Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Ascerdote Supper Club: Rumpus and his skepticism.

"I see no reason.  No, not any at all."  Says Rumpus in the Ascerdote supper club.

His skepticism is classical.  He watches his detractors, in order to get motivated to begin his day.  The negative energy is like a condensed fuel that propels him harder and faster than the regular substance of devotional fluff.

To never be convinced.  Wildfire.  The old folks would say, "he don't believe a shittin' thang."  Wouldn't hear it from you or me, at any rate.

But, he who believes nothing, holds no deceptions, as a proverb.  To be a nihilist is to believe in sort of order, but the Rumpus even shuns that match, not committing even to adjectives that describe him. 

Cabbage Head.

"Water in the wine" he says, putting down his glass and running his napkin over his mouth.  "That adjourns  my night, gentleman" he says.  "Time to put an end to it."

Monday, July 9, 2018

paraphrased verse of Samuel Hymen Heinrich

ooh ooh
was it love at first sight?
does he deliver the morning newspapers
while riding on his bike?

is it a paradox
that you want me?
is it a world
in which you don't want to be?

The tyger
Gentle Ben
eating Jack Link's
and looking
at the damage done.

dull transaction,
pumping action,
a pain in the pants,
over such a silly dance:
what more could there be,
when nothing is what I see?

greased lightning-
the catfish biting;
disemboweled guts,
somehow writhing:
death minutely eats a cracker,
in order to properly settle the matter.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Correspondence addressed to Brian Yojonbo Tittefield: on the drive forward.

Today I have performed admirably, set modest goals, and found the mark quite well.  I prepared all three of my meals today, even inventing a new recipe for the evening meal and posted it here for the perusal of others.  I have did half of a big yard project, and can sit back and appreciate the results already.

I was reading Seneca, who said that if a man had no desires, he would live longer, longer than a man who was filled with desires.  But I ask on the Teeter if a man has any reason to go forward, or strive for anything if there is nothing else that he desires out of life.  We need to drive forward for some new thing, or any service of some old thing, like the grass on my ditchbank, which needs to be cut about every six weeks or so.  So after that period of time, I sweat, huff and puff and flinch in my codsack to climb about on the ditchbank, swing the string trimmer and turning it this way and that.  It is a reward in itself to look upon the freshly cut ditchbank.

I even went to bed last night somewhat excited about the work ahead, and awakened excited about it and was going just after breakfast and some gospel television, at 7:30 AM.  The weather was overcast for the duration, with some kind of cold front passing through.  At one point, I had an inch-wide strip of pine bark in my shoe, uncomfortably situated under my foot, though I cut no pines today.

One must wrestle his desires, control them.  This is as the Christian saying among some in my circle, where they say, "I'm ready for Jesus to come".  I always say that "I'm not ready, because I will always have something else to do", something else that the world has dangled in front of me, something to do or look forward to, at any rate.  But what they mean, is that their hearts are in the right place, and I suppose I would agree with them, in that respect, that I have done my spiritual work, but yet there is more, and will always be more even when my eyes open their last.

We are an ongoing "work", in the world of pro wrestling lingo(kayfabe).  We are ever moving, ever evolving and changing, approaching Jungian Individuation in the perfecting of personality, pleasant and settled old age, rest in this world or the next, but until then our cells are constantly dying, splitting off, replacing themselves with duplicates, as in the ever growing layer of dust on my school textbooks.  Some day, the best all of us could hope for is to take a convincing loss, as we "put over" a "developmental talent", whoever should replace each of us, just as John Cena and Randy Orton made their tour of the old-timers.  Even the Conqueror, and the Destroyer will do this at some time.  In another promotion, the Destroyer "put over" a popular opponent(a "face") in convincing fashion, then saluted him, with only the people in the promotion knowing that was the Destroyer's last match there.  I envy the Destroyer in his commitment to training, but here he showed a remarkable dedication to duty, most Stoic, even going above and beyond to even salute his successor.

Until then,
don't flinch under load,
my good Tittefield;
these the words of your friend,
Abaddonius of Tyre

Recipe: Spinach and Chicken in thin oyster sauce.

1 skinless, boneless chicken breast
1 cup(at least this much, if not more) spinach
1 tbsp oyster sauce
1 tsp sesame oil
1 cup water
liberal black pepper

First start the chicken at a boil in the water and sesame oil.  Uncovered in a skillet. Over medium heat or slightly less heat.

Once the chicken has cooked on its bottom side, flip it, then wait a minute and slice the chicken into cubes.

*add oyster sauce

A short time later:

add spinach.

then, as spinach wilts, add black pepper.

Note: I also added Spice Supreme Garlic Pepper.

Friday, July 6, 2018

Ruminating on existential darkness: the dark night of the soul.

Surely this fallen world has seen better men than I come and go, yet if myself and those better men each in turn fall from a tree, much like a monkey loosing its grip with his toes on a tree branch, into a pool of water, do we all not splash?

The human work, thus far, has only hit upon the human plane, save for some various items of space debris.  So if the earth were no more, there would only be old useless spacecraft to prove that we were ever here.

A time for all things.  A time for peace, a time to raise one's voice, a time to toss a hamburger carton onto the kitchen floor in frustration.

There is a season, too, for gazing into the darkness, beyond the precipice, wondering how long it will take to hit bottom.  You shall be gone one day, but no matter, for a thousand just like you get off the bus everyday.

We cycle through circuits, like mad little glass marbles out of control, clear, see-through with a flourish of some kind of ribbon in the middle.

Thursday, July 5, 2018

Hamlet starring Dave.

David Pike, of all choices to play the Danish prince lead role, that great brooding figure, on the stage yelling at the ghost of his father:  "List!  List!  I said 'list', dammit!"  An uncle who likes to pour poison in the sleeping ear of the patriarch.

Derek Okra in the woodshop cutting-out his stock pieces to make a desk at some later point.  He's laying it all out the floor for later assembly.

All around, a special sort of spirit in the air.

Catfish stew at the CLT TireRack?  I'll never tell.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

The Attic and the Porch: Meditations of Marcus Aurelius--Life Substance

"The time of a man's life is as a point; the substance of it ever flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body tending to corruption.  His soul is restless, fortune uncertain, and fame doubtful; to be brief, as a stream so are all things belonging to the body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong to the soul."

Man's life is a complex chord, rather than a single note, but often a single note may be isolated and focused upon, in its solitary dignity.  Meanwhile, the whole makes but a fuzzy picture when combined, leaving behind the great human riddle, that while we lust to live, we hurt ourselves in horrible ways.

Man is a slave to place.
Place is a slave to time.
Time is constant at any given location, but only there.
God masters all of these.
God dispenses providence.

"Our life is a warfare, and a mere pilgrimage."

The mortification of the body.  We are called innocent in the heart when we are children, blameless, having almost a sanctification, yet we are little egoists that will commit any kind of ill to get what we want, and often this is only a matter of a whim of curiousity.  However, consider the old, how have properly matured in personality, bed-ridden, body dying, but spirit at ease, thanks to a lifetime of living experience from which to draw.

He was always telling himself that death was coming ever nearer, as if to steel himself against the approaching beast.  I wonder if he had taken the teeth of the tiger of death by using philosophy, or did he die afraid at would be on the other side of mortality?