random visitors.

We were chawing and talking over our favorite psalms, having a really nice visit, when she went in a drawer for napkins.  "Mom kept ours in the water closet." And there was an abrupt stop when I was informed the water closet is a bathroom in France, and I told them I wasn't French, nor had never been to France.  I heard about the church in Reims, but that was about all, how the stained glass looked nice: an odd detail about a far-flung place, or I had read about Caesar looting ceremonial grounds in old Gaul.

Jordan was from Poughkeepsie, and the lady of the house was talking about Davenport, Iowa, and there I was going into a daydream about the Auman auctions around that part of the country, like the high crops, the old gas models, the early LP stuff, and all that, vineyard and wheatland.  I was stung about the water closet, a bit, but I was feeling a kind of sugar-glaze over my sensibilities at having the pie.

But not only did that lady feed us from the fridge, she gave us a small monetary gift for our journey; that was the spirit of the believer, that were we not spreading the message, we always support the spreading of the message, always, part of us is with them, if only part of our spirit, and part of our wallet, oft times, too, that we spend for the cause, the great Western reason du'tres and impetus, the handing of money to some specifically passionate missionary on about some cause.

the magnate, the analyst, the stockholder and the floating repugnance.

How very striking it was---this--this--"floating repugnance", and Masha Oreck, the analyst at my dinner, I was trying to take a picture of but one of her eyes, behind the very doleful unflowered funerary paint job of her optical.

She was telling me not to think in terms of success and failure, and I was thinking such a metric was usually proportional to the bottom line, but she was finding a new metric, a way to have a kind of sustainability even in times of failures, marketing mishaps and so forth, the blithely unapologetic American spirit of German beer.

It was something about stringing together a program of good days, and those, properly quantified, defined appropriately, would be osmotic of a kind of electromagnetic pull of something on the order of success.

I had talked to our chief shareholder, that's where the nomenclature came from: "floating repugnance" his label for our product line, and me thinking, were he so disinterested in the core business, he must be some kind of outside-influence, Pharoah, wholly unconcerned with but everything except counting his money we made from so many people he abjectly hates, detests, and longs to repudiate in other formats.

Masha Oreck was trundling our whole metric of success, meanwhile, the rich passionato was only about his dividend.  We were even gonna have a podcast, and these disparate forces pulling at us, this way and that, and Marketing screaming about brand identity.

I could hit them all with a hammer, maybe.

Amy Lowell, "Happiness"

Happiness, to some, elation;

Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Days of passive somnolence,

At its wildest, indolence.

Hours of empty quietness,

No delight, and no distress.

Happiness to me is wine,

Effervescent, superfine.

Full of tang and fiery pleasure,

Far too hot to leave me leisure

For a single thought beyond it.

Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it

Means to give one's soul to gain

Life's quintessence. Even pain

Pricks to livelier living, then

Wakes the nerves to laugh again,

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Although we must die to-morrow,

Losing every thought but this;

Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

Happiness: We rarely feel it.

I would buy it, beg it, steal it,

Pay in coins of dripping blood

For this one transcendent good.

-Amy Lowell, Happiness

Pass it On: Nature.


Musing: The Song Remains The Same for the My Little Pony Tillerman.

Masters of the Universe, My Little Pony, Jem, and RockLords.  I wasn't quite ready for ninja-action Katie, and then there was Bill on Bold and the Beautiful, and the other dude, the poacher.  It causes a silence to mention poaching too, when dealing with My Little Pony.  Have Bookends, Will Travel.  Trying not to pinch their little arms off, but its fun, kind of half-holding the breath and moving their little appendages.  Precious moments, you know, a boy at play, a boy in his Big Boy pants, trying to behave like one.

I had noted something of Ronna McDaniel's GOP, and I don't really vote in that; think its kind of Texas Chainsaw Massacre instead of McNeil-Lehrer, yer know.

Gordon Lightfoot kicked the bucket yesterday, and this after I heard Carefree Highway over this past weekend on Classic AT40 rebroadcasts.  I got it stuck in my head, and I was going along, kind of a faster tempo than Arlo Guthrie, and with more of a Boz Scaggs vibe than anything else, and Cat Stevens, too, was on that AT40.  Reminds that I've got to buy Tea For The Tillerman, the seminal Cat Stevens album.

Its all part of a slight diversion into songerwriter-singers of the 1970s, like Dave Loggins, and I'm after his album too.

I had a Eudora Welty on my hand from a booger trying to slap my nachos out of my hand, and I had queso, too, in the little side-cup, and the f*cker kept slapping until there it was, a livid little mark across the top of my hand, kept slapping, even after the moment was gone and any surprise had long since been eulogized.  Heck, the surprise was rotting in purgatory, and me just looking, like I was a cigar store indian or something, half in surprise, and not even brainworked any indignation yet.  I was thinking of a JJ Dillon thing, pulling my change from my pocket, that in my fist, and punching him in the forehead, just a kind of acknowledgement, you know, a kind of, not compensation, but a way of, in the vulgar, waving one's hand back in greeting, how they understood things.

My Little Pony had a magnificent butterfly stencil brand on its thigh, like a porn star of the rodeo world.  And a nice little dyed mane.  I've always held that John Wayne was not the great Gay Cowboy, but Gene Autry, mostly on the feeling of mistrust of his motive, that he just bursts out in song during ordinary social stuff, even Christmas songs and stuff, and I just roundly do not trust that guy.  If I were in Uganda, or even Florida, I could ban him from the library, or even use state medical offices to cure him of his proclivities and inclinations.  So Gene Autry is like the Bud Light of the stable, but without much care for his own appearance.

It reminded me of The Song Remains The Same, where Jimmy Page was wearing like a magician get-up, and what's fine and proper, showman stuff for a whacked-out classic rocker, might not be so much in line with what executives select for the wardrobe of the matinee star.  In fact, magician outfit Jimmy Page and ninja-action Katie would be kind of cool, kind of nice synthesis of effect, a kind of Frederico Fellini and his muse, and his violin bow, feathering, like strands of her hair.

frisson politick, ahead of nominations, endorsements, announcements and such.

One of the old golf-types can only be certain of his social status in Ronna McDaniel's GOP if Kimberly Guilfoyle tries to marry his consigliere; they say success begets success, stars align, and the dog returns to its vomit.  The universe is an analog computer, they also say, and in that, such live fast and write their letter across the sands of posterity in such a way that it's difficult to look away: they bring us joy, they bring us fun, but in the end, its just a game to piss-off the other side, the East and West Davenport crowds, Greater Umbria and all, the Compagna and all the while we sing the familiar chorus wondering how we got to such a place of hatred and widespread contempt, when all we were earlier focused on was making a show.

Only too late we find that we hate the show, and such was the prophecy of Hambali that there would be moral statutes that were not up for debate, and debate was crowned with a thorn-ring of the lunacy label, and the other side moved on.  Then we came, and moved over them, silencing them, and the debate brook no middle ground.  Ronna McDaniel's GOP.  I voted in Michael Steele's GOP, and I see him looking for refuge over at MSNBC these days; I find that ominous, this "cure the gays" and "tell the children who they are" kind of things in which the good citizen is annointed as a teacher and expert on various subjects.  They take science as it were, as an article of faith?  Or faith as a boon of silence?  How many angry pundits are going to push the nation over the cliff?  If indeed one does not come to his senses and scramble for middle ground, he is doomed to fall off, where Ronna and her friends land, having irrevocably and irreversibly lost all the moderates.

Indeed, so much of is neither policy nor governance but naked spite.  At once, looking for freedom, and the other hand trying to "cure the gays", and we wonder, for whom is the country suppose to be free, which culture?

Pass it on, yon empty vessel.


the lost weekend was not so lost after all.

So I called it "The Lost Weekend", and instead of Ray Milland hiding booze, I'm sipping from a jug of iced coffee.

April 29: Anniversary of the Death of Alfred Hitchcock.

April 30: Anniversary of the Death of Sergio Leone.

And no, it really wasn't a lost weekend.  There was plenty of light, plenty of happiness, and even some learnings.  I took in a seminar on Thomas Aquinas, and Friday, I was in a seminar on Total Wellness.

I learned about a new business model Friday.

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...